The Right Hand of Amon Read online

  A flock of startled pigeons rose from the stubble, their wings whirring overhead. A man kneeling in a nearby field turned around to look, shading his eyes with a spray of green onions.

  Nebwa began to hum, droning on and on with no discernible melody. A distant donkey brayed, a dog yipped. The remainder of the oasis, sheltered within a long arc of sandy hills, was silent and still, men and beasts alike escaping from the heat in shady groves and mudbrick houses. Except for a few isolated plots, the fields were bare of produce, the irrigation ditches dry, the weeds limp. Trees and bushes were clothed in dust and brittle with thirst. The sky overhead was white-hot, the lord Re a fiery ball sinking toward the horizon.

  The near silence, the dormant land, even the erratic breeze carrying heat and dust from the desert wastes, gave Bak a sense of waiting, of anticipation. The river had begun to swell less than a week before, and he felt as if the land around him, this land of Wawat, had paused to rest before the floodwaters overflowed the earth to bring forth new life.

  Regretting the need to tarnish his friend's glow, Bak stopped at the river's edge. The acacias clung to the rim of the steep, crumbling bank, their trunks leaning toward the broad expanse of water as if offering homage to Hapi, the god of the river. On the opposite shore and a short distance upstream, the great fortress of Buhen was barely visible in the haze, its stark white walls melting into the pale sandhills behind them.

  A breath of air rustled through the dusty trees, winnowing the dying leaves from the living. Bits of yellow rained down on two sturdy wooden fishing skiffs beached on a strip of dark soil running along the water's edge. Nebwa's eyes lit up the moment he spotted the vessels.

  "You owe me a race, Bak." He plunged down the bank, letting the loose dirt carry him to the prow of one of the boats. "Come, Ptahmose! Let's show these men from the north a thing or two about sailing, real sailing."

  Bak muttered an oath. When voiced by a besotted Nebwa, the last two words sounded ominous indeed.

  "I'll bet a month's ration of grain..." Nebwa leaned his weight against the skiff and, with a muffled grunt, shoved it hard toward the water. ". . . against a jar of good northern wine that Ptahmose and I will reach Buhen before you and Imsiba."

  "The wager is too large for so simple a voyage," Bak said, nodding toward the haze-shrouded fortress. "The breeze will be dead astern all the way."

  Nebwa, stifling a grin, shook his finger in mock disapproval. "No, no, my friend. You don't understand. We'll sail all the way south to the Belly of Stones before we cross the river. That's the way we did it last time, when you won, and that's the way we'll do it today."

  Ptahmose laughed at what he took to be a joke. Imsiba spat out a few words in his own tongue.

  Bak glared at the man below. "What of Commandant Thuty, Nebwa? Have you forgotten his summons?" Nebwa gave the skiff another hard shove and it slid into the water. "Make speed, Ptahmose! Do you want me to sail without you?"

  With a heartfelt curse, Bak leaped onto the crumbling slope and half slid, half ran to the bottom, setting off a miniature landslide. The two sergeants plunged down the bank a moment later. Bak splashed into the water a step or two ahead of them.

  Nebwa, knee-deep in the river, pushing the skiff before him, glanced around and saw the trio coming after him. Laughing like a mischievous child, he hauled himself on board, grabbed the oars, and shoved the vessel into deeper water, well out of reach.

  "I'm sailing to the Belly of Stones," he said, making it sound like a royal proclamation. "If you want a race, you can come with me. If not, I'll go alone."

  Bak expelled a long, disgusted breath. He hated to admit defeat, especially at the hands of a man too besotted to think straight.

  "I'll come!" Ptahmose called. He waded to Bak's side and lowered his voice so Nebwa could not hear. "There's no arguing with him when he's like this, as you well know. I'll take care he doesn't fall overboard."

  Bak knew from experience that Ptahmose was one of the best sailors along this stretch of the river, and Nebwa, when sober, was equally good. Only through luck had he and Imsiba won the last race they had run.

  "All right, Nebwa, you've a bet!" Bak softened his voice, said to Ptahmose, "We'll stay as close as we can should you run into trouble."

  The sergeant nodded, waded into deeper water, and swam toward Nebwa's boat. Bak splashed through the shallows to the skiff he and Imsiba had borrowed after leaving Kor. The big Medjay was already launching the vessel.

  "What folly!" Imsiba gave a mighty shove that sent the craft into the water. "I'll consider myself a lucky man if I survive this day without a dunking-or worse."

  Bak scrambled on board and, as the vessel rocked beneath him, hurried aft to the rudder. "You should thank the lord Amon you're not sailing with Nebwa. 1, at least, haven't addled my wits with wine."

  "True. But he and Ptahmose know this river through all the seasons, know its whims as the floodwaters rise. We don't."

  "Surely the path we'll take hasn't changed all that much since last we raced. It was less than a month ago." Imsiba, his expression grim, pulled himself aboard. "The rising waters, I've heard, are already coming with great force out of the Belly of Stones. The river is shifting the earth beneath it and along the banks, changing the currents to fit the new pattern of its bed. And already it's stealing trees and animals and people from the lower-lying parcels of land south of the Belly of Stones."

  Bak glanced at the other skiff, saw it floating sideways downstream, Nebwa and Ptahmose fumbling with a snarled pair of ropes. "Without help, what will Ptahmose do if they capsize? Is he a strong enough swimmer to save himself and Nebwa as well?"

  "Few men would be so strong, my friend."

  Imsiba tugged the halyard, drawing the upper yard up the mast. The heavy white linen spread to a rectangle but continued to droop, even when stretched to its fullest height and the yard snug against the masthead. Bak tucked the rudder under his arm and grabbed the oars to send the craft scooting away from the riverbank in hopes of finding a breeze farther out.

  "I hope your wife has been frugal, Nebwa," he called. "If she's saved no grain through the months, she'll not soon forgive you this bet."

  Nebwa made a rude gesture with his hand.

  Bak's laugh rang out as a faint breath of air kissed his cheek. "We must not sail too far ahead, Imsiba, but I think it safe to take advantage of our lead. I'd not like to lose this bet."

  Imsiba gave him a wry smile, then adjusted the braces to haul the sail around. The fabric fluttered and sagged in a desultory breeze, billowed out in a gust that sent the boat skimming over the water. Bak waved at the two men they were leaving behind and set the vessel on a southerly course.

  The broad, deep river stretched out before them, its waters flowing a reddish brown tinted with green. Far ahead, blanketed in haze, lay the mouth of the Belly of Stones and the first of the multitude of islands, large and small, that made the river impossible to navigate except at the highest flood stage. Bak's duties had never taken him beyond the first island, and, as always, he longed to see the land farther south, a land both praised and cursed by soldiers, traders, and envoys of the queen.

  Taking a quick glance backward, he saw Nebwa at the oars, pulling his skiff around, and Ptahmose raising the patched red sail. Farther downstream, the sun-struck river looked like burnished gold, flowing past the oasis to fade away in a tawny wasteland of sandhills and ridges. He adjusted his rear on a beam and rested his back on the hull, confident he and Imsiba were far enough ahead to win yet not too far away should their help be needed.

  Squinting into the sun, he eyed the massive fortress of Buhen across the water. High white mudbrick walls, relieved at regular intervals by projecting towers, rose from stone terraces along the river. Atop the battlements, he could see the tiny figures of patrolling sentries. Moored alongside three stone quays, a sleek trading vessel and two squat cargo ships dwarfed the twelve or fifteen smaller skiffs tied up among them. Except for a few hardy trees and shrubs growin
g along the riverbank, the land around the fortress was barren of life, a sand-swept, desiccated waste pulsating in the heat.

  Bak eyed the scene with a fondness which always surprised him. When first he had come, sent as punishment at the order of an angry queen, he had hated the city and his duties as a police officer. How fast he had changed.

  The wind held, and they skimmed the water, covering the distance with remarkable speed. The red sail crept closer, narrowing the lead until the vessels were no more than ten paces apart. Bak began to worry. Soon they would have to turn across the stronger midstream current and swing around. Could Ptahmose do it with only a drunken Nebwa to help?

  The walls of Kor, an hour's walk south of Buhen, emerged from the haze. Imsiba adjusted the sail while Bak leaned into the rudder, swinging the skiff across the current. Nebwa's craft made a tighter turn and drew up beside them on the downstream side. Red sail and white lost the breeze and fluttered out of control. Bak again grabbed the oars, saw Nebwa do the same in the other vessel. Imsiba tugged a rope to lower the upper yard. The sail ballooned with a snap, tilting the skiff half on its side, catapulting them off course. The hull slid across the water at a dangerous angle, showering them with spray.

  "By the beard of Amon, Imsiba!" Bak threw himself against the upward side for ballast. "Do you want to turn us over?"

  Muttering something in his native tongue, the Medjay let the yard drop. The vessel wallowed an instant, then leveled out. A glance passed between them, their thoughts meshed, and they laughed with uneasy relief. Bak's eyes darted toward the other craft, now scudding along ten paces ahead as steady and graceful as a great warship. The will to win, it appeared, had prompted Nebwa to shake off a good bit of the wine.

  Bak's worry fled, swept away by the excitement of a real race and a firm resolve to reach Buhen first. He aimed the prow downstream and held the skiff steady in the current while Imsiba bundled away the collapsed sail. Ptahmose, more experienced and faster, had already taken up a second pair of oars and settled down to help Nebwa. Their vessel pulled away, setting a course for the western shore and the towering spur wall that projected from the southeast corner of Buhen.

  Bak knew he and Imsiba would lose the race if they followed; they were too far behind. So he set a course for the end of the nearest quay, thinking the current farther from shore would carry them faster than Nebwa could travel.

  Imsiba, settling himself on a beam, an oar in each hand, grinned. "You flirt with the gods, my friend."

  "Our chance of winning is small, I know, but I'll not give up until I must."

  "Do you ever?" Imsiba chuckled.

  The current and hard, laborious rowing swept them down the river faster than Bak had dreamed possible. Nebwa's vessel lost much of its speed as it approached the shore and soon fell astem. Bak laughed aloud, confident their momentum and a final burst of effort would drive his skiff to the quay before the other craft touched the solid ground at the base of the spur wall.

  Imsiba yelled. At the same time, Bak spotted a halfsubmerged palm tree dead ahead. His stomach knotted, and he shoved the rudder, trying to swing the skiff around. The prow smashed into the short, gnarled roots. The tree rolled, carrying the skiff with it. The masthead arced toward the water. Bak sucked in air and flung himself outward, thought he heard Imsiba's splash not far away. As the river closed around him and he sank to the cooler depths, he had a fleeting thought: Nebwa should have worried about him and Imsiba, not the other way around.

  The current carried him downstream, rolling -him head over heels. He staved off the urge to panic, willed his muscles into action, forced his arms and legs to move. When he regained control of his body, he looked up through the water, murky with silt, mottled by the sun. Above, he saw the dark silhouettes of the capsized skiff and the tree floating free beside it. And, caught in the tattered fronds, the shadow-figure of a man, arms and legs dangling from a motionless torso. Imsiba! he thought, not swimming, too still, probably knocked senseless when he was thrown from the skiff. He shot upward, fear for his friend driving him on.

  The light strengthened; visibility improved. The figure, he saw, was not dark like Imsiba, but pale. Relief surged through him. An instant later the palm rolled and the light struck at a new angle. Bak stared. His limbs lost the will to move, but momentum carried him on, propelling him toward the body. It grew larger, closer, hanging over him like a nightmare creature from the netherworld. The face was puffy, unnaturally pallid. The head was thrown back; the mouth gap& round and red; the eyes were wide-open, staring, as if in the man's last moments he had seen or experienced some special kind of terror. Perhaps the terror of being lost in the river through eternity, with no earthly body for his ka, his eternal double, to return to.

  Bak's wits fled. He twisted sideways to escape, sucked in a mouthful of water. He broke the surface within a hand's length of those wide-open eyes and mouth. The water roiled around him; the figure rocked. A pallid hand reached out to touch his shoulder. Coughing, gasping for air, he flung himself backward.

  The river, closing over his head, brought him to his senses. He resurfaced, heard Imsiba call his name. Waving a response, he watched the palm drift past with its gruesome burden. Not a creature of the netherworld but a man, white and bloodless, bloated, lying facedown in the water. A victim of the river.

  As Bak grabbed a frond to halt the tree's downstream journey, an image hovered in his thoughts just out of reach. He had seen something that was not quite right, something about the dead man. He eyed the lifeless back, but saw in his memory the wide terrified eyes and the gaping red mouth he had glimpsed from the depths. His sense of something amiss strengthened. Curious, troubled, he took a deep breath and, clinging to the tree, ducked below the surface of the water so he could see the face as he had seen it before.

  The mouth was as wide-open as he remembered. But the red, which he had thought a swollen, distended tongue, was too perfect a circle and flat on the end. He reached out, touched it. It was hard, wood he thought, and embedded so deep a gentle nudge did not dislodge it. He stared, appalled. The object, whatever it was, had been stuffed into the dead man's mouth.

  Chapter Two

  "Careful!" Bak ducked away from the body dangling between Nebwa and Ptahmose, in the skiff above him. "We've no wish to fish him out again."

  "We sped to your rescue fast enough," Nebwa said, winking at his sergeant. "We can surely hang on to your catch."

  Bak ignored the gibe. The less said, the sooner Nebwa would stop his infernal crowing.

  "Let's pull him in." Ptahmose adjusted his grip on the man's upper arm. "Now!"

  The pair gave a mighty heave. The vessel rocked, sending Bak and Imsiba, who were clinging to the hull, bobbing up and down in the water. The body dropped into the skiff with a sodden thump and an expulsion of air that reeked of decay. Nebwa, Bak noticed with a secret smile, swallowed hard. Evidently the taste of palm wine did not mix well with the stench of death.

  Nebwa managed a lopsided grin. "The next time you overturn your boat, I pray you'll find ,a trophy sweeter to the nostrils."

  "Stop babbling and move him out of the way," Imsiba growled. "One more mouthful of water and the weight of the silt I've swallowed will sink me to the bottom."

  Amid grunts and curses, Nebwa and Ptahmose manhandled the deadweight forward and seated the body high in the prow. While they stared at the swollen, terror-filled face, Bak scrambled on board. He clung to the mast, which stood naked, the faded red sail crudely wrapped around the yards. The stench made him queasy, and he felt waterlogged. Imsiba tumbled aboard to collapse on a beam. The effort of removing the sail from the capsized skiff and stuffing it in the hole so the boat could be towed had worn them out.

  They had long since drifted past Buhen, but not until Bak looked back did he realize how far. The fortress was nothing more than an indistinct speck of white in the distance. "Commandant Thuty will not be pleased with us today," he said grimly.

  Ptahmose, a veteran of many years who
valued his lofty rank of senior sergeant, jerked his gaze from the body, hastily changed places with Bak, and began to shake out the sail. Imsiba scooted aft to the rudder.

  Turning his thoughts to the more immediate problem, Bak knelt beside Nebwa. The slain man's face he could see with his eyes closed, but he had yet to get a good look at the swollen body. The skin was gray-white. Pale blotches and ragged tears marked flesh scraped by rocks or other obstacles. A foot with three toes and a missing finger marked the passage of hungry fish or some other carnivorous creature, perhaps a crocodile too young and small to hold on to its feast. Bak had seen worse, for the river was a cruel burial place, but the sight never failed to bring a prayer to his lips that he would die far away from its waters.

  He aimed a questioning glance at Nebwa, who had served in Wawat for years and knew many of the men in the garrisons strung along the river. "Do you recognize him?"

  "Never saw him before." "Ptahmose?"

  The sergeant, who was raising the upper yard, glanced again at the body. "No, sir," he said and turned away to adjust the braces.

  Imsiba swung the skiff against the current. The sail rippled in the breeze, caught a stronger gust, and ballooned. The prow sliced through tiny wavelets, holding a course that would carry them to the quay.

  Bak studied the lifeless man, picturing him as he had looked when alive and unhurt. The face had been well formed, as flawless as a statue of Maatkare Hatshepsut idealized by the sculptor to make her youthful. Dark eyes, dark regular brows, short red-brown hair curling as it dried in the sun. The body had been of the same perfection, with shoulders and waist and hips, even the height, so well proportioned they would fit a pattern drawn by a master artist. The thigh-length kilt was made of the finest linen and the belt was fastened at the navel by a bronze clasp tangled in the fabric. A ring of gold encircled one finger, its bezel broken and the stone, a scarab most likely, missing.