early.
“When did you last see them?” he demanded.
“I took them off last night when I lay down to sleep,”
Dedu said, “and I set them beside me so I’d have no trouble finding them.”
The other men agreed that they, too, had kept their foot wear close by.
Nebwa could no more hide his impatience to have the problem over and done with than the moon could hide in a clear night sky. “They’ll turn up. They’re bound to. In the meantime, go barefoot.”
The lord Khepre, not yet peering over the eastern hori zon, painted the sky a silvery white that rapidly turned a brilliant gold. A gentle breeze fanned the air, holding off the sun’s warmth, feeding the chill. The lead donkeys of the caravan struck out along the trail, with others falling in line as soon as their loads were in place. The animals that would bring up the rear trotted in from the river, a few laden with water jars, the rest bare-backed. The feral dogs, wet and boisterous, sped past them to race alongside the donkeys already on the move.
Throughout the previous day, the caravan had traveled across the broad, gentle slope between the river and a long sandy ridge that formed a horizon off to the right, blocking their view of the open desert beyond. As the afternoon waned, the ridge had drawn closer, ending in a high, sheer precipice that overlooked a seemingly unending stretch of rapids. Seshu had halted men and animals to set up camp a short distance north of the steep drift of windblown sand that rose up the formation, near the point where the trail crossed the ridge.
Now, while the lead animals plodded up the slope and disappeared over the crest, Amonked, Minkheper, Horho tep, and Sennefer prepared to climb the promontory to in spect the watch station located on top. The post was crucial to the defense of the frontier, offering a panoramic view of river and desert in all directions. Bak prayed the inspector would recognize its value.
“Come, Lieutenant,” Nebwa said. “We’ve another in spection to accompany.”
Bak studied the coarse-featured officer with a mixture of fondness and suspicion. “What excuse will you give to day?”
Nebwa’s expression grew bland, overly innocent. “I saw farmers when I bathed in the river this morning and I told
Amonked so. He thought it best that you and I stay close.”
Bak, who had bathed in the same still pool as Nebwa and at the same time, gave his friend a wide-eyed look of exaggerated shock. “You would tell our sovereign’s cousin a falsehood?”
Nebwa turned dead serious. “If you don’t have time to besiege a fortress, you have two choices. You can march your army on, praying the men sheltered within its walls don’t attack you from behind-or you can find a way to get inside by stealth.”
“Impressive,” Captain Minkheper said. “Far grander than the rapids above Abu.”
Bak stood at the edge of the precipice, chilled by the breeze that ruffled his hair and the hem of his kilt. He looked down upon a tortured landscape of rock and water, a labyrinth so wild and cruel it might have been created by denizens of the netherworld. He had been here before, and each time the river had shown a different face. Low water or high made no difference; he felt the same awe each time.
“Only at the highest flood can a ship travel these rapids,” he explained, “and only with the aid of men with stout ropes, pulling the vessel upstream along channels of rush ing water or holding it in place as they let it down. North of Iken, when that’s impossible, the ships are dragged alongside the river on a slipway built across the sand.”
“Granite. A stone difficult to work in the best of condi tions. And the conditions here are appalling.”
“Yes, sir.” Bak made no further comment. Better that
Minkheper decide for himself how difficult and hazardous it would be to excavate a canal through the Belly of Stones.
Together they studied the harsh and wild river below.
Water gushing smooth and fast where its course was free, foaming and eddying and cascading where interrupted, murmuring and singing and splashing. Hundreds of sepa rate channels flowing around a multitude of black glistening islets. A few full-blown islands supporting trees and brush and rough grass and sometimes a tiny house, with fruits and vegetables growing in pockets of soil, goats nibbling wild vegetation, and waterfowl swimming in the shallows.
“How long is this stretch of rapids?” Minkheper asked.
“I’ve not seen it from end to end with my own eyes,”
Bak admitted, “but they say a four-hour journey by foot.”
Minkheper whistled, thoroughly impressed.
Satisfied the captain understood the impracticality of heir sovereign’s plan, Bak left him at the edge of the prec ipice to further mold his thoughts. He walked up the ridge to join the inspection party.
“How many men are posted here?” Lieutenant Horhotep asked in a sharp voice.
“Ten.” The sergeant in charge of the watch station paused-long enough to attract notice, not long enough to earn a reprimand. “Sir.”
Horhotep’s mouth tightened. He slapped his leg with his baton of office. “Ten men for ten days. Another ten for ten more days. On and on forever. I’d think the commander of
Iken could find a better occupation for so many men.”
The sergeant, a short, powerful man of twenty-five or so years, threw a disgusted look Bak’s way. They had met before and shared a mutual regard. “Without prior warning, how can the troops assigned to man the walls of Buhen or
Iken make the necessary final preparations to hold off the enemy?”
“What enemy?” Horhotep swung his arm in an arc en compassing the boulder-strewn river and the barren, rolling desert to the west. Other than the caravan, made small by distance, and a flock of geese flying low over the rapids, not a creature stirred in any direction.
“I’ve heard tales that an old foe of ours has come back from off the desert. Hor-pen-Deshret by name. A man to be reckoned with. All who remember him fear him.”
“Tales!” Horhotep snorted. “Rumors designed to plant fear in the hearts of men who know no better. Gossip cre ated by men who wish this land to remain a ward of the army.”
Nebwa threw the adviser a look of profound disgust, clamped his mouth tight, and stalked off along the ridge.
Amonked eyed him thoughtfully, then walked to a reed lean-to built against a crude mudbrick hut. The shelter stood among the ruined walls of several older buildings that hugged the ridge not far below the summit. “You live rough, I see.”
The sergeant hurried to the inspector’s side. “We need no more than a roof over our heads, sir, and the supplies brought daily by the desert patrol. We’ve plenty of water close to hand and each other’s company to stave off bore dom.”
“Ah, I see!” Horhotep said, walking up behind them.
“Ten men are posted here at all times, not out of necessity but so you’ll always be entertained.”
The sergeant, his face flushed with fury, balled his hands into fists. With a mighty effort, he restrained himself.
Sennefer leaned close to Bak and murmured, “If Hor hotep survives this journey, the gods will have blundered exceedingly.”
“I’d be pleased to serve as the instrument of their wrath.”
Amonked, who may or may not have heard, turned to his advisor. “I understand there’s a trail along the ridge,
Lieutenant. I wish you to take that route to the caravan.”
He paused, awaiting a response. When he received none, his voice sharpened. “You’ve seen all you need to see here,
Lieutenant. I suggest you leave at once.”
Horhotep pivoted, hiding his expression, and strode away, his steps quick and stiff, his back as rigid as a tree.
Surprised by the order, Bak looked closely at Amonked.
As usual, the inspector’s face revealed nothing. Was he growing weary of his adviser’s abrasive manner? Or,
