Curse of Silence lb-4 Page 4

  “Did you see the look on Amonked’s face?” Nebwa wiped tears of laughter from his eyes. “He didn’t know if

  Thuty was joking or putting some kind of spell on him.”

  Bak smiled. “I guess he intended a subtle threat, but it came out all wrong.”

  “I wanted to laugh so bad I thought I’d burst. If Seshu hadn’t come along when he did, giving us an excuse to leave, I’d’ve made a grand spectacle of myself.”

  “Concern for Thuty kept my laughter in check. He’s toiled long and hard to attain his exalted position, and I feared he’d lose everything in an instant of reckless speech.”

  Bak leaned a hip against the wall surrounding the animal paddock. The enclosure was filled to capacity with don keys. About half the sturdy creatures surrounded broken sheaves of half-dried clover, eating a portion and spreading the rest over the sand on which they stood. A few animals dozed on their feet, the rest milled around, too fretful to settle down. The fine dust stirred up by their hooves, the stench of fresh manure, and the harsh odor of the fodder made Bak sneeze.

  “What now, I wonder?” he asked, not expecting an an swer. “With no one to watch over Amonked, no one to provide the knowledge he’ll need to see the fortresses in a true light, how can he make a rational decision?”

  “We must see that Dedu and Pashenuro go, with or with out Thuty.”

  “Amonked won’t listen to two sergeants, or anyone else for that matter. He made that clear.” Bak waved off a fly buzzing around his head. “They could go as drovers, I sup pose, keeping their true task a secret. Seshu can certainly use their help. And they could report by courier each time they reach a fortress.”

  “Good idea.” Nebwa planted his backside against the wall, picked up a length of yellow straw, and stuck it in the corner of his mouth. “Amonked brought an officer with him, a military adviser he calls him. A lieutenant named

  Horhotep. The lord Amon only knows how competent a warrior he is.”

  “One who’s fought all his battles in the corridors of power, I’d wager.”

  Bak hoisted himself onto the wall. Legs dangling, he eyed the dozen or so paddocks that filled the northwest corner of the outer fortress. Many contained donkeys, vital to the movement of trade goods, supplies and foodstuffs for the army, and ores and valuable stones taken from the de sert mines and quarries. Without these sturdy beasts of bur den, nothing could cross the southern frontier during the long months when the Belly of Stones could not be navi gated. Their drovers were squatting together in the shade of the corner tower, playing a game of chance, awaiting

  Seshu for word as to how many men and animals he would need on the long, slow trek to Semna.

  Sheep and goats occupied a few of the remaining enclo sures, awaiting slaughter or shipment downriver. A small but fine herd of tan short-horned cattle, soon to travel to the royal house in Waset as tribute for Maatkare Hatshep sut, stood in a pen near the fortress wall.

  Seshu came hurrying down a path between two pad docks. He stopped before the two officers and wiped the sweat from his brow. He appeared to be in a state of shock.

  Bak dropped to the ground, his feet sending up a thin puff of dust, and laid a sympathetic hand on the caravan master’s shoulder. “What is it, Seshu? Amonked again?”

  “That man’s a menace to himself and everyone around him.” Seshu’s brow wrinkled with worry. “He refuses to leave behind any of the luxuries he brought from Waset.

  He insists his concubine come along and…” He let out a harsh, cynical laugh. “… and he wishes her to travel with every amenity.”

  “How many servants does she have?” Nebwa asked.

  “Only one. I thank the lord Amon. Her personal maid.”

  Seshu shook his head in disgust. “Altogether there are nine people in his party. Plus fifty spearmen, guards he calls them, and their sergeant, and twelve porters.”

  “Porters?” Nebwa demanded.

  “For the carrying chairs. Three of them. One for Amon ked. One for his noble brother-in-law. And one for the con cubine. You didn’t think they’d walk, did you?”

  Nebwa muttered an oath in the local dialect spoken by his wife. “Seventy-two people who have to be provided with food and drink. I don’t envy you your task.”

  “Plus the many drovers necessary to handle the don keys,” Bak said.

  Seshu heaved a deep, dejected sigh. “The caravan will not only be large and hard to manage, but he’s bringing along a portable pavilion, furniture, any number of items that will make it a target for bandits. I’ve led bigger and richer caravans from the desert mines, but they were well guarded, peopled with soldiers and officers who knew the desert-and knew how to stand up to the enemy.”

  “Thuty should send along a company of spearmen,”

  Nebwa said.

  “He suggested as much, but Amonked refused, saying his own guards could manage.”

  “Fifty men? If they know what they’re doing, and if their officer has, at most, a modest amount of experience, you should be all right.” Bak prayed such was the case.

  Seshu, looking dubious, straightened his spine and pulled back his shoulders. “I must go speak with the drovers, warn them what they’ll face, then convince them to risk life and limb and donkeys on this witless adventure.”

  Bak, his face grim, watched him walk away. “I care noth ing for Amonked the man, Nebwa, and I wholeheartedly resent the inspector of the fortresses of Wawat, but I fear for our sovereign’s cousin. Should he not survive this mis sion of his, every man along the Belly of Stones will have to pay for his poor judgment.”

  Chapter Three

  “Other than stay behind and hazard guesses as to what may be happening upriver, what can we do?” Nebwa ran his fingers through his hair, making unruly locks go in all di rections. “We’re as helpless as a couple of speared fish.”

  Bak looked the length of the street, but barely saw the blocks of interconnected buildings that hugged the thor oughfare, their walls a brilliant white in the early afternoon sun, or the tall towered gate straddling the far end. Nor was he fully aware of four comely young women standing in an intersecting lane, talking, or a brown goose waddling up the pavement, leading her brood of seven downy goslings.

  “Amonked looks as plain and straightforward as my fa ther.” He scooped a cast-off beer jar from a low drift of sand that had formed against the closed and sealed door of a storehouse. “Would that such would prove to be the case.”

  Nebwa snorted. “I always thought you a man of common sense, not one who dreams while awake.” The young women must have thought the accompanying frown di rected at them, for they ducked into the side lane.

  The two men stepped apart, letting the goose lead her brood up the street between them, and continued on to the guardhouse, the back half of which was unoccupied, badly in need of repair. With Nebwa a pace or two behind, Bak strode through the door. He paused just inside, halted by the silence. For the first time since the Medjay police had occupied the building, the clatter of knucklebones had ceased. Instead of sitting on the floor, playing a game that continued through day and night, never ending, the two guards on duty stood at attention on either side of the rear door leading to the sleeping quarters and the prison. Some thing was decidedly wrong.

  One of the guards took a quick step forward. “Lieutenant

  Bak. Sir…” His eyes flitted past Bak’s shoulder, his mouth snapped shut.

  A man’s curt voice from behind: “I caught those two neglecting their duty, Lieutenant, playing a game of chance.”

  Bak pivoted. Standing in the door of the room he used as an office was a swarthy man of thirty or so years, me dium of height and sturdily built, wearing an impressive multicolored broad collar, bracelets, anklets, and armlets.

  A sheathed dagger hung from his belt and he carried the baton of office of an army officer. A stranger to Buhen.

  Amonked’s military adviser, without doubt.

  “I admonished them thoroughly, but as they repor
t to you, you must decide their punishment.” The officer flung a censorious look at the pair. “If I were you, I’d spare them not at all. They’re a disgrace to the military.”

  The man’s words, his imperious tone rankled. As far as

  Bak was concerned, only he had the right to reprimand his

  Medjays.

  “You are…?” He pushed his way past the man, re claiming his office. Another stranger stood inside, another officer from the look of him.

  The swarthy man gave Bak a haughty stare. “Lieutenant

  Horhotep. Military adviser to Amonked, inspector of the fortresses of Wawat.”

  Nebwa leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb, blocking the exit, and examined the adviser as he would an inter esting but rather distasteful specimen dug from a muddy riverbank. As usual, he carried no baton of office. Unless Horhotep remembered him at Thuty’s side on the quay, he had no way of knowing Nebwa was a senior officer.

  “Who are you?” Bak demanded of the second stranger.

  “Lieutenant Merymose.” The tall, gangly young man flushed at the sudden attention. “I stand at the head of the company of guards assigned to escort the inspector up river.” He had a long face and prominent nose and ears.

  Bak doubted he was more than eighteen years of age.

  Tossing the empty beer jar into a half-full basket of re fuse, Bak brushed his hands together to clear them of grit.

  As usual, his office was cluttered with objects left for the moment and forgotten by his men and Hori. Writing im plements and an unrolled scroll were spread over the mud brick bench built against the rear wall. Weapons, shields, and leather armor were stacked along a side wall. A white man-shaped coffin stood on end in the corner. A basket half full of scrolls stood between two low three-legged stools. The rich, tangy aroma of cumin was strong, the odor wafting from a small basket confiscated from a man who had claimed to be a physician.

  “Why have you come to me?” he asked.

  Merymose opened his mouth to answer, but Horhotep raised his voice, overriding the younger officer. “I’m fully aware, Lieutenant, that Amonked gave you permission to post your Medjays around the house we’re to occupy here in Buhen. The offer was well-intended, I’ve no doubt, but their presence is unnecessary.”

  His chill tone and smug attitude demanded a comeup pance, and the dangerous glint in Nebwa’s eyes indicated that he, like Bak, wanted very much to give him his due.

  Unfortunately, this was neither the time nor the place.

  Bak pulled close a three-legged stool and planted a foot on it, displaying, he hoped, a casual indifference to the adviser’s sharp tone. “My men are there not to protect

  Amonked’s inspection party, but to impress upon the peo ple of this city that the responsibility for your well-being resides in the hands of our commandant.”

  Nebwa spoke up, curt and to the point. “In case you haven’t noticed, Lieutenant, you and your precious inspec tion party aren’t exactly welcome in Buhen.”

  “The guards under my command have fought no battles, sir,” Lieutenant Merymose said, “but I’ve been assured that they’re good and brave men, trained especially for duty on the royal estates. A singular honor that should commend them to the most critical of men.”

  Horhotep silenced his young companion with an irritated scowl. “Commandant Thuty may hold the reins of power in this godforsaken garrison, but our authority comes from

  Maatkare Hatshepsut herself.”

  “Thuty is here,” Bak pointed out. “Our sovereign resides far away. By the time she could send men to punish those who would harm you, your dessicated and wrapped bodies would be awaiting burial at the capital.”

  Horhotep raked Bak with his eyes, his expression scath ing. “You people, every one from the lowliest camp fol lower to officers of the highest rank, have been here far too long. You’ve settled in, formed a tight little kingdom of your own. You’ve made yourselves aloof from all authority except when it serves your purpose to obey.”

  He turned on his heel and stalked to the door. Nebwa, his expression stormy, stepped aside to let him pass. Face aflame, Lieutenant Merymose fled behind his superior.

  Bak whistled. “There goes a man who’s already made his decision. One that doesn’t bode well for anyone living along the Belly of Stones.”

  “A man yearning for a smile from on high, I’d say.”

  Nebwa spat contemptuously into a bowl of sand near the street door. “And a substantial promotion, as well.”

  “As you can see, my friend, any man posted here can look the length of the street from the water-side gate to the west wall.” Imsiba made a quarter turn to peer down into the intersecting lane. Much narrower than the street, it ran arrow-straight between the two-story structure on which he stood with Bak and the single-level building block where Amonked and his party were housed. “Like the street, he can see into this lane the entire width of the citadel, in this case from north to south.”

  “And he can look down upon the rooftops across the lane,” Bak said, eyeing the white-plastered expanse that covered the interconnected dwellings. “Perfect.”

  “I’ve posted two men on the roof of Amonked’s quarters, and I’ve assigned two more to patrol the streets surrounding the block. I believe a day watch and a night watch of five men each more than adequate.”

  “How many people dwell in the adjoining houses?”

  “Four officers, their families and servants. I thought to move them away, but for three days at most? No.”

  “You’ve done well, Imsiba.” Bak walked with the ser geant across the stark white rooftop to a small open court that allowed light into the building and, nearby, an enclosed stairwell. As they descended to ground level, he asked,

  “Amonked’s guards are quartered in this building?”

  “In the old storage rooms on the second floor.” The big

  Medjay chuckled. “Their sergeant, Roy by name, was none too happy, but when I told him the alternatives-tents in the outer city or return to the cargo ship-he agreed.”

  “Would they prefer the eastern barracks and have the roof fall down around their ears?”

  The thought gave reason for worry. Several generations had passed since the warrior-king Ahmose Nebpehtire had marched victorious against the armies of Kush to retake the land of Wawat. Through the intervening years, most of the old buildings had been repaired; the dwellings reoccupied by the families of officers, senior scribes, and merchants; and the barracks and storehouses either used for their orig inal purpose or converted for a multitude of uses. With a smaller occupying force and no need for haste, a few struc tures-like the eastern barracks-remained untouched. Bak prayed Amonked would see them as a promise for the fu ture, not an indication of neglect.

  Nofery’s lion padded across the courtyard and stretched out on a woven palm mat outside her bedchamber. A strong scent of perfume wafted through a rear door, competing with the reek of beer emanating from the front room.

  Knucklebones rattled across the floor. A shout of triumph was drowned by a spate of yells and catcalls. No matter how unhappy or worried the people of Buhen, nothing less than a major catastrophe could arrest their desire to wager.

  A cool breeze dipped into the courtyard, making the torch sputter. The chill sneaked beneath the linen shift Bak had donned at nightfall, when the lord Re had vanished into the netherworld, stealing the day’s warmth. Nofery, seated on her chair, keeping an eye on the gamblers, had thrown a fringed shawl over her shoulders.

  “I didn’t see you among the princes who welcomed

  Amonked to Buhen.” Bak handed a fresh beer jar to the tall, dark, heavy man who occupied a stool facing Nofery and settled himself on the mudbrick bench against the wall.

  “And you an envoy to the royal house, too.”

  With a broad smile, the big man, Baket-Amon by name, raised his jar in salute. His oiled body glistened in the light of the torch, as did a gold pendant of the ram-headed Amon that hung from a heavy gold chain a
round his neck. “As a man who shares my name, one I’m pleased to call a friend,

  I pray the lord Dedun will give you a long and happy life and many sons.”

  Dedun was the primary god of the land of Kush, a deity worshipped by many of the people who lived along the

  Belly of Stones. Bak suspected the lord Amon held pride of place in Baket-Amon’s heart when he sat side-by-side with men of Kemet and the local god when he dwelt among his people in Wawet.

  He returned the salute. He knew he could never be close to this man-as a tribal prince of Wawat, Baket-Amon fol lowed a very different path-but to be counted among his friends was more than satisfactory.

  “Five or six princes met Amonked’s ship, they tell me.”

  Nofery’s brows drew together in disapproval. “Too many, considering he’s come to rape the Belly of Stones.”

  As Bak had expected, Amonked’s mission had soared on the wings of idle speculation, exaggerating an inspection with ominous possibilities to tales of Kemet’s total aban donment of the frontier. Nothing less than the inspector’s immediate return to Waset would halt the rumors.

  “Prince Baket-Amon.” A pretty young woman with a long braid hanging to her buttocks fell on her knees before the prince and offered him a bowl of honeyed dates.

  Around her hips she wore a bronze chain with pendants that tinkled as she moved.

  He popped a date into his mouth and savored it with closed eyes. “My ship hit a sandbar south of Abu and we snagged the prow on a fallen tree. By the time my crew repaired the damage, we were far behind Amonked’s flo tilla.”

  “Would that you had caught him,” Bak said. “Since you both grew to manhood in the royal house, he might listen to you.”

  “Do you imagine us as playmates?” Baket-Amon’s fleshy body shook with laughter. “I was a hostage prince, one among many. Son of a minor king with no army to fear and small tribute to give. His blood ran in royal veins, and his closest playmate was the pampered daughter of the most powerful ruler in the world.” He rubbed the sleek back of the girl sitting before him. “I doubt he knew I existed until