“If Amonked deems the army useless, all Nakht hoped for will die.”
Regret filled the ensuing silence. Bak’s eyes strayed to ward the northern quay, and the prince’s troubled mien came back to him. Maybe all was not as it should be.
“Baket-Amon was determined to leave at first light. Let’s see what’s keeping him.” He threw the last of the bread at he crow, which hopped along the wall, head cocked, wary of the generosity.
Walking north along the terrace, Bak gave his friend a rueful look. “The thought of losing all Nakht hoped for bothers me exceedingly. The thought of leaving this place and the people I’ve come to love is almost more than I can bear.”
“I know, my friend. I, too, feel closer to Buhen than any other place, and closer to all those I’ve come to know.”
Hori burst through the northern gate, spotted them, and raced up the terrace to meet them. The chubby scribe’s face was flushed, his eyes alight with excitement. “Lieutenant
Bak! Come quickly! A man’s been found dead. Stabbed.
In the house where Amonked and his party were quar tered.”
Chapter Five
“Baket-Amon.” Bak stared, dismayed, at the body stuffed into a storage area under the mudbrick stairway that led to the roof. He had not yet seen the face, but no one could mistake that large, heavy form for anyone other than the prince.
“I fear so, sir.” Psuro, a thickset Medjay with a face scarred by some childhood disease, looked stricken. He had been in charge of the men guarding the house through the night.
Bak would not have been surprised if the inspector of the fortresses of Wawat had been slain, but Baket-Amon?
He had asked the prince to speak with Amonked and he had refused. Now here he was in Amonked’s house and he was dead. Had that plea for help brought about his death?
Imsiba cursed in his own tongue. “The gods have surely turned their backs to us. The prince’s power was slight, with Commandant Thuty sitting in the seat of authority, but he was beloved of his people. What manner of trouble this will cause, I can’t begin to guess.”
“Go tell Thuty of this murder,” Bak said, shaking off the guilt that stood in the way of clear thinking. “Warn him.
And then bring two men with a litter so they can carry the body to the house of death.”
As the big Medjay slipped out the door, Bak knelt for a closer look at the dead man. The floor-level closet in which the prince had been hidden was almost square, about two cubits to a side, and scarcely deep enough for his broad shoulders. Psuro had rolled up and tied the woven mat that had covered the opening when he found the body. Baket Amon was seated, arms hanging down, legs drawn close, cheek resting on his knees, face turned away. He might have been sleeping-except for the blood that had drained onto the rush floormat beneath him, coloring a goodly por tion a dull reddish brown. Bending low, Bak glimpsed be tween the legs the bronze hilt of a dagger entangled by the chain of the gold pendant of the ram-headed Amon.
Back on his feet, he eyed the room, empty except for the mats that had been spread over the floor in preparation for
Amonked’s arrival. The chamber shared a wall with a room the concubine had occupied; the vague scent of perfume hung in the air, not quite masking the metallic odor of blood. The room opened onto the main hallway near the street door. Not directly connected to any other room, this chamber had not appealed to Amonked, who had left it unfurnished and empty. Thus the men who had carried off
Amonked’s belongings had not found the prince hidden in the storage space. Anyone could have entered from outside without passing through any other portion of the house, just as anyone from inside could have slipped into the room unseen.
He studied the encrustation of blood on the mat beneath the dead man and stains that spilled over two edges. Certain the prince, too heavy to move far, had been slain close by, he raised the mat nearest the body. A tiny splash of rusty brown led him to the next mat to the right. Psuro, drawing in a long, unhappy breath, lifted another mat and another, revealing a large, irregular oval discolored by blood, marked in the weave pattern of the mats that had covered it.
Bak looked again at the body. He pictured Baket-Amon as he had last seen him, with two pretty young women seated at his feet and two more awaiting him, offering music and joy. A man who had lived life at its fullest, mowed down in his prime. Shoving away the sadness, the regret, he said, “Let’s pull him out of there, Psuro.”
The mat slid with relative ease across the plastered floor, soon freeing the body from the space in which it had been confined. For some inexplicable reason, it remained upright in its seated position. Bak placed a hand under the chin and turned the head to reveal the face. Baket-Amon, as ex pected. The body was cool, but not yet clammy, nor had it had time to grow rigid. He could not be sure, but he guessed death had occurred sometime around daybreak.
Bak gently laid the prince on the floor. Psuro straight ened out the legs without being asked, a measure of the distress he felt at having failed in his duty. The dagger protruded from the dead man’s lower chest. It angled up ward, piercing the heart with the single thrust. The broad collar, bracelets, anklets, and especially the pendant were finely crafted and of sufficient value to proclaim theft as an unlikely reason for the slaying.
Faced with a task he abhorred, Bak swallowed hard, took hold of the dagger, and pulled it free. The bronze blade was narrow and pointed, about the length of a man’s hand. The hilt, also of bronze, had been slightly roughened to provide a secure grip. The dagger was simple and unadorned, not of military issue but as easily come by. He had seen many similar weapons offered in the markets of Mennufer and
Waset and Abu.
He laid the dagger beside the body, stood erect, and fo cused on Psuro. The Medjay, one of his best and most dependable men, stood stiff and straight, tense, awaiting an interrogation he obviously dreaded.
Bak eyed the stocky policeman, his demeanor stern.
“How long ago did Baket-Amon come to this house?”
“I can’t say for a fact,” Psuro admitted, shame-faced.
“None of us saw him enter.”
“If each and every guard was at his assigned post, how could he possibly have escaped notice?”
The Medjay stared straight ahead. “We were obliged to leave our posts, sir.”
Bak gave him an incredulous look. “All of you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I assume you have an explanation. A good one.” Bak’s grim expression, his severe tone promised dire conse quences if no suitable reason was offered.
“I believe so, sir.”
“Let’s hear it.”
Psuro licked his lips, shifted his weight from foot to foot.
“At break of day, Amonked’s sailors began to carry away the furnishings in this house, taking what was his back to his ship. Eight or ten youths-apprentices, they were, on the way to their masters’ workshops-came upon them a block down the street. They began pelting them with stones.
The sailors were laden with objects of value they had no choice but to protect. Rather than allow a fight to break out, giving both Amonked and the people of this garrison ad ditional reason for anger, we went to their aid.” The Medjay paused, cleared his throat. “It was then, I believe, that the prince entered the house.”
And soon after, he was slain, Bak thought. “How long were you away from your posts?”
“A few moments at most.” Psuro saw the doubt on Bak’s face and hastened to be more exact. “I raced full-tilt down the stairs and out onto the street, where I found the others already gathering. As soon as the youths saw us coming and realized our purpose, they ran. I sent Kasaya after them to make sure they wouldn’t return, and the rest of us went back to our posts.”