Happiness gave way to caution and Bak's smile faded. "If I must go upriver, it should be soon. Searching for a man bent on escaping justice is like tracking a wild creature across the desert. The older the signs he's left behind, the fainter they become."
"Too many questions remain unanswered to make the decision now. And I've another matter to discuss, one equally important if not more so."
Bak felt deflated. Before he had entered the room, it had never occurred to him that he might be allowed to do more than learn the dead man's name and where he came from. Now that he knew he might have the responsibility of searching for the slayer, he longed to get on with it. What could be more important than balancing the scales of justice?
Thuty bade him and Nebwa be seated, settled back in his chair, and reached for a stemmed drinking bowl standing on the table near his elbow. "About two months ago, a courier came through Buhen on his way to Kemet. He carried a message from Amon-Psaro, a powerful tribal king from the land of Kush. Perhaps you know of him."
Bak had heard the name but knew nothing of the man, whose sphere of influence lay far to the south, well beyond the Belly of Stones.
Nebwa grew thoughtful. "A man to be watched. One who has great influence over the other kings in that wretched land. I'd not like to face the army he could gather if ever he should find a reason to make war on the land of Kemet."
"Nor would I," Thuty agreed. "We, with the other garrisons on the Belly of Stones, would be the first to face him. I doubt we'd have the strength to hold him back long enough for reinforcements to come to our aid."
"Has a trader or someone else with business in the south committed an offense Amon-Psaro can't overlook?" Bak asked.
"Not at all." Thuty's smile came and went in an instant. "His firstborn son, a child of ten or eleven years and heir to the throne, suffers from an illness no physician has been able to cure. The courier carved a message to our sovereign, Maatkare Hatshepsut herself, asking that the lord Amon be sent to Kush to heal the boy."
"I can well imagine the physicians who live in that vile place," Nebwa scoffed. "Little more than daubers of tainted mud, would be my guess."
"Not a request lightly refused," Bak said.
Thuty nodded. "The lord Amon and the physicians traveling with him set sail as soon as they could. Almost a month ago."
No wonder the commandant hopes to avoid the problem of the slain man! Bak thought. The god would pass through Buhen and travel up the Belly of Stones, and the responsibility for his safety and well-being would rest on Thuty's shoulders.
Thuty stretched out his legs, crossed his ankles, and sipped from his bowl. "Even then, couriers came and went, one after another. Because the fortress of Semna lies at the head of the Belly of Stones on the border of Wawat and Kush, it was selected as the meeting place. Ceremonial etiquette was established, and the numbers and ranks of those who would accompany each party were decided." He took another sip and set the bowl on the table beside him. "I chose the two of you to stand among them."
A broad smile spread across Nebwa's face. "We're to travel to Semna with the god?"
All thought of the slain man fled. Bak's disappointment faded to a shadow, and he imagined himself joining the priestly retinue. Then memory of the body hanging over him in the water intruded. "When is the lord Amon expected, sir?"
"Two days, three at most."
Bak almost laughed aloud at the absurdity of the situation. The god and the dead man would most likely demand his attention at the same time. He could see no way of serving both.
Thuty settled deeper into his chair. "You, Nebwa, will provide the men who'll haul the god's barge out of the water and pull it upriver past the worst of the rapids in the Belly of Stones."
Nebwa's face fell at so menial a task.
"Your men will toil only as far as Iken," Thuty reassured him. "From there, each garrison commander will assign his own men to pull the vessel past his segment of rapids, while the river pilot at Iken will assume the responsibility for towing the barge up the navigable stretches of water." He paused for Nebwa's nod, then continued. "You've a second task of greater importance. You must select thirty of your best men. Your responsibility and theirs will be to guard the lord Amon with your lives. He's the greatest of the gods to us, but to the wild men of the desert he's a statue of gold and a temptation for those who seek easy wealth."
Balk was puzzled. "What am I to do if not provide guards?"
"You're to select ten of your Medjays. During the journey to Semna, they'll stand watch over the lord Amon with Nebwa's men. 'Once there, they'll serve as guards of honor to Amon-Psaro."
Bak's heart swelled with pride. To be given so exalted a task was an honor indeed.
"You'll stand at the head of your men…" Thuty's expression soured. "…provided you're not needed upriver to resolve that wretched man's death. If you must search for his slayer, your sergeant, Imsiba, will stand in your place."
Bak bowed his head in acknowledgment, so torn by his own contradictory wishes he could think of nothing to say. He longed to go to Iken, or whatever fortress the slain man had come from, to prove himself worthy of Thuty's confidence. But he also yearned to travel with the lord Amon, to share his men's joy and honor as they served the god and the Kushite king. Could he somehow manage to do both?
Chapter Three
The sentry, tall and muscular with unruly red hair, rested a sweat-slick shoulder against the wall of the twin-towered gate behind him. He grinned at Bak. "You must've fouled the bellies of every scribe in Buhen, Lieutenant. How's this place going to go on without them?"
"Better, no doubt, than usual." Bak had to smile, though thus far the morning had been disappointing-and frustrating. Of all the scribes who had visited the house of death, not one had recognized the slain man. He had not registered in Buhen.
The sentry laughed. "Never saw so many sallow faces in my life."
His good humor attracted the curious eyes of twenty young, raw recruits marching in ragged pairs out of the passage through the base of the tower. A few slowed, others maintained their pace, stepping on the heels of those before them. Their sergeant barked an order, they re-formed. Marching at double time, they burst out of the broad strip of shade cast by the high citadel wall and hastened up the street in the blinding midmorning sunlight. Bak watched with sympathy recalling his own experience as a recruit, until they disappeared through the massive desert-facing gate which pierced the outer fortification.
Homes and workshops of civilians who supported the garrison nudged the thoroughfare to the left and right. Unlike the citadel, where the streets and lanes were straight and orderly, the outer city was a jumble of cramped structures thrown together in a haphazard manner along narrow, crooked lanes. Open patches of sand, walled animal paddocks, and encampments for transient soldiers filled the remainder of the vast rectangle.
"I fear you wait in vain, sir," the sentry said. "Nothing less than a summons from the lord Amon himself could bring Nofery out on so hot a day. She hides from the sun as if she fears she'll melt."
"Her curiosity knows no bounds. She'll come."
The sentry laughed. "She might at that. But do you really expect her to recognize him? Those scribes didn't." Bak's voice turned wry. "It wouldn't be the first time a man neglected to register, yet visited a house of pleasure." He offered a silent prayer to the lord Amon that such would be the case. If not, he would have to cast his net in ever-widening circles, racing against the time when the priest in the house of death deemed it necessary to place the body in a sandy grave or embalm it. With the heat so great, the decision must soon be made.
A shrill, terrified bray drew Bak's eyes toward a cloud of dust rising from the southwest corner of the fortress, where the donkey paddocks lay. The drovers, he guessed, were branding a new herd driven into Buhen the previous day. Closer to hand, thin columns of smoke spiraled up from the metalsmiths' workshops. The sharp smell of molten metal and white-hot fuel mingled with the faint, everpresent odor of manure and the aromas of fish and onions and cooking oil.