capital of Waset in the land of Kemet. Lieutenant of chariotry in the regiment of Amon. Lieutenant of the Medjay police at the fortress of Buhen. Right hand to Commandant Thuty of Buhen.'
The man stepped back so Bak, on his knees, his forehead on the floor mat, could no longer see his feet. All he could glimpse was the edge of the dais on which Amon-Psaro sat. The rough surface of the mat dug into his scabbed knees; his broken arm throbbed. A heavy perfume smelling of lilies and myrrh tickled his nose. He prayed he would not sneeze.
'You may stand, Lieutenant,' Amon-Psaro commanded.
Bak rose as gracefully as his battered muscles allowed and stood at rigid attention. The king studied him in silence, taking in the bandages and bruises, the splint. Bak, clinging to Kenamon's prediction that the interview would go well, examined Amon-Psaro as closely as the king studied him, but not as openly.
As he had the day before, the king wore the garb of a royal son of Kemet: simple white kilt, multicolored broad collar, and bracelets, armlets, anklets, and rings of gold and precious stones. Twin golden cobras mounted on a golden diadem rose above his forehead, and he carried a scepter of gold. Spotless white bandages covered the cuts across his ribs and arm. He sat enthroned on a gilded armchair, his feet on a matching footrest. The royal backside was made comfortable on a thick red pillow embroidered with gold threads, and the royal spine was eased by a magnificent leopardskin draped over the back of the chair. Every inch a king, he was also a man: tall, muscular, leonine. Attractive at close to forty years; no doubt doubly so in his youth-especially to women.
Red-and-white banners fluttered from the frame of the open pavilion in which he sat. Two of Bak's Medjays stood guard with two soldiers from the king's homeland. Other than a few lookers-on, only a half dozen functionaries stood nearby, murmuring together while they waited to obey their ruler's slightest command.
'I owe you my life, it seems,' Amon-Psaro said. 'Yes, sir.'
'Commander Woser tells me he looked upon Inyotef as his friend, and he had no suspicion of wrongdoing. He says only your tenacity unearthed the plot to slay me.'
Bak suspected the king would prefer a simple yes or no answer, but if he did not speak up the mute child Ramose would soon be buried and forgotten in a desert grave. 'The boy who died at Inyotef's hands, the one who served Lieutenant Puemre, left drawings behind pointing to a plot. Without them, I'd have been as blind as the commander.'
'The boy, yes.' Amon-Psaro's thoughts turned inward. 'Younger even than my own son.' He rubbed his eyes as if to rid himself of the vision. 'I've asked Commander Woser to see him properly entombed. I pray the gods give him a voice and hearing in the netherworld, and he leads a better life than in the past.'
'Thank you, sir.'
'No, Lieutenant, it's I who must thank you. Not merely with words, but with all the good things of life.' AmonPsaro sat up straighter on the throne and his voice grew more formal. 'I wish you to return with me to my capital in the land of Kush and serve as my right hand while I govern my people. I've few men I trust and I believe you'd be a worthy adviser. I'll give you a fine house, much land, and many cattle. And so you may fill your life with children, I'll give you my youngest sister, a woman of merit and beauty.'
Bak was struck dumb, The offer was the last thing he expected-or wanted, for that matter. It was too generous by far, the task too demanding for one who had no experience in such lofty company, too precarious according to Senu's wife. But how, he wondered, does one say no to a king?
Late that evening, Bak stood atop the fortress wall, looking out over the roaring waters that had come so close to taking his life. Seen from above, the rapids looked like a demon's brew boiling in a great cauldron, with the water bubbling and foaming and pounding the deadly boulders, teasing the eye with a multitude of rainbows trembling in the mist. The sight filled his heart with awe. How had he survived? He felt sure that walking the corridors of power would be equally dangerous.
'Do you often swim in such waters?' Amon-Psaro asked, his voice raised to be heard over the thundering rapids.
Bak swung around, startled, and fell to his knees. 'Stand!' the king commanded. 'I'll have no bowing and scraping from you, Lieutenant.' _ Bak hastened to rise. 'Yes, sir.'
Amon-Psaro had abandoned the glitter and gloss of office, he saw, retaining only the royal diadem and the broad collar and bracelets of gold and lapis lazuli that he had worn during the procession through the city the day before.
'It's been many years since I've stood side by side with a man of Kemet and had the opportunity to speak the language of my youth. Don't steal the pleasure from me by placing me in a niche with the gods.'
Bak heard loneliness in Amon-Psaro's voice and regret for a lost past. The thought had probably occurred to him at one time or another that a living god might share such basic emotions with ordinary men, but the realization surprised him-and touched him. 'Would you like a jar; of beer, sir?' he blurted.
'Beer?' Amon-Psaro hesitated an instant, laughed. 'Yes, Lieutenant, a jar of beer would be in order.'
Bak leaned over the inner breastwork and called out to a soldier strolling along the base of the wall. The man, seeing the king beside the officer, hastened to the kitchen. In no time at all, a ruddy-cheeked boy delivered a basket filled with beer jars, dried fish the size of a man's finger, and small round loaves of crusty bread.
The king, beer jar in hand, looked out over the wall, his elbows planted on the bricks, his eyes on the rapids below. The lord Re, a golden ball resting on the horizon, threw streaks of red and orange and yellow high into the pale sky, brilliant ribbons thrown out by the god in honor of the Kushite monarch.
Amon-Psaro sipped through the reed straw, scowled at it, dropped it into the basket, and drank from the neck as his less refined companion was doing. 'It seems you and I have a mutual friend, Bak.'
'We do?' Each time Bak spoke, he had to remind himself not to call the king 'sir'.
'Mistress Nofery, a woman of business in Buhen. I've a letter from her, brought today by the courier who delivered dispatches from Commandant Thuty to Woser. She calls you a good man, one of the best in the garrison of Buhen, and a good friend.'
Bak gaped. 'You know Nofery?' Even as he spoke, he recalled the obese old woman, sitting with him in her house of pleasure in Buhen, telling him she once knew AmonPsaro. He had laughed, he remembered, skeptical of her tale.
'I knew her well many years ago. I was a prince then, a hostage in Waset.' Amon-Psaro stared straight ahead, looking into his past. 'She was shapely and beautiful, the most seductive woman I've ever met, even to this day.' He laughed softly to himself, the sound lost in the rumble of the rapids. 'She was a woman of pleasure then, and now she runs a business. A successful endeavor, she wrote, selling the bounty of the fields. I'm glad she's found good fortune.'
Bak opened his mouth to blurt out the truth, but changed his mind. If Nofery chose to paint herself in bright colors, it was not his. business to dull the sheen.
'I long to see her again,' Amon-Psaro said, his voice wistful, 'but I'll not take my son to Buhen and risk further illness. Nor can she travel, she tells me, with her business so brisk this time of year and her daughter too heavy with child to carry on alone.'
Bak stared at the river below, hiding his face from Amon-Psaro, his racing thoughts. Nofery had no daughter. What was she up to? Why would she lie when, if she told the truth, she could see once again a man she liked and admired, a powerful man who might give her many precious gifts.
'She was a lovely creature.' Amon-Psaro emptied his beer jar and, smiling at the memory, dropped it into the basket. 'Slim, straight arms and legs. Breasts large and round and erect. Mouth soft and gentle.'
The answer came suddenly, stunning Bak with its simplicity, showing him a sensitivity he had never imagined Nofery possessed. She had indeed been beautiful, just as she had told him that day in Buhen, and she wanted AmonPsaro to remember her that way, not as the fat and aging old woman she had become. He admired her for the sacrifice.
'I've sent her a gift to let her know I've not forgotten: a lion cub and a young male slave to care for it and cater to her every wish.' The king glanced at Bak, his expression anxious. 'Do you think she'll like them?'
Bak pictured Nofery with a large new house of pleasure, a grand place of business with an exotic mascot and servant. 'She'll be overwhelmed with joy.' An understatemeet, if ever I heard one, he thought. She'll parade them before me, never letting me forget I thought her tale untrue.
Amon-Psaro relaxed, smiled, broke the plug out of a fresh jar, and handed the brew to Bak. He seemed friendly enough, open to questions, but Bak hesitated to ask the one uppermost in his thoughts. Curiosity finally nudged aside his trepidation. 'Will you tell me of Sonisonbe, Inyotef's sister?'
