“You must free my hands so I can lower my loincloth.”
Psuro looked to Bak for a decision, but Ahmose groaned and bent over, making his need clear. Not a man among them failed to think of how awkward and unpleasant it would be to clean a man in this place where every drop of water was in valuable. The sergeant nodded to Nebre, who jerked his dag ger out of its sheath and slashed through the leather cord binding the prisoner’s hands.
Ahmose straightened, flung away the cord, and shoul dered Nebre aside. He tore the bag of gold from Nefertem’s hand and raced down the trail toward the camp. He had run no more than twenty paces when Hor and four other nomads came around the shoulder of the mountain, blocking his path.
He swung around, saw Bak, Psuro, and Nebre speeding after him, and veered aside to race up the slope toward the mine.
The rocks on the hillside were jagged and sharp-edged, forcing Ahmose either to enter the huge ditch, which was a dead end, or climb up the hill to right or left. All along both sides of the excavation, the surface had been smoothed by the miners to form a path from which they could suspend a few men to cut away more of the wall. Ahmose chose the path on the downhill side of the ditch.
Bak and his Medjays raced after him. Close behind came
Nefertem and two nomads armed with bows. The other men were spreading themselves across the hillside, cutting Ah mose off should he try to return to the wadi. Bak sped up the slope, angry at the ease with which the prisoner had tricked them and determined to recapture him. Psuro, who was furi ous at having been made to look the fool, and Nebre, adding a new grudge to the old, ran so close behind that Bak feared they would step on his heels.
The hill rose toward the sky; the man-made chasm grew deeper. Bak slowly closed the gap between himself and Ah mose. Fifteen paces. Twelve. Ten. The fresher dirt near the top was softer, looser, slowing the pace. He began to fret.
Soon they would reach the deepest end of the mine. Beyond, the hill rose untouched, a hazardous slope of hard-edged rocks and boulders. Ahmose knew better how to pick his way through these natural obstacles than they did, knew how to use this harsh landscape for cover.
Dredging up an added burst of speed, Bak narrowed the space between himself and his quarry by half. Ahmose must have heard the thud of his feet. He looked back-and stepped on a fist-sized stone. The rock rolled beneath his foot, tipping him toward the chasm. He raised his arms to regain his bal ance and Bak leaped toward him, reaching out to catch him.
An arrow sped past, missing Bak’s shoulder by a hand’s breadth, and plunged into Ahmose’s back. He toppled into the gold mine.
“He had to die at my hands.” Nefertem sat on his stool by the hearth, watching the old man add twigs to the fire over which a lamb stew simmered. “He slew my father and he took the life of Minnakht, a man as close to me as a brother.
What I did was right and proper.”
Bak had trouble resigning himself to the loss of his pris oner. In a way, the tribal chieftain had helped Ahmose escape the justice he had deserved, the wrath of the lady Maat. “I’d hoped to learn where he buried Minnakht. His father would wish him returned to Kemet to be placed in a tomb in western
Waset.”
“Minnakht loved this desert more than any other place, and here he should stay.”
Secretly Bak agreed. Commander Inebny would not be happy that his son was truly lost to him, but so be it. “Did he have a woman here, a family?”
Nefertem stared at nothing, seeking an answer Bak was convinced he knew. After a long silence, he said, “You saved my brother and his wife and child. You found the slayer of my father and Minnakht and of Dedu, a man of high repute among my people.” An unexpected smile spread across his face and he glanced toward Nebenkemet. “You’ve even pro vided me with a man who can tell us how best to mine the gold.”
Bak returned the smile. The tribal chief and Amonmose had agreed that Nebenkemet could divide his time between the fishing camp and the mine, satisfying all concerned.
“I owe you far more than I can ever pay, but…” The smile faded away. “Did Minnakht take a wife from among my peo ple? That I cannot tell you.”
Bak understood. If Inebny learned he had grandchildren, he would not rest until they dwelt with him in Waset. Such would be intolerable to a tribal chieftain.
“Sir, look!” Imset caught Bak’s arm and pointed upward.
A flock of several thousand white storks glided through the air over the ridge of mountains that separated the eastern slope of the desert drainage from that of the west. They were some distance to the north, but Bak imagined he could hear the wind streaming through their wings. They came to a ris ing current of air and circled around, gaining height. As their angle to the sun changed, their color turned from white to black and turned again from black to white as they com pleted the circle. Safely over the ridge, they spread their wings wide and let the air carry them onward toward Kaine and the river that made fertile the land of Kemet.
While growing to manhood, Bak had watched these flocks of birds travel to and from their summer nestingplaces, and a sudden yearning for home struck him. He thanked the lord
Amon that his mission was finished and soon he would be re turning to a land of plenty.
