Nebwa’s face and he grinned. “Do you remember what
Horhotep said yesterday, before we left Iken, about desert raiders?”
Bak altered his voice slightly and quoted the adviser word for word: “ ‘I’m convinced the raiding tribesmen we’ve heard so much about are mere figments of the imag ination.’ ”
“I wonder what he thinks now.”
“He won’t admit he’s erred until he has to.”
“Did you notice him standing in the shadows last night, watching us school the guards?”
“I feared for a while he’d order Merymose away, but he didn’t say a word.”
“I’ll wager Amonked got an earful.”
Bak’s laugh was short and humorless. “I’ve no experi ence training spearmen, as you have, but after we finished last night, I went to my sleeping place satisfied. Another few hours of schooling may not give the men the skill of seasoned troops, but I felt they’d be able to hold their own against tribesmen untrained in the finer points of warfare.”
“They’ll do all right with the spear,” Nebwa admitted,
“but they need replacement weapons should they lose or break those they have-and they’ll need weapons more suited to hand-to-hand combat: scimitars, maces, axes, slings.”
Bak’s expression turned dubious. “Not even the lord
Amon could supply those. This is a civilian caravan, not one meant to support an army.”
Nebwa scowled, taking the words to heart. “I must take an inventory, learn which of the drovers was once a soldier, who brought arms along and who didn’t. Better to know the worst from the start than to be surprised too late.”
The caravan moved on through the morning, with the tribesmen keeping pace off to the west. Bak walked the length of the long train of animals, speaking with drovers, archers, and Merymose’s guards, taking their measure in the face of a possible attack. Morale was good, thanks to a blind faith in Nebwa’s ability to see them trained and armed-and in Bak’s ability to lay hands on Baket-Amon’s slayer, thereby regaining at least partial goodwill of the people who dwelt along the river. And maybe their help, should help be needed.
Feeling like a man pinned against a wall, Bak thought long and hard about the prince’s death. He had been certain someone in the inspector’s party, someone who had been inside their quarters in Buhen, had slain Baket- Amon. Yet out here in the desert, living among them, asking questions that led nowhere, doubts plagued him. As no courier had come from Imsiba, the Medjay must also have come up empty-handed, contrary to Amonked’s initial prediction.
Small consolation, with the caravan being so barren of re sults.
Midday came and went and the animals plodded on.
“What do they do with the women they take?” Nefret stared at the small figures on the horizon, her eyes wide with fear. “Do they slay them outright? Or use them and throw them away? Or do they enslave them?”
Mesutu trudged behind her mistress’s carrying chair, her eyes straight ahead. Now and again she stumbled, as if her thoughts had fled to some far away and safer place.
The four porters holding Nefret aloft exchanged a sur reptitious look among themselves, its meaning betrayed when one man rolled his eyes skyward. Those walking a parallel course, carrying Thaneny’s chair, exchanged bored looks. They had apparently grown weary of the beautiful
Nefret and her many complaints. The third carrying chair,
Sennefer had left at Iken along with his four porters and many of his personal items. He could not have foreseen the arrival of Hor-pen-Deshret, but he had realized the value of traveling light.
“You’re taking the presence of those desert nomads far too seriously, mistress.” Lieutenant Horhotep, walking be side the young woman, had to know Bak could hear. “I’d not be surprised if they sneaked up in the night to steal, but would six men attack a caravan as large as this?” He answered the question with a derisive laugh.
Pawah, walking with Sennefer between the two carrying chairs, eyed the adviser doubtfully. “The drover Pashenuro thinks these men have come to seek out weak spots for a greater force soon to attack.”
Assuming his most sarcastic look, Horhotep said, “A drover? A frontier drover? Where did he train in the arts of war?”
Pawah’s face flamed. Eyes flashing defiance, he opened his mouth to retort. Thaneny touched him on the shoulder, drawing his attention, and shook his head to signal silence.
Sennefer put an arm around the youth’s shoulder and drew him off to the side of the caravan’s path. As Bak passed them, he heard the nobleman say in a voice too subdued for the adviser to hear, “Not everyone is blessed with common sense, Pawah, and those who aren’t seldom listen to those who are.”
“Hor-pen-Deshret.” Amonked, walking at Bak’s side, gave no sign that he had heard the exchange. “Before we left the capital, I read a few reports from Buhen, several of which mentioned the name. As I recall, Troop Captain
Nebwa fought alongside Commandant Nakht when the wretched man was defeated and when he and the remnants of his tribal army were chased far into the desert.”
Bak was no longer surprised that the inspector knew of past activities in the Belly of Stones. He was surprised by the depth of that knowledge. Amonked had clearly read more than “a few reports.” “Yes, sir. That’s why Nebwa’s worried, why he believes we must prepare to hold off a fighting force. He knows from experience what to expect.”
“You agree with him, I see.”
“Wholeheartedly.”
Horhotep dropped back to Amonked’s side and gave Bak a cool look. “Aren’t you raising an alarm when no alarm is warranted, Lieutenant? Or are you using the presence of a few pathetic nomads to sway our decision about the future of the fortresses along this segment of river?”
“Sir!” Bak swung around to face Amonked; his voice hardened. “If the army is torn from the Belly of Stones, no man will be safe whether he be farmer, trader, drover, or royal envoy. Hor-pen-Deshret is a criminal, plain and sim ple, and he and his followers will have free rein.”
Amonked looked from Bak to Horhotep and back again, as if uncertain in which of the two he could place the most confidence.
“I suggest you speak with Nebwa, sir,” Bak said, “and with Seshu. He also has firsthand knowledge of the desert raiders.”
“Yes,” the inspector said thoughtfully. “Yes, I shall. I understand the troop captain is presently taking inventory of men and equipment. I’ll see him when he’s finished and has the time to speak freely.”
Horhotep’s mouth tightened, sealing inside whatever comment he wished to make.
“Oh, Thaneny, stop patronizing me!” Nefret’s words cut through the air, sharp with impatience. “I can’t help being afraid! I don’t care what you say or what Horhotep says or
Amonked or anyone else, those men frighten me!”
“First it was the men along the river, and now this!”
Amonked expelled a long, irritated sigh. “I can understand her anxiety-I also am concerned-but will she never learn to suffer in silence?”
You don’t know how fortunate you are, Bak thought, that
Thaneny so often stands between you, taking the brunt of her wrath.
“She’ll not be content until we return to Kemet, that she’s made clear, but I suppose I must make an effort to soothe her.” Amonked looked at the concubine for a long time, as if he dreaded going to her. “Do you share your life with a woman, Lieutenant?”
“No, sir.”
“You’re a most fortunate man.”
Bak walked back along the caravan in search of Captain
Minkheper. Horhotep had once made a passing comment he hoped the seaman could enlarge upon. He spotted the tall figure walking toward him about halfway along the line of donkeys.
“Captain Minkheper,” he said, smiling. “For one who’s supposed to be studying the river, you’re a long way into the desert.”
“Why I ever accepted this accursed mission, I’ll never know.” The seaman bent to shake the grit from a
