The Right Hand of Amon (24 page)

"The officers there, he told me, were youthful men firmly settled in their ranks, leaving few opportunities for a newcomer. He thought promotion would come faster on the frontier."

"So he came to Iken, where all the officers were older men; firmly settled in their ranks."

Minnakht stared straight ahead; his voice turned defensive. "If the truth were known, the officers in the regiment of Amon probably turned their backs against him, as they did here."

Yes, Bak thought, like most men of courage and integrity, they had no time for a man who thought himself more deserving than he was. "You got along well with him, I've been told."

"He wasn't the easiest man to please, but he was a good officer-the best I've ever known." The sergeant turned away so Bak could not see his face, and a huskiness filled his throat. "When any of us needed help, he was generous with both his time and his wealth. When we marched into battle, he was the first to face the enemy, and he was the bravest. Once he understood the ways of the frontier, he never planned a skirmish that failed."

Bak was surprised at Minnakht's depth of feeling, like a man grieving for a friend rather than an officer. "What of mistress Mutnefer? Did he speak to you of her?"

"Many times. He thought her a kind and gentle woman, one to love through eternity. He meant to take her with him when he went back to Kemet." Minnakht's eyes spilled over. With an annoyed grimace, he brushed away the tears. "He planned to make her his wife."

Bak gave him a sharp look. "His wife? She told me he meant to keep her as his concubine."

"He talked many times to me of facing his father over the matter, but he never told her. He wished to surprise her."

Bak had seldom heard so sad a tale. No wonder Minnakht was upset. "It's best she never knows. Her life's already filled with toil and poverty. To add the knowledge of what might have been would double the hardship."

"She'll not hear it from me, of that you can be sure." Minnakht glanced at Bak as if searching for approval. "I mean to take her for my wife, if she'll have me."

"Mutnefer?" Bak asked, startled by the admission. "My wife died in childbirth two years ago. I've felt no great need for a home and family since her death, but now the time has come. I want Mutnefer, and I wish to take the child as my own."

"You're certain Minnakht was in the barracks when Puemre was slain?" Bak asked.

"Yes, sir." Pashenuro's eyes darted along the line of men carrying old, dry bricks up the path from the supply boat to the island fortress. "He stayed the night, as always."

They stood at the gate, watching the men work with an ant-like patience and tenacity. The sun was dropping toward the western horizon, the shadows lengthening, the northern breeze carrying away the intense heat of the day. The sharp chirp of a sparrow sounded above the roar of the rapids. The mound of bricks on deck shrank rapidly as crewmen shifted their cargo onto trays suspended from yokes across the shoulders of the infantrymen. They, in turn, plodded up the steep path, balancing the unfamiliar load with care, and deposited the bricks at the base of the walls, where they were raised to the scaffolding or ramparts for use by m1n repairing broken sections of wall.

"Would his men lie for him?" Bak asked.

"Others were there, too," Pashenuro said. "Outsiders who'd have nothing to gain by saying they saw him when they didn't: eleven guards traveling north with a royal envoy and three spearmen journeying upriver for assignment at Semna."

"I see the sense in Minnakht's taking Mutnefer as his wife," Bak admitted, "but when he confessed he coveted her, I was sorely tempted by the obvious conclusion. If I thought Puemre's death an ordinary murder, I'd have locked him away then and there."

"I like him." Pashenuro's eyes darted toward another cargo boat coming around the end of the long island, an idle craft Minnakht had searched out after his men had found several productive sources of brick. "Lieutenant Puemre was lucky to have him in his company."

"Pashenuro!" A mason perched high on a scaffold beckoned.

Bak could see his presence was an added burden the Medjay did not need. "You've much to do before nightfall, so go on about your business. I can check the repairs without dragging you around with me."

Bak was more than satisfied with the work that had been done. The repairs on the long eastern wall, which had suffered the least through the years from natural and human erosion, were completed. The fresh plaster holding the patches together could not entirely be disguised, but the wall was whole, with no sign of neglect except for damaged spur walls invisible from the interior. He strode back to the much shorter northern wall and the gaping hole at the west comer, where most of the men were working. Pashenuro had vowed the whole span would be fixed before nightfall. "Those men deserve a reward."

Bak swung around, startled more by the echo of his ownthoughts than the unexpected presence behind him. "Senu! What brings you to this island outpost?"

The short, stocky lieutenant watched a tray of bricks being raised to a broken section of battlement. "I came upon Sergeant Minnakht and his men, tearing down a block of ancient buildings and carrying them away from Iken brick by brick. I wanted to see for myself where all those bricks are going."

What's a watch officer doing way out here? Bak wondered. Especially so near the end of the day when he must soon inspect the sentries assigned to night duty? True, Senu had commanded most of these men before Puemre was given the company; but to come so late? "We'll leave a few buildings standing"-he grinned-"those dwellings that are fully occupied."

Senn laughed. "There's a warehouse not far from my quarters I wouldn't mind seeing pulled down. It was long ago used to store grain; today it holds nothing but rats."

"If you're serious about its destruction, speak with Minnakht."

"I will. The pests are everywhere." Senu eyed the long eastern wall with a studied interest. "How's your search progressing for Puemre's slayer?"

A fishing expedition, Bak thought. Why am I not surprised? "I've been side-tracked today and have faced a major setback, but I'm confident I'll soon lay hands on the guilty man."

If Senu noticed how meaningless the words were, he gave no indication. "Now there's been another death, I hear. The murder of an innocent child. Did the same man slay him, I wonder?"

"I've had no time to tie the threads together, but could his death so soon after that of his master be a coincidence?" Giving Senu no time to form an answer, Bak took his arm and ushered him along the finished wall. "Come, let me show you the work we're doing."

As, they walked, he pointed out several repairs, then said, "I've been told you once fought with our army in Kush, winning the "gold of valor."

"That was a long time ago, twenty-seven years." Senu's face clouded. "I was a callow youth, more foolhardy than brave. I did what I had to do to survive, and the king handed me a golden fly."

Bak glanced at the officer, surprised by his disparaging tone. "You take no joy in the award?"

"Joy?" Senu's laugh was hard and bitter. "I wear the fly only when I must. Only on the most ceremonial of occasions."

Senu was a scarred man, Bak saw, the wounds deep within his heart. What had happened? Was the incident sufficient to fuel a plot to slay Amon-Psaro? "You faced Amon-Psaro's father in battle?"

"Faced him?" Senu scoffed. "He chased us into a narrow valley blocked by sand and hunted us down like vermin. Not one man in four survived." His mouth tightened; he visibly shook off the wrath clouding his visage. "Has your quest for the murderer taken you in any special direction?"

"We're narrowing down the possibilities." Bak saluted the cargo vessel's master, standing at the gate having a final word with Pashenuro before sailing back to Iken. "What saved you from the Kushite army?"

"Woser came with his company." Senu's snort reflected the bitterness of memory. "He was a lieutenant, greener than I was but with fresh troops and the courage of the lady Sekhmet. When the Kushite king saw he might soon become the victim of his own trap, he withdrew, leaving those of us still living cowering among the rocks."

"You must've done something right, Lieutenant. The gold of valor isn't awarded lightly."

"In our desperation, we took many lives." Senu's laugh was sharp and brittle. "Does the number of dead make a hero? No, it's the way one stands up to the enemy."

Bak agreed, yet he could not understand so complete a rejection of the golden fly. A portion of the tale was missing, he was sure. "I've been told you've served in Wawat for many years and even far to the south in the land of Kush."

"My wife came from this part of the world, and my children were all born here." Senu's eyes darted toward the two men at the gate. "I think of the Belly of Stones as my home."

The ship's master waved a farewell to Pashenuro and hurried down the path to the landing.

"Did your duties ever take you to the court of Amon-Psaro?"

Senu's eyes darted toward the departing sailor. "Wait!" he called. "I must go!" he told Bak. "The men assigned to the evening watch could even now be awaiting me."

He swung away, loped to the gate, and rushed outside. Bak followed as far as the empty portal and watched him hurry down the path toward the soon-to-depart vessel. Another supply boat, the last of the day, was moored a short distance upstream, waiting to take its place at the landing, where it could more easily be unloaded. Bak turned away and went back inside. He had no doubt Senu had to inspect the watch, but he had a feeling duty had very little to do with the hasty retreat.

After a final discussion with Pashenuro over additional supplies and rations needed for the following day, Bak hurried out the gate, eager to be on his way before darkness fell. . He had no wish to sail those treacherous waters in the fading light of dusk, and to make the attempt in the dark would be suicidal.

He stopped short at the top of the path. His skiff was gone, no longer tied to the post. Muttering a curse, he glanced upstream, thinking someone had borrowed it. He saw the supply boat, rounding the southern tip of the long island on its way to lken. Other than that, the channel was empty. He swung around, looking downstream. There he saw the skiff, fifty or so paces away, about halfway between the landing and the tumbling rapids. The empty vessel bobbed on the water, its prow aimed upstream, its stern bumping the rocky shore. The mooring rope was snagged on something below the surface, the boat anchored in place, but with the current so strong it was only a matter of time before the vessel broke free.

Bak snarled an oath and plunged down the path. How could that accursed boat have broken loose? At the river's edge, he ran north through the sparse brush, following a line of trees whose roots were washed by the rising waters, risking a twisted ankle on the rough stony terrain. A sparrow darted from limb to limb, scolding him, but its voice was lost in the thunder of the rapids. He drew even with the small craft and, giving no thought to possible hazards such as sharp rocks or old, discarded spearpoints, he stepped into ankle-deep water and reached for the hull. The aft end swung away, tugged out of his grasp by a whim of the current. Or the perversity of the gods.

He took another step into the river, knee-deep now with the current pushing his legs, trying to shove him downstream. Another step, thigh-deep and chilly, the pressure of the current more insistent. He reached for the skiff. It ducked away, darting downstream at least two paces and edging farther from the island, then jerked to a halt. Its anchor, a rock most likely, was shifting on the bottom. He had no time to waste. The rope could break free at any moment and the vessel be carried into the rapids.

Still he hesitated, thinking of the boys he had seen emerge from the rapids that morning, wishing he had one of their goatskins to help him stay buoyant. Erasing so useless a thought from his heart, he gritted his teeth and dived into the water with a mighty shove of his feet. The current caught him, and at the same time his momentum carried him to the skiff. He grabbed the prow. His added weight tore the rope free and the vessel began to swing around, moving swiftly toward the boiling waters, sweeping away any vague idea he might have had about climbing aboard. With a renewed sense of urgency, he caught the rope and, summoning forth his most powerful strokes, propelled himself toward the shore. The skiff seemed to come alive, trying to jerk out of his grasp, but he was a strong swimmer and the distance was short.

As he clod on the row of trees, he found the bottom and stood up. He had been swept so close to the rapids, he could feel the mist carried on the northerly breeze. He waded to dry ground, his knees shaking from effort and tension. The skiff was like a fractious colt, tugging and bucking behind him. Wiping the water from his face, he pulled the vessel close against the shore, where the current was not so strong, and sat on an outcropping rock. He needed to catch his breath-and to offer thanks to the lord Hapi for allowing him and the skiff to reach dry land and safety.

"Lieutenant!" A shout muffled by the rapids.