Face Turned Backward lb-2

by Lauren Haney

  The three men looked at each other, grinned. But they had no chance to congratulate themselves. The black bitch took off after the pack and Amonmose, cursing her soundly, chased after her. Bak and Imsiba dropped their blood-stained weapons and hastened to the frightened donkeys. Two of the animals carried the game Intef had shot: several hares and two fully grown gazelles. The third beast carried supplies.

  The hunter had been a careful man, they found, taking along plenty of food for his animals and two large pottery jars of water. By the time Amonmose returned with the dog, Bak and Imsiba had slaked their thirst, cared for the injured donkey as best they could, and watered the three beasts, using as a basin a deep reddish bowl burned black on the bottom from sitting on a cooking fire.

  Imsiba carried the empty water jar to the supply donkey.

  “Do you want to search this animal now, before I tie the jar in place?”

  96 / Lauren Haney

  Bak glanced at the sun, an indistinct golden ball hurrying across a sallow sky.” Later. We must hasten to Kor and have this game butchered before the meat goes bad. Then we can wash the grit away in the river and fill our bellies with food and beer.” He turned to Amonmose, on his knees, wiping the blood from their weapons. “You’ll come with us, I assume?”

  “Is that an order, sir?”

  Bak laughed. Who wouldn’t prefer the comforts of a fortress to spending the night in the open desert with Heribsen and his fellows? “It is.”

  “Who would slay a man like Intef?” Nebwa shook his head, unable to believe, saddened. “He never did any harm to anyone. Never.”

  Bak let his eyes travel across the hunter’s possessions, spread out on the sand before him. Other than the weapons, which he had laid off to the side, the objects were no different than those carried by anyone who expected to travel a long distance and depend solely on his own resources. Still, a diligent search might reveal some unexpected article, perhaps even a reason for Intef’s death. “He must’ve trod on someone’s toes. Why else take his life?”

  Nebwa planted a foot on a collapsed mudbrick wall. “If so, it was unintentional. He was a good man.”

  The supply donkey, freed of its load and fed, nudged Bak’s hip with its head. Scratching the animal’s nose, he eyed the southern end of Nebwa’s temporary domain: the long, narrow mudbrick fortification of Kor. Much of this portion of the old fortress had been given over to the caravans Thuty had ordered held here. A wall had been hastily built to contain the donkeys. Their masters, surrounded by the merchandise the animals had carried, were camped out among the ruined walls of buildings erected many generations ago and no longer needed. The two officers stood in a quiet corner of the paddock, away from prying eyes. The smell of manure was strong, and though the wind had dropped, dust hung in the air thick enough to stifle.

  “He must’ve been on his way home when he was slain,”

  Nebwa said, eyeing the quarter-full bag of grain lying on the sand beside a single sheaf of hay. “Not much food remains for man or beast.”

  Bak nodded. “The other two donkeys were so laden with game, they couldn’t have carried more.”

  “A pleasant surprise, that was,” Nebwa said with a grin.

  “We’ll have a great feast tonight, stuffing all these wretched traders so full of hare and gazelle they’ll have no heart to assault my ears with further complaints.”

  Laughing, Bak picked up the heavy water jar and, with his hand over the mouth to catch anything that might be hidden inside, poured its contents into a mudbrick watering trough.

  The jar held no secrets. “Intef left the donkeys behind and went off into the desert alone, carrying the one goatskin of water. He wasn’t after game; the men on desert patrol found no animal tracks. So he had a goal, and it couldn’t have been far from where they found him.”

  “There’s nothing out there but desert.” Nebwa scratched his head, thinking. “I’ll wager he knew someone was tracking him and he headed away from the river, hoping to lose him among the dunes farther west.”

  “I doubt he’d have left his donkeys so vulnerable if he’d meant to be gone for long.” Bak laid the jar on the ground with its empty twin, picked up the goatskin, and poured the water into the trough. “You knew him. Was he a man who might carry contraband across the frontier?”

  “Intef?” Nebwa snorted. “He was a plodder, not one to spit in the face of authority.”

  Bak knelt and poked through a basket containing a small drill used for starting a fire, a bundle of twigs, and dry straw for tinder. Finding nothing of interest, he laid them aside.

  He crushed two round loaves of bread as hard and dry as stone, and flung away the crumbs for the pigeons that seemed always to be underfoot. He tossed a sheaf of limp green onions in front of the donkey, along with two overripe melons he broke apart, thinking something could’ve been hidden among the seeds. Leaf packets containing a few dried fish and a

  98 / Lauren Haney handful of dates joined the fire drill in the basket, as did a small jar that had been emptied of all but a few dried lentils and beans mixed together and another jar of poor quality oil for rubbing on the body.

  “Nebwa!” Imsiba, leading the donkeys that had earlier been laden with game, strode out of a narrow lane between two partially fallen walls. “I thought you’d be here, seeing what there is to see.”

  “I’d have been more entertained watching the butchers.”

  Bak picked up the quarter-full bag of wheat, well aware of how often toll collectors found items hidden among the kernels. Pulling the red bowl close, trying not to hope but hoping anyway, he slowly poured the grain into the vessel.

  Other than the usual small stones and chaff, he found nothing. Nebwa muttered a curse, as disappointed as Bak. Imsiba expelled something between a laugh and a snort.

  Bak turned to the bundle of hay. With another surge of hope, he drew his dagger, cut the cords that bound the sheaf, and tore it apart. Lying in the center like a large, elongated egg was a wide-mouthed alabaster jar the size of his open hand, its creamy white surface streaked with golden brown.

  His spirits soared. The container was elegant-and utterly out of place among Intef’s poor belongings. Hardly daring to breathe, he picked it up. Several hard objects rattled inside.

  He glanced at Imsiba and Nebwa. The Medjay’s eyes glittered with anticipation. Nebwa looked on the verge of prayer.

  Offering a silent prayer of his own, Bak twisted the lid, breaking a thin seal of dried mud, and tipped the jar upside down. A bracelet dropped into his hand amid a cascade of seven gold beads. A small papyrus-wrapped bundle followed, and a second bracelet. Too surprised to speak, he rose to his feet and his friends drew close, their heads bent over the treasure. For a treasure it was. Both of the bracelets, made of a multitude of gold and carnelian and turquoise beads, a dozen or more shaped like cowrie shells, were very old and special, objects that might have come from the pillaged tomb of a long-dead nobleman.

  He handed the jewelry to Nebwa and unwrapped the bundle. The papyrus fragment was stiff but not brittle, which indicated it was of relatively recent manufacture. Inside, he found a chunk of ivory barely large enough to make an amulet or the bezel of a ring. A few words had been written on the papyrus, a portion of a ship’s manifest. The cargo listed was grain, the most common item shipped upriver, and the date of delivery was two months earlier.

  Bak lay awake long into the night, trying to rest on a borrowed sleeping pallet spread out on the roof of the officers’ quarters at Kor. The stars were bright points of light in a sky no longer murky. The many animals sheltered within the walls made the small noises common to creatures restless among strangers: soft snorts, low brays, the muffled thud of hooves.

  The excitement he had felt at finding the ancient jewelry had long since dissipated. The small hoard had answered no questions. Instead, it had given him another path to follow, one that might point the way to Intef’s slayer, but could as easily lead nowhere.

  He tried not to be di
scouraged, but the feeling persisted.

  Two murders in two days. Two dead men whose paths were unlikely to have crossed. And the slimmest of leads: an uncut tusk on Mahu’s ship, which had almost certainly led to his death. A few pieces of jewelry which might or might not have led to the death of Intef. And a small chunk of ivory which might or might not connect the two men.

  Chapter Seven

  “I’m sorry, Lieutenant, but I can’t help you.” The boy Amonaya did not look the least bit sorry. “Mistress Nofery has ordered me never to awaken her so early in the morning.”

  Bak scowled at the slim, sleek youth, eleven or twelve years of age, his dark skin oiled to a fine gloss. The boy’s large black eyes never faltered, his expression remained bland. Or smug, more likely. “You know as well as I that I’m a special friend. I come here often enough.”

  “She takes no man into her bed, sir, unless she herself bids him come. I can awaken another young lady if your need is great.” The misunderstanding flowed off Amonaya’s tongue like honey off a smooth crust of bread.

  Taking a quick step across the threshold, Bak clapped a hand on the back of the boy’s neck and squeezed. After a sleepless night, he was in no mood for games, especially from one who thought himself better than others merely because he had once been servant to a king. His voice turned ominous. “Either take me to your mistress, Amonaya, or bring her here to me.”

  A low, deep growl came from the dim recesses of the room, the half-grown lion the boy had accompanied to Buhen. Bak had early on befriended the creature, but if the cat had to make a choice between a casual friend and the one who fed it, he had no doubt which of the two it would choose. He squeezed harder, accepting the risk. “Now do as I say. Move!”

  Nofery’s room was dark, the high, narrow windows covered with mats. White bedding and a large white dress draped over a storage basket caught the light from the open doorway, drawing attention to the obese old woman lying like a queen on a bed with ebony head- and footboards. Her head was raised on a mound of colorful pillows so she could see Bak across her massive body. Beds were rare in Buhen.

  Where Nofery had found hers, he had no idea, and he thought it best not to ask.

  “Have you no regard for anyone?” She heaved her bulk back toward the low headboard, which Amonaya hastened to pad with more pillows. The bed groaned beneath her shifting weight. “Could you not wait until a decent hour? At least let the sun come up.”

  “The lord Khepre rose above the eastern horizon while I stood on the quay at Kor. I’ve since journeyed from there to Buhen…” He reached across the bed to pinch a fat jowl.

  “…just to see you.”

  She slapped away his hand. “Whatever you want, you’ll have to wait until a reasonable hour.”

  “Come, old woman. Drag yourself out from among your sheets and pull your wits together. I’m in dire need of information.”

  Her eyes narrowed, her expression turned sly. “You’ve a murder to resolve, I’ve heard. Captain Mahu.”

  Bak knew that look well, and the acquisitive nature behind it. “Don’t expect favor for favor, old woman. Not this time.

  I spoke up for you with Commandant Thuty, and he let you move your place of business to this house. Your gratitude, you swore, would be never-ending.”

  “I’m a poor woman,” she whined. “I work day and night…”

  “Enough!” He raised a hand, staving off the spate of words, and baited the hook he hoped would set her tongue to wagging. “I’ve two murders to resolve, not one. And I’ve 102 / Lauren Haney no intention of haggling for what you know, as I would for a fat goose in the market.”

  “A second murder?” Her eyes lit up. She clutched the sheet against her sagging breasts and swung her legs off the side of the bed.

  Bak managed not to smile. Her curiosity knew no bounds, which added much to her value as an informer. “The hunter Intef. Surely his death didn’t escape your notice!”

  “I thought it an accident,” she admitted with uncharacter-istic candor. Her glance leaped to the boy hovering beside her bed. “Go away, Amonaya. Find us some food and drink.

  I’ll be dressed in an instant.”

  Bak, who had no desire to look upon the mountain of sagging flesh, left the room one step behind the servant, who hurried across the open courtyard to disappear through a rear portal. Nofery’s new house of pleasure was palatial compared to the old: four rooms, a courtyard, and even a kitchen versus a small, dark two-room hovel. This building was spotless, with white-plastered walls neither scuffed nor gouged nor blackened by smoke, and hard-packed earthen floors covered with mats not yet embedded with grit.

  He had heard soldiers and sailors complain that they felt the building too grand for a good time, but still they came.

  Perhaps because only the setting had changed. The beer was as thick and harsh as before, the games of chance as risky and sometimes as dishonest. The music offered on rare occa-sions was as loud and raucous as in the past, and the girls as free with their favors.

  Preferring not to air his business to all the world, Bak peered into the main room, which opened off the entryway through which he had arrived, to see if anyone was there. A scrawny man with white hair and a pronounced limp was wielding a rush broom, raising a cloud of dust thick enough to sting the eyes. A few stools and low tables and an open chest half filled with drinking bowls had been shoved against the wall out of his way. Loud snores drew Bak’s eyes to an alcove, an afterthought to the main room with no door to close it off. Two soldiers lay sprawled on the floor asleep.

  The acrid smells of vomit and sweat hinted at a night of too much beer and pleasure.

  He backed away and crossed the courtyard to another door, where he swept aside a linen curtain to look upon three young women lying on a rumpled sleeping pallet. A shapely beauty with a thick, dark braid falling over her shoulder opened sloe eyes and gave him a sultry smile. The others slept on. He was sorely tempted, but he had no time for dalliance. He blew the temptress a kiss and let the curtain fall.

  Satisfied whatever he said would go unnoticed, he sat on a mudbrick bench in a shady spot outside Nofery’s door and watched the lion, stretched out in the sun, gnawing on what had once been a woven reed sandal. Six or eight three-legged stools had been shoved up against a couple of low tables piled high with drinking bowls. Thigh-high jars of beer stood against another wall, shaded by the same lean-to roof that sheltered him. “I’ve been told Mahu played knucklebones here the night before he set sail for Kor. Do you remember?”

  “Mmmmm.” The rustle of fabric, heavy breathing, a curse.

  “That was the last time I ever saw him.” Shuffling feet, another whisper of linen, a couple of grunts. “He enjoyed himself, I think, winning more than he lost, but playing more for pleasure than profit.”

  “I must know who talked with him.”

  “You know how Mahu was. Friendly. I doubt a man came through the door he didn’t say a word to.”

  “A man liked by one and all,” Bak muttered, disgusted.

  Aloud he asked, “Who played with him? Do you remember?”

  “I’ve lost a sandal. Do you see one out there?”

  Bak glanced at the lion. The creature’s attention had been drawn to a flock of chattering swallows darting back and forth over the courtyard, gorging themselves on a swarm of insects too small to see at a distance. One large paw rested firmly on what had begun to look like a bedraggled mat, with ends of reed projecting from toe and heel.

  He refused to be drawn into what he knew would become 104 / Lauren Haney a lengthy tirade. “Did the same people play through the evening? Or did men come and go?”

  “The players never changed.” Nofery shuffled out the door, her breathing heavy, her face flushed with effort. The white sheath covered her fleshy body. She wore one sandal, the other foot was bare. “All good men, they were, upstanding residents of Buhen.”

  Her description, brief as it was, gave Bak a feel for the game. Men of substance wagering
sums large enough to discourage the average soldier or sailor who might otherwise have wished to play. “Their names, old woman?”

  “The trader Nebamon, as stingy a man as I’ve ever met, one too hidebound to enjoy the pleasures of life.” Barely glancing at the lion, she crossed the court and picked up a stool. “And another trader, Hapuseneb. Now there’s a man I like. He’s no great beauty, but he has that special look in his eye that sets the blood to boiling-and he’s free with his wealth.”

  “So that’s why Amonaya hinted I wasn’t good enough to share your bed.” Bak’s voice broke in exaggerated dismay.

  “Your heart’s been taken by another, a wealthy man with whom I can never compete.”

  “Amonaya did what?” Her mouth tightened, but before he could explain, she cut him short. “Say no more. The boy’s feathers need plucking, I know.” She carried the stool into the swath of shade where he sat and plopped down. “Captain Ramose played that night.” Her annoyance melted away and her eyes slewed toward Bak, greedy for knowledge. “He summoned you to a shipwreck, they say, and there you found much treasure.”

  Leaning close, Bak patted her fat knee. “Later, old woman.

  After you tell me what I wish to know.”

  She glared at him, at her bare foot, and at the lion, its tail whipping back and forth as it watched the birds. Evidently she did not recognize the destroyed sandal. “Userhet was in the game. The overseer of warehouses. A man as handsome as a god, but one more full of himself I doubt I’ll ever meet.”