donkey to be a target, causing panic throughout the herd so the intruder could get away?”
Yawning mightily, Nebwa stared off to the west, his eyes on the tribesmen standing on the crest of a long golden dune. The six men had come closer at daybreak, making them easier to see in the clear morning light. “No sign of
Hor-pen-Deshret, but I’m troubled that those vile barbarians have come so near. What accounts for their newfound cour age?”
Bak was equally troubled. He wanted to walk out to them, to demand answers. Not feasible, he knew, for the instant he headed their way, they would slip from sight.
“We’re in urgent need of news, Nebwa. I hesitate to leave the caravan today, but I must. By late afternoon, when the air is cooler and I can cover the distance quickly, I’ll walk to the river and the village of Rona, the man of influence
Woser mentioned. He’ll surely know more of the tribes men’s intentions than we do. And who knows? I may even convince him to sway his people’s thoughts in our favor.”
“You can’t go alone.” Nebwa’s tone brooked no argu ment.
“I’ll take Pashenuro. Other than befriending Pawah, his pretense of being a drover has led nowhere.” Bak looked at the men on the dune, his thoughts on the journey ahead.
“We can take nothing with us that the tribesmen would covet, inviting attack, yet we must take a gift of value for the old man.”
Nebwa snorted. “What, may I ask, would that be? We brought nothing from Buhen. If not for our weapons, we’d be impoverished.”
“Perhaps Amonked can live without one of the many objects he brought along from Waset.”
“How about mistress Nefret? I’ll wager he’d be glad to get rid of her.”
“Two men crossing the barren desert, with Amon alone knows how many human predators lurking about.” Amon ked, his face grave, shook his head. “The very thought ap palls me.”
“If anyone knows what Hor-pen-Deshret is plotting, the old man will,” Bak insisted.
“Would that wretched bandit not hold his plans close within his heart, letting no one know his intent?”
“He would if he could, but secrecy is impossible. During normal times, news travels along the river faster than dust in a high wind. That’s doubly true now, when the people’s lives depend on their knowing where he is and what he means to do.”
Amonked laid his hand on the brush-like mane of the donkey beside which they were walking, a white jenny carrying two jars of water and a large basket containing the twin foals she had birthed during the night, lying in a nest of pungent straw. Pawah had discovered the tiny newborns at dawn and prevailed upon Amonked to allow him to look after them until they grew strong enough to keep pace with their mother.
Bak had found Amonked walking with the boy and don keys some distance behind the rest of the inspection party, well away from Nefret and her complaints. Horhotep was walking alongside the concubine’s carrying chair, assuring her, most likely, that she had no reason to worry. As soon as Bak had appropriately praised the foals, Pawah had dropped back to talk with Pashenuro, seeking suggestions about caring for his new charges.
“Can you not wait until morning?” Amonked asked. “If we maintain a good pace today, according to Seshu, we’ll camp tonight not far from the river. Your trek would be considerably shorter-and safer.”
“By the time Pashenuro and I strike off on our own, we’ll be less than an hour’s walk from the next signal station and the river.” Bak studied the undulating sands off to the left, burnished gold where struck by the sun, tarnished by the long morning shadows. “Seshu knows of several places where the sandhills rise taller than a man. With the help of the gods and a diversion Nebwa is planning, we should be able to leave the caravan unnoticed.”
“You’re determined to go, I see.”
“Yes, sir.”
Amonked let out a long, weary sigh. “All right, do so if you must.” He noticed a patch of sand on his kilt, brushed it off. “What would you suggest we give the headman?”
Bak could think of several objects that might be appro priate under different circumstances. Amonked’s armchair would please the old man beyond words, but it was too large and noticeable and best carried on the back of a don key. The racing dog would do, but would not survive for long when faced with tougher, meaner village curs. The pavilion would provide a wonderful setting for a headman who wished to impress, but they needed the poles for weap ons more than Rona needed status.
Keeping his thoughts to himself, he shrugged. “An object that won’t attract attention should we be spotted by men of the desert, one that will appear normal and natural from a distance. Something a proud and no doubt stubborn old man can look upon with satisfaction and at the same time show off to those who look to him for leadership and guid ance.”
Amonked glanced at the donkey by his side, his expres sion speculative, as if she and her twins might be suitable, then glanced toward Pawah and shook his head. Turning his back, he climbed a gradual slope of sand off to the side, gaining a broader perspective of the long line of animals, many of which carried his belongings and those of his com panions from Waset.
Bak, who had followed, looked at the passing caravan with a soldier’s eye, not that of a man seeking to gladden the heart of a stranger. No general would approve, he knew, but considering what little they had started with, he was pleased. Nebwa had spread the archers along the length of the caravan, close in to the animals. The guards, less well trained and therefore more dispensable, he had distributed along a wider path on both sides of the column. Thanks to the lord Amon and a boundless effort late into the night,
Minkheper and his helpers had not only created at least one small weapon for each guard but had made enough spears to arm the drovers, with a few to spare. One tent, saved for
Nefret, had survived their assault, and the pavilion would be the next to go. The young woman was upset. Very upset.
Thus Amonked’s escape.
He could not help but see the irony of the situation. An attack by desert tribesmen would go a long way toward convincing the inspector the army was needed along the Belly of Stones. However, if set upon by a large enough force, both man and mission might come to an abrupt and fatal-end. The number of men they had to face would
make a crucial difference. The more men, the less chance they would have of succeeding in spite of Nebwa’s best efforts.
“This is sure to satisfy him,” Amonked said, pulling a ring off the middle finger of his left hand and offering it to Bak. “My cousin gave it to me when first she attained the throne. I treasure it greatly, but I value more my life and the lives of all who travel with this caravan.”
The solid gold ring felt heavy in Bak’s palm. The band was broad, supporting a good-sized bezel shaped as a scarab, inscribed on the under side for use as a seal. An object of considerable value. “Are you sure you wish to part with this, sir?”
“I do. Whether or not the headman can read, he’ll rec ognize the symbol of protection surrounding the royal name. He’ll be suitably impressed, I’m sure.”
Bak looked closer at the inscription. Maatkare Hatshep sut, it read, after which were the symbols for life, health, and prosperity. The beauty of the scarab, the superb crafts manship, made the ring worthy of the most illustrious of noblemen. He was astonished. The queen would not be pleased to learn that her cousin had given such a fine gift to the elderly headman of a poor frontier village.
Could he be wrong about Amonked? This stout, rather nondescript man whom everyone believed to be a tool of his powerful cousin had begun to display a far greater depth than Bak had expected. He had prepared well for his task in Wawat, studying many documents. He seemed not to leap to conclusions about the fortresses he inspected. True, he was impressed with the objects he saw in the storage magazines, but taking pleasure in items of value and beauty did not necessarily mean he thought less of the men who kept them safe. Though he had uttered no words of con demnation or praise, he appeared to recognize Horhotep’s limitations and to approve of Nebwa’s efforts to train and equip the men in case of attack. And now the ring.
The inspector just might be a good man. A man he might come to like, might even learn to respect. For the first time, Bak found himself hoping Amonked innocent of Baket Amon’s murder for a reason other than his kinship with Maatkare Hatshepsut.
