by Lauren Haney
“So my wife reminded me.” Amonmose spoke in a sour voice, as if his spouse had belabored the point.
If she had, Bak thought, nothing less than a catastrophe would make him retreat. “How long ago did you meet Min nakht?”
“I’m not sure exactly. Probably within a few days of the day he set off into the desert, never to return.” Amonmose pulled a square of cloth from beneath his belt and patted the sweat from his face. “In Waset, it was, at a house of pleasure near the waterfront. My youngest son spends too much time there. Drinking, gambling, playing with the women. You know how a youth of fourteen years can be. Irresponsible.
Totally absorbed with fun and games and relieving his sexual urges.” A sudden smile spread across his face. “I find nothing wrong with women, mind you, but all things in moderation,
I say.”
Returning a quick smile, Bak asked, “Did you approach
Minnakht or did he come to you?”
“I’d gone in search of the boy and found instead the ex plorer. I heard him talking to the women there. They were enthralled and, I must admit, so was I. He spoke with a knowledge of the desert that I could never hope to attain. I joined him, offered him a brew, and we talked. He’d heard of my fishing camp and said he’d thought a time or two of sail ing up or down the coast on one of my boats, thinking to has ten his journey. Each time the desert beckoned and in the end he never took advantage of my men’s generosity.”
“Did he say anything about seeking gold?”
Amonmose laughed. “Isn’t that every explorer’s dream?”
Bak laughed with him. Other than an errand such as his own, what besides wealth or royal attention would entice a man into a land as grim and empty of life as this?
“He admitted he hoped to find gold or some precious stone,” Amonmose said, “but he spoke more of the quest for adventure. And knowledge.”
A vague movement caught Bak’s eye, drawing his atten tion to a silla bush a dozen paces away. It looked dead, but small pale purple flowers studded its dry, naked branches.
The sand was slightly disturbed under it, betraying the pres ence of a viper beneath the loose surface granules, waiting to ambush a passing rodent or bird. The serpent was far enough off the track to pose no threat to men or donkeys, so he let it be.
“Before your fishing enterprise, how did you support your family?” he asked.
“I was-and still am-a merchant. I began as a young man with the fish my father netted in the Great Green Sea. Fresh and dried, I traded them to nearby farmers. In exchange, I re ceived the bounty of the land, fruits and vegetables, which I traded in turn to villagers for the products of craftsmen.
Those I bartered at the estates of noblemen, getting in return goats, sheep, and cattle. And so it went. I ultimately traveled all through the land of Kemet, from the Great Green Sea to the land of Wawat. In the end, we grew quite prosperous.”
“We?”
“My three brothers and I. Our families.” With the tip of his staff, Amonmose turned over a flattish rock, revealing noth ing beneath but sand. “My wife would have me stay at home now and play the country gentleman.” A snort of derision burst from his lips. “What a life that would be! The nobility would look down upon me; the men who toil as I’ve done would think me acting above myself. No, thanks! Let her play the fine lady if she wishes, but that’s not the life for me.”
Bak liked Amonmose. He felt as the merchant did and could not imagine a life with no purpose. Could Amonmose slay a man? Most certainly. He had the determination and the strength to take a life should the need arise, and he was so light on his feet that he could probably slip unseen through a brigade of sleeping spearmen. Bak preferred not to think that he might have slain the man at the well.
Amonmose caught the bottom of his tunic, pulled it away from his sweaty belly, and flapped it up and down in a vain attempt to dry himself. “I hope you didn’t mind my insis tence that you join our caravan, Lieutenant.”
“To travel together made sense.”
“Thus I believed, especially with a slayer lurking some where close by.”
Bak gave him an interested look. “You don’t seem a man easily alarmed.”
“Alarmed, no. Cautious, yes.” Amonmose glanced up the line of donkeys toward User and smiled, obviously pleased that he had had his own way. “Why travel in two separate groups when we’re all taking the same path? Not only are we safer, but we now have the benefit of your experience and the pleasure of your company.”
“User believes we’ve no experience.”
“He underestimates you. You and your men are soldiers, proficient fighting men. You may be unschooled in the ways of this particular desert, but you’ve a knowledge of the weak nesses of others that few men attain.”
The words were spoken in so positive a manner they left no doubt of Amonmose’s conviction-and more. “Exactly how far into Wawat did you travel?”
“The fortress of Kubban. No farther, and just the once. A man can grow wealthy in Wawat, but it takes time and pa 76
Lauren Haney tience. Time I preferred to spend in Kemet, trading with men
I’ve known for years.” All the good humor vanished from the merchant’s face; his expression turned grave. “I heard at
Kubban of a Lieutenant Bak posted at Buhen, standing at the head of a company of Medjay police. He was a man of hon esty and decency, so they said, one highly respected by all who obeyed the lady Maat and greatly feared by those who didn’t. One who never failed to snare the man he sought.”
Bak muttered an oath. The gods were surely conspiring against him. What were the odds that he would encounter a man who knew him-not by sight but by reputation-in this sparsely inhabited wilderness? He smiled in spite of himself at the unlikely coincidence. “I’ve come into the Eastern
Desert in search of Minnakht. I think it best we leave it at that.”
“You can depend upon me to remain mute.”
Bak nodded, accepting the pledge, praying the merchant would keep his word. “You mentioned yesterday that some one told you another young man had disappeared in this desert.”
“So said a merchant in Kaine, yes.”
“Did he offer any details?” With the point of his spear, Bak probed the sand around a bush near the path of the donkey.
“Like Minnakht, he was an explorer,” Amonmose said. “I don’t recall hearing his name, but the merchant had an idea that he knew the desert well.”
“He didn’t come out here alone, did he?”
“Evidently not. He told the merchant and other men in
Kaine that he had a guide, a man he planned to meet at the edge of the desert. A nomad, they all assumed, but no one ever saw him. He set out by himself one morning, heading north. Who the guide was and whether or not they met re mains a mystery to this day. A puzzle yet to be solved.”
They reached the well soon after midday. There they stopped to rest in the narrow slice of shade cast by steep and high wadi walls. The well, a hundred or so paces away in the floor of the ancient watercourse, was surrounded by a dry stone wall. How that wall would hold up to one of the rare flash floods, Bak had no idea.
While seeing to the setting up of his camp, he noticed
Nebenkemet helping the drovers unload the donkeys of
User’s caravan farther down the wadi. The shade was too skimpy to share with the animals, so they stood in the sun, meekly allowing the men to relieve them of their burdens.
Though the nomads spoke a different tongue, the burly car penter seemed to communicate well enough with them, us ing hand signals and other gestures easy to understand. Did he choose their company because he felt uncomfortable with men of a more lofty status? Or did he simply prefer to keep busy, and to help with the loading and unloading was one of the few ways to do so?
After ensuring that his own animals were cared for, Bak walked down the wadi. As he approached Nebenkemet, the carpenter greeted him with a grunt and went on about his task. Struck dumb by
the officer’s presence, the drovers toiled on, watching with wary eyes.
“It’s good of you to help with this task,” Bak said.
Nebenkemet devoted his full attention to the water jar he lifted off the donkey. Holding it with ease, betraying the fact that it was empty, he set it beside the jar which had hung on the opposite side of the animal. “I’ve nothing better to do.”
“Neither Ani nor Wensu is helping.”
“Those two!” The carpenter laughed harshly. “Wensu wouldn’t lift a hand to feed himself if he didn’t have to, and
Ani wouldn’t know how.”
“Have you noticed the scars on Ani’s hands? He didn’t get them by spending his days in idleness.”
The carpenter lifted from the donkey’s back the wooden frame from which the jars had been suspended and the soft pad beneath. “I’ve seen them.”
Bak noted the edge of contempt in his voice. “You don’t believe a man who creates beautiful jewelry can toil as hard and long as a carpenter?”
Nebenkemet did not deign to respond.
Watching him knead the donkey’s shoulders where the pad had rested, Bak wondered how a man so reluctant to speak would fare with a small group of fishermen dwelling in an isolated camp on the shore of the Eastern Sea. Were they gar rulous men who would resent his silence, or taciturn men who would welcome his failure to speak?
“Where did you practice your trade, Nebenkemet?”
The carpenter stared at Bak, saying nothing, as if trying to decide whether or not he should answer. “I toiled at a ship yard in Mennufer.”
Rough work among rough men, so Bak had been told. He had never seen the shipyards, but he doubted the building of ships could account for all the scars on the carpenter’s hands and lower arms, and those on the back of his legs looked like the marks of a whip. Perhaps he had failed to obey a hard taskmaster. Or maybe he was a man who became aggressive when besotted and involved himself in numerous brawls.
Nebenkemet released the donkey and let it trot to the well, where a drover was drawing water and pouring it into a deep, wide-mouthed bowl buried almost to the neck in the sand so thirsty animals would not tip it over. Another donkey was al ready drinking, so the new arrival had to wait. Bak caught the halter of the nearest laden donkey and drew it close. As the carpenter lifted a jar from its back, Bak removed the con tainer from the opposite side. The two men’s eyes met across the animal’s back. Nebenkemet looked quickly away, as if he feared his eyes were windows through which Bak might read his thoughts.
If only such were the case, Bak thought. “Where will you get building materials for use at the fishing camp?” he asked, thinking a less personal question might open a path through the man’s defenses. “I’ve been told that the coastline all along the Eastern Sea is as barren as these desert wadis.”
“Amonmose will see that I get whatever I need for the boat. As for the huts, I’ll build them of stone.”
Bak glanced at the high walls of the wadi, at its floor lit tered with fallen boulders and rocks, and gave the carpenter a wry smile. “There’ll be no shortage of stone, I’ll warrant.”
A suspicion of a smile touched Nebenkemet’s face, but again he failed to pursue the opening Bak had provided.
“Do you expect the tasks to keep you long at the fishing camp?”
Nebenkemet shrugged as if indifferent.
Bak was becoming irritated. Normally a man would at least participate to some extent in a conversation. Talking to this man was like talking to a tree. “Did you ever meet Min nakht? Speak with him?”
Rather than the negative Bak expected, Nebenkemet said,
“Amonmose did all the talking. I watched and listened.”
“You were toiling for Amonmose even then?” Bak asked, surprised.
“His wife wanted a shrine in her garden. I built it.”
That Amonmose would ask a man he knew and trusted rather than a stranger to accompany him on a hazardous jour ney such as this made sense. That the merchant would take a tough-looking man with him when searching through the rough houses of pleasure along the waterfront of Waset made more sense. “What was your impression of Minnakht?”
“He was a man whose dreams outstripped reality.”
Bak was intrigued that a man of no learning should have seen something in the explorer that the worldly Amonmose had missed. “In what way?” he asked, openly curious.
“He talked of this desert as if the future of the land of Kemet lay here. As if all good things could be found if a man would but seek them out. His enthusiasm knew no bounds.”
Nebenkemet eyed the land around him with a contemptuous scowl. “He may’ve been right in thinking that here can be found gold and precious stones. What he never once consid ered was how hard won they’ll be.”
The long speech was a measure of the craftsman’s skepti cism, Bak felt sure, but he also sensed a depth of feeling he could not account for. “User believes there’s something out here to be found.”
“He speaks with more caution than Minnakht did. He sees the world more as it truly is.”
“What do you think happened to Minnakht?”
Glancing at the high, nearly vertical walls of the wadi, at the stones scattered along its floor, Nebenkemet returned the same wry smile Bak had given him earlier. “There’s no short age of rock in this desert, or of steep slopes down which a boulder could fall.”
Bak did not know what to make of this man. He felt sure that one as powerful as he could slay another with ease, but would he take a life? Under what circumstances? Their unsat isfactory conversation had revealed nothing of his character.
Bak lay beneath an overhanging rock, trying to rest. His men, sleeping close by in the narrow strip of shade, had planted spears in the ground and had fastened sleeping mats between them to stave off the hot wind, but the stifling air and tumbling thoughts would not let him nap.
His discussions through the morning had given him much to think about. He had come no closer to identifying the dead man or the one who had slain him, but he had learned enough about his fellow travelers to realize how unlikely each man was to have set off on an untrodden path through an empty and unknown land. Except for User, the lifelong explorer.
The willingness of these men to venture so far afield, he sus pected, was a measure of Minnakht’s persuasiveness, his ex citement when describing his adventures. Here he faced another exception: Nebenkemet, the skeptic.
Few men had the ability to draw others in their wake. What had Minnakht said to lure them into this rocky wasteland?
Had he altered his tale to fit each man’s need? Or had he se duced them with a single tale and a pledge of secrecy?
Bak could think of no more disparate a group of people on what promised to be a hard and dangerous journey. Which man would prove strong enough to go on, no matter how dif ficult the circumstances? Who would falter and have to be helped? With the donkeys able to carry a minimum of water and supplies, with wells or springs as much as three days apart, they could not offer unlimited aid to a seriously injured man. What would they do if faced with such a decision?
Would they be able to find nomads willing to help? Where were the nomads? Nebre and Kaha had found fresh tracks around the well and signs that a small group of people had camped in the shade. A shallow puddle had remained in the bottom of the bowl, indicating that they had watered their an imals not long before Bak and the others had arrived. Why had they moved on in the heat of the day? Where had they gone? Had the nomad Nebre and Kaha seen earlier in the morning warned them of the approaching caravan? Even if he had, their leaving made no sense. If the people of this
Eastern Desert were anything like the tribesmen on the southern frontier, they were a garrulous lot, as eager to speak with strangers as they were to pass news to friends.
His thoughts settled on questions more relevant to his mission: What happened to Minnakht? Was he alive or dead? If he was as highly respected by the nomads as every one seemed to think, how cou
ld he have vanished with no one the wiser? In what way was his disappearance related to the dead man and to the man who had gone missing nearly a year ago?
Bak awakened to the sound of falling water, droplets strik ing the earth around the edge of his shelter. He shook off sleep, looked out into the bright sunlight, snapped his eyes shut. Sunlight and rain? He sat up abruptly, nearly bumping his head on the stone above, and glanced around. Another smattering of sound. Small stones peppering the earth around him. Someone or something was standing above his shelter on the rim of the steeply inclined wadi wall.
Nebenkemet’s words came back to him: “There’s no short age of rock in this desert, or of steep slopes down which a boulder could fall.”
He scooted out from the shade and, leaping to his feet, yelled, “Move! Away from the hillside!”
Psuro and the Medjays, accustomed to acting without question, obeyed instantly. Bak darted away from the over hang and at the same time looked up the long, steep slope of eroded grayish rock. He thought he glimpsed something at the top, but could not be sure. Whatever it was vanished as if it had never been.
User, accustomed to life in the rough and attuned to dan ger, had been as quick to act as the Medjays. Nebenkemet moved almost as fast. The other men left their resting places half asleep and grumbling. The carpenter stared up the in cline above Bak, then flung a quick glance at the officer, evi dently remembering the words he had spoken so short a time before.
“What happened?” User asked, hurrying to Bak’s side as the Medjays gathered around.
After a brief explanation, Bak sent Nebre and Kaha out to find a way to the top of the incline. “I may be unduly wor ried,” he admitted, “but we did find a man slain this morning.”
Looking grim, User nodded. “I’m no lover of nomads, as Minnakht was, but I have to say I’ve never known one who slew another man without reason. That reason may not always be valid in our eyes, but it is to them. A blood feud, maybe, or a war between tribes. Neither of which would apply to men new to this desert, such as yourself and the Medjays.”
“Perhaps you’ve earned an enemy among them.”
