Face Turned Backward lb-2 Page 4

  “I see no men scurrying around, counting baskets laden with contraband,” Nebwa said, coming up behind Bak.

  Bak swung around, amazed. “By the beard of Amon!

  What’re you doing in Buhen?”

  “I left Ptahmose in charge. Not a man in Wawat has led more desert patrols than he has, and not a caravan master in the world can deceive him.” Ptahmose was Nebwa’s sergeant, as close to him as Imsiba was to Bak.

  “You’d better keep well out of Thuty’s way. You know how he feels about men who shirk their duty.”

  “You lay blame where no blame is due.” Nebwa screwed up his face, trying hard to look aggrieved. “I’ve a legitimate mission. One even Thuty can’t frown upon.”

  Bak rolled his eyes skyward. “I don’t believe you for a moment, but let’s hear your tale. Practice now before you must repeat it to him.”

  30 / Lauren Haney

  Nebwa grinned like a child newly escaped from scribal school, but soon sobered. “Captain Mahu will sail from Kor before nightfall, his ship heavy with merchandise. It was more than half loaded when I arrived at dawn, so I can’t vouch for what was stowed on board yesterday. When he sails into Buhen, I suggest you search it from stem to stern.”

  “We’re inspecting every vessel. You know that.” Bak eyed his friend, suspicious. “Now speak the truth: Was this merely an excuse to slip away from Kor, or do you have good reason to urge undue diligence on our part? Mahu’s always seemed an honest man to me.”

  “It was an excuse to come home, I admit, but…” Nebwa scratched his head, frowned. “I saw him talking to a man I wouldn’t trust with my rattiest pair of sandals, a boatman from the south, as slick a man as I’ve ever seen. Not much, I know, but…” Again his voice tailed off; he looked almost embarrassed. “I like Mahu. I’d hate to think he’s not the man I always believed him to be, nor do I wish to harm his reputation. But they were standing close, their voices low and secretive. Furtive.”

  “If we find nothing on board,” Bak promised, “his reputation will remain unblemished.”

  Forming a smile, Nebwa raised a hand in greeting to Imsiba and Hori, walking down the gangplank. “Fair enough.”

  A nearly naked dock worker scurried along the quay beside the ship, releasing the hawsers from their mooring posts. At a brisk command from the captain, a sailor pulled the gangplank aboard, the drummer set the rhythm for the oarsmen, and they dipped their long paddles into the water. As the vessel swung away from its berth, they began to sing a song of the river, their voices loud and merry but with scant beauty. Bak raised his baton of office, returning the captain’s salute, while Nebwa and the others waved a farewell.

  “Neglecting your duty again, I see,” Imsiba said, altering his voice to sound like Thuty, “and you a troop captain, too.

  A fine example you’re setting for one whose every deed should be above reproach.”

  The gibe prompted a careless laugh. “I’ve better things to do than listen to the squawks of a flock of caravan masters.”

  Nebwa turned his head aside and spat on the ground, showing his contempt. “We’ve found not a single item of contraband. Nor will we ever, with all the world expecting to be searched.”

  Still grumbling, he walked with Imsiba and Hori up the quay. Bak remained behind, unwilling to leave until his men finished inspecting Ramose’s ship and it set sail for the north.

  He sat on a mooring post, tapping his ankle with his baton, letting his thoughts run free. The sun, a pale yellow orb in a blue-white sky, seemed for a moment to cling to the edge of the high fortress wall, then dropped behind it. A sentry, reduced to a silhouette against the light, paced the battlements. A half dozen fishermen stood among as many skiffs pulled up on the revetment near the end of the quay, their voices raised in argument, speaking in a local dialect Bak could not understand.

  He listened to the murmurs of the ship’s crew farther out on the quay, inhaled the fishy, musty odor of the water flowing past, savored the breeze caressing his shoulders. He thought of the ship that had already sailed, wondered where it would tie up for the night and what safe harbor Ramose would find. And he thought of Mahu’s cargo vessel, soon to arrive from Kor. Nebwa’s suspicions seemed farfetched, based on instinct rather than fact. At times that instinct was infallible, but now? Mahu’s reputation was exemplary, his honesty unquestioned.

  Bak, yawning broadly, stepped out of the dark passage through the towered gate and walked south along the upper terrace. One large vessel, a broad-beamed cargo ship with the river god Hapi painted on its prow, was moored alongside the southern quay. The crew hustled about the deck, securing the lowered mast and yards for the long voyage downstream to Kemet. The ship was Mahu’s, riding low in the water, reeking of the farmyard. When it had sailed into Buhen at dusk, too late to inspect, the cattle and goats it carried on deck had been led away to the animal paddocks.

  The harbor guards had assured Bak that the remainder of the cargo had lain untouched through the night.

  The heavy ship wallowed in the swells raised by a stiff breeze. Across a strip of water and tied to the central quay, a line of smaller boats-fishing skiffs, papyrus rafts, and vessels used to ferry people, animals, and produce across the river-bobbed up and down, tugging at their mooring ropes.

  Bak eyed the quay, the bustle on board Mahu’s ship, the men working in and around the lesser craft. He smelled the faint fishy odor of the river, smoke from many small hearths and braziers, and the sweet, clinging odor of manure. Long red banners whipped in the breeze from atop four tall flagstaffs clamped to the facade of the pylon. The rustling of heavy linen vied with the clamor inside the fortress: the barking of dogs, the braying of donkeys, the shouts of sergeants goading the garrison troops to their day’s activities.

  At that moment, all seemed right with the world. Almost too right. If I were a superstitious man, Bak thought with a smile, I’d start looking over my shoulder, fearing trouble close behind.

  Imsiba strode through the gate, followed by a scraggly line of Medjays and soldiers and the elderly scribe from the records office. He paused, eyeing two men standing midway along the quay. “Our morning, it seems, has been blessed beyond words.”

  The big Medjay, Bak knew, was referring to the younger of the pair, Userhet, overseer of warehouses, impeccably clad in a calf-length kilt, a broad bead collar, and matching bracelets. From a distance, the tall, broad-shouldered bureaucrat looked more like a soldier than a scribe. His hair was dark and curly, his nose aquiline, his skin oiled gold. Imsiba had taken a dislike to him the day he set foot in Buhen.

  Userhet was charming-too charming, Imsiba had grumbled-much admired by garrison wives and daughters.

  Mahu, the second man, was of medium height and build, with skin dark and weathered from too many years standing unprotected on the deck of a ship. He wore a simple knee-length white kilt, bronze bracelets and armlets, and a pectoral with a design too finely worked to see from so far away.

  “Userhet and Mahu are neighbors,” Bak said. “They often play the game of senet together.”

  Imsiba gave the pair a sour look. “I’ve always thought Mahu too upright a man to use friends in lofty places to gain an advantage.”

  “You know how fond of himself Userhet is! He’d not be here if he thought a shadow would fall anywhere near him, darkening his precious reputation.”

  “Mahu’s reputation is equally spotless, my friend, but if Userhet pleads his case, insisting he sail out of Buhen without an inspection, I’d say ‘tarnished’ could better be used to describe them both.”

  “I see you’ve a way with words, Sergeant.” A tall, slender man of thirty or so years emerged from the gloom of the passageway behind them, his eyes twinkling with good humor. Though his face was bony and pocked, ravaged by some childhood disease, he was a man of elegant movements and infinite grace, wearing a broad collar, bracelets, and armlets. Each piece of jewelry was a treat to the eye, with every bead made of gold, carnelian, turquoise, or lapis lazuli-not
the bronze and faience affairs worn by most everyone else in Buhen.

  “Hapuseneb!” Bak was never quite sure how he should treat this man, the most successful trader south of the land of Kemet. So he had long ago opted for equality. “I didn’t expect to see you in Buhen!” He glanced toward the quay, though he knew none of the merchant’s ships were moored there. “How did you get here?”

  “You see that magnificent vessel with the patched yellow sail?” Hapuseneb pointed to a small, very ordinary fishing boat riding the swells near the water’s edge. “I borrowed it last night and sailed in from Kor, where my own ship lan-guishes-thanks to your friend Nebwa.”

  “Don’t tell me he caught you smuggling contraband!” Bak laughed.

  The merchant gave a cynical snort. “One of my caravan masters, a man of no sense whatsoever, tried to bring three 34 / Lauren Haney young women across the frontier without passes. Nebwa impounded the lot: women, donkeys, and trade goods. He can keep the women through eternity, for all I care, but I want my donkeys returned, and the merchandise they carry.

  As I couldn’t persuade him to release them, I came to Buhen, hoping to convince Thuty so we can soon load my ship and sail north to Kemet.” He shook his head in mock resignation.

  “He agreed, but only if I sail into Buhen and submit to a second search. The viceroy’s command, it seems, is of greater influence than my poor cries for understanding.”

  Smiling at his own joke, Hapuseneb knelt at the water’s edge, drew the borrowed skiff in close, and stepped aboard.

  Bak and Imsiba turned away and led their inspection crew on down the quay.

  “Hapuseneb seems a good man,” Imsiba said. “I wish more were like him. Quicker to accept this task we must do and slower to complain.”

  Bak slowed his pace as they approached the gangplank and lowered his voice so no one else would hear. “If we find no ivory through the week, and if Nebwa finds none at Kor, we’ll speak to Commandant Thuty. By then we’ll have inconvenienced and angered a sufficient number of men to convince the viceroy we’ve done our duty. With luck, he’ll consign these blanket inspections to the netherworld.”

  “Oh, I don’t blame you, Lieutenant.” Userhet glanced at Imsiba and the men standing by the gangplank, awaiting Bak’s signal to board. “I’m sure you’d much rather be elsewhere.”

  “Yes, sir,” Bak said, using formality to distance himself from potential argument.

  “I understand Commandant Thuty received a message from the viceroy, ordering a widespread search for contraband.” Userhet paused, giving Bak a chance to comment, perhaps to confirm or deny, maybe even go so far as to fill in details.

  “The commandant seldom confides in me, sir.”

  “How many ships have you inspected so far? Two? Three? And you must’ve examined half the fishing boats along this part of the river and most of the ferries. Yet you’ve brought nothing to the treasury, nor have you turned in anything of lesser value to the main storage magazine.”

  “No, sir.”

  Close to the end of the previous day Nebwa’s sergeant had confiscated a cage of half-grown monkeys suffering from starvation and thirst. Maybe the overseer had not yet heard about the animals-or maybe he did not consider them of value.

  Userhet frowned, tried again. “To search every vessel and come up empty-handed seems a waste of time. Yours and that of everyone else.”

  Mahu laid a hand on his shoulder. “We live on the frontier, my young friend. We’re bound to be inconvenienced once in a while. Especially men like me, who come and go time and time again, more often than not carrying valuable and rare cargo.”

  “Your reputation is above reproach,” Userhet insisted. “You shouldn’t be subjected to such an indignity. If I had the authority, I’d send you on your way this instant.”

  “I appreciate the thought and I’m grateful,” Mahu smiled,

  “but even if you could, I wouldn’t accept. What would my fellow seamen think if I were allowed to slip away unscathed while they are forced to submit?”

  Bak had thought Mahu a pleasant man; the statement earned him respect. “We should be finished before midday, sir.”

  “Lieutenant Bak!” Hori’s voice, insistent, urgent.

  Bak swung around, saw the chubby youth running down the quay, clutching his scribal pallet under his arm.

  The boy slid to a halt, took a couple of deep breaths. “Sir, there’s been a shipwreck! A long day’s walk to the north. It must’ve happened during the storm.” He paused, wiped the sweat from his face. “Captain Ramose found it at first light.

  You must go, sir. The crewmen are gone-either drowned or run away-and the cargo has vanished.

  Chapter Three

  “Not long before dusk, we found a sheltered spot at the mouth of a dry watercourse, a desert wadi. Captain Ramose deemed it safe and there we tied up for the night-unaware of what lay just around a stony ridge, awaiting discovery.”

  Tjanuny, the oarsman Bak had chastened the previous day, paused for dramatic effect.

  Imsiba, who sat at Tjanuny’s back, oars shipped while the current sped the skiff downstream, tore his gaze from the east bank along which they sailed and rolled his eyes skyward. Stifling a smile, Bak stared expectantly at the wiry sailor. Soon after arriving in Buhen, he had learned that the people of this wretched land enjoyed nothing more than playing games with their betters. Patience, he had discovered, gave them the chance to amuse themselves and gave him the answers he needed, but he dared not inspire exaggeration by a show of too deep an interest.

  “The wadi goes back some distance but is narrow, and the water at its mouth is deep. The banks rise steep and rocky, leaving no space for crops.” Tjanuny scratched a flank, stole a look at Bak. “I and three of my fellows left the ship to walk along the water’s edge. We thought it a good place to search for wood and other items of small value flung ashore by the storm.”

  Bak eyed the land sweeping by to either side, a poor, thirsty land where the term “of small value” was the literal truth. To the west, a blanket of sand bleached white-gold by the midday sun clung to the top of the escarpment, sometimes creeping down a long-dry wadi or drifting over the dark cliffs to be nibbled away by the swollen river. Now and again the escarpment drew back, making room for a narrow floodplain of rich black soil that sustained a number of small villages.

  Palms, tamarisks, and acacias, their roots soaked by the receding waters, edged fields, ditches, and the river. Men plowed the higher, dryer land, drawing clouds of birds to the overturned earth and the worms and insects thus exposed.

  On the eastern side of the river, the golden desert was tinted with brown, the landscape harsher and more rocky.

  Squeezed between the higher land and the river, a few stingy pockets of soil were emerging from the flood. A wadi opened up ahead, a narrow triangle of water-logged fertility lying between the high, stony banks of an ancient river, luring ibises, cranes, and egrets. Much of the oasis was shaded by palms, while grapevines flourished on a natural terrace just out of reach of all but the highest inundation. A couple dozen buildings built of stone and mudbrick perched on a sandy shelf overlooking the arable land.

  “We’re nearing the wreck,” Tjanuny said. “It lies in the next wadi after this village.”

  With quickening interest, Bak studied the small cluster of drab houses. This, he suspected, was where he would find the cargo, and the crew as well if any had survived the storm.

  The village looked no different than all the others in this poor land. In narrow, crooked lanes, ducks and geese scratched in patches of mud and dogs squabbled halfheartedly. Naked children stared out at the passing skiff while their mothers washed clothing at the edge of the turbid waters. Two men sat in the shade playing a board game, waiting for the flood to subside. If the people here had been the first to come upon the wreck, they would have made it their own, as would most others along the river.

  Bak’s divided attention spurred Tjanuny to get on with his tale. “We walked aro
und the ridge and ahead was the wrecked ship. It was hard to see so late in the day, shadowed as it was by the cliff. One man hurried back to tell our cap-38 / Lauren Haney tain, while the rest of us hastened to the vessel. It lay broken and battered, with no man standing guard.”

  “You didn’t notice the missing cargo?” Imsiba’s voice was sharp, holding less patience than Bak’s.

  Tjanuny swung around, giving the Medjay a quick look as if to see how far he could go. Not far at all, he must have concluded, for he came straight to the point. “A few items remain on deck, so we thought the cargo skimpy but intact.

  It was the captain, when he came, who climbed aboard to look around.” He turned again to Bak. “It was he who found the deckhouse empty and nothing stowed below. That’s why he sent me to Buhen, to summon you.”

  Belowdeck cargo served as ballast. No responsible captain would sail far without a load-even if he had to haul rocks.

  The shallow-keeled, round-bottomed vessels were top-heavy, easily capsized, especially when traveling upstream under an enormous spread of sail, but also when voyaging north, propelled by the current and a crew of oarsmen. As few men would take so great a risk, Ramose’s assumption that the cargo had been carried off was most likely correct. Unless Ramose himself had salvaged it and, like Rennefer, hopped to cloud Bak’s eyes with a pretense of innocence.

  Bak studied the village and a path rising up the natural terraces that walled in the wadi. Above, he could imagine the desert, golden sand too hot to cross bare-footed and out-cropping rocks shading the small creatures who lived there: lizards, scorpions, snakes. “The path leads to the wreck?”