the feroc ity of a lioness with her cubs.”
“Could she have slain Baket-Amon, fearing he’d bring into his household a woman he preferred over her?”
“That wouldn’t have been in her best interest, or that of her sons.”
Chapter Six
“Is it true?” Sergeant Pashenuro called, hurrying along the riverbank toward the ship. “Has Baket-Amon been slain?”
“By the beard of Amon!” Bak stopped midway down the gangplank that spanned the space between the vessel and the bank against which the craft was moored. He stared aghast at the Medjay. “Has word spread already?”
“It’s true then.” Pashenuro, a short, broad man whose intelligence and bravery came close to equaling Imsiba’s, shook his head in consternation. “The people of this land will not take the news lightly.”
Realizing he was barring the sole path off the ship, Bak hurried on down the narrow board, leaped a patch of mud, and hustled the sergeant off to the side, out of the way.
“Has Amonked heard?”
“I’ve seen no sign that he has.”
Bak disliked surprising anyone with bad news, but per haps it would be to his advantage to approach the inspector unaware. “How did you get word?”
“A trader came from Buhen an hour ago, setting men to whispering. Speculating. He knew nothing substantial, but with you turning up, and Nebwa and the men, they’ll guess the tale is true.”
Bak accepted the inevitable. What other choice did he have? “Does Amonked believe you and Dedu to be Seshu’s drovers?”
“Yes, sir. If he’s noticed us at all.” The sergeant raised a hand in salute to Nebwa, striding down the gangplank.
“The caravan is large. A man can easily get lost among its members.”
The archers followed the troop captain, each man carry ing his long bow, heavy leather quiver, and supplies. Their loads ill-balanced, they rushed one by one down the board, teetering, laughing with the good humor of men released from the tedium of garrison duty.
“Have you managed to befriend anyone in the inspection party?” Bak asked.
“Pawah, Amonked’s herald. A boy of twelve or so years.” Pashenuro smiled. “He likes animals so he comes often to see the donkeys. And as I’m a Medjay from the eastern desert and he a nomad from the western sands, he thinks of me as kin.”
Waving good-bye to the ship’s master, Bak and the ser geant fell in beside Nebwa and strode up a path that ran along the riverbank. The archers straggled after them. They passed two local trading ships evicted from the quay in favor of Amonked’s flotilla. Few men remained on board, their crews no doubt at the harbor, gawking at the lofty arrivals. The fishing fleet could be seen far out on the river, seining.
Bak looked ahead at the mudbrick walls of Kor. Subsid iary to Buhen, the fortress was used as a staging post for caravans and as a place where military units traveling through the area could camp out and rest in safety. He came often to Kor, summoned by scribes charged with collecting tolls or soldiers who maintained order. Never before had he noticed how shabby the structure looked. The towered walls had reverted to the natural deep brown of the mud bricks, mottled by patches of white plaster in spots shel tered from the wind and blowing sand. The battlements were eroded, with time softening their once crisp, sharp edges. Several of the projecting towers had been rebuilt, but many were cracked and a few leaned at odd angles.
Kor was ideal for its purpose but what, Bak wondered, would Amonked think of it? What would a man fresh from the capital, with its well-maintained and brightly painted buildings, think of this dilapidated old fortress?
“The lord Amon must be watching from afar, made speechless by his storekeeper’s excess!” This from Nebwa, looking down from the battlements, watching a long line of sailors file into the harbor-side gate, burdened with sleep ing pallets, portable furniture, and innumerable woven reed chests.
Hands on the parapet, weight resting on his arms, Bak looked down upon the fortress’s interior. He felt awe and disgust in equal measure. Royal envoys often traveled south with showy gifts for Kushite royalty, but nothing like this.
“Could Amonked not leave anything behind?”
Nebwa crossed the walkway to stand beside him. He made no comment. The scene below spoke for itself. The space within the walled rectangle, usually quiet and scantly occupied, teemed with life. Donkeys milled around an area fenced off at the far end, braying, raising a cloud of dust.
Vast piles of fodder and sacks and baskets and jars stood in and among buildings whose roofs had long ago fallen and whose walls had collapsed. Additional supplies were being piled with the rest by men unloading the last string of donkeys to arrive from Buhen.
A white linen pavilion stood in the center of an open stretch of sand normally used for the formation or disband ing of caravans, and several of Amonked’s guards were erecting small tents beside the larger structure for the in spector’s party. The remaining guards were setting up nearby a more casual camp for themselves, scurrying around like ants but not as well organized. Nebwa’s arch ers, more efficient by far, had settled down near a cluster of intact buildings, their preparations for the night com plete. The barracks and four houses, all remodeled over the past few years to shelter the scribes and troops posted at Kor, provided an oasis of quiet among the bustle.
Bak eyed the pavilion, exasperated. “Did he not talk to any of our sovereign’s envoys before he left the capital?
They surely would’ve told him that less is best when trav eling through this barren land.”
“He didn’t bring his wife or as many servants as I’d have expected.” Nebwa’s tone grew wry. “Maybe he thinks he’s sacrificed enough in the name of common sense.”
Bak spotted Amonked and Lieutenant Horhotep walking along the base of the far wall, escorted by the young lieu tenant who commanded the post. “The inspection should be finished soon.”
“Amonked will have heard we’re here. We’d better go see him.”
They walked to the towered gate, where zigzagging lad ders would take them to ground level. There they stopped for one last look from on high.
“Seshu must be tearing out his hair,” Nebwa said.
“Can you blame him?”
Nebwa grinned at his friend. “You grew to manhood near
Waset. I’d think you’d be accustomed to the flaunting of wealth and power.”
What Bak was accustomed to was Nebwa’s teasing, which in this case he chose to ignore. “There’s a critical difference between the frontier and the capital, a difference
Amonked has failed to see. No risk is involved in the land of Kemet. No danger. No desert tribesmen who’ll be tempted by what, to them, are vast riches.”
Bak and Nebwa wove a path through the half-erected tents, their goal Amonked, who stood with Horhotep out side the pavilion, watching the officer in charge of Kor hurry toward the barracks like a man escaping some dire fate. Red and white pennants fluttered in the breeze from atop the center post, and a tall, leggy white dog, a breed used by the nobility for racing and hunting, lay stretched out in the sun near the entrance. Neither the inspector nor his military adviser noticed the approaching officers.
“This fortress is an abomination,” they heard Horhotep say, “an insult to our sovereign. Peasants could make better use of it, crushing the bricks and spreading them across their fields as fertilizer.”
“The gods made a poor choice,” Bak murmured, “taking
Baket-Amon’s life and sparing this one.”
“A large number of caravans seek shelter here each year.” Amonked glanced around, as if trying to imagine the space during normal usage. “I must look at the fortresses upriver before making a firm decision, but Kor may have some value. If another quay were added, for instance…”
“No.”
