The area’s greater wealth and population accounted in large part for the old man’s influence.
As the lord Re slid toward the horizon, turning the sky a flame red shot through with gold, Bak and the Medjay crossed a series of small fields lush with vegetables, fodder, and grain on the brink of harvest. Beyond, they climbed a low bluff to Rona’s village, twenty or so dry-stone and mudbrick houses set among a scattering of spiny acacias.
A heavy blanket of sand crept over the surrounding hills, threatening to smother the dwellings. A serpentine wall, looking small and fragile against so enormous a peril, held back the encroaching desert.
The village dogs, spotting intruders on their territory, be gan to bark, drawing men, women, and children from their homes. The people stood in silence, watching the armed strangers with wary faces and mistrustful eyes.
“I’m Lieutenant Bak, head of the Medjay police in Bu hen. I must speak with your headman, Rona.” Amonked’s ring hung heavy on a leather thong around his neck, a gift of mutual regard, not a bargaining tool.
A stooped old man, using a long staff to help him along, hobbled forward. “I am the man you seek.”
Stopping at a mudbrick bench that overlooked the fields, he sat down with a stiffness that told of worn and aged joints. He pointed toward his feet, indicating Bak should sit on the ground in front of him. Bak preferred to stand, feeling that height gave him an advantage, but prudence dictated he accommodate the old man. Seated cross-legged, spear and shield beside him, Pashenuro kneeling behind with the two dogs, he began the customary ritual, asking about the state of Rona’s health. Proceeding along a time honored path, they discussed the past year’s flood, the promise of an abundant harvest and the flood soon to en velop thirsty fields. The villagers slipped away a few at a time, only to reappear on the rooftops, preparing their eve ning meal while watching and, if close enough, listening.
Courtesies complete, Bak said, “I speak for Troop Cap tain Nebwa, who in turn speaks for Commandant Thuty of
Buhen.”
The old man’s expression hardened. “Don’t try to mis lead me, young man. You speak for Amonked, inspector of the fortresses of Wawat, newly come from the land of
Kemet.”
“I don’t.” Bak thought of the ring hanging at his breast, which made a falsehood of the denial. “Perhaps I do, but not from choice. If I had my way, he’d have traveled no farther south than Ma’am, and there the viceroy would’ve convinced him he came on a fool’s errand.”
Rona looked long and hard at the man seated before him.
“I’ve heard of you, Lieutenant Bak. Since you’ve come to the Belly of Stones, you’ve proven to be a friend of my people. A man of honor.”
“Commander Woser told me of you. He called you not only honorable and wise but a man of influence.”
The old man ignored the compliment-and the impli cation that he had the prestige to assist, should he so desire.
“Tell me of this man Amonked. Will he see our need for the army? Or will he return to your capital and your sov ereign with a message of destruction?”
“I don’t know,” Bak admitted. “At first I thought he’d say whatever she wishes to hear, giving no thought to the consequences. I’ve since come to know him better, and I think he’ll recommend what he truly believes to be the best possible action.” Noting a glimmer of hope on the old man’s face, he raised a hand to still the thought. “What he thinks of as best may differ from what you and I believe to be best.”
The old man nodded, slowly, thoughtfully. “I appreciate your candor. Now what do you want of me?”
Bak reached out to the brindle dog, which had inched forward to sit beside him, but it ducked away from his hand. “You know Hor-pen-Deshret has returned.”
“A nightmare come true.”
“His men have been watching the caravan. We believe he wants the rich trappings Amonked has brought south and the weapons we carry and our many donkeys. He’s not yet interested in the farms and villages along the river.”
“Not yet, for a fact.” Rona leaned forward, the weight of his upper body supported by his staff. “If the army is torn from the Belly of Stones, he’ll take what he wants and lay waste to the rest, destroying all we’ve built up during his absence.”
Bak refused to go down the same path twice. “We’ve seen Hor-pen-Deshret once-two days ago-and he left be hind six men to watch us. We feel certain he means to attack, but we don’t know when or where or the size of the force he’ll bring against us.”
“You’re a man of arms, Lieutenant, as is Troop Captain
Nebwa. Why have you not sent out spies?”
Bak longed to stand up, to tower over the old man.
“We’ve seen men march off into the desert and never re turn, and we’ve no desire to lose the few skilled fighting men we have.” He flashed Rona his most disarming smile.
“Besides, Commander Woser assured us that nothing oc curs between Iken and Askut without your knowledge.”
“I’ve been told you’ve begun to train men to fight, men who set out from Kor knowing nothing of combat.”
Bak’s smile broadened. “You are indeed a man of vast knowledge.”
A hint of a smile touched Rona’s face. He rocked back, glanced toward a nearby rooftop from which the scent of onions drifted, and raised a hand to make a signal Bak could not interpret. “You will share my evening meal, you and your Medjay.” The smile waned and he stared out across the oasis, saying nothing, until Bak feared old age had stolen his thoughts. “Hor-pen-Deshret will slay every living creature in this village if he hears I’ve helped you.
And he will hear, I have no doubt.”
“If we slay him or send him to Kemet a prisoner, he can no longer take anyone’s life or property.”
Neither Bak nor Rona felt a need to mention the death and destruction that would result all along the frontier if the caravan was taken by the tribesmen and Hor-pen Deshret deemed himself invincible.
“He’s forming a coalition of desert tribes,” Rona said.
A coalition? Bak prayed the reality was not as ominous as the word.
“While the women and children, the elderly and infirm, remain behind to tend their flocks, the fighting men are gathering in the desert south of Askut, not far from the old island fortress of Shelfak, presently unoccupied, as you know. When he deems he’s amassed sufficient forces, they’ll attack your caravan.”
Rona raised a hand, holding off the many questions risen in Bak’s throat. “He planned at first to strike today, when the caravan was far from the river and the animals spread out along the trail. He thought the men traveling with you to be poorly armed and with no talent to fight back. When word reached him of your training efforts and the new weapons you’ve acquired, he decided to postpone the attack until he has a larger force.”
Bak had to laugh. He and Nebwa had underestimated the tribal chieftain, thinking he would plan his attack based on numbers alone. “How many men have gathered?”
“The last I heard, close to a hundred and sixty. Addi tional men come each day.”
Bak tried not to show how staggered he was by the news.
One and a half times the number of men the caravan con tained and more on the way. “It would be to your advantage and to the advantage of all who dwell along the river if your young men came to our aid.”
“We’ll do nothing to help you until the death of Prince
Baket-Amon is avenged.” Rona’s voice was firm and flat, a statement of unalterable fact. “You must snare his slayer and see that he’s punished.”
“Are you speaking for yourself, or has so rigid an order come from elsewhere? Ma’am, I’d wager.”
Rona bowed his head in acknowledgment. “I speak for the mother of his firstborn son.”
As we suspected, Bak thought. A woman dwelling in the safety of a distant fortress, deep in mourning and yearning for revenge, has issued an order that might well destroy the people who would one day look to her son as their leader in name if not in fact.
“Your people, though far from helpless, always suffer at the hands of rampaging tribesmen. Does she have no pity?”
Rona clamped his mouth tight, refusing to commit.
Bak rose to his feet, his face grim. “I’ll lay hands on the man who slew Baket-Amon-if I survive the attack Hor
