“I’ve accepted already that we must do battle without them, but that doesn’t relieve me from my task.” Using natron as a cleanser, Bak scrubbed the grease from his hands. “Did you know the prince?”
“He never came to Askut. He had no need. Rona looks after the people in this part of the valley as if they’re his own children. I’ve always dealt with the old man. I respect him, and I like to think he respects me.”
Ahmose’s age told Bak he was a part of the old guard, men appointed for their noble heritage or out of patronage, men like Horhotep who fought their battles in the corridors of the royal house. His attitude, however, spoke of the younger, newly rebuilt army, made up of men highly trained in the arts of war, wary of other men’s help in rising through the ranks, less inclined to feel themselves above all others.
“You must know of the prince’s reputation.”
Ahmose smiled. “Before I came to Askut, I dwelt in
Waset, performing liaison duties between the royal house and the regiment of Amon. Gossip lightened my load on many a dull afternoon. His name came up among all the others, and I’ve since heard more.”
Bak had been a part of that regiment, but he had no memory of Ahmose. Not surprising since, as a chariotry officer, he had spent much of his time in the stables and out on the practice field. “Did you know Amonked at that time?”
Ahmose’s smile broadened. “I served in a tiny building behind the royal house, listening to the lions roar in our sovereign’s zoo. I never reached those lofty heights.”
Bak returned the smile. He had a feeling he would enjoy serving with this officer, a man of good sense, having no delusions and no pretensions. “Since I began this quest, I’ve heard many praises of Baket-Amon’s talents in the bed chamber and his skills as a sportsman. The two activities dominated his life. I suspect what I seek has something to do with one or the other, something that happened some time in the past.”
“Hmmm.” Ahmose rested his head against the wall and closed his eyes. “There was a tale going round…” His voice tailed off, his brow furrowed in thought. “What was it?”
Bak remained mute, waiting, praying to the lord Amon.
“Let’s see. It was about three years ago. While still I dwelt in Waset.” Ahmose’s eyes popped open and he snapped his fingers. “Yes, I remember! It was only a rumor, mind you. I don’t know how much truth there was to it.”
“Believe me, the vaguest of rumors is better than what I have now.”
Ahmose gave him an fleeting smile. “The way I recall the tale, Baket-Amon slew a man during a night of carous ing. I’m not sure where this occurred. Probably in Waset, since that’s where I heard, but it could’ve happened any where. Maybe here in Wawat.” He paused, frowned. “The incident might’ve been untrue. Or it could’ve been hushed up. As far as I know, nothing ever came of it.”
If the prince killed a man… Yes, revenge would be more than enough reason to take his life. But why wait three years? Amonked and every individual in his party had known Baket-Amon in Waset. They would have had mul tiple opportunities to slay him there, where the odds against being caught were far greater than in the much smaller fron tier post of Buhen.
Another thought struck. Could this rumored murder be the same as the crime witnessed by Pawah? The odds were long, he knew, but it was just possible.
“I thank the lord Amon you’ve returned!” Bak laid one arm over Pashenuro’s shoulders, another over Pawah’s, and ushered them to the archers’ hearth. The fire was out, the twenty men from Buhen nowhere to be seen. “I feared you’d been captured.”
“We almost were!” Pawah practically danced with ex citement. “Only Pashenuro’s quick wits saved us.”
“You exaggerate,” the Medjay said, cuffing the boy on the back of his head.
“I don’t!” Pawah looked at Bak and his words bubbled over. “Hor-pen-Deshret sent out a hunting party, and we were the game they sought. If we hadn’t found a stand of reeds in the river, and if Pashenuro hadn’t thought to cut two off to use as breathing tubes so we could stay under water, they’d’ve caught us for sure.”
Pashenuro shrugged. “The child enlarges my actions and my good sense; otherwise he tells the truth. They were awaiting us, and we came close to getting caught. If a cou ple of dogs hadn’t gone with us, if they hadn’t barked a warning, we’d’ve walked into their arms.”
“How’d they know to expect you?”
“The sentry we talked to last night must’ve spoken of our presence.” Pashenuro looked around the encampment, emptied of about half the men. Those who remained went about their usual business, but with speech and laughter too loud and raucous, betraying a heightened tension. “Where is everyone, sir?”
“Assuming the tribesmen would strike today, as you guessed they would, we thought it best to position the men in the wadi long before they come.” Bak gave the Medjay a sharp look. “Are they on their way?”
“What of those wretched men who’ve been watching the caravan?” Pawah asked. “Won’t they warn their friends of an ambush?”
Bak handed each of his spies a jar of beer. “They’ve not moved, nor will they.”
“They met an early death?” the Medjay guessed.
“Very early. Soon after you came back this morning.”
He spotted Amonked and Nebwa circling around a bar rier built of water jars. The inspector’s relief at seeing Pawah alive and unhurt was evident. Dropping to the ground to sit beside the boy, he gave him a look blending fondness and pride. Nebwa sat on the low circle of bricks that formed the hearth.
“While we hid underwater, we couldn’t hear a thing.”
Pashenuro evidently saw no need to go back to the begin ning and repeat himself. “When the tribesmen moved on along the river’s edge, we sheltered behind a drifting log so we could raise our heads and listen.” He glanced at Pa wah, who continued:
“They were arguing over where and when the caravan should be attacked. About half thought they should await us on the open desert, but the rest swore Hor-pen-Deshret was close to a god and whatever he deemed right should never be questioned. It sounded as if the decision had been made, but I couldn’t be sure.”
“So they’re quarreling among themselves,” Nebwa said.
“Good.”
Thinking of all the men poised to do battle later in the day, Bak asked, “Where’s their main force? Are they still camped near Shelfak? Or are they on their way north?”
“The instant we could safely do so, we left the river and sped out onto the desert. The decision had indeed been made.” Pashenuro flashed a smile. “We could hardly miss that wretched army, a rag-tag bunch if I ever saw one, coming north across the barren sands. We were too far away to hear them speak and the landscape too flat and open to let us draw closer. But we had no doubt they were marching off to combat.”
“They’re coming to us, as we’d hoped,” Bak said.
“So it seems.”
“Rag-tag army,” Nebwa said. “Do you mean their cloth ing is worn and ragged or that there’s no order to their march?”
“Both.” Pashenuro, who had been trained as a soldier before becoming a policeman, knew exactly what Nebwa was getting at. “I saw few signs of a cohesive force, sir.
Any man who falls behind is left to his own resources. In the hour we watched, more than two dozen men simply walked away, abandoning their fellows.”
Nebwa eyed the Medjay speculatively. “Would it be fair to say the alliance is fragile?”
“I suspect only Hor-pen-Deshret is holding it together.”
Nebwa and Amonked left, each going his own way de pending on what he had to do before the call to arms. Bak held Pashenuro and Pawah back so he could give them fresh orders. The Medjay would serve as the forward look out, located in a spot where he could warn of the enemy’s approach; the youth would carry any messages too lengthy to signal with a mirror. Eager to get on with their new tasks, the pair stood up to leave.