loincloth around your ankles?”
A flush spread across Paser’s cheeks, but he kept his eyes on Bak. “I don’t know where I was. I walked hither and yon, thinking over Nakht’s plans for providing more protection for the caravans.”
“Were you near the residence at any time?”
“Probably.” Paser threw the denuded fish bones into the fire. “In fact…yes, I saw your Medjays escorting their prisoners into the building. I had no wish to ogle a group of besotted men, so I walked on.”
“Did you notice anything out of the ordinary?”
“Other than the outrageously large number of prisoners you chose to take, no.”
So all three had been on the battlements during the night and, later, in or near the commandant’s residence. Any of them could have sneaked into Nakht’s room. Bak drew his thoughts up short. What am I doing? he wondered; I’ve no more reason to think these men guilty than anyone else in Buhen.
He glanced at Mery and Nebwa. “Since neither of you believe mistress Azzia took her husband’s life, can you guess who did?”
“I’ve tried and tried,” Mery said, looking up from the fish from which he was carefully stripping the bones. “I can think of no one. He was a good man, highly respected by all. Even the local people living along this stretch of the river held him in high regard.”
“Deep wounds heal slowly,” Bak said thoughtfully. “The army of Akheperenre Thutmose marched through this land twenty-five years ago with a vengeance. His soldiers took many lives among those involved in the uprising, and left many widows and orphan children. Do you think one among them carries sufficient hate in his heart to have slain Nakht?”
“Those savages?” Nebwa snorted, contemptuous. “There’s not a man among them smart enough to slip past the guards and inside the walls.”
Bak glimpsed the face of the girl, huddled within Nebwa’s encircling arm, an instant before she lowered her head. He saw shame there and hurt. The boy’s black eyes glittered with hate.
Mery placed a hand on the child’s bony shoulder. “These people saw the might of our army and they’ve never ceased to fear it. None would risk having his village burned and his family and livestock carried off to the holy mansions of Kemet. The men of the desert, on the other hand, those who raid the caravans, have nothing to lose.”
“The caravans are slow, our soldiers vulnerable,” Nebwa explained. “Easy prey for the murderous jackals who know the best places to attack and the fastest routes to run away. But to enter Buhen to slay one man and take away no booty?” He expelled a hard, scornful laugh. “No, Bak. You must look inside the walls, not outside.”
Bak nodded, certain Nebwa was right. The one who had entered Nakht’s room with murder in his-or her-heart had not been a stranger. “Who do you suspect?”
Nebwa’s eyes met his with no hesitation. “Those cursed Medjays you brought from Waset. Who else? The building was full of them.”
Bak swallowed a curse. “No.”
“They were taken to Kemet as boys. They speak like us and act like us, but their hearts belong to this vile land of Wawat. If you look at each of them in turn, you’ll find one, maybe two or three, maybe all, who believe that to sever the head of the garrison is to weaken its body.”
Chapter Four
“The man is abhorrent to the gods!” Imsiba growled. “For a single grain of emmer, I’d slice out his tongue and throw it to the crocodiles.”
“I’d help if I thought it would do any good,” Bak said grimly, “but it wouldn’t. Nebwa’s father soldiered in Wawat and so did his father’s father. As victors, they planted contempt in his heart, and the seed has grown far out of proportion to his own experience.”
He stepped out of his kilt and untied his loincloth, threw both on a black granite boulder protruding from the river’s edge, and waded into the water until it lapped around his thighs. It cooled his tired legs, soothed his knotted calves.
Several hundred paces downstream, the walls of Buhen, stark white in the hot, brilliant sunlight, rose high above the river. The closest of the three stone quays jutting into the smooth brownish water was lined with small boats, the fishing fleet from nearby villages. A half dozen soldiers were carrying most of the morning’s catch to the garrison cook; a few officers’ wives and servants stood among the fishermen, haggling over the price of their evening meal.
“Will Nebwa go to Tetynefer with his vile accusation?” Imsiba asked.
“I think not. At least not yet.” Bak splashed water over his shoulders. “He knows he must have something more solid than words to accuse our men of murder. But he’s a rash man, so we must be prepared in case he does.”
“What can I do, my friend?”
Bak glanced at the tall Medjay who knelt in the shade of a row of acacias lining the riverbank. “You must learn the location of every man in our company at the time Nakht lost his life. Where possible, you must find witnesses who saw them, preferably men of Kemet.”
Imsiba nodded his approval. “If we can prove they were elsewhere, they’ll be above reproach.” He hesitated, asked, “Shouldn’t you approach the witnesses? They may not speak freely to me.”
A broad-beamed military transport, sail lowered, oarsmen paddling to the cadence of a drummer, swung across the current to dock. This, Bak guessed, was the vessel on which he and Azzia would travel to Ma’am.
“Take Hori with you. His youth and innocence can be most disarming-and persuasive.”
Imsiba smiled. “The boy could charm water from a stone.”
“He’ll not like having his sleep disturbed, but when you explain what we need, his complaints will fade like mist in the breeze.”
“Yes, he yearns to be a policeman, and he thinks of our men as brothers.”
Bak eyed a reed skiff tacking across the transport’s wake, its white sail blossoming in the morning breeze. “He must record every word he hears, Imsiba. I want to end this matter once and for all.”
“What if one or more of our men were alone, with no one to vouch for them?”
“If I must,” Bak said with a faint, humorless smile, “I’ll seek Nofery’s help. She pledged her cooperation before I left her last night, and her women will say whatever she desires.”
Imsiba chuckled. “You’re a scoundrel, my friend.”
Bak’s laugh was hollow. “When you’ve learned all you can, come to my quarters. I’ll not tarry here for long, for I must study the scroll mistress Azzia gave me.”
Imsiba trotted away along the line of trees, heading for the fortress. Bak prayed Nofery’s lies would not be needed. His decision to keep the gold weighed heavy on his shoulders; the transport’s arrival and imminent departure added to his burden. Counting on the sly and no doubt greedy old woman to protect his men would add a load almost too heavy to bear.
Bak shoved his sleeping pallet back to its normal position and, scroll in hand, headed for the stairway to the roof. At the top he ran a few paces across the flat, hard surface, so hot it burned his bare feet. He ducked into the shade of a small rough pavilion, its frame made of wrist-thick bundles of reeds, its roof covered by loosely woven rush mats. A gentle breeze wafted across the rooftop to cool his naked torso. The yapping of a dog and the laughter of children drifted from the next building block. Voices of soldiers rose from nearby lanes.
Sitting beside a cold brazier, he lifted a square of linen from the top of a round pottery bowl and peeked inside. As he had hoped, Hori had left his morning meal, a thick vegetable stew with a small loaf of bread lying on top, wrapped in leaves to keep it dry. His stomach ached from hunger; the aroma of onions and beans seemed finer than incense or myrrh. He eyed the scroll and the food with equal longing, decided to compromise. Waving off a fly, he unwrapped the bread, replaced the linen on the bowl, and broke out the plug from a beer jar. He took a long drink, praying fervently the document would name the man who stole the gold or at the very least, provide a clue to Azzia’s guilt or innocence.
