A Vile Justice

by Lauren Haney

  Bak smiled, satisfied with a guess proven right: Djehuty had come back to Abu as a ranking officer, one in a position to step on many toes. "Was the garrison peopled mostly with local men? Soldiers born and reared in this province?"

  "It was, but no longer. Menkheperre Thutmose, when he took command of the army, assigned men from throughout the land of Kemet."

  Bak, nodding his understanding, watched without seeing a three-legged white dog trot into the room and lie down at Pahared's feet. Not only had Menkheperre Thutmose, the young man who shared the throne in name only, letting the queen have her way, cleared away incompetent officers and forced new men to prove their worth, but he had made radical changes throughout the regiments and garrisons, moving men of all ranks from one post to another so their loyalties lay with him rather than with provincial noblemen or governors.

  "After Djehuty came back, did anything-anything at all-happen for which blame might be laid at his feet?" Bak heard the doggedness in his voice, the refusal to let go.

  Pahared shook his head, regret filling his eyes. "I'd like to help, my young friend, but I can think of nothing."

  His wife stepped forward and spoke a few words in her own tongue. Pahared snapped his fingers, nodded, listened further, and sniffled his thanks. She returned to the door, obviously content with herself and his response.

  "My wife understands the tongue of Kemet but hesitates to use it, fearing ridicule." The merchant gave the woman a fond smile. `=She has a better memory than I do. She reminded me of the storm. The storm that took so many young lives." His eyes darted toward Bak. "But that was long ago.

  It may have nothing to do with the here and now." "Tell me about it."

  "A raging tempest out in the desert." Pahared looked surprised at Bak's ignorance. "Have you never heard of it? Five years ago, it was. Over a hundred men lost in the wind and sand, never to be seen again."

  Bak forced his thoughts back. He had been assigned to the garrison at Mennufer at that time, newly appointed to head a company of charioteers, full of his own importance and barely listening to rumors of an army vanished in a desert storm.

  "I heard tales of an entire company of spearmen lost and..." He stiffened, gave the merchant a sharp look. "And a commander who returned alive. That was Djehuty?"

  "He came back, yes." Pahared stared at the large, calloused hands clasped in his lap, saddened by the tale, by the loss of so many. "He and a handful of other men."

  Bak nodded slowly, dwelling on the news. "I take it Djehuty, as commanding officer, was responsible for so grave a loss."

  "In the year I've lived in Swenet, I've heard no man lay blame at his feet." Pahared snorted, derisive. "How can you fault a mere mortal faced with the might and fury of the gods?

  "You can't expect_ Djehuty to speak of that day!" Lieutenant Amonhotep ran his fingers around the upper inside edge of his broad beaded collar, as if it lay too tight around his neck. "Even now he feels the weight of responsibility, though no man alive could've guessed a storm would strike so late in the year."

  The aide had been brought by Psuro to Pahared's house of pleasure, expecting a companionable evening with Bak. Instead, he had been ushered out to the courtyard, which was lighted by a torch mounted in a bracket by the door, and pressed for information. Now he sat on a stool,, drinking bowl in hand, offering nothing, admitting a bare minimum.

  Bak leaned over to pet the three-legged dog, now curled up at his feet. Merry laughter and the clatter of knucklebones reminded him of the good time to be had beyond the door, doubling his regret that he must probe and poke. "I was told he was so filled with shame he stepped down from his post as garrison commander, turning his back on the army forever." Pahared had said no such thing, but exaggeration might free Amonhotep's power of speech.

  "I suppose to some it looked that way." The aide's voice was as stiff as his spine. "In reality, he left the army to take his father's place as provincial governor-his right as sole heir."

  "Did you serve with him while still he was an officer?" "Since my thirteenth birthday." Amonhotep did not look reassured by the change of subject.

  "You, like so many others who toil in the governor's villa, must've been born and reared in Abu."

  "I grew to manhood in Nubt, on Djehuty's estate." "And he took you into this garrison ten years ago. . ." Bak queried the aide with a glance, received a nod. ". . . when he came back to the province."

  "He made me his herald, yes."

  No wonder Amonhotep was loyal to a fault, Bak thought. He had Djehuty to thank for his rank and position. And possibly his life. Whether herald or aide, the young officer would have accompanied Djehuty on that fateful journey into the desert.

  "What was he when he returned? A troop captain like Antef?" Bak's voice took on an edge of cynicism. "Or was he handed the lofty rank of commander?"

  Amonhotep's eyes flashed indignation. "Djehuty may have his faults, Lieutenant, but he's always been an honorable man. This 7garrison is small, warranting no more than a troop captain at its head, and so he was when his father died and he took his seat as governor. While still he served in the army, I pointed out more than once that some men travel to the capital, seeking advantage. He refused to do so."

  A refusal to seek preferment did not sound like the Djehuty who had summoned Bak from Buhen but refused to

  help him, nor the Djehuty he sensed behind the compliments and complaints of the men on the governor's staff. "He had no black marks against him as an officer?"

  "None."

  Bak raised an eyebrow. "No blame was laid when he lost more than a hundred men in a sandstorm?"

  "His record is clean, I tell you."

  Again Bak veered away from the point, hoping to unsettle the aide. "Why would a garrison commander lead a company of men out onto the desert? Would that not be a task for an officer of lower rank? A lieutenant like you or me?"

  "Normally, yes. But Djehuty was no laggard. He wanted to stand tall and proud at the head of his men." "Instead.. ." Bak made his voice cool, deliberate. ". . . a storm struck, decimating the column and leaving few survivors."

  Amonhotep, eyes flashing with anger, gulped down the last of his beer, set the bowl on the floor, and stood up. A mouse flitted into the shadows behind several pottery storage containers. "The storm was unfortunate. No, worse. It was catastrophic. A cruel whim of the gods."

  Bak rose, blocking the aide's path to the door. "Nine days from now, Lieutenant, Djehuty may well be dead. Slain by a man I've failed to lay hands on because no one close to him will speak with a frank and open tongue."

  "The storm, those many deaths, can't be laid at his feet! He came close to losing his own life!"

  "Convince me!" Bak sensed men at the door, attracted by the raised voices. He waved them away, urging them to mind their own business, and spoke more softly. "Tell me what happened, Amonhotep." -

  The aide dropped onto his stool, fumbled for his drinking bowl, found it empty. Bak strode to the door, signaled to Pahared's wife for two more jars, and returned to his seat. The dog, its attention focused on the shadows between the pottery jars, rested its chin on his sandaled foot.

  Amonhotep lowered his head and rubbed his eyes. He spoke in a tired, defeated voice. "I don't enjoy talking about that storm, or remembering. No man does who lived through it."

  Bak nodded, offering no words of sympathy, his understanding limited by a lack of experience he in no way wished to gain.

  The aide looked up, his mouth tight and resolute. "Desert tribesmen - thirty, maybe forty men from the western oasis of Uahtrest-had been raiding caravans carrying trade goods past the rapids and attacking outlying farms in the province. The garrison was short-manned. To send sufficient troops to protect the caravans strained us beyond our limit; to guard the farms was impossible."

  "Did you not send word to the police at Uahtrest?" Amonhotep gave a short, bitter laugh. "Twice we did, and neither messenger ever returned. Either they were waylaid in the desert or those men assigned to
uphold the law in Uahtrest handed them over to the raiders." He glanced toward the door, where Pahared's wife stood, a beer jar in each hand. Not until she had delivered the brew and gone back to her other customers did he continue. "Djehuty and his officers agreed: the raiders must be stopped and we must do it. The best way, they decided, was to march to Uahtrest, taking all available spearmen, and ambush them. Decimate them."

  Bak nodded his understanding. "By making an example of them, they hoped to discourage other tribesmen from future raids."

  "Yes." Amonhotep filled his drinking bowl and took several deep swallows, bolstering his will to go on. "A company of spearmen-a hundred strong-set out, as did their officers and a half dozen scouts who knew the desert well. Each man led a donkey, some burdened with food, some laden with water, all carrying weapons. Djehuty marched at their head." "And you with him," Bak guessed.

  Amonhotep gave an odd, strangled laugh, nodded. "We were four days out when the breeze stiffened and the air grew thick with dust. The world turned black. I could see nothing. Not Djehuty before me or the donkey whose rope I held." He paused, swallowed hard. "Over the roar of the wind, I heard shouts, contradictory orders, donkeys braying. Sand clogged my nose, crept beneath my eyelids and under my clothing, abraded my flesh. I tied the rope around my wrist, caught hold of the bridle, and held on as if my very life depended upon the donkey I led. And it did."

  The aide took another deep drink. Bak could see how hard it was for him to go on, how dreadful the memory. He wished he could put an end to the tale, ease the officer's pain, but to do so would be foolhardy, might even cost Djehuty his life.

  "The creature turned its back to the wind," Amonhotep said, "letting the storm blow us where it would, and I stumbled along beside him. It was I who fell, not him, and I pulled him down with me. He struggled to rise, but I clung to him, burying my face in his neck, burying his head in my lap. The sand built up around us and I .. ." He paused; a faint, humorless smile touched his lips. "I felt sure we would die, the donkey and I together."

  Another pause, a soft laugh. "The wind stopped blowing. In a world as silent as a tomb, I stood up and so did my four-legged companion. His back was bare, I saw; he no longer carried the water jars we had set out with that morning. We shook off the sand and looked around, thinking other men and animals would show themselves. None did."

  Amonhotep's breathing had grown heavy, labored, revealing the torment of memory. "I panicked, running first in one direction and then another, digging into every small mound of sand until my hands bled, desperate to find other survivors. At last, exhausted and thirsty, I faced the truth: we-my donkey and I-were alone. We spent the rest of the day hiding from the burning sun in the-shade of a low ridge. As darkness fell, we set out, using the stars to guide us. It was cold; our stomachs were empty and our mouths dry. So very dry."

  He swallowed hard again. "As dawn broke, my donkey brayed. In the distance, we heard another and a second one, both somewhere beyond a stony ridge. When finally I realized the sound was real, not an illusion born of thirst, we

  hurried toward them, I thinking we'd find the rest of our troops." His laugh this time was short, cynical. "We found instead a dozen or so donkeys. Most, like my own, had lost their loads, but two carried water and another food. After that, we had only to ration our supplies, stay out of the sun as best we could, and travel eastward at night, using the stars to point the way. We found other donkeys scattered across the desert, none carrying food or water. We came upon no men."

  Bak could well imagine the hot, burning sands, donkeys left to make their lonely way back to the river or to die, the utter absence of men. A dry and desolate land, eerie in its emptiness and silence.

  '13y doling out water in ever smaller portions," Amonhotep went on, "I managed to get myself and the donkeystwenty-eight at the end-to the black land of Kemet. I thought never to see so beautiful a sight: fertile green fields, the life-giving river, and men who took us in, fed us, doctored our injuries. Other survivors straggled off the desert a day or two later, sick from too much sun, weak from little or no food and drink. Djehuty, I learned later, had arrived ahead of me. Like me, he'd found a donkey laden with water."

  The dog at Bak's feet moaned in its sleep. He reached down to scratch the creature's ears. Pahared was right; Djehuty could not be blamed for the onset of the storm. Why then, he wondered, did his instincts tell him there was more to this incident than the obvious? Amonhotep had clearly told the truth as far as he knew it, but how much of the truth could he know? He had been separated from Djehuty and everyone else from the onset of the storm.

  Bak stumbled down the dark, narrow lane, not as sure as he would have liked that the unfamiliar route would take him to his temporary quarters. His torch, which Pahared's wife had urged him to borrow from her courtyard, sputtered and flickered, threatening to go out, its fuel nearly burned away. Each time he lowered it to examine a suspicious shadow or raised it high to illuminate the lane farther ahead, the sudden movement threatened to extinguish the flame. He muttered an oath, directing it at himself. He should have sought out a member of the night patrol and asked for a better light, but he had not wanted to tarry after half carrying the besotted Amonhotep home to the governor's villa.

  He turned a corner; the torch spat sparks. A cat, yowling fear, shot down the lane and vanished in the dark. He followed, counting doors as he walked, praying he was in the right street. Like all older cities in Kemet, Abu had grown at the whim of those who lived there, with villas built and smaller houses built in between, one against another. Now the old single-story dwellings, like the one he and his men had been assigned, were being enlarged upward, many two or even three stories high, to make the best possible use of the confined space. Every lane, every house was different, yet each looked much like the rest to a stranger. Especially in the dark.

  Approaching the sixth door and a corner, he heard Kasaya's deep-voiced curse on the rooftop above and Psuro's laugh. He relaxed, smiled. With luck, the odors he smelled of braised lamb and onions came from their roof, not that of a neighboring household, and they had saved some for him. He had had plenty of beer through the evening, but nothing solid since midday.

  He brushed aside the mat covering the door and stepped into the house, holding the torch low and to his right, well away from the dry, flammable woven reeds. As he let the mat drop and raised the flame higher, a shower of sparks fell from the torch. He glimpsed a long, fish-like object on the floor beyond his foot, and the torch sputtered out.

  "Where's a lamp?" he called, edging sideways, trying to avoid the object he had seen.

  "Up here." Psuro looked down from the top of the stairway leading to the roof, a black silhouette outlined by stars. "I'll light it from the brazier."

  He disappeared from view, but soon returned. Carrying the lamp in one hand, shielding the flame with the other, he plunged down the stairs. Bak stood where he was, trying to see through the blackness beyond his feet.

  Kasaya looked down from above. "We saved some lamb for you, sir, and stewed vegetables. I hope you're hungry." Psuro dropped to the floor with a thud and drew his hand away from the blaze. The flame rose tall and straight, free of smoke, illuminating the floor, the few pieces of furniture, and the baskets of supplies, casting shadows against the walls and into the corners. A large fish, its head pointed toward the door, its scales vaguely iridescent in the uncertain light, lay a couple of paces inside the door, outlined by its own shadow. A perch, Bak saw, an arm's length from nose to tail. That the creature was dead there could be no doubt. Its head was crushed. The weapon, a chunk of black granite sized to fit in the hand, with bits of scale clinging to its rough edges, lay beside it.

  "What in the name of the lord Amon ... " Psuro's voice tailed off; puzzlement clouded his features.

  "Must be a joke," Kasaya said, staring down.

  Bak was as perplexed as they were, as dumbfounded. "Who came to this house tonight? Did you see anyone approach?"

  "It is a jok
e, isn't it, sir?" Kasaya asked, seeking reassurance.

  Psuro shook his head. "We've been on the roof since nightfall, eating, playing senet, talking. We paid no heed to the lane."

  Bak knelt beside the perch, forcing himself to think. A lack of blood on the floor told him the creature had been slain elsewhere, probably pulled from the water and bludgeoned before it suffocated. If the fish had been intended as a gift of food, the donor surely would have brought it gutted and cleaned, and would have placed it out of reach of scavenging cats and dogs. Since that was not the case, why had it been left? Could it have something to do with his mission in Abu? With the murders in the governor's villa?

  A thought surfaced; a chill ran up his spine. This could well be a reminder of the first victim. The child Nakht, who

  could swim like a fish. His head had been crushed. Was the slayer teasing him? Challenging him? Or could the fish be a warning?

  "We'll say nothing of this to anyone," he said. "Not Djehuty, Amonhotep, or anyone else in the governor's household. With luck, curiosity will eat at the one who left it, and he'll give himself away."

  Chapter Six

  "Nakht was all I had left." The woman grabbed the feet of the duck whose neck she had wrung and dropped onto a low stool to dunk the bird into a large gray bowl of boiling water. The stench of wet feathers filled the air. "Now I'm alone, with no husband to share my old age and no sons or daughters to ease my journey to the netherworld."

  She was of medium height and bony, a woman who looked long past her middle years but was probably ten years younger. A life of toil and deprivation, disappointment and anguish, had bent her back, wrinkled her face and arms, and given her a thin-lipped, bitter demeanor.

  "Was he your only child?" Bak asked.

  "I lost a girl a few days after childbirth, two before they reached full term, and two older boys to a fever that swept through this city before Nakht was born." She pulled the duck out of the water and, letting it drip into the bowl, plucked a handful of grayish feathers. They fell to the ground in a sodden clump, intensifying the stench. "He came late in life, a gift of the gods, and I could have no more."