gale.”
“Well!” Tetynefer said, surprised. “It seems you’re not as indifferent to political necessities as I thought.”
“I fear for my men.” The steward’s half-formed smile froze, and Bak hastened to add, “Their well-being reflects on all of us-you, me, the other officers in this garrison. If they’re forced to run before an angry mob, word of our failure to keep order will go far beyond the viceroy. Maiherperi will hear without doubt, as will our sovereign, Maatkare Hatshepsut herself.”
Tetynefer’s eyes darted around the forecourt as if searching for an eavesdropper. The mansion door remained closed and no one had come through the portal in the enclosure wall. With a satisfied grunt, he drew Bak well away from the entry and into a narrowing strip of shade cast by the wall.
“How any man can believe those rumors is beyond me!” Tetynefer said irritably. “No one but the widow Azzia could’ve taken Nakht’s life and a villager slew the goldsmith, as we both know.”
The steward had obviously convinced himself the tale he had concocted for the viceroy was true. Bak could not hope to dissuade him without speaking of the gold. To do so before he laid his hands on the thief would be a mistake. At best, Tetynefer would choose to believe he had an over-fertile imagination. At worst, he would consider the thin bar of gold an additional reason to take Azzia before the viceroy as soon as possible.
Bak could not let that happen. “Mistress Azzia is well-liked, greatly admired in fact. Most men find it easier to blame a Medjay for her husband’s death than to think she slew him. As for the goldsmith Heby, I told you before: the spear found in his breast came from my police arsenal.”
Tetynefer tugged a square of linen from his belt, shook out the folds, and scrubbed the sweat from his face, bald head, and the roll of fat around his neck. “Are you saying, after all, that your Medjays were responsible?”
“No!” Bak tamped down his exasperation. “Men’s thoughts follow the shortest path to the thing they wish to believe, sir. They say Ruru’s life was taken to avenge Nakht’s death. Untrue, I know for a fact, but a logical step along the path of self-deception.”
“You know who slew the commandant?”
Cursing his slip of the tongue, Bak went on as if he had not heard. “If the rumors continue to grow, and I’ve no doubt they will if left unchecked, an attack will be made on my Medjays. For that reason, I must not take mistress Azzia on the ship scheduled to leave today. I must be seen to stand beside my men, and I must do all I can to prove their innocence and their worth to this garrison.”
A smile spread across Tetynefer’s face. “You’ve been thinking much as I have, it seems.”
Bak had no idea what the steward was talking about, but he doubted their thoughts ever coincided. “I can stay?”
“You’ll not be separated from your Medjays, and you’ll have every opportunity to prove their worth.”
Bak eyed him with suspicion. He was not at all reassured by the steward’s self-satisfied expression.
Tetynefer refolded the linen and tucked it into his belt. “Ahmose…I doubt you know him; his caravan returned yesterday from the desert.” He clasped his hands behind his ample buttocks and paced the length of the shade in a parody of every military officer of high rank Bak had ever seen. “Several days ago, Ahmose was warned by a wandering shepherd that the next caravan bringing gold from the mine called the Mountain of Re will be attacked by a large and well-armed contingent of tribesmen. The caravan, as you surely know, will leave Buhen tomorrow.” Facing Bak once again, he added, “Every fighting man who can be spared will go with it.”
Bak was appalled. How could a man wise enough, or wily enough, to rise to the high scribal rank of steward presume to take the authority of a military commander? To make so rash a decision based on the word of a shepherd was beyond belief.
“That, young man, is why I summoned you,” Tetynefer said. “You’re an officer trained in the art of war, and I’ve heard you yearn for battle. Now you’ll have your wish. Your Medjays will accompany the caravan, and you, their commanding officer, will go with them.” He glanced around and lowered his voice, as if taking Bak into his confidence. “With your men away in the desert, far from Buhen, neither of us need worry further about trouble brewing within these walls.”
Bak was so disgusted, he was robbed of speech. Tetynefer might be stupid enough to accept the word of a lowly shepherd, but he was smart enough to shift potentially embarrassing problems onto the shoulders of the officer in charge of the caravan. To Paser, a man equally watchful of his own interests. Which left no one but Bak to take the blame if the fear and mistrust of his Medjays came to a boil while they were in the desert.
“What of mistress Azzia?” he asked. “What will happen to her?”
“She’ll remain here until I find a suitable escort.”
“Only I know all the facts about Nakht’s death. How can any other man present her case fairly to the viceroy?”
Tetynefer scowled. “You came to me, young man, saying you wanted to stay with your Medjays, to stand beside them. Have you altered your thoughts? Have you decided you prefer the safety of this fortress instead?”
So sour was the taste of bile in Bak’s throat that he paid no heed to the implication that he might be a coward. “I’ll go with my men into the desert.”
Bak hurried along the narrow, sun-drenched lanes, his thoughts in too much of a turmoil to notice the people he passed, the donkey train, the dogs fighting over the torn body of a rat. As much as he had hoped to face an enemy on the field of battle, he found scant consolation in the thought that at last he might have the opportunity. Tetynefer had left him no option, but even if he had, Bak would have chosen to go with his men. In spite of the fact that by doing so, he was turning his back on Azzia in her time of need. He would be gone for many days; she would reach Ma’am long before his return. She might somehow convince the viceroy of her innocence, but with no one there to cast doubt on her guilt, he thought it unlikely.
Even if she were allowed to remain in Buhen until Bak’s return, he might well lose any chance he had of proving her innocence beyond a doubt, of laying his hands on the man who had stolen the gold and had slain Nakht, Heby, and Ruru. True, he would be crossing the desert with two of his suspects, Paser and Harmose. Mery would certainly stay in Buhen to command his sentries, and Nebwa, the senior and most experienced infantry officer, would have to remain to oversee the more junior officers who patrolled the desert around Buhen. If either of the pair had taken the gold, the respite would give him time to bury his tracks much deeper-or to escape if he felt he must.
Bak could see a single glimmer of light. The Mountain of Re, Tetynefer had said. The mine from which the gold had been stolen. He would be able to see for himself how the ore was handled, might learn-should the gods choose to smile on him-how a portion could have been stolen undetected, and by whom. He let out a cynical laugh. The knowledge would be of little use if the man behind the thefts got away. Nor would it bring Ruru back to life or save Azzia if Tetynefer sent her to Ma’am as planned.
Despair hounded him all the way to the unmarried officers’ quarters. Paser stood ramrod stiff at the far end of the courtyard, his face stormy. Nebwa paced back and forth, slapping his thigh with his baton of office. Mery slouched on the mudbrick bench, hair rumpled, expression morose. The servant boy huddled in a corner, his eyes darting from one officer to another while he scrubbed out the eating bowls with dry sand.
“That old fool must be mad!” Nebwa snarled. He spotted Bak, nodded a perfunctory greeting. “To strip this fortress of half its men is folly.”
Mery raised a hand to Bak. “Buhen hasn’t been attacked for many years. He must believe the walls alone have kept it safe.”
“You can be sure Senenmut, my cousin, will hear of this,” Paser promised with a cruel sneer. “He’ll not keep silent before our sovereign. And she listens when he speaks!”
Nebwa turned his back on him, hiding his contempt for a back-stabber, and eyed Bak. “I see by your face you’ve talked to Tetynefer.” His voice took on a jeering note. “Did he let you convince him you must go with Azzia to Ma’am?”
“I’m staying where I belong, with my men.”
“I thank the lord Amon! I feared they’d be left in my charge.”
“Tetynefer said nothing about placing them in your command. He’s sending them to the mine with…” Bak realized the implication of Nebwa’s statement, gaped. “You’re going with the caravan?”
“We’re all going,” Mery said bitterly. “Nebwa with an entire company, a hundred spearmen and archers. Me with half my sentries, fifty spearmen who should remain on duty atop the walls of this fortress. Paser, who must
