Bak let the seaman’s belligerence pass over him with an indifference born of practice. Most of a day had passed since the commandant had ordered the all-out search for contraband, and every boatman on the quay had vented his anger and resentment in one way or another-the smaller the boat, the louder and more vociferous the complainant. He turned to the lean, sinewy man whose arm was caught in the firm grip of a hulking young Medjay policeman. “Explain yourself, Tjanuny!”
The dusky offender drew his shoulders back and raised his chin high, refusing to be intimidated. “My brother lives in Kemet, sir, tilling the fields of an illustrious nobleman whose estate is a day’s walk north of Abu. I thought to go there, to make a new and better life for myself.”
Bak waved off a fly buzzing around his face. “How do you know you’ll be welcome?”
Tjanuny hesitated, his dark eyes betraying the agony of decision. With obvious reluctance, he untied the neck of a leather pouch suspended from a thong around his waist, withdrew a broken chunk of grayish pottery, and handed it over. The writing on the surface was cramped but clear. The scribe of the nobleman Amonhotep guaranteed Tjanuny’s passage north from Wawat. The shard had only to be presented and payment would be made.
Bak glanced at Ramose’s ship, riding low in the water, heavy with merchandise brought from far upriver to the south. A mixed unit of soldiers and Medjay policemen swarmed over the craft, probing the contents of baskets and bundles and chests filled with exotic and precious items. An elderly scribe borrowed from the garrison records office followed their progress, comparing the cargo with the manifest he held, making sure the captain had omitted no items for which he had to pay a toll. The colors of the deckhouse-red, yellow, and black-were faded and blurred, while the forecastle was bright with fresh paint. On the prow, the faded symbols forming the name had been outlined in black, pre-paratory to repainting. The vessel creaked, a black dog tied to the deckhouse whimpered to be free. A bulging linen bag gave off an intriguing but alien scent that mingled with the smell of paint.
Fifteen or so men wearing the skimpiest of loincloths, their skin burned to leather by the sun, clustered on the quay near the stern. Tjanuny’s fellow oarsmen. Realizing they had drawn Bak’s attention, they hurriedly looked away, making 28 / Lauren Haney their interest conspicuous by their effort to appear disinterested.
The ship looked reasonably well tended, its crew a congenial lot, the captain no doubt good-natured when all went well. Not a bad berth, Bak concluded. A vessel on which Tjanuny could work his passage north so that later another man, a trusted friend, could pretend to be a ship’s captain and present the chit to Amonhotep’s scribe for payment.
Suppressing a smile, he asked Captain Ramose, “If he had a pass, would you keep him on board as far as Abu?”
“Good sailors are hard to find.” Ramose eyed Tjanuny thoughtfully. “He’s proved his worth, I guess.” A pause, a nod. “I don’t suppose he meant any harm. Yes, I’d keep him on.”
“Take him to the scribal office building, Kasaya,” Bak told the Medjay. “Get him a pass to travel north.”
Tjanuny’s face registered surprise, pleasure, and then dismay as Bak walked to the edge of the quay and dropped the shard into the river.
Another day of this wretched task, Bak thought, and I’ll be the most infamous man along the frontier, shunned by all. He had another thought and laughed aloud, surprising a fisherman stowing his nets in the prow of his boat, preparing to cast off and sail home to his village. No, not the most unpopular. From what he had heard from men newly arrived from Kor, Nebwa in his usual tactless way had already out-stripped him for first place.
Thanking the lord Amon that the day was nearly over, Bak stopped at a gangplank bridging the gap between the quay and a long, slim traveling vessel. Imsiba stood on deck, watching his inspection team probe the cargo. They were closing on the rudder, nearly finished with their task. Hori sat on the deckhouse roof, legs dangling, writing pallet, water jar, and extra pens beside him. The manifest was spread across his lap so he could check off objects as the men called them out. The captain, a short, wiry individual with a mottled complexion, lounged in the forecastle, while the crew looked on from the upper terrace, where they had gone to play throwsticks in the shade of the fortress wall.
The ship was bright and new, its wooden hull not yet darkened by time, its bronze fittings unblemished and shiny.
A lightweight wooden lean-to hung with white linen was attached to the chevron-patterned deckhouse, sheltering from the sun and the breeze a tiny, wizened woman and her three female servants. A white coffin in human form was lashed up against the deckhouse. The old woman’s husband, the captain had told Bak, on his way north to Kemet to be buried in the family tomb.
The contents of the last basket were called out. Hori checked off the final item, collected his writing implements, and dropped off the cabin roof, hitting the deck with a hollow thud. The search team filed down the gangplank, Bak relieved them of duty, and they trotted up the quay toward the fortress. The ship’s crew cut their game short to hurry aboard, arguing heatedly about the final cast of the sticks. With Imsiba watching, Hori tied and sealed the manifest and turned it over to the captain. They spoke a few words, the seaman clapped the big Medjay on the back, and shouted an order for the oarsmen to take their positions.
“I see no men scurrying around, counting baskets laden with contraband,” Nebwa said, coming up behind Bak.
Bak swung around, amazed. “By the beard of Amon!
What’re you doing in Buhen?”
“I left Ptahmose in charge. Not a man in Wawat has led more desert patrols than he has, and not a caravan master in the world can deceive him.” Ptahmose was Nebwa’s sergeant, as close to him as Imsiba was to Bak.
“You’d better keep well out of Thuty’s way. You know how he feels about men who shirk their duty.”
“You lay blame where no blame is due.” Nebwa screwed up his face, trying hard to look aggrieved. “I’ve a legitimate mission. One even Thuty can’t frown upon.”
Bak rolled his eyes skyward. “I don’t believe you for a moment, but let’s hear your tale. Practice now before you must repeat it to him.”
30 / Lauren Haney
Nebwa grinned like a child newly escaped from scribal school, but soon sobered. “Captain Mahu will sail from Kor before nightfall, his ship heavy with merchandise. It was more than half loaded when I arrived at dawn, so I can’t vouch for what was stowed on board yesterday. When he sails into Buhen, I suggest you search it from stem to stern.”
“We’re inspecting every vessel. You know that.” Bak eyed his friend, suspicious. “Now speak the truth: Was this merely an excuse to slip away from Kor, or do you have good reason to urge undue diligence on our part? Mahu’s always seemed an honest man to me.”
“It was an excuse to come home, I admit, but…” Nebwa scratched his head, frowned. “I saw him talking to a man I wouldn’t trust with my rattiest pair of sandals, a boatman from the south, as slick a man as I’ve ever seen. Not much, I know, but…” Again his voice tailed off; he looked almost embarrassed. “I like Mahu. I’d hate to think he’s not the man I always believed him to be, nor do I wish to harm his reputation. But they were standing close, their voices low and secretive. Furtive.”
“If we find nothing on board,” Bak promised, “his reputation will remain unblemished.”
Forming a smile, Nebwa raised a hand in greeting to Imsiba and Hori, walking down the gangplank. “Fair enough.”
A nearly naked dock worker scurried along the quay beside the ship, releasing the hawsers from their mooring posts. At a brisk command from the captain, a sailor pulled the gangplank aboard, the drummer set the rhythm for the oarsmen, and they dipped their long paddles into the water. As the vessel swung away from its berth, they began to sing a song of the river, their voices loud and merry but with scant beauty. Bak raised his baton of office, returning the captain’s salute, while Nebwa and the others waved a farewell.
“Neglecting your duty again, I see,” Imsiba said, altering his voice to sound like Thuty, “and you a troop captain, too.
A fine example you’re setting for one whose every deed should be above reproach.”
The gibe prompted a careless laugh. “I’ve better things to do than listen to the squawks of a flock of caravan masters.”
Nebwa turned his head aside and spat on the ground, showing his contempt. “We’ve found not a single item of contraband. Nor will we ever, with all the world expecting to be searched.”
