Sheep and goats occupied a few of the remaining enclo sures, awaiting slaughter or shipment downriver. A small but fine herd of tan short-horned cattle, soon to travel to the royal house in Waset as tribute for Maatkare Hatshep sut, stood in a pen near the fortress wall.
Seshu came hurrying down a path between two pad docks. He stopped before the two officers and wiped the sweat from his brow. He appeared to be in a state of shock.
Bak dropped to the ground, his feet sending up a thin puff of dust, and laid a sympathetic hand on the caravan master’s shoulder. “What is it, Seshu? Amonked again?”
“That man’s a menace to himself and everyone around him.” Seshu’s brow wrinkled with worry. “He refuses to leave behind any of the luxuries he brought from Waset.
He insists his concubine come along and…” He let out a harsh, cynical laugh. “… and he wishes her to travel with every amenity.”
“How many servants does she have?” Nebwa asked.
“Only one. I thank the lord Amon. Her personal maid.”
Seshu shook his head in disgust. “Altogether there are nine people in his party. Plus fifty spearmen, guards he calls them, and their sergeant, and twelve porters.”
“Porters?” Nebwa demanded.
“For the carrying chairs. Three of them. One for Amon ked. One for his noble brother-in-law. And one for the con cubine. You didn’t think they’d walk, did you?”
Nebwa muttered an oath in the local dialect spoken by his wife. “Seventy-two people who have to be provided with food and drink. I don’t envy you your task.”
“Plus the many drovers necessary to handle the don keys,” Bak said.
Seshu heaved a deep, dejected sigh. “The caravan will not only be large and hard to manage, but he’s bringing along a portable pavilion, furniture, any number of items that will make it a target for bandits. I’ve led bigger and richer caravans from the desert mines, but they were well guarded, peopled with soldiers and officers who knew the desert-and knew how to stand up to the enemy.”
“Thuty should send along a company of spearmen,”
Nebwa said.
“He suggested as much, but Amonked refused, saying his own guards could manage.”
“Fifty men? If they know what they’re doing, and if their officer has, at most, a modest amount of experience, you should be all right.” Bak prayed such was the case.
Seshu, looking dubious, straightened his spine and pulled back his shoulders. “I must go speak with the drovers, warn them what they’ll face, then convince them to risk life and limb and donkeys on this witless adventure.”
Bak, his face grim, watched him walk away. “I care noth ing for Amonked the man, Nebwa, and I wholeheartedly resent the inspector of the fortresses of Wawat, but I fear for our sovereign’s cousin. Should he not survive this mis sion of his, every man along the Belly of Stones will have to pay for his poor judgment.”
Chapter Three
“Other than stay behind and hazard guesses as to what may be happening upriver, what can we do?” Nebwa ran his fingers through his hair, making unruly locks go in all di rections. “We’re as helpless as a couple of speared fish.”
Bak looked the length of the street, but barely saw the blocks of interconnected buildings that hugged the thor oughfare, their walls a brilliant white in the early afternoon sun, or the tall towered gate straddling the far end. Nor was he fully aware of four comely young women standing in an intersecting lane, talking, or a brown goose waddling up the pavement, leading her brood of seven downy goslings.
“Amonked looks as plain and straightforward as my fa ther.” He scooped a cast-off beer jar from a low drift of sand that had formed against the closed and sealed door of a storehouse. “Would that such would prove to be the case.”
Nebwa snorted. “I always thought you a man of common sense, not one who dreams while awake.” The young women must have thought the accompanying frown di rected at them, for they ducked into the side lane.
The two men stepped apart, letting the goose lead her brood up the street between them, and continued on to the guardhouse, the back half of which was unoccupied, badly in need of repair. With Nebwa a pace or two behind, Bak strode through the door. He paused just inside, halted by the silence. For the first time since the Medjay police had occupied the building, the clatter of knucklebones had ceased. Instead of sitting on the floor, playing a game that continued through day and night, never ending, the two guards on duty stood at attention on either side of the rear door leading to the sleeping quarters and the prison. Some thing was decidedly wrong.
One of the guards took a quick step forward. “Lieutenant
Bak. Sir…” His eyes flitted past Bak’s shoulder, his mouth snapped shut.
A man’s curt voice from behind: “I caught those two neglecting their duty, Lieutenant, playing a game of chance.”
Bak pivoted. Standing in the door of the room he used as an office was a swarthy man of thirty or so years, me dium of height and sturdily built, wearing an impressive multicolored broad collar, bracelets, anklets, and armlets.
A sheathed dagger hung from his belt and he carried the baton of office of an army officer. A stranger to Buhen.
Amonked’s military adviser, without doubt.
“I admonished them thoroughly, but as they report to you, you must decide their punishment.” The officer flung a censorious look at the pair. “If I were you, I’d spare them not at all. They’re a disgrace to the military.”
The man’s words, his imperious tone rankled. As far as
Bak was concerned, only he had the right to reprimand his
Medjays.
“You are…?” He pushed his way past the man, re claiming his office. Another stranger stood inside, another officer from the look of him.
The swarthy man gave Bak a haughty stare. “Lieutenant
Horhotep. Military adviser to Amonked, inspector of the fortresses of Wawat.”
Nebwa leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb, blocking the exit, and examined the adviser as he would an inter esting but rather distasteful specimen dug from a muddy riverbank. As usual, he carried no baton of office. Unless Horhotep remembered him at Thuty’s side on the quay, he had no way of knowing Nebwa was a senior officer.
“Who are you?” Bak demanded of the second stranger.
“Lieutenant Merymose.” The tall, gangly young man flushed at the sudden attention. “I stand at the head of the company of guards assigned to escort the inspector up river.” He had a long face and prominent nose and ears.
Bak doubted he was more than eighteen years of age.
Tossing the empty beer jar into a half-full basket of re fuse, Bak brushed his hands together to clear them of grit.
As usual, his office was cluttered with objects left for the moment and forgotten by his men and Hori. Writing im plements and an unrolled scroll were spread over the mud brick bench built against the rear wall. Weapons, shields, and leather armor were stacked along a side wall. A white man-shaped coffin stood on end in the corner. A basket half full of scrolls stood between two low three-legged stools. The rich, tangy aroma of cumin was strong, the odor wafting from a small basket confiscated from a man who had claimed to be a physician.
“Why have you come to me?” he asked.
Merymose opened his mouth to answer, but Horhotep raised his voice, overriding the younger officer. “I’m fully aware, Lieutenant, that Amonked gave you permission to post your Medjays around the house we’re to occupy here in Buhen. The offer was well-intended, I’ve no doubt, but their presence is unnecessary.”
