weaponry, rude reminders of the impending battle, they strode into the wadi.
Bak sat on a low, flat rock high up on a steep slope of broken stone that had fallen through the years from the face of the cliff behind him. Located midway along the northern side of the wadi, he was plainly visible to every member of his small force of archers and spearmen. Pashenuro was hidden across the dry watercourse, a hundred or so paces farther west on a high knob of rock atop the escarpment.
From there, the Medjay could see the open desert beyond and Hor-pen-Deshret’s army. Equipped with a polished mirror, he would signal a silent warning if the tribal leader posted lookouts above the cliff, or when the enemy marched in force into the wadi. Bak carried a second mirror to relay the message to the men positioned along the op posite slope, unable to see the Medjay. Pawah, out of sight in a shady cleft at the base of the cliff below Pashenuro, would relay longer and more complicated verbal messages.
Bak looked to right and left, checking his men for what must have been the hundredth time. The moment Pashenuro signaled, every man would vanish, but now most were vis ible, spread out along the facing slopes, standing or kneel ing or sitting near whatever shelter they had chosen: fallen slabs of rock, holes dug into the scree, deeply shadowed fissures in the cliff face. The cover was not as good as he would have liked, but it would have to do.
Through Pawah, Pashenuro had reported that the tribesmen had spread out for many thousands of paces along the desert trail, but were slowly collecting at the head of the wadi. In spite of his own impatience to get on with the battle, Bak had to laugh. Hor-pen-Deshret must be furious at the need to wait while half his army straggled in.
He thought of Nebwa and his modest troop of spearmen and drovers. Unlike his own men, who had to speak quietly so their words would not carry to the enemy, Nebwa’s men would be laughing and talking, making a pretense of nor mality behind their barricade of shields. Not until the tribes men came streaming out of the wadi would the men within the encampment take up positions among the high piles of supplies and equipment carefully placed to impede their foe. He also imagined Lieutenant Ahmose’s force, equally small but better trained, concealed in nearby fields, crushing some poor farmer’s crops.
A stiff breeze ruffled Bak’s hair and dried the sweat on his body. Swallows, their voices sharp and squeaky, darted back and forth overhead, carrying insects to nests in the cliff. He shaded his eyes with a hand and looked up the wadi to the west. The lord Re hovered some distance above the horizon, with at least two more hours’ journey before entering the netherworld. The tribesmen must make their move shortly or night would fall before the battle was won.
Though outnumbered two to one, Bak felt confident the combined force of drovers, guards, and soldiers would win.
The lord Amon most often smiled upon men who took steps beyond the usual and expected. As they certainly had over the past few days.
He was sorry the local people had refused to take up arms on their behalf. With Amonked threatening to disrupt their lives and Baket-Amon’s widow seeking solace in ven geance, the respect he and Nebwa had gained through the years had proven of little value. At least the old headman
Rona had helped even the odds. His tale of a treasure ripe to be plucked had drawn the enemy… Well, not yet into their arms, but close.
Bak wondered if he would ever lay hands on Baket Amon’s slayer. He felt he was on the right path, and if the two attempts on his life told true, the man he sought thought so, too. Yet he had no idea who the murderer might be. Of all the men who had come from Waset with the inspection party, none had let slip any hint of guilt. Were his instincts betraying him? Was the slayer someone else altogether, the assaults mere coincidence, the reason for the murder something he had never thought of?
Lieutenant Ahmose had mentioned rumors of a murder sometime in the past. Had Baket-Amon actually taken a life during a night of carousing? Or was the tale a figment of the imagination, grown out of proportion by the passage of time and many wagging tongues? If true, this might well be the incident that had made the prince so averse to cru elty. What words had Sennefer used? Yes, “the harsher ex cesses of the bedchamber.”
The murder had not occurred in Wawat. The way rumors traveled along the river, a tale of that magnitude would be impossible to keep quiet. Nofery would certainly have heard and, thanks to her unbridled curiosity, would have sought out the truth. Nor did Bak think the incident hap pened on an official hunting trip. There again, word would spread like the wind, and Maatkare Hatshepsut would have banished Baket-Amon from the royal house. After all, he was a wretched foreigner, a prince of no note, not worthy of forgiveness of so heinous a crime.
The incident must have occurred in a place of business in the land of Kemet. It could have happened at any loca tion along the river but, as the prince spent most of his time in Waset, the odds were good that it took place there. The capital held many houses of pleasure, no two alike, each offering an infinite variety of delights. Some far from wholesome.
Pawah had been traded to the proprietor of such an es tablishment, one who had subjected the boy to unspeakable cruelties, so Thaneny had said. Only the lord Amon knew what the child had suffered before Sennefer bought him.
Sennefer had bought Pawah! Bak shot to his feet, opened his hand so the small mirror he held could catch the sun, and signaled the boy to come.
“Can you tell me what Prince Baket-Amon looked like?”
Bak kept his voice level, his hope tamped down, and spoke softly so the words would not carry.
Pawah struggled to catch his breath after his long dash across the wadi and up the steep incline. “No, sir. I never saw him.” He, too, kept his voice low.
Bak could barely maintain a calm facade. “Never once, though he was a frequent visitor to Amonked’s home in
Waset?”
“I always accompany my master when he leaves the house, and when we’re home, when I’m not running er rands, I keep to my place with the other servants.”
Bak gave a silent shout of joy and at the same time cursed himself for being so slow to see the truth. He had forgotten the child’s true position in Amonked’s household.
“He was a tall man, Pawah. Heavy, impressive in appear ance. He dressed as a man of wealth from the land of Ke met, but his dusky skin identified him as having come from
Wawat. He often wore a gold pendant of the ram-headed lord Amon and he…”
The boy’s eyes widened with recognition-and shock.
And a dawning fear much more intense than when he had blurted out his secret of seeing two people slain. A fear close to panic. “I… I can’t say, sir.”
“You mean you won’t say.”
“Yes, sir. No! That is…” Pawah’s eyes darted in the direction from which he had come, his desire to flee pal pable. “Sir, I must get back to Pashenuro. The men of the desert could come down the wadi at any moment.”
Bak caught the youth by his slick, sweaty shoulders.
“He’ll signal if he needs you. If not, you can await them here as easily as there.”
Pawah twisted and squirmed, trying to get away. Bak dared not allow him to run, perhaps to vanish forever in the depths of the desert out of which he had originally come. The youth’s reaction spoke of a knowledge that must be aired.
“I don’t know what you fear, Pawah, but you have my word that no harm will come to you.”
“I must go back to Pashenuro, sir. I must!”
“The more people who know what you hold in your heart, the safer you’ll be. You must begin with me, here and now.”
The youth’s will crumpled, as did the strength in his legs.
He dropped onto the flat rock and Bak sat down beside him, close enough to grab him should he try to run.
“Now tell me what you know of Baket-Amon.”
“He… He came often to Thutnofer’s house of plea sure.” Pawah’s voice trembled, he looked close to tears.
“We didn’t know his name. Thutnofer-whose place of business it was-always called him the ram of Wawat, and so the rest of us thought of him.” His eyes flooded. He wiped tears away with the back of his hand, making
