Bak smiled, satisfied with a guess proven right: Djehuty had come back to Abu as a ranking officer, one in a position to step on many toes. "Was the garrison peopled mostly with local men? Soldiers born and reared in this province?"
"It was, but no longer. Menkheperre Thutmose, when he took command of the army, assigned men from throughout the land of Kemet."
Bak, nodding his understanding, watched without seeing a three-legged white dog trot into the room and lie down at Pahared's feet. Not only had Menkheperre Thutmose, the young man who shared the throne in name only, letting the queen have her way, cleared away incompetent officers and forced new men to prove their worth, but he had made radical changes throughout the regiments and garrisons, moving men of all ranks from one post to another so their loyalties lay with him rather than with provincial noblemen or governors.
"After Djehuty came back, did anything-anything at all-happen for which blame might be laid at his feet?" Bak heard the doggedness in his voice, the refusal to let go.
Pahared shook his head, regret filling his eyes. "I'd like to help, my young friend, but I can think of nothing."
His wife stepped forward and spoke a few words in her own tongue. Pahared snapped his fingers, nodded, listened further, and sniffled his thanks. She returned to the door, obviously content with herself and his response.
"My wife understands the tongue of Kemet but hesitates to use it, fearing ridicule." The merchant gave the woman a fond smile. `=She has a better memory than I do. She reminded me of the storm. The storm that took so many young lives." His eyes darted toward Bak. "But that was long ago.
It may have nothing to do with the here and now." "Tell me about it."
"A raging tempest out in the desert." Pahared looked surprised at Bak's ignorance. "Have you never heard of it? Five years ago, it was. Over a hundred men lost in the wind and sand, never to be seen again."
Bak forced his thoughts back. He had been assigned to the garrison at Mennufer at that time, newly appointed to head a company of charioteers, full of his own importance and barely listening to rumors of an army vanished in a desert storm.
"I heard tales of an entire company of spearmen lost and…" He stiffened, gave the merchant a sharp look. "And a commander who returned alive. That was Djehuty?"
"He came back, yes." Pahared stared at the large, calloused hands clasped in his lap, saddened by the tale, by the loss of so many. "He and a handful of other men."
Bak nodded slowly, dwelling on the news. "I take it Djehuty, as commanding officer, was responsible for so grave a loss."
"In the year I've lived in Swenet, I've heard no man lay blame at his feet." Pahared snorted, derisive. "How can you fault a mere mortal faced with the might and fury of the gods?
"You can't expect_ Djehuty to speak of that day!" Lieutenant Amonhotep ran his fingers around the upper inside edge of his broad beaded collar, as if it lay too tight around his neck. "Even now he feels the weight of responsibility, though no man alive could've guessed a storm would strike so late in the year."
The aide had been brought by Psuro to Pahared's house of pleasure, expecting a companionable evening with Bak. Instead, he had been ushered out to the courtyard, which was lighted by a torch mounted in a bracket by the door, and pressed for information. Now he sat on a stool, drinking bowl in hand, offering nothing, admitting a bare minimum.
Bak leaned over to pet the three-legged dog, now curled up at his feet. Merry laughter and the clatter of knucklebones reminded him of the good time to be had beyond the door, doubling his regret that he must probe and poke. "I was told he was so filled with shame he stepped down from his post as garrison commander, turning his back on the army forever." Pahared had said no such thing, but exaggeration might free Amonhotep's power of speech.
"I suppose to some it looked that way." The aide's voice was as stiff as his spine. "In reality, he left the army to take his father's place as provincial governor-his right as sole heir."
"Did you serve with him while still he was an officer?" "Since my thirteenth birthday." Amonhotep did not look reassured by the change of subject.
"You, like so many others who toil in the governor's villa, must've been born and reared in Abu."
"I grew to manhood in Nubt, on Djehuty's estate." "And he took you into this garrison ten years ago…" Bak queried the aide with a glance, received a nod. "… when he came back to the province."
"He made me his herald, yes."
No wonder Amonhotep was loyal to a fault, Bak thought. He had Djehuty to thank for his rank and position. And possibly his life. Whether herald or aide, the young officer would have accompanied Djehuty on that fateful journey into the desert.
"What was he when he returned? A troop captain like Antef?" Bak's voice took on an edge of cynicism. "Or was he handed the lofty rank of commander?"
Amonhotep's eyes flashed indignation. "Djehuty may have his faults, Lieutenant, but he's always been an honorable man. This 7garrison is small, warranting no more than a troop captain at its head, and so he was when his father died and he took his seat as governor. While still he served in the army, I pointed out more than once that some men travel to the capital, seeking advantage. He refused to do so."
A refusal to seek preferment did not sound like the Djehuty who had summoned Bak from Buhen but refused to help him, nor the Djehuty he sensed behind the compliments and complaints of the men on the governor's staff. "He had no black marks against him as an officer?"
"None."
Bak raised an eyebrow. "No blame was laid when he lost more than a hundred men in a sandstorm?"
"His record is clean, I tell you."
Again Bak veered away from the point, hoping to unsettle the aide. "Why would a garrison commander lead a company of men out onto the desert? Would that not be a task for an officer of lower rank? A lieutenant like you or me?"
"Normally, yes. But Djehuty was no laggard. He wanted to stand tall and proud at the head of his men." "Instead…" Bak made his voice cool, deliberate. "… a storm struck, decimating the column and leaving few survivors."
Amonhotep, eyes flashing with anger, gulped down the last of his beer, set the bowl on the floor, and stood up. A mouse flitted into the shadows behind several pottery storage containers. "The storm was unfortunate. No, worse. It was catastrophic. A cruel whim of the gods."
Bak rose, blocking the aide's path to the door. "Nine days from now, Lieutenant, Djehuty may well be dead. Slain by a man I've failed to lay hands on because no one close to him will speak with a frank and open tongue."
"The storm, those many deaths, can't be laid at his feet! He came close to losing his own life!"
"Convince me!" Bak sensed men at the door, attracted by the raised voices. He waved them away, urging them to mind their own business, and spoke more softly. "Tell me what happened, Amonhotep." -
The aide dropped onto his stool, fumbled for his drinking bowl, found it empty. Bak strode to the door, signaled to Pahared's wife for two more jars, and returned to his seat. The dog, its attention focused on the shadows between the pottery jars, rested its chin on his sandaled foot.
Amonhotep lowered his head and rubbed his eyes. He spoke in a tired, defeated voice. "I don't enjoy talking about that storm, or remembering. No man does who lived through it."
Bak nodded, offering no words of sympathy, his understanding limited by a lack of experience he in no way wished to gain.
The aide looked up, his mouth tight and resolute. "Desert tribesmen — thirty, maybe forty men from the western oasis of Uahtrest-had been raiding caravans carrying trade goods past the rapids and attacking outlying farms in the province. The garrison was short-manned. To send sufficient troops to protect the caravans strained us beyond our limit; to guard the farms was impossible."