the enemy on the field of battle, but he certainly had the cour age of his convictions. A courage that would allow a man of ordinary abilities to slay an individual he deemed un worthy. A man like Baket-Amon. Yet the more he saw of
Amonked, the more difficult it was to imagine him taking a life for any reason whatsoever.
“You’ve no need to worry, Lieutenant. My wife will tend to her as if she were her own sister.”
Bak smiled at Lieutenant Ahmose, commander of the fortress of Askut, a tall, thin, balding man of forty or so years. “I hope you’re wed to a patient woman. Nefret has much to complain about.”
“She lives in the household of a wealthy nobleman and she’s unhappy with her lot?” Ahmose laughed. “She should dwell in a godforsaken place like this.”
Bak glanced around the room in which they sat, a good sized white plastered space with a ceiling supported by a single red column, bright with fresh paint. Except for its smaller proportions, the audience hall beyond the door could easily compete with that of Buhen, with six newly painted octagonal wooden columns supporting the ceiling and walls enlivened by crisp multicolored decorations. If any smell remained in the fresh colors, it was overwhelmed by the odors of braised fowl and new-baked bread wafting from the upper floor. Officers and sergeants hurried back and forth, talking of weapons and battle. Four soldiers sat on the floor with scribes, dictating letters to their loved ones in far-off Kemet, while a dozen or more others awaited their turn. Letters prompted by the knowledge that they might soon be facing the enemy on the field of battle.
“Askut is remote, yes,” Bak said, “but this building is impressive, and I presume your quarters are, too.”
“I keep them so for my wife and her servants. I’d not enjoy spending the rest of my assignment here alone.”
Bak smiled at what was clearly an understatement.
Ahmose settled back on his chair, a simple affair with a low, no doubt uncomfortable back and no arms, a definite step down from those of Commandant Thuty and Com mander Woser. “To bring the woman today, you must be lieve a conflict imminent.”
“We sent a man to spy on Hor-pen-Deshret’s camp and…” Pushing his stool back to rest his spine against a column, Bak spoke of all they had learned and all they had accomplished since Nebwa’s visit the previous day. The voices in the audience hall faded away, shoved aside by thoughts more imperative.
“As for the confrontation itself,” he went on, “we’ve cre ated a plan we believe will work. You know the terrain far better than we do, so I’ve come to share that plan, thinking you can spot potential problems and make suggestions for improvement.”
“Anything I can do to help, I will.” Clearly flattered, the officer leaned forward, elbow on knee, chin cradled in his hand.
“We’re assuming,” Bak said, “that at least half Hor-pen Deshret’s men will have passed through the wadi to attack the caravan by the time the last man enters at the upper, desert end.”
Ahmose nodded. “The trek from Shelfak isn’t difficult, but what begins as a tight and compact group will gradually spread out, with many stragglers. I doubt Hor-pen-Deshret or anyone else could hold a group that large together for long.”
“So we thought.” Bak rubbed the healing, itching scab on his shoulder. “While Nebwa and his forces defend the caravan, holding off the first wave of men to charge, I’ll lead a surprise attack in the wadi, with the archers at first picking them off from a distance and the spearmen follow ing at closer hand. Those able to stand and run-less than half, we hope-we’ll chase into the valley, where they’ll join the larger band attacking the caravan.
“If your troops come in from the north while mine are approaching from the south, and with Nebwa’s men inside the barricade of shields, we’ll have the enemy trapped within a triangle, which we can squeeze around them until they become our prisoners.”
Ahmose sat back in the chair, nodded. “Simple and straightforward. A good plan.”
“Now let’s see if we can make it better.”
“Can you eat another pigeon?” Ahmose’s wife asked.
She was close in age to her husband, short and plump, a woman whose very ordinary looks were greatly enhanced by her cheerful disposition and merry smile.
Bak, who could well understand why Ahmose wished to keep her by his side, patted his full stomach. “Another bite and I’d burst. I haven’t had such a fine meal since I came south to Wawat.”
She smiled, pleased at the compliment.
He adjusted the woven reed mat on which he sat and glanced around the second-story courtyard, alive with pot ted acacias and flowers, a white calf orphaned at birth, and hints of domesticity such as a grindstone and loom. The woman was the consummate homemaker, he was con vinced. “How’s mistress Nefret adapting?”
She glanced at her husband, a query on her face. His nod encouraged her to speak openly. Laughing softly, she said,
“She’s not yet recovered from the shock of seeing me elbow-to-elbow with my servants, preparing our food.”
Bak smiled. “She knows nothing of the world as it ac tually is. You’d be doing Amonked a favor if you took her around Askut, introducing her to the other women, showing her how they live. Giving her an idea of how pampered she is, how lucky.”
She looked doubtful. “My husband and I live much better than most on this island.”
“I’ve seen that for myself and so should she.” Bak emp tied his beer jar, added, “You needn’t dwell on the hard life here, simply introduce her to the women and chat with them as you normally do. Let her think for herself, reaching her own conclusions.”
She left the courtyard, her face a picture of indecision.
“She’ll do the right thing,” Ahmose assured him, shifting his mat away from a wedge of sunlight.
Bak fervently hoped she would, not solely for Nefret but for all the women. With their husbands marching off to do battle, they needed a distraction. He glanced up at the sun.
Not long past midday. He must soon return to the caravan, to last-minute preparations for battle. Ahmose also looked upward, equally concerned with the passage of time.
Bak said, “You know of Baket-Amon’s death and my need to lay hands on the slayer.”
“I do.” The officer took a handful of dates from a bowl and pushed it across the floor toward his guest. “You surely know that even if you were to snare him within the hour, we’d have to face Hor-pen-Deshret with no help from those who dwell along the river. Too few would arrive in time.”
“I’ve accepted already that we must do battle without them, but that doesn’t relieve me from my task.” Using natron as a cleanser, Bak scrubbed the grease from his hands. “Did you know the prince?”
“He never came to Askut. He had no need. Rona looks after the people in this part of the valley as if they’re his own children. I’ve always dealt with the old man. I respect him, and I like to think he respects me.”
Ahmose’s age told Bak he was a part of the old guard, men appointed for their noble heritage or out of patronage, men like Horhotep who fought their battles in the corridors of the royal house. His attitude, however, spoke of the younger, newly rebuilt army, made up of men highly trained in the arts of war, wary of other men’s help in rising through the ranks, less inclined to feel themselves above all others.
“You must know of the prince’s reputation.”
Ahmose smiled. “Before I came to Askut, I dwelt in
Waset, performing liaison duties between the royal house and the regiment of Amon. Gossip lightened my load on many a dull afternoon. His name came up among all the others, and I’ve since heard more.”
Bak had been a part of that regiment, but he had no memory of Ahmose. Not surprising since, as a chariotry officer, he had spent much of his time in the stables and out on the practice field. “Did you know Amonked at that time?”
Ahmose’s smile broadened. “I served in a tiny building behind the royal house, listening to the lions roar in our sovereign’s zoo. I never reached those lofty heights.”
Bak returned the smile. He had a feeling he would enjoy serving with this officer, a man of good sense, having no delusions and no pretensions. “Since I began this quest, I’ve heard many praises of Baket-Amon’s talents in the bed chamber and his skills as a sportsman. The two activities dominated his life. I suspect what I seek has something to do with one or the other, something that happened some time in the past.”
“Hmmm.” Ahmose rested his head against the wall and closed his eyes. “There was a tale going round…” His voice tailed off, his brow furrowed in thought. “What was it?”
