Bak kept his voice level, his hope tamped down, and spoke softly so the words would not carry.
Pawah struggled to catch his breath after his long dash across the wadi and up the steep incline. “No, sir. I never saw him.” He, too, kept his voice low.
Bak could barely maintain a calm facade. “Never once, though he was a frequent visitor to Amonked’s home in
Waset?”
“I always accompany my master when he leaves the house, and when we’re home, when I’m not running er rands, I keep to my place with the other servants.”
Bak gave a silent shout of joy and at the same time cursed himself for being so slow to see the truth. He had forgotten the child’s true position in Amonked’s household.
“He was a tall man, Pawah. Heavy, impressive in appear ance. He dressed as a man of wealth from the land of Ke met, but his dusky skin identified him as having come from
Wawat. He often wore a gold pendant of the ram-headed lord Amon and he…”
The boy’s eyes widened with recognition-and shock.
And a dawning fear much more intense than when he had blurted out his secret of seeing two people slain. A fear close to panic. “I… I can’t say, sir.”
“You mean you won’t say.”
“Yes, sir. No! That is…” Pawah’s eyes darted in the direction from which he had come, his desire to flee pal pable. “Sir, I must get back to Pashenuro. The men of the desert could come down the wadi at any moment.”
Bak caught the youth by his slick, sweaty shoulders.
“He’ll signal if he needs you. If not, you can await them here as easily as there.”
Pawah twisted and squirmed, trying to get away. Bak dared not allow him to run, perhaps to vanish forever in the depths of the desert out of which he had originally come. The youth’s reaction spoke of a knowledge that must be aired.
“I don’t know what you fear, Pawah, but you have my word that no harm will come to you.”
“I must go back to Pashenuro, sir. I must!”
“The more people who know what you hold in your heart, the safer you’ll be. You must begin with me, here and now.”
The youth’s will crumpled, as did the strength in his legs.
He dropped onto the flat rock and Bak sat down beside him, close enough to grab him should he try to run.
“Now tell me what you know of Baket-Amon.”
“He… He came often to Thutnofer’s house of plea sure.” Pawah’s voice trembled, he looked close to tears.
“We didn’t know his name. Thutnofer-whose place of business it was-always called him the ram of Wawat, and so the rest of us thought of him.” His eyes flooded. He wiped tears away with the back of his hand, making streaks on his face. “I’m sorry he’s dead. He…” The boy faltered, added lamely, “He was a good man.”
Bak looked up the wadi, listening, waiting. The swallows shot back and forth, their grating notes as quick as their flight. He saw no sign of Pashenuro atop the opposing cliff, no warning signal. He laid a hand on the youth’s back and allowed gentleness to enter his voice. “Was he involved in the murders you spoke of yesterday?”
The boy stared at his hands, clutched tight together in his lap. “Yes, sir.”
“Tell me what happened, Pawah, what started the trou ble.”
“Meretre.” A long pause, then, “The ram of… the prince could’ve bought her ten times over-and I prayed many times to the lady Hathor that he would-but my prayers went unanswered.” He bit his lip, blinked hard.
“She was barely a woman, untouched by any man. A special treat of great value, Thutnofer liked to say. He held her back, tempting one and all with her youth and beauty.”
Tears spilled over. “She was my friend, as close as a sister to me. We were meant to share a like fate.” The boy squeezed his eyes tight as if to rid himself of memory. “I shall miss her always.”
Bak guessed a deeper secret, one he needed to know for a fact. “What fate was that, Pawah?”
“It’s not important!”
A bright flash of light flitted across Bak’s breast. His head snapped up, his eyes darted toward Pashenuro’s hiding place. Another flash of light, this of longer duration, that was meant to be seen by all who were posted on the north ern side of the wadi. The men vanished from sight as if abducted by the gods. Bak took up his own mirror and repeated the signal, alerting the men on the opposite incline.
They, too, scurried out of sight.
“They’re coming!” Pawah whispered.
Catching the boy by the arm, Bak hustled him up the slope and into the deep shadow beneath an overhanging segment of cliff, where they could not be seen from the wadi floor. His weapons and shield lay against the wall.
The swallows wheeled through the air near the alcove, their squeaks loud and angry, scolding the intruders.
“Were you also being held back, Pawah, as Meretre was?”
Hope for a respite fled from the boy’s eyes. He lowered his head, hiding his shame, and spoke so softly Bak could barely hear. “The two of us, she and I together, were dis played over and over again to whet the appetites of wealthy customers.”
Bak muttered a curse. A girl of twelve or so years, a boy of eight or nine. A package to sell to the highest bidder.
Could this be the child’s secret, he wondered, the reason he’s so afraid? No, he was a long way from Thutnofer’s house of pleasure, safe from that particular degradation.
“Sennefer didn’t buy the two of you, did he?” He doubted the nobleman that kind of man, but the question had to be asked.
“Oh, no, sir! He found me after I ran away.”
So Thutnofer still owns the boy, Bak thought. Or perhaps
Sennefer or Amonked went to the swine with an offer he could not refuse. “Did Meretre flee with you?”
Looking as miserable as a child could look, Pawah stared down at his hands, shook his head.
Bak’s heart went out to him. Whatever had happened must have been horrendous indeed. “You must tell me, Pa wah.”
The tears began to roll in earnest; sobs broke the youth’s words into phrases. “One night… Three years ago, it must’ve been. A man came into Thutnofer’s establishment.
It was fairly early, but business was good, the rooms filled with pleasure-seekers. Meretre and I were on display.” He tried to stifle his sobs, failed. “The man was young and well-formed, his name Menu. He’d come in before, but never had he been so… So full of himself. So demanding.
He drew Thutnofer aside. Seldom taking their eyes off Mer etre, they sat in a quiet corner and talked. Sometimes their words grew heated. Sometimes they spoke as the closest of friends. In the end, a bargain was struck. Thutnofer raised his hand and beckoned her.”
Sobs choked off the boy’s words; his body shuddered with anguish. He slumped to the ground and clasped his legs close to his breast as if to still the spasms, the sound.
Bak knelt beside him, considered pulling him close, hug ging him. He could not. Pawah was nearly a man, old enough to take offense should anyone treat him as a child.
While the youth exhausted his tears, Bak peeked outside their shelter. Other than the swallows, which had returned to their feeding, not a creature stirred. Then he heard a sound, words as elusive as a puff of smoke carried on the air. Shading his eyes with a hand, he looked toward the upper end of the dry watercourse. He glimpsed, coming out of the sun’s glare, one small figure, two, five, a dozen, striding down the path along the wadi floor.
The tribesmen were talking to one another-bragging,
Bak suspected, reinforcing their courage with bravado. At the same time, they were cautious, looking to right and left, glancing back as if to make sure they were not alone, that other men were following. They may not have been told that the spies Hor-pen-Deshret had sent out were missing, but they had to assume all who traveled with the caravan were prepared to hold off an attack, with soldiers from the garrison to help.
Pawah, his eyes puffy and almost dry, scooted up beside
Bak. “How long before we set upon them?” he whispered.