success, would save the caravan and would also gain us prisoners, men we can send to Waset to serve our sovereign and the lord Amon.”
“Nebwa thinks us poor soldiers.” Imsiba spoke to Harmose, but Bak was sure his words were meant for Paser. “To win a battle and take prisoners while he follows the wind would fill my heart with joy.”
Paser eyed the Medjay a moment and a smile spread across his face. “All right, Bak. Let’s hear what you have to say.”
Bak glanced to the east, where a faint glow in the sky announced the coming of day. He swept his hand across Imsiba’s map and in its place began to draw another.
A man coughed, a tribesman hidden on the clifftop fifteen or so paces above Bak. The man’s proximity worried him. As long as he remained where he was, crouched in a cleft of the broken wall of rock, he could not be seen. Later, when he had to leave his hiding-place, he would be an easy target for a man with a bow looking down upon him.
Sweat poured from Bak’s dirt-stained body. His mouth was so dry not even the stone he held on his tongue could slake his thirst. His over-taxed muscles knotted each time he sat still for any length of time. Yet as he eyed the wadi below, his discomfort seemed a small price to pay for the sense of satisfaction he felt.
From his perch high above the elongated bowl, he could see to his left the place where the ancient channel sliced through the granite inclusion. Paser would soon lead the caravan through the narrow cut. To the west, below the glaring orange sun, he could see the mouth of the outgoing trail, which vanished at the right-hand bend. He and his men had found it blocked when they arrived.
The bowl itself, three hundred paces long and half as wide, was ringed by sandstone cliffs. Their high rock faces, battered by sun and wind, had broken away through the ages, forming huge solidified piles of debris which sloped diagonally to the wadi floor. Sharp, treacherous shards of stone paved the incline on the side of the bowl where Bak waited. Fine sand blanketed most of the opposite slope. Recently fallen rocks and boulders dotted the surfaces of both. The wadi floor was a maze of boulders, many larger than a man. A dozen pale, snakelike fingers of sand marked the course of the water that surged through the boulder field on the rare occasions when rain pelted the surrounding plateau.
The wadi was empty, silent except for the sporadic chirping of a kite. No creature moved. No breath of air rippled the sand on the opposite slope, which was unmarked by feet or hooves.
The quiet, the serenity were a sham. The raiders had gathered at the top of an ancient landslide which broke through the cliff not far from the outgoing, westbound trail. From there, they could swoop down on the caravan, protected by the glare of the sun at their backs. Others, armed with bows like the man above, were scattered along the clifftops.
The bowman coughed as loud as before, affirming the raiders’ confidence that they alone occupied the area. The sound, worrisome as it was, brought a smile to Bak’s face. His Medjays and most of Harmose’s archers, forty- five men in all, were concealed in the cracks and crevices along the base of the cliffs. Pashenuro and another man were hidden on the plateau above, serving as lookouts.
Each time he thought of the day’s effort, his heart swelled with pride. The men had outdone themselves, as he was sure they would in the heat of battle. He, Imsiba, Harmose, and the others had left the caravan at daybreak. With no animals to slow their pace, they had reached the bowl before midday. A thorough search had revealed no tribesmen near the wadi. They had gone back to their camp, confident the caravan would walk into their trap.
Bak had sent a couple of his Medjays to keep an eye on that camp, a couple more to make sure no other tribesmen came to relieve the men Imsiba had captured, and two others to search out hiding places along the cliffs. The rest of the men had toiled in the boulder field, shifting the heavy stones a quarter-cubit here, a cubit there, making enough space among the boulders to admit all the laden donkeys, taking care that the wadi floor appeared undisturbed from above. Rocks of a more manageable size had been stowed near the periphery, where they could be quickly lifted in place to form a breastwork. Bak’s final act when he learned the raiders had left their camp had been to send his men to their battle stations and dispatch a messenger to Paser.
A large rock fell from the cliff somewhere to the left and clattered down to the slope below. The sound was followed by the quick chirp of a startled kite. Pashenuro’s signal. The caravan was approaching. Grabbing his spear and cowhide shield, Bak scrambled to his feet. He leaned forward, careful to keep his head in the shadow, and peered toward the cut through the granite inclusion. The time crawled. He shifted his weight, wiped the sweat from his face. The man above him coughed. How, he wondered, am I going to get out of here?
Paser strode into the sunny bowl and followed the broadest stream of sand into the boulder field. A couple of soldiers, a drover, and a gray-black donkey followed close behind. The men were talking among them selves, laughing. Other men and animals appeared, Mery among them, forming a procession behind the caravan officer. Paser walked tall and straight, chatting with the men at his heels. He never hesitated, never gave a hint he expected an attack. Nor did Mery or any of the other men. Bak watched their performance with admiration. For so many to knowingly walk into danger and give no sign of the fear they undoubtedly felt touched him deeply. He offered a fervent prayer to the lord Amon that their faith in his plan would not lead one man among them to the netherworld.
Paser disappeared in the mouth of the outgoing trail. More than half the column was plodding across the boulder field; the remainder had yet to pass through the cut. Bak willed them to hurry, prayed the raiders would not attack until every man and animal had entered the bowl. So intent was he on the scene below, he barely noticed the pebbles rattling down the cliff face from above.
The drover who had followed Paser led the gray-black donkey back into the bowl. Mery intercepted him at the base of the landslide where the raiders were waiting. The watch lieutenant may have felt fear, but he played his part to perfection. He stood with his back to the tribal army, heard the drover out, issued orders. His words were lost in the distance, but his gestures were clear: the trail ahead was blocked; the members of the caravan should disperse among the boulders and rest.
The message was passed on, rippling along the length of the procession. Those at the front turned around, forming a knot of men and animals among the boulders. Bak held his breath, expecting the tribesmen to recognize their vulnerability and take advantage. Mery, standing firm, bawled an order that quickly untied the knot and spread the men out, making room for the rest entering the bowl. Releasing the air in his breast, Bak eyed the young officer with a new respect.
The caravan broke apart. The men with laden donkeys drifted toward the center of the boulder field. Those entering the bowl through the incoming cut joined them one after another. Mery’s spearmen and the few archers Harmose had left with the caravan flopped down in whatever patch of shade they could find. As if by chance, most collected at the end closest to the concealed raiders.
Bak forgot his physical discomfort, the bowman above him, everything but the upcoming attack. Though he had never engaged in actual combat, he was not afraid. Rather, he felt the same sense of anticipation, the same excitement he had felt each time the regiment of Amon had practiced the arts of war. Those mock battles had been as hard and dangerous, as deadly to careless men, as facing a real enemy.
A white jenny cleared the cut. Her color signaled to the men concealed around the bowl that she was the last animal in the procession. A half-dozen men brought up the rear, all of them dark skinned. Bak smothered his laughter. One was a Medjay, the man he had sent with the message. The others were men of Kemet, their bodies smeared with charcoal. He wondered who had thought of that. Paser, most likely.
A muffled cough swept the smile from his face. He had told the men to remain hidden until he emerged from the cleft. But as soon as he stepped out where they could see him, the man atop the cliff would sink an arrow into his back. He hefted his spear, testing its balance. To drop an enemy on level ground was easy, to heave the weapon fifteen paces at a man almost directly above was an impossible feat.
A single blood-curdling yell ruptured the quiet.
The raiders swept down the landslide, dark silhouettes pouring forth from the glare. They screamed like wild men to make themselves seem fiercer. Ten or more broke to their right to seal Paser’s small band in the narrow, outgoing trail. The rest raced at the boulder field. Dust rose around their pelting feet, enveloping all but the leaders in a pale roiling cloud. Donkeys brayed, terrified by the clamor.
Bak had to show himself. He shifted the spear to his left hand and scooped up a rock bigger than his fist. Muttering a hasty prayer to the lord Amon, he dove out of the cleft and swung around, raising his shield against the arrow he expected. He spotted the tribesman above, could see the surprise on his face as he realized Bak had been
