“Can’t you ever leave me in peace, Thaneny?” She shot to her feet, glared. “Must you constantly repeat Amonked’s words like the pale shadow you are?” Bursting into sobs, she ran from the room.
The scribe looked as if he had been slapped. “She’s very upset, sir. Lonely. Afraid. She doesn’t mean half of what she says.” A blind man could see he doted on the young woman.
To no avail, Bak feared, if the contempt she had dis played were sincere. “Most women come to Wawat with their husbands and children, and they tolerate this life for a year, two years, sometimes three, because they must.
She’s fortunate she has to remain only a few weeks.” He had no doubt Nefret could hear through the flimsy wall of hangings. His words would offer no comfort, but they might set her to thinking of others besides herself.
“She shouldn’t get so angry with Amonked. From the day he took her into his household, he’s cherished her, plied her with gifts, surrounded her with beauty and comfort.”
Thaneny looked away and spoke in a wistful voice. “Would that I could someday give a woman all he’s given her.”
“Has not the lord Amon given you far more than material objects?” Bak asked, thinking of the misshapen leg.
“My life, yes. I thank him each and every day for sparing me.” Thaneny spoke as if reciting a litany, deeply felt but too often uttered. “Nefret can’t find it in her heart to un derstand, but I never cease to thank that most benevolent of gods for allowing me to serve a kind and generous man, one who doesn’t look away each time I walk into the room.”
Bak was aware that Thaneny’s labored gait would arouse a pity few men wished to acknowledge. Especially since the scribe was a handsome man still in his prime, with well formed facial features, broad shoulders, narrow waist, and muscular arms. If Amonked could look at the man and not see the deformity, he had at least one redeeming quality.
“Thaneny…” A slender youth of about twelve years peeked into the room. “Oh, we’ve a guest. I’ll come back later.”
“Come in,” Bak commanded the already retreating fig ure.
From the deep ruddy skin and dark, tight curls, he guessed the boy was a child of the western desert, the her ald Pashenuro had befriended, another individual who must journey across the desert sands for no good reason. A child brought along, like the concubine and her servant, not out of necessity but to satisfy Amonked’s personal needs. And how was Thaneny to travel? A man whose every step was a struggle.
The boy turned back, his eyes wide with curiosity. He held four ostrich feathers, their long shafts rising far above his bony shoulder.
“You found something for her.” Thaneny gave the youth a grateful smile. “I thank the lord Thoth.” Thoth was the god of writing and knowledge, the patron of scribes.
“I found a merchant who’s come from far-off Kush.”
Guilt vanquished the boy’s sunny smile and he glanced around as if afraid he had been heard. “I know Amonked told us not to stray, but when I asked the drover Pashenuro where I could find something for mistress Nefret… Well,
I had to go aboard a ship outside the walls of Kor.” His eyes leaped toward Thaneny’s face and an anxious smile touched his lips. “The feathers were worth it, don’t you think? She’ll like them, won’t she?”
“How can she not?” The scribe took them from the boy, held them at a distance, nodded. “Yes, they’re lovely. No woman could ask for better.” The pleasure left his smile and resignation entered his voice. “Now I fear she’ll wish to visit that ship.”
“It’s gone. The captain wanted to reach Buhen before full dark.”
Thaneny gave the boy a relieved smile, then his eyes flitted toward Bak. “Pawah, this is Lieutenant Bak, officer in charge of the Medjay police. Pawah is Amonked’s her ald.”
The boy gaped. “A police officer? Really?”
Forming a smile, Bak asked the boy, “Have you always lived in Kemet, or was Wawat the land of your birth?”
“I was born here, sir, into a tribe that roamed the desert.
Five years ago, when a drought struck and many waterholes dried up, my father traded me to a merchant so my brothers and sisters wouldn’t starve.”
Thaneny laid his arm across the boy’s shoulder as if to shelter him. “The merchant took him to Waset and traded him to the owner of a house of pleasure. Later, Sennefer bought him, saving him from unspeakable cruelties, and passed him on to our household. He’s been with us ever since, a part of our family.”
Bak ruffled the boy’s hair, distracting him from his un pleasant past. “Are you glad to be back in Wawat?”
“It’s all right.” Pawah shrugged. “As long as I can serve my master, I’m happy anywhere.”
Bak eyed the pair standing before him. He wondered how they would feel about Amonked a week or two hence, after spending the days marching across the hot, barren des ert and the nights trying to sleep in cold, drafty tents.
They’d not be so charitable, he suspected.
“What am I to do, sir?” Pashenuro asked. “Return to
Buhen? Or travel upriver with you?”
“You’ll remain with the caravan.” Bak had been unde cided as to where the sergeant would be better placed, but a brief visit to the animal enclosure and a close look at the mounds of supplies that had to be transported had given the answer. “Seshu is greatly overburdened. He needs a strong right hand, and that you must be. Say nothing of your true task to anyone in Amonked’s party. As long as they believe you to be a drover, they’ll speak with a far less guarded tongue when you’re near.”
“Yes, sir.”
They sat with the archers from Buhen, who were seated around a rough mudbrick hearth to absorb the small amount of warmth the dying fuel offered. The men passed around large cooking bowls containing braised duck and vegeta bles, a feast to send them on their way upriver. The fire in the hearth oft times flared, making the barracks wall behind them glow, but its light was transitory, its heat negligible.
“Maintain your friendship with the youth Pawah. I doubt he’s had any contact with his family since he was taken from the land of Wawat, but be watchful anyway. I don’t want the child tempting his desert kin with tales of Amon ked’s wealth.”
“I understand, sir.”
Bak raised his voice, catching the attention of the men around them. “You all know Pashenuro as a policeman, but to Amonked and all who travel with him, he’s a drover.
The truth must never be aired.”
“I’ll personally geld the first man to betray him.” Nebwa, closer to the hearth, scanned the circle of archers, his eyes catching the flame, burning with promise. “Do I make my self clear?”
The men murmured assent.
“What am I to do, sir?” Sergeant Dedu asked.
Nebwa reached into a bowl and tore the wing off the remains of a duck. “I’ve not traveled through the Belly of
Stones for several years, so I’ve lost touch. This journey will give me a chance to perform an inspection of my own, to check on the state of repair of the fortresses, the needs of the officers and men, their morale.” He tore the wing into two parts and gnawed off a bite. “I know Seshu could use you, too, but as I’ll be otherwise occupied much of the time, you’ll be of more use as a military man, standing at the head of these archers. You’ve some experience with the bow and you’ve spent many long weeks on desert patrol, so you know how dangerous this land and its people can be. Especially if Hor-pen-Deshret has come back. Frankly,
I doubt the rumor is true, but you never know.”
Hissing a sudden warning, Pashenuro shoved himself backward to vanish in the dark. Two men strode out of the gloom beyond the hearth, Lieutenants Horhotep and Mery mose. How much they had overheard, Bak could not begin to guess.
“What do we have here?” Horhotep looked around the circle of men, his lips curled into a sarcastic smile.
