in a golden shrine atop the barque. As the white-robed priests on board performed their ministrations, the vessel rocked gently on the water; the bright painted ram's heads carved on prow and stern rose and fell in tandem.
Bak closed his eyes and waited for the glowing reflection to fade from inside his lids. Having lived as a youth in the capital, he had seen the enshrined god many times. The sight never ceased to move him, but he no longer felt the single-minded awe of men and women who had never before set eyes on the greatest of all the gods.
With his vision returned to normal, he scanned the river, the crowded quays and waterfront, searching for his men and for possible sources of disruption. Sailors on the warship that had towed the barge upriver were mooring the much larger, heavier craft on the opposite side of the quay. The flotilla of small boats which had sailed out to meet the god trickled back toward shore. A second warship swung around farther out on the water, preparing to dock. The deep beat of the drum that gave rhythm to the oarsmen could now and then be heard above the excited babble of the onlookers. The Medjay police, their spearpoints gleaming in the brilliant light, walked among the crowd to give aid where needed or prevent trouble.
Satisfied all was well, he once again turned his attention to the quay. Commandant Thuty, the priest of Horus of Buhen, and three brightly garbed native princes stood alongside the barge, waiting to greet the lord Amon and his entourage. All wore broad multicolored bead collars, wristand armbands of gold or bronze, rings set with bright stones. All but the priest carried spotless new shields, and the shine of their weapons vied with the sun. A dozen soldiers and scribes, shaven and purified to assist the god and his priestly representatives, waited with them.
Red banners, suspended high above the pylon from tall wooden flagstaffs, rustled in a fitful breeze. Bak prayed a tiny puff of air would sneak down from above to cool the sweltering terrace and blow away the smell of too many bodies pressed too close together.
'Swine!' An angry shout from the terrace below. 'Hey! Whattaya think you're doing?' someone else yelled.
Bak leaned over the waist-high wall in front of him. Five small boys, holding hands to form a snake, were weaving a path through the masses of people. The crowd was too thick for such pranks, the terrace too congested. He pursed his lips and whistled a signal. A patrolling Medjay came running. Within moments, the snake was torn apart, the boys reprimanded, the adults pacified.
When he looked back at the sacred barge, the chief priest, wearing a fine white linen robe and decked out in a golden pectoral and bracelets, waved his censer a final time. Lesser priests lifted the gilded barque, a miniature version of the barge, off the dais. Raising the carrying poles to their shoulders, they followed the chief priest down the gangplank, carefully balancing the barque and its precious cargo high above their heads. The moment their feet touched the quay, shouts of joy burst from the onlookers, all jostling for a better view. The words blended into a roar so loud a flock of pigeons took to the air, drawing Bak's eye to the battlements. He smiled. Psuro and Hori and seven wide-eyed children were standing atop the nearest tower, staring down at the god, entranced.
The chief priest, followed by the priest of Horus of Buhen and the commandant, and then the local princes led the procession along the quay. Behind them, two priests purified the lord Amon's path with incense and libation; others shaded his shrine with ostrich-plume fans. Those men borrowed from Buhen carried gilded chests containing ritual equipment and the god's clothing and bright-painted standards symbolizing Amon and Horns and the other gods important to Wawat. As they came closer, Bak could see their mouths move, but their chanting was lost in the clamor and shouting of fervent worshipers. He found himself shouting along with them, felt his breast swell with wonder and adoration.
The procession neared the pylon. Incense wafted through the air. Bak leaned far out over the wall so he could see around his fellow officers. The chief priest waved his censer at the people on the opposite side of the quay, turned, waved it toward Bak and those standing with him. The acrid smoke drifted around the thin, wrinkled face of the priest. Bak's mouth dropped open and he almost lost his grip on the wall. The chief priest was a man he had known all his life, the physician Kenamon, teacher and friend of his father, who was also a physician.
Kenamon disappeared behind Bak's compatriots. The barque of the lord Amon seemed for a few moments to sail above their heads, then vanished through the pylon gate.
Kenamon, Bak thought, a man who had treated the ills of many who walked the halls of the royal house. If Puemre's father was a nobleman, Kenamon would know him.
'My son.' Kenamon clasped Bak's shoulders with long, bony fingers. 'My heart is filled with joy to see you again. It's been… How long?'
Bak gave the priest a broad, warm smile. 'Less than a year. Have you forgotten so soon, my uncle, the night I took leave of my senses in Tenethat's house of pleasure?'
The old man, so small and frail he looked as if the faintest breeze would blow him away, chuckled. 'Ah, yes, the night you drew attention to the less than honest behavior of certain of our sovereign's favorites.'
His eyes grew wide in exaggerated alarm. He clapped a hand to his mouth and peered around as if searching for an eavesdropper lurking in the long evening shadows of the fluted columns which surrounded the forecourt of the mansion of Horus of Buhen. Then they laughed together, the old man with mischievous eyes, the younger with delight. Kenamon's exalted position as the chief prophet's envoy had neither restored his respect for authority nor stolen his sense of the ridiculous.
With their lalfghter waning, the old priest drew Bak into the broad rectangle of shade cast by the god's mansion. The large painted reliefs of Horus and the queen striding across the facade made his white-robed form appear smaller than ever.
He studied Bak from head to toe and nodded his approval. 'Your exile appears to have done you no harm.
You stand as straight and tall as before, with no lack of confidence, and I hear you have your rank back. Yes, I'd say your father has every reason to be proud of you.' 'How is my father?' Bak asked.
'Well and happy, though he longs for your return to the capital.'
Kenamon went on, speaking at length of the news for which Bak hungered. He could have chatted forever if not for the problem of Puemre.
'You know, of course, that I stand at the head of the Medjay police here in Buhen.'
'Yes.' Kenamon smiled his pleasure. 'The viceroy told me Commandant Thuty named you and your men to serve as Amon-Psaro's guard of honor.'
'It was a great privilege to be chosen, but…' He went on to explain the commandant's expanded authority and his own, the finding of a dead man, and his determination to resolve the death quickly so he could travel upstream with the sacred image. At the end, he gave the old priest a fond smile. 'Now that I know you're the physician traveling with the lord Amon, I'll look upon the healing of the prince with greater confidence.'
Kenamon's voice grew stern. 'When I tend the ill or injured, my son, I'm but an instrument in the god's hands. The fate of this boy, like all I've treated before and all I'll treat after, will rest with the lord Amon alone.'
Bak felt the blood rush to his cheeks. 'I understand, sir, but I've noticed through the years that the lord Amon smiles more often on you and those you visit than on those cared for by some of the other physicians.'
'You're as impertinent as your father!'
Bak thought he spotted a twinkle in the old man's eyes, but decided it best he change the subject. 'You must forgive me, my uncle, but I've come not only to learn of my father and renew our friendship, but to ask a favor of you, one related to this man I found in the river.'
Kenamon's eyes sharpened with interest. 'You intrigue me, my son. What do you wish of me?'
'He was a lieutenant called Puemre, assigned to the fortress of Iken. His father is probably a nobleman whose name is…'
Kenamon caught Bak's arm. 'Not Nihisy, I pray.' Bak stiffened, alarmed by the concern in Kenamon's voice and face. 'What's wrong, my uncle?'
The old priest rubbed his eyes as if to wipe away what he did not want to see. 'I must see the body before I know for a fact, but if he's who I think he is, his father Nihisy has just been named chancellor by our sovereign, Maatkare Hatshepsut herself.'
Bak sucked in his breath, stunned by the news. 'He's one of the most powerful men in the land of Kemet!' 'Puemre was his only son, Bak, the joy of his life. He'll not rest easy until this death is avenged.'
A chill crept up Bak's spine. Most violent deaths were crimes of passion, as easily resolved as Commander Woser had told Imsiba this would be. If Woser erred, if Puemre's slayer had struck with care, bent on hiding the truth, even the most diligent investigation might not reveal his name. If that should happen, Nihisy would draw the
