Mery was guilty of theft and murder. He hoped also to satisfy Senenmut that his cousin had been stealing gold and had slain five men to protect his secret.
Nodding to the sentry on duty, he paused at the base of the tower and waited for the heavily guarded string of donkeys carrying the marked cones of gold to follow Paser through the gate. He looked back at the harbor and the three quays jutting into the river like long white fingers pointing toward the opposite shore and the desert through which he hoped never again to march. The naked masts of two broad-beamed cargo ships rose above more than a dozen small vessels bobbing against the quay, disgorging soldiers, captives, drovers, and donkeys. Nebwa’s commands, the men’s good-natured curses, and the braying of nervous animals were lost in the excited clamor of garrison troops and civilians flocking out of the city to watch the spectacle. Word had spread quickly that a large number of prisoners had been taken.
Bak knew he should be well-satisfied. He had planned and won a battle. His Medjays had been accepted by almost every man who had journeyed with the caravan. He had put an end to the thefts at the mine and identified the man responsible. And, with the help of the gods and a handful of mortals, he should be able to prove Paser’s guilt. Yet his sense of accomplishment was blunted by concern for Azzia.
Cursing Hori for failing to meet his boat at the quay, Bak plunged into the passage behind the last donkey. After so many days on the burning desert, the dim corridor felt cool and soothing to his roughened, weathered skin. He strode on to the bright, hot, dusty street beyond. The clean white buildings; the odors of fish, cooking fuel, smoke, and sweat; the sharp yips of scrapping dogs were a welcome relief after so many endless days and nights of heat and dust and thirst. It was good to be home. Home? he thought. Buhen? He dismissed the idea as a flight of fancy and turned his thoughts to the tasks ahead. He must learn Azzia’s fate, lure Paser into his net, and when that was done, hold a council of war with his allies.
As he followed the gold laden donkeys up the street to the treasury, a stream of people hurried in the opposite direction, eager to see the soldiers and their human trophies. He was about to stop a man to ask about Azzia when he saw Paser enter the treasury, the domain of the chief scribe Kames. Gold and all other objects of value were stored there until a ship arrived to carry them downriver to Kemet.
Kames would know where Azzia was. Bak hastened along the line of donkeys, reaching the treasury door as Paser returned to the street.
“What are you doing here?” Paser asked, slapping the lead animal’s gray flank, making it sidle around so he could get to the load it carried. “Should you not be preparing to march through the gate at the head of our victorious troops?”
Bak eyed the drover and guards, all close enough to hear. “Like you, I had another, more pressing task.”
“So Nebwa alone will lead the procession.” Paser expelled a contemptuous snort. “Does that not bother you?”
“Our archers and spearmen won the battle. I did nothing but point the way.”
Paser gave him a long, thoughtful look. “I’ve known few men so modest.” He burrowed deep inside a bundle tied to the donkey’s back. Withdrawing two gold-filled cones, he held them out to Bak. A smile played at the corners of his lips. “Do you not trust me, Bak? Do you fear I’ll keep a portion of this precious cargo for myself?”
He’s taunting me! Bak thought, and produced a smile of his own. “To take gold impressed with the royal seal would be foolhardy. You’re not a foolish man.”
“Why come to the treasury? Did you recover something of value during our journey that you mean to send on to the capital?”
Bak was amazed at the man’s nerve. “I’ve nothing for Kames.”
The two men stared at each other, Paser’s expression speculative, Bak’s as bland as bread without honey or oil or fruit to give it flavor.
“Paser!” Kames called. “Must I wait until day turns to night?”
The caravan officer jerked his eyes from Bak’s, spun around, and carried the cones inside. Bak drew in a long breath, let it out slow and easy. He was sure Paser understood that he did not intend to turn the unmarked cones into the treasury. Did he believe the lie? Did he think all men as dishonest as he?
Bak followed him as far as the threshold. The treasury antechamber was small, cluttered with writing paraphernalia, a scale and weights, and baskets heaped with scrolls. Kames, lean and gray, presided from a low stool. He accepted one cone at a time and weighed it, his face grave, his demeanor so formal he turned the simple task into a ritual. A solemn young man seated on the floor, legs folded in front of him, scribbled the information Kames dictated. A beefy guard stood straddle-legged before a rear door which led to the valuable objects stored beyond.
Bak held his tongue until Paser edged past to collect another pair of cones. “Can you tell me, Kames, if Commandant Nakht’s widow, mistress Azzia, is still within the walls of this city?”
Kames scowled. “You’re the policeman, aren’t you?”
Bak remembered the same tone of mild distaste the last time they had talked. “Will you tell me…”
“I’ll be happy to answer your questions later. Tomorrow.” Kames flicked his hand through the air as if brushing away a fly. “Leave us, sir. You’re blocking the doorway.”
Any other day, Bak would have laughed. Instead he muttered an oath beneath his breath, spun away, tapped Paser on the shoulder, and beckoned. “We must speak further. I’ve something in my possession that will be of interest to you.”
Paser’s eyes flitted to the treasury door. Bak thought he was going to refuse, but indecision turned to calculation and he said, “I must take these cones inside. Then we can talk.”
With a curt nod, Bak slipped past the drover and lead donkey, and strode up the street, stopping well out of earshot of the men tending the animals and their cargo. His eyes were drawn to the commandant’s residence, and his heart as well, but he had teased Paser and had to follow through without delay.
Leaning a shoulder against a wall, which was hot to the touch, he glanced at the western sky. The lord Re peered over the battlements, his long arms angling into the street as if to touch for one last time the golden bits of his divine flesh that the donkeys carried. The animals swished their tails and flung their heads around to nip at swarming flies.
The trickle of people hurrying to the quay had ceased. A few soldiers and scribes had begun to gather on the rooftops to watch the caravan’s triumphant passage along this, the main thoroughfare. Three soldiers were chatting before the doorway of the commandant’s residence. He saw no one on the roof, no sign of Azzia or her servants.
Paser emerged from the treasury and hurried to Bak’s side. “Kames agreed to wait, but not for long. If you’ve something to say, say it.”
“I’ll come straight to the point.” Glancing at the men on the nearby roofs, Bak lowered his voice and spoke with care so no eavesdropper would understand his meaning. “Before Nakht was slain, he left Mistress Azzia a legacy. In her confusion and grief, she gave it to me. It included three objects which, through much diligent effort, led me to a man of courage and guile.”
Other than a slight flicker of the eyelids, Paser’s face remained impassive.
“One object is of value for itself alone,” Bak said. “The others, two scrolls, are not in themselves precious, but could be of worth to a man who wishes to lead a long life free of worry and fear.”
“You were fortunate indeed to receive so generous a gift.” Paser’s tone was smooth, his dark eyes wary.
“In the beginning, I was content with my prize. Not for long, however. A diligent study of those scrolls suggested a path that, when once I set foot on it, proved to be long and arduous.” Bak’s voice turned flinty. “Five men died, one of my Medjays among them, and three attempts were made on my life.” He nodded as if to himself. “At last I came upon a legacy of my own, two images containing, not merely spells to protect men from illness and physical harm, but a modest wealth that I must share with those who helped me find it.”
“You sound like a man sorely used.”
Bak bared his teeth in a humorless smile. “Given the proper incentive, I could forgive and forget.”
Paser gave him a shrewd look. “What of the many men whose help you enlisted? Are their memories as faulty as yours?”
He’s nibbling at the bait! Bak thought. “They believe the scribe Roy-and no other man or woman-knew of the objects they now share,” he lied. “I alone know the full significance of Nakht’s legacy, and I mean to keep it that way.”
