As usual, his office was cluttered with objects left for the moment and forgotten by his men and Hori. Writing im plements and an unrolled scroll were spread over the mud brick bench built against the rear wall. Weapons, shields, and leather armor were stacked along a side wall. A white man-shaped coffin stood on end in the corner. A basket half full of scrolls stood between two low three-legged stools. The rich, tangy aroma of cumin was strong, the odor wafting from a small basket confiscated from a man who had claimed to be a physician.
“Why have you come to me?” he asked.
Merymose opened his mouth to answer, but Horhotep raised his voice, overriding the younger officer. “I’m fully aware, Lieutenant, that Amonked gave you permission to post your Medjays around the house we’re to occupy here in Buhen. The offer was well-intended, I’ve no doubt, but their presence is unnecessary.”
His chill tone and smug attitude demanded a comeup pance, and the dangerous glint in Nebwa’s eyes indicated that he, like Bak, wanted very much to give him his due.
Unfortunately, this was neither the time nor the place.
Bak pulled close a three-legged stool and planted a foot on it, displaying, he hoped, a casual indifference to the adviser’s sharp tone. “My men are there not to protect
Amonked’s inspection party, but to impress upon the peo ple of this city that the responsibility for your well-being resides in the hands of our commandant.”
Nebwa spoke up, curt and to the point. “In case you haven’t noticed, Lieutenant, you and your precious inspec tion party aren’t exactly welcome in Buhen.”
“The guards under my command have fought no battles, sir,” Lieutenant Merymose said, “but I’ve been assured that they’re good and brave men, trained especially for duty on the royal estates. A singular honor that should commend them to the most critical of men.”
Horhotep silenced his young companion with an irritated scowl. “Commandant Thuty may hold the reins of power in this godforsaken garrison, but our authority comes from
Maatkare Hatshepsut herself.”
“Thuty is here,” Bak pointed out. “Our sovereign resides far away. By the time she could send men to punish those who would harm you, your dessicated and wrapped bodies would be awaiting burial at the capital.”
Horhotep raked Bak with his eyes, his expression scath ing. “You people, every one from the lowliest camp fol lower to officers of the highest rank, have been here far too long. You’ve settled in, formed a tight little kingdom of your own. You’ve made yourselves aloof from all authority except when it serves your purpose to obey.”
He turned on his heel and stalked to the door. Nebwa, his expression stormy, stepped aside to let him pass. Face aflame, Lieutenant Merymose fled behind his superior.
Bak whistled. “There goes a man who’s already made his decision. One that doesn’t bode well for anyone living along the Belly of Stones.”
“A man yearning for a smile from on high, I’d say.”
Nebwa spat contemptuously into a bowl of sand near the street door. “And a substantial promotion, as well.”
“As you can see, my friend, any man posted here can look the length of the street from the water-side gate to the west wall.” Imsiba made a quarter turn to peer down into the intersecting lane. Much narrower than the street, it ran arrow-straight between the two-story structure on which he stood with Bak and the single-level building block where Amonked and his party were housed. “Like the street, he can see into this lane the entire width of the citadel, in this case from north to south.”
“And he can look down upon the rooftops across the lane,” Bak said, eyeing the white-plastered expanse that covered the interconnected dwellings. “Perfect.”
“I’ve posted two men on the roof of Amonked’s quarters, and I’ve assigned two more to patrol the streets surrounding the block. I believe a day watch and a night watch of five men each more than adequate.”
“How many people dwell in the adjoining houses?”
“Four officers, their families and servants. I thought to move them away, but for three days at most? No.”
“You’ve done well, Imsiba.” Bak walked with the ser geant across the stark white rooftop to a small open court that allowed light into the building and, nearby, an enclosed stairwell. As they descended to ground level, he asked,
“Amonked’s guards are quartered in this building?”
“In the old storage rooms on the second floor.” The big
Medjay chuckled. “Their sergeant, Roy by name, was none too happy, but when I told him the alternatives-tents in the outer city or return to the cargo ship-he agreed.”
“Would they prefer the eastern barracks and have the roof fall down around their ears?”
The thought gave reason for worry. Several generations had passed since the warrior-king Ahmose Nebpehtire had marched victorious against the armies of Kush to retake the land of Wawat. Through the intervening years, most of the old buildings had been repaired; the dwellings reoccupied by the families of officers, senior scribes, and merchants; and the barracks and storehouses either used for their orig inal purpose or converted for a multitude of uses. With a smaller occupying force and no need for haste, a few struc tures-like the eastern barracks-remained untouched. Bak prayed Amonked would see them as a promise for the fu ture, not an indication of neglect.
Nofery’s lion padded across the courtyard and stretched out on a woven palm mat outside her bedchamber. A strong scent of perfume wafted through a rear door, competing with the reek of beer emanating from the front room.
Knucklebones rattled across the floor. A shout of triumph was drowned by a spate of yells and catcalls. No matter how unhappy or worried the people of Buhen, nothing less than a major catastrophe could arrest their desire to wager.
A cool breeze dipped into the courtyard, making the torch sputter. The chill sneaked beneath the linen shift Bak had donned at nightfall, when the lord Re had vanished into the netherworld, stealing the day’s warmth. Nofery, seated on her chair, keeping an eye on the gamblers, had thrown a fringed shawl over her shoulders.
“I didn’t see you among the princes who welcomed
Amonked to Buhen.” Bak handed a fresh beer jar to the tall, dark, heavy man who occupied a stool facing Nofery and settled himself on the mudbrick bench against the wall.
“And you an envoy to the royal house, too.”
With a broad smile, the big man, Baket-Amon by name, raised his jar in salute. His oiled body glistened in the light of the torch, as did a gold pendant of the ram-headed Amon that hung from a heavy gold chain around his neck. “As a man who shares my name, one I’m pleased to call a friend,
I pray the lord Dedun will give you a long and happy life and many sons.”
Dedun was the primary god of the land of Kush, a deity worshipped by many of the people who lived along the
Belly of Stones. Bak suspected the lord Amon held pride of place in Baket-Amon’s heart when he sat side-by-side with men of Kemet and the local god when he dwelt among his people in Wawet.
He returned the salute. He knew he could never be close to this man-as a tribal prince of Wawat, Baket-Amon fol lowed a very different path-but to be counted among his friends was more than satisfactory.
“Five or six princes met Amonked’s ship, they tell me.”
Nofery’s brows drew together in disapproval. “Too many, considering he’s come to rape the Belly of Stones.”
As Bak had expected, Amonked’s mission had soared on the wings of idle speculation, exaggerating an inspection with ominous possibilities to tales of Kemet’s total aban donment of the frontier. Nothing less than the inspector’s immediate return to Waset would halt the rumors.
“Prince Baket-Amon.” A pretty young woman with a long braid hanging to her buttocks fell on her knees before the prince and offered him a bowl of honeyed dates.
Around her hips she wore a bronze chain with pendants that tinkled as she moved.