at him, he could see they thought him less a man than they, for they could without doubt easily distinguish every vessel on the river. “It came upon us from behind and ran us down, sinking my father’s skiff midstream. We were too busy saving ourselves to get more than a glimpse of the boat.”
The younger man’s eyes widened. “Your father? The physician Ptahhotep? We heard of his accident.”
“You know him?”
“Oh, yes, sir!” Warmth filled the man’s voice. “If not for him, my wife and newborn son would’ve died. A year ago it was, a time I’ll never forget.”
The older man eyed Bak with interest. “You came a few days ago from the southern frontier, they say. You’re trying to stop the accidents at Djeser Djeseru.”
“You’ve heard. .” Bak chuckled. “Of course you have.
You know everything that happens along the river.”
Both men beamed. “Come along, sir,” the older one said,
“We’ve a brew we can share and a patch of shade.”
Bak hated to spend the small amount of time he had in this one location, but he was thirsty and there was a slight chance that, given more information, they might recall something of use. He settled down with them beneath the acacia, beer jar in hand, and told them of the accident and all he remembered of the vessel. Even downwind, the musty-fishy smell was strong, abbreviating his tale.
When he finished, the younger man looked at his companion. “Could be the boat belonging to Pairi and Humay.
There’s a fresh scar on the hull. But why would they wish to run down the physician?” His eyes darted toward Bak. “Or you, sir.”
“Who are Pairi and Humay?” Bak cautioned himself not to let his hopes build too high. Their vessel could as easily have struck a log floating on the water as his father’s skiff.
“Brothers.” The older man busily scratched an itch on his inner thigh. “They usually draw their boat up here when the day’s fishing is over.” His eyes darted toward the row of vessels on the beach and his expression turned thoughtful.
“Strange they’ve not yet come.”
“Their father died several years ago, leaving them a farm,” his friend said. “They’re often the first to bring in their catch so they can get home in time to tend the flocks.
Why, I’m not sure. They’ve a shepherd boy who does the task well enough, so I’ve heard.”
A farm. A place where bees were no doubt cultivated.
Bak’s interest in the tale multiplied tenfold.
“Their boat struck something a couple days ago. No question about it. It left a long gouge down one side of the bow.”
The older man frowned. “Come to think of it, the scar was at about the level where it would’ve struck the stern of a skiff like your father’s.”
“We should’ve paid more heed, wondered more about what happened,” his younger companion said. “They’re not men to have an accident. They’re cautious sailors, careful of their possessions-especially that boat.”
Barely able to believe his good fortune, Bak set his beer jar on the ground by his side. “It wasn’t here the night we were struck?”
After a short argument with his friend about who did what on which evening, the older man concluded, “It wasn’t here when I left. These nets are old-my master’s a stingy swine-and I often stay until close on sunset. And so I did that day.”
Bak offered a silent prayer of thanks to the lord Amon.
Against all odds, he had most likely found the men he sought, not mere fishermen but probably beekeepers as well.
“Are they men who would take what by rights belongs to another?”
The older man chortled. “Wouldn’t every man be tempted if the prize was rich enough?”
“They toil from dawn to dusk to better themselves, but would they steal?” The younger man shrugged. “Maybe.
Maybe not.”
Bak rose to his feet, preparing to leave. “Can you describe the two of them?”
“Hmmm.” The older man picked up the net he had been repairing and located the tear he had yet to mend. “Pairi’s a big man, broad across the shoulders, taller than you are. His face is square, not much to look at.”
His younger companion chuckled. “His face is as flat as the sole of a leather sandal.”
A flat face. Bak resisted the urge to shout for joy. He owed these two men more than he could ever repay. In addition to their other revelations, they had identified the men who had dropped him into the shaft of Nebhepetre Montuhotep’s tomb.
“Humay looks a lot like his brother,” the older fisherman said, “but he’s not as big and his face is rounder. Kind of like an egg.”
Bak thought of the many places along the river where a boat could be drawn onto the shore and of the time he might waste searching for the vessel when he wanted instead to lay hands on the men. “How can I find their farm?”
Wishing he had Kasaya to back him up, Bak hurried along a narrow path raised above the fields on a ridge of dirt cleaned out of the dry irrigation ditch beside it. The farm ahead looked to be small like his father’s, but the house needed whitewash, and the two mudbrick sheds were in an advanced stage of decay, their walls partly fallen down. A large flock of sheep and goats grazed on the scant remains of harvested crops in the field to the east. A boy of eight or nine years sat in the shade of a clump of tamarisks, keeping an eye on the animals and watching Bak. The yellow dog beside him rose to its feet and barked, but grew silent at a sharp command from its master. A donkey grazed nearby unconcerned.
A few clumps of vegetation not yet eaten by the voracious animals told him what the harvested crop had been. Clover, a good source of nectar for bees. He saw no hives at the edge of the field, but spotted them on the roof of the house. A large grouping of cylindrical pots held together by dried mud.
Yes! he thought, gratified beyond measure. He had come upon the beekeepers he had sent Kasaya out to find. Beekeepers who were also fishermen and tomb robbers. A few hours’ effort well worthwhile.
He stopped at the edge of the field. Other than the bleating of a lamb lost from its mother and the distant howling of a dog, he heard not a sound. The house ahead looked empty.
Appearances, however, could be deceiving. The fishermen could have seen him approach and recognized him. They might well be lying in wait, hoping to catch him unaware.
Where? The house and sheds stood in the open. From the manure dotting the grass and weeds, Bak guessed the live-stock was allowed to graze where it would. The small garden was surrounded by a wall of sorts, dried acacia branches bristling with needles. He could see through the fence, and the interiors of both sheds stood open to view and empty. He glanced toward the stubble field. Boy and dog had gone in among the animals and were paying him no heed.
Clutching his baton of office as he would a club, he strode to the house. Pausing ten or twelve paces from the door, he called, “Pairi! Humay! I must speak with you.”
He received no answer.
Trying not to step on dry grass that would crunch beneath his sandals, he crept to the door and stopped to listen. All was quiet. He remained where he was, waiting. He heard not a sound. Tamping down his impatience, he counted out the moments as a woman would do when awaiting the birth of a child. Halfway to his goal of two hundred, his patience paid off. He heard a faint rustle just inside and to the right of the door. The noise could have been made by a mouse or a rat-
but he did not think so. He took a silent step forward, bringing him close enough to touch the doorjamb.
He leaped across the threshold. Through eyes unaccustomed to the darkness, he glimpsed a figure where he had expected it to be. He swung half around, knocked something from the man’s hand, and with his free fist struck the man hard in the stomach.
“Oof!” he heard, and the man fell at his feet, dropping spear and shield with a clatter, clutching his stomach. The light from the open door fell on his face.
“Kasaya!” Bak dropped to his knees beside the young Medjay.
