“How did Horhotep behave?”
“He kept his mouth shut-for a change.” Nebwa exuded satisfaction. “I think he’s finally beginning to realize he might have to prove himself the warrior he pretends to be.”
Bak thanked the lord Amon for small favors. “Did
Amonked have time to inspect the fortress?”
“We had a war to plan. He didn’t so much as suggest it.”
Standing up, Bak ran his hands over his hair, squeezing out the water. His demeanor grew serious. “We can no longer make plans with blind eyes, Nebwa.”
“I know. We need firsthand news of the enemy.” Nebwa gave his friend a regretful look. “Sending a man south to spy on them will be risky, but we’ve no other option.”
Bak knew what his friend was thinking: few men in the caravan were capable of performing the task with any chance of success. One was far superior to the rest. “I’ll go speak with Pashenuro.”
Nebwa’s eyes darted toward the donkeys and the Medjay in the water with them. “I neglected to ask how his mission went. Did Rona agree to help?”
“Haven’t you heard the rumor, my friend?” With a quick smile, Bak waded farther out in the river, where the current tugged at his legs. “Amonked has brought with him from the royal house a plain wooden chest filled to the brim with valuable jewelry. Maatkare Hatshepsut herself placed it in his hands and assigned him the task of delivering it per sonally to the powerful Kushite king Amon-Psaro. As he fears for his life and the treasure, he’s summoned a ship from Semna to carry him south from Askut.”
Nebwa laughed heartily at the somewhat altered version of the tale he had heard earlier.
Bak slipped into the water and swam downstream. The river was cool and refreshing. The setting sun bestowed upon the sky a glorious golden glow. The early evening air banished the skimpy heat of the day. Too soon he reached his goal, where he drew Pashenuro aside to speak in private.
“I’ve been talking with Nebwa. We’ve a need to learn more of Hor-pen-Deshret’s plans. We wish you to seek out his camp and spy on him and his army.”
“I’d be glad to, sir, but the tongue of the western desert is different from that of my people. How am I to know what they’re saying?”
Bak, who had expected the problem, was reluctant to air the sole solution he had to offer. “Pawah was spawned in the desert, but has dwelt in Waset for the past four or five years.” He glanced toward the slender youth, standing in the shallows, trying to spear a fish. “How much does he remember of his native tongue?”
“We’ve not talked of such details.”
“Let’s ask him.”
They waded past the donkeys, who were leaving the wa ter one or two at a time to nibble on the wild grasses and brush that thrived along the shore. Thaneny and a drover sat naked on a boulder farther downstream, drying them selves and their clothing and at the same time keeping an eye on four crocodiles lying on the sunny beach some dis tance away.
Unwilling to spoil the boy’s fishing, Bak stopped a half dozen paces away, with Pashenuro by his side. “Pawah, can you still speak the language of the desert?”
The youth looked up, startled out of a total concentration.
“I don’t know, sir. I’ve had no need for a long time.” He looked harder at Bak, puzzled. “Why do you want to know?
What do you wish of me?”
“I thought to send you with Pashenuro to spy on the desert tribesmen, but you must be able to tell us what they’re saying.”
The boy’s eyes widened, his face lit up. “Oh, please!
Please let me go! The words will come back to me. I know they will.”
“The journey through the night will be hard, to draw close enough to hear them speak will be dangerous. Shall
I risk your life only to learn later that you were unable to do your part?”
“I’m not afraid!” the boy exclaimed. “I risked far worse when I toiled as a servant in a house of pleasure in Waset.
I saw two people murdered! I’ll do anything… Anything at all to help Amonked and Sennefer. I owe them my life.
If they hadn’t taken me in, I’d long ago have been food for the fish.”
“Pawah…”
“Oh!” The boy clapped a hand over his mouth, horrified by what he had said, and glanced around to see if anyone else had heard. “I beg of you, sir! And you, Pashenuro.
Please give me your word that you’ll never tell anyone about the murders. No one knows I saw. I don’t want any one ever to know. Please!”
“I’ll tell no one,” Bak vowed. He doubted the boy had any reason for fear, but as he still lived in Waset, silence was wiser than loose talk.
The Medjay echoed the pledge.
“Let me go with Pashenuro, sir. I’ll never get a better chance to repay Amonked and Sennefer. Never!”
Bak studied him long and hard. He had no doubt the youth would do the best he could, but would he remember words he had learned at his mother’s breast? Without him, the mission would fail.
With him, it might succeed.
“All right, you may go.”
Chapter Fifteen
Bak awakened several times during the night. He was un sure of the exact reason: the bitter chill in the air or thoughts of Pashenuro and Pawah. He knew the Medjay was competent, skilled at creeping through the dark unseen and unheard, and he would not have agreed to take Pawah if he had not believed the boy quick to learn. Nonetheless, each time he awoke, he prayed to the lord Amon that they would return safely.
His thoughts would shift then to Baket-Amon and the slayer he sought. A man he spoke with each day, he felt sure, more likely than not one he liked. The names would follow one another in an endless circle, and he would fall again into a fitful slumber.
Cold drove away the last vestiges of sleep as the first vague fingers of light breached the eastern horizon. An archer had already brought to life the fire contained within the rough mudbrick hearth and was sitting beside it, ab sorbing its warmth. Lying close were the two dogs that had accompanied Bak and Pashenuro to Rona’s village. Bak knelt with them and held his hands over the heat. How
Nebwa and the others could dream on, he had no idea.
He was almost warm when the dogs looked up, ears erect and tails brushing arcs on the sand. He turned to see a smiling Pashenuro and Pawah weaving their way through the sleeping caravan. Both wore leather kilts and, over their shoulders for warmth, the woolly hides of sheep discolored with dirt so they would be less visible in the dark. Relief swept through him. He offered a silent prayer of thanks and stood to greet them.
While the archer brought a bowl of milk and food left over from the evening meal, Bak awakened Nebwa. Ar ranging themselves around the hearth, they shared hard flat tish loaves of bread and cold boiled fish.
“The encampment was easy to find,” Pashenuro said.
“It’s in the desert west of Shelfak, as Rona said, encircled by low sand hills. Everyone along the river knows its whereabouts. The campfires can be seen from any good sized knoll. No one would dare attack so big a force, so they take few precautions.”
“Don’t they have sentries?” Nebwa asked, his voice gruff from sleep and the ill-humor of being awakened too fast.
“Yes, sir, but men too innocent to be wary. The one I spoke with was a good, honest soul drawn into a fight for which he has no enthusiasm.”
Bak tried to look stern, an effort not entirely successful.
