“You have the audacity of a priest,” Nebwa growled.
In one fluid motion, he pulled an arrow from his quiver, seated it, drew the bowstring taut, and sent the missile hurtling through the air. Shouts of approval burst from the onlookers and competing archers. Harmose stood among the men who meant to compete, mostly archers and sergeants. The lieutenants Mery and Paser stood with them.
“You drag me into your dangerous game and only then do you admit…” Nebwa’s eyes narrowed. “What else have you failed to tell me?”
Bak frowned at the black cowhide shield propped against a low hump of sand one hundred paces away. The arrow had struck dead center, joining four others Nebwa had fired off before them. All were buried so close together and so deep that they looked, from so far away, like a white flower in the center of the shield. Like all senior officers at Buhen, Nebwa used a composite bow, which was considerably more powerful than the ordinary bow used by lesser men. Except for Harmose and a couple of other worthy men who also carried the composite bow, the latter would compete in another match, facing no competition from the much better weapon.
Unlike most charioteers, who depended on the archers riding with them to strike down the enemy, Bak had some skill with the bow. Not nearly enough, however, to outshoot a man as talented as Nebwa. “I’ve held nothing back.”
“How could you think me capable of so vile a deed?” Nebwa asked indignantly. “The goldsmith and your Medjay were names without faces; the scribe at the mine was of no account. But Commandant Nakht? I thought him the finest man who lived.”
Bak glanced toward the camp, a sea of shelters touched with the golden glow of the late afternoon sun. Most had been abandoned by men who preferred the distraction of the contest over rest. The sole activity was at the far side, where the drovers were working among the donkeys. He itched to walk among them, but he could not be in two places at once. To display too much interest would make a lie of Nebwa’s tale of redistributing the remaining food, water, and supplies so the weaker donkeys carried less weight. Imsiba was there with the other Medjays, helping, watching. None but them knew of the stolen gold, and it had been an easy matter to convince Nebwa that the secret should go no further.
Bak shook off his impatience. If there was any gold to find-and he prayed there was-Imsiba or one of the others would recover it. “Four men were in mistress Azzia’s courtyard the evening I gave Ruru the package and the scroll. You were among them. I assumed, when you recognized Nakht’s seal, that you knew how to read.”
“I make no secret of my lack of learning.”
“I’ve not been long in Wawat,” Bak reminded him.
“Long enough,” Nebwa said, scowling at the many prisoners confined between the escarpment and the camp.
Bak suspected any comment he made would be unwelcome, so he readied his weapon and released the arrow too quickly. It thunked into the shield a hand’s length above Nebwa’s arrows. He muttered an oath, waited for the good-natured jeers he well deserved. The spectators made no sound, disappointed, he guessed, at so poor a showing from the man who had planned their victory. He raised his bow, determined to live up to their expectations, and fired the next missile, taking greater care than before. It plowed through the hide a hair’s breadth above the clustered feathers. He shot off three more in rapid succession, placing them so close together they formed a bud atop Nebwa’s flower. The watching men shouted, not as loud as they had for his opponent but with enough enthusiasm to let him know he had redeemed himself.
“You seem not to have made too big a fool of yourself,” Nebwa said, his good humor restored.
“I’ll never have your skill,” Bak admitted ruefully.
Nebwa laughed. “After you found the target, you performed well enough. Not bad at all for a charioteer.”
“A policeman,” Bak said, laughing. He realized this was the first time he had used the word to describe himself, and, much to his surprise, it bothered him not at all.
He had no time to dwell on the thought. The next pair of archers, men who served as caravan guards, were approaching to take his and Nebwa’s places. Mery’s match with Harmose would follow. Before their turn, Bak had to plant in the watch lieutenant’s heart, with Harmose’s help, the seed of competition and a desperate need to win.
As he and Nebwa rejoined the spectators, a youthful soldier with a bandaged arm hurried to the target. He pulled out the arrows and threw aside the shield, whose center had been riddled by the sharp, pointed missiles. After smoothing the disturbed sand, he set up a new target, this one a deep reddish brown.
Contestants and onlookers alike took barely a moment to praise Nebwa and commiserate with Bak. Their thoughts were on the next contest, the archers’ prowess, how the long, arduous journey might have affected their strength and accuracy. Bets were offered, negotiated, settled on. Nebwa dropped his bow and quiver on the sand and hastened away to stake a bronze dagger and a dozen other objects he had won by betting on himself to win his match with Bak. Paser, who had again usurped his authority, glared at the more senior officer each time he crossed his path. Mery made a few bets and wished competing archers luck with a slap on the back, but his smile was fixed, his voice too hearty.
Are his thoughts on stolen gold hidden among the supplies? Bak wondered. Is he thinking of Azzia and guilt- ridden for what he’s done to her? He swallowed the anger rising in his throat and the fear for her safety that clutched his heart. Mery might not be the guilty man, he cautioned himself. He might simply be one who bends beneath the weight of misfortune, who loses hope too easily, who needs others close by to stiffen his spine. A man unworthy of so strong yet gentle a woman.
Harmose approached the young watch officer, a few words passed between them, and they slipped out of the crowd. Uttering a silent prayer to the lord Amon that the charade he and the archer had planned would reveal the truth, Bak laid his bow and quiver next to Nebwa’s and strode toward the pair.
“It was an omen, Lieutenant Mery,” he heard Harmose say. “I know it!”
Mery’s face registered a confused wonder, doubt mixed with hope. “Can it be true?”
An arrow whished through the air and rammed into the target. The second contest had begun.
Harmose saw Bak approaching and smiled a greeting. “The lord Horus came to me in a dream last night, sir.” His words were quick, excited. “I was telling Lieutenant Mery. It bodes well for mistress Azzia.”
Bak feigned surprise, curiosity.
“He gave me wings,” Harmose went on. “We soared together, the good god and I, across the sky to the west.”
“He must favor you exceedingly,” Bak said, acting suitably impressed.
“He must.” Harmose paused as if the thought overwhelmed him. “We flew to Buhen. From high above I saw mistress Azzia, standing atop the wall, welcoming this caravan as it passed through the gate.” He laughed, delighted. “She’s not yet gone to Ma’am, sir!”
Bak wished with all his being that the tale were true. “Could the man who slew Commandant Nakht have been found?”
“No.” Harmose looked deep within his memory and let the words tumble out. “When next I saw her, she was with a man, a bowman, a renowned warrior he was. This man, whose face I couldn’t see, stood with her before the viceroy. He cared for her above all others, his love so strong and true the viceroy knew she must be innocent.” Another pause and he added, “I saw her a third time, in the courtyard of the commandant’s residence. She was weaving a swath of fine cloth for a man’s tunic, her body heavy with his child.”
Bak prayed Harmose had not gone too far, prayed the watch officer did not know Azzia was barren.
“Who was this warrior?” Mery demanded. “Bak?”
“He was there, I think, but…” Harmose shook his head. “No, he stood apart.”
“Who could he have been?”
Bak relaxed. From the wistful look on Mery’s face, he had no doubt the officer believed every word and wanted above all things to be identified as Azzia’s lover.
Shouts, whistles, and clapping announced the end of the match. The bowmen, Bak saw, had planted every arrow inside a circle the size of a clenched fist. “You both value mistress Azzia over all other women. You’re both reputed to be excellent marksmen, and you’re next to compete with the bow. Could not the dream have meant that the better man will be the one to save her?”
Harmose’s eyes widened. “Of course! Why did I not see so obvious a truth?”
