by Lauren Haney
Bak raised his empty beer jar in salute to Minkheper.
“You’re a valuable man to have around, Captain. Patient, versatile, and able. Not only do you know how to make the best use of available resources, but you know the ways men fight when not guided by reason or training.”
“If I’ve learned nothing else during the years I’ve spent on the Great Green Sea, I’ve mastered the ability to take care of myself, my crew, and my ship.”
Merymose, carrying three beer jars, wove a path through the dozen or so men seated on the ground, putting the fin ishing touches to newly made spears, scimitars, and slings.
Sergeant Roy followed with a basket from which he passed out beer to the toiling men.
Handing a jar to Bak, the young officer said, “Roy is a changed man, sir. I feared his sense of self-importance would make him unbearable, but he’s thoroughly enjoying this new respect you’ve given him.”
“I gave him nothing. He earned it himself.”
Minkheper accepted a jar and broke out the plug. “With a baton in your hand, Lieutenant, you make a formidable adversary.”
“If only I could resolve Baket-Amon’s death as easily as
I use the stick.” Bak rapped the plug on the jar too hard, a measure of his frustration. Instead of the clean break he had intended, the dried clay shattered. “My quest has led me to the houses of pleasure along Waset’s waterfront, and there
I’ve come to a dead end.”
“Would that I could help you,” Merymose said, his regret evident. “He was a good and kind man, one I admired with out reservation.”
“You never accompanied him on his carousing?”
“Never.” The young officer’s regret deepened. “After the one brief time I served as his aide, I hoped he’d summon me. I wanted again to assist him, to run his errands and write his letters, perhaps go with him when he played. But he never sent for me.”
“You never ran into him in a house of pleasure?”
Merymose barked out a cynical laugh. “You must’ve come into this world a man of means, sir. Someone like me, one with nothing but the clothes on my back and the weapons in my hand, must satisfy himself with small and lowly places tucked into out-of-the-way corners of a city.”
“My father was a physician,” Bak grinned. “For lack of wealth, I, too, spent my early years haunting such low places, most likely many of the same establishments you frequented.”
The young officer blushed. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean…”
“I take no offense.” Bak sipped from his beer jar. The brew was thick and warm, scarcely satisfying. “Anyway, from what I’ve learned so far, I suspect you’re too young to help me.”
“You’ve made some progress since last we spoke?” Min kheper asked.
“Not as much as I’d like.” Bak’s scowl turned to a wry smile. “Would that you were as noted a carouser as the prince was.”
“As I believe I told you, I’ve a wife I’m fond of, other young women elsewhere, and…” Minkheper took a sip of beer, grimaced. “… and a cook who makes a far better brew than this. Better, in fact, than any I can get in a house of pleasure.” Someone cursed, drawing the captain’s atten tion. A drover who had cut himself on a sharp flake of flint he had been setting into the cutting edge of a scimitar. “My brother impoverished himself in a search for the good life, a lesson to all who might wish to follow in his footsteps.
I, for one, have no desire to destroy my life so willfully.”
The moment he spoke, regret swept across his face. A family sadness, Bak guessed, a disgrace.
He stood up to look over the wall of shields, out across the fields to the river. In the distance, he saw Nebwa drag ging the commandeered skiff out of the water, while Amon ked watched and Horhotep stood higher on the bank, too important to help, Bak suspected. He prayed his friend’s mission over the past few hours had gone better than his own.
“Lieutenant Ahmose is a reasonable man.” Nebwa splashed water over his shoulders, making them glisten.
“He’ll help us all he can with the resources available to him.”
Bak knelt down in the river and dunked his head under, refreshing himself. “He has no other choice that I can see.”
“He knows of Hor-pen-Deshret, knows what havoc he used to wreak along this stretch of the river. When I told him about the coalition…” A braying donkey drew
Nebwa’s glance downriver, where Pashenuro, Pawah, and a couple of drovers were frolicking in the water with a small herd. “Suffice it to say, he’d rather stand and fight now, with us by his side, than face the swine alone with only one meager company of spearmen.”
“How did Horhotep behave?”
“He kept his mouth shut-for a change.” Nebwa exuded satisfaction. “I think he’s finally beginning to realize he might have to prove himself the warrior he pretends to be.”
Bak thanked the lord Amon for small favors. “Did
Amonked have time to inspect the fortress?”
“We had a war to plan. He didn’t so much as suggest it.”
Standing up, Bak ran his hands over his hair, squeezing out the water. His demeanor grew serious. “We can no longer make plans with blind eyes, Nebwa.”
“I know. We need firsthand news of the enemy.” Nebwa gave his friend a regretful look. “Sending a man south to spy on them will be risky, but we’ve no other option.”
Bak knew what his friend was thinking: few men in the caravan were capable of performing the task with any chance of success. One was far superior to the rest. “I’ll go speak with Pashenuro.”
Nebwa’s eyes darted toward the donkeys and the Medjay in the water with them. “I neglected to ask how his mission went. Did Rona agree to help?”
“Haven’t you heard the rumor, my friend?” With a quick smile, Bak waded farther out in the river, where the current tugged at his legs. “Amonked has brought with him from the royal house a plain wooden chest filled to the brim with valuable jewelry. Maatkare Hatshepsut herself placed it in his hands and assigned him the task of delivering it per sonally to the powerful Kushite king Amon-Psaro. As he fears for his life and the treasure, he’s summoned a ship from Semna to carry him south from Askut.”
Nebwa laughed heartily at the somewhat altered version of the tale he had heard earlier.
Bak slipped into the water and swam downstream. The river was cool and refreshing. The setting sun bestowed upon the sky a glorious golden glow. The early evening air banished the skimpy heat of the day. Too soon he reached his goal, where he drew Pashenuro aside to speak in private.
“I’ve been talking with Nebwa. We’ve a need to learn more of Hor-pen-Deshret’s plans. We wish you to seek out his camp and spy on him and his army.”
“I’d be glad to, sir, but the tongue of the western desert is different from that of my people. How am I to know what they’re saying?”
Bak, who had expected the problem, was reluctant to air the sole solution he had to offer. “Pawah was spawned in the desert, but has dwelt in Waset for the past four or five years.” He glanced toward the slender youth, standing in the shallows, trying to spear a fish. “How much does he remember of his native tongue?”
“We’ve not talked of such details.”
“Let’s ask him.”
They waded past the donkeys, who were leaving the wa ter one or two at a time to nibble on the wild grasses and brush that thrived along the shore. Thaneny and a drover sat naked on a boulder farther downstream, drying them selves and their clothing and at the same time keeping an eye on four crocodiles lying on the sunny beach some dis tance away.
Unwilling to spoil the boy’s fishing, Bak stopped a half dozen paces away, with Pashenuro by his side. “Pawah, can you still speak the language of the desert?”
The youth looked up, startled out of a total concentration.
“I don’t know, sir. I’ve had no need for a long time.” He looked harder at Bak, puzzled. “Why do you want to know?
What d
o you wish of me?”
“I thought to send you with Pashenuro to spy on the desert tribesmen, but you must be able to tell us what they’re saying.”
The boy’s eyes widened, his face lit up. “Oh, please!
Please let me go! The words will come back to me. I know they will.”
“The journey through the night will be hard, to draw close enough to hear them speak will be dangerous. Shall
I risk your life only to learn later that you were unable to do your part?”
“I’m not afraid!” the boy exclaimed. “I risked far worse when I toiled as a servant in a house of pleasure in Waset.
I saw two people murdered! I’ll do anything… Anything at all to help Amonked and Sennefer. I owe them my life.
If they hadn’t taken me in, I’d long ago have been food for the fish.”
“Pawah…”
“Oh!” The boy clapped a hand over his mouth, horrified by what he had said, and glanced around to see if anyone else had heard. “I beg of you, sir! And you, Pashenuro.
Please give me your word that you’ll never tell anyone about the murders. No one knows I saw. I don’t want any one ever to know. Please!”
“I’ll tell no one,” Bak vowed. He doubted the boy had any reason for fear, but as he still lived in Waset, silence was wiser than loose talk.
The Medjay echoed the pledge.
“Let me go with Pashenuro, sir. I’ll never get a better chance to repay Amonked and Sennefer. Never!”
Bak studied him long and hard. He had no doubt the youth would do the best he could, but would he remember words he had learned at his mother’s breast? Without him, the mission would fail.
With him, it might succeed.
“All right, you may go.”
Chapter Fifteen
Bak awakened several times during the night. He was un sure of the exact reason: the bitter chill in the air or thoughts of Pashenuro and Pawah. He knew the Medjay was competent, skilled at creeping through the dark unseen and unheard, and he would not have agreed to take Pawah if he had not believed the boy quick to learn. Nonetheless, each time he awoke, he prayed to the lord Amon that they would return safely.
His thoughts would shift then to Baket-Amon and the slayer he sought. A man he spoke with each day, he felt sure, more likely than not one he liked. The names would follow one another in an endless circle, and he would fall again into a fitful slumber.
Cold drove away the last vestiges of sleep as the first vague fingers of light breached the eastern horizon. An archer had already brought to life the fire contained within the rough mudbrick hearth and was sitting beside it, ab sorbing its warmth. Lying close were the two dogs that had accompanied Bak and Pashenuro to Rona’s village. Bak knelt with them and held his hands over the heat. How
Nebwa and the others could dream on, he had no idea.
He was almost warm when the dogs looked up, ears erect and tails brushing arcs on the sand. He turned to see a smiling Pashenuro and Pawah weaving their way through the sleeping caravan. Both wore leather kilts and, over their shoulders for warmth, the woolly hides of sheep discolored with dirt so they would be less visible in the dark. Relief swept through him. He offered a silent prayer of thanks and stood to greet them.
While the archer brought a bowl of milk and food left over from the evening meal, Bak awakened Nebwa. Ar ranging themselves around the hearth, they shared hard flat tish loaves of bread and cold boiled fish.
“The encampment was easy to find,” Pashenuro said.
“It’s in the desert west of Shelfak, as Rona said, encircled by low sand hills. Everyone along the river knows its whereabouts. The campfires can be seen from any good sized knoll. No one would dare attack so big a force, so they take few precautions.”
“Don’t they have sentries?” Nebwa asked, his voice gruff from sleep and the ill-humor of being awakened too fast.
“Yes, sir, but men too innocent to be wary. The one I spoke with was a good, honest soul drawn into a fight for which he has no enthusiasm.”
Bak tried to look stern, an effort not entirely successful.
“Did I not tell you to watch from afar, not infiltrate their ranks?”
“We practically stumbled over him, sir. I thought it safer not to run.” The Medjay grinned at Pawah. “He thought me a man who couldn’t speak and my son slow-witted and harmless.”
Pawah, unable to contain himself, burst in, “I could un derstand him, sir. Not every word, but enough.”
“You must thank the lord Amon,” Bak said, winking at
Nebwa. “The troop captain and I spent half the night on our knees before Amonked’s personal shrine.”
The boy’s eyes widened. “Did you really?”
Nebwa laughed, making a lie of the tale. “You did well,
I’ll wager. Now what did you learn?”
Pashenuro tore apart a chunk of bread, dunked both pieces in the milk, and threw them at the dogs, who gobbled them up in a bite and looked to him for more. “We spoke first with the sentry, making him believe we had no special curiosity, no place in particular to go, nothing of note to do.” The Medjay would not be rushed, as Bak had long ago learned. “After he let us go on our way, we sneaked around the encampment in the dark. Approaching from an other direction, taking care not to be discovered a second time, we crept as close as we could. We wished to see them for ourselves, to hear their talk of the battle they face.”
“Go on,” Nebwa growled, picking bones from a chunk of fish.
“We couldn’t see much,” Pashenuro admitted. “The fires burned bright, but the men were shadows walking hither and yon with no special purpose. We couldn’t begin to count their numbers. If the sentry is to be believed, they’ve a fighting force of over four hundred men.”
Bak sat quite still, a piece of soggy bread poised halfway between the bowl of milk and his mouth. “That’s twice the size of our force, including the soldiers from Askut.”
The Medjay spread his hands wide and shrugged, a silent reminder that he was only repeating what he had been told.
“He claimed he heard Hor-pen-Deshret utter the number with his own lips, speaking to a tribal chieftain of note.”
“We’d best pray he was exaggerating,” Bak said, his face grim.
“We mean to go back after midday, when we can see for ourselves.” Pashenuro spoke as casually as if he and the boy were going down to the river to fish.
Bak could not reject the offer; knowing the size of the enemy force was crucial. “This time you’ll tell Amonked,” he told Pawah, his tone severe. “He was very annoyed last night when he learned you’d slipped away without a word.”
“Could you tell how well they’re armed?” Nebwa asked.
“We know only what the sentry told us.” Pashenuro spat out a fish bone. “He claimed never to have seen so many spears, bows and arrows, shields, and small weapons, all in good condition.”
“Humph.”
“How do they feel about the upcoming clash?” Bak asked.
“They talk a lot to bolster their own courage.” The Med jay glanced up as two archers came close for warmth and to listen. “Pawah heard a half-dozen dialects. My guess is they’re a motley crowd, with nothing in common but the lure of wealth. I doubt any have thought of the small por tion they’ll get when divided among so many men, with
Hor-pen-Deshret getting the greater share.”
Bak swallowed a bite of fish and threw what was left to the dogs. “If they’ve been pulled together from many dif ferent locations and they’ve had no time for training, they’ll not fight as an organized unit, as a true army must.”
“Such is my feeling, sir.”
“We’ve been talking around the real question,” Nebwa said. “When do they plan to attack?”
“They meant at first to wait until the caravan neared
Shelfak, striking when we were spread out along the desert trail.” A smile flitted across Pashenuro’s face. “However, a rumor has reached them about a t
reasure to be placed on a ship soon to reach Askut. Hor-pen-Deshret wants to march north today and set upon us here in the valley, while the older and wiser chieftains urge patience. They were arguing when we left. If they do come today-and I believe greed will win out-they’ll strike an hour or two before sunset.
They must, for they know we’d hear of their coming and they’d be open to attack if they camp nearby overnight.”
“They’ll be tired after a long day’s march,” Nebwa said,
“and we’ve a trick or two we think will even the odds.”
“So a clash is imminent.” Amonked dropped onto a stool next to his disheveled sleeping pallet, located beside Nef ret’s tent. “I’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this.”
The young woman peered out from the shelter, her face pale and frightened. “We’ll all die,” she whimpered un heeded. “I know we will.”
“I’ve known of Hor-pen-Deshret for a long time, sir.”
Seshu, his face clouded with worry, stood before the in spector with Bak, Nebwa, and Pashenuro. “He doesn’t give up easily, especially when he feels the goal to be of suffi cient worth.”
“I know, Seshu, I know.” Amonked spoke with a sharp edge of impatience. “You warned me in Buhen that I should travel with fewer amenities, and I failed to listen.”
Horhotep, standing beside the tent, scowled at the quartet from Buhen. “I simply can’t believe a petty tribal chieftain would have the audacity to face off against the royal house of the land of Kemet.”
“Believe it, Lieutenant!” Nebwa waved off three ap proaching drovers carrying flint chips, leather thongs, and other bits and pieces with which to continue their weapons making effort. He pointed them toward Sennefer, who had moved his makeshift armory some distance away.
“We must take shelter within the walls of Askut,” the adviser said, “taking with us the animals and all they carry, leaving nothing behind for those wretched tribesmen to steal.”
