Lauren Haney - The Right Hand of Amon

The sergeant untied two jars, twisted out the rock-hard earthen plugs, and handed one to his guest.

Bak took a long drink of the warm, thick liquid. Raising the jar to his companion, he smiled. "An excellent brew, Sergeant."

The soldier took a long pull, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "You have questions, sir?"

Nothing like a jar of beer to turn strangers into friends, Bak thought. "How long ago did you hear of Lieutenant Puemre's death?"

"We heard he was missing three, maybe four days ago. We didn't know his ka had fled his earthly body until the patrol passed by this morning."

"I came upon him floating past Buhen four days ago. Did you or your men see anything in the river that day or the day before? Anything that might've been his body?" The sergeant laughed, swept his arm in an arc embracing the great river below. "Could you spot a body out there?" To the north and south, as far as the eye could see, spread an awesome panorama of cluttered boulders small and large, some fringed with reeds, some tufted with mimosa or crowned with acacia or palm, all with tendrils of water writhing around them or waves leaping over them or falls cascading among them. What might have been a piece of driftwood or a crocodile or a figment of Bak's imagination appeared in a quiet pool, then drifted into a fast-moving stream, dropped over a watery ledge, and was sucked into a vortex of foam.

Bak's eyes darted upward, where he saw a half dozen black specks wheeling in a loose circle high overhead. "Wouldn't a corpse attract vultures?"

"Oh, I've no doubt they spot any likely meal in the water, but as they prefer dining on dry land, they'll look for something that's already washed ashore."

Bak felt like a man banging his head against a stone pillar. "Did you see…" Doggedly he described Seneb's caravan for the second time that morning.

"We no doubt saw it," the sergeant said, "but from this distance, one caravan looks much like another. As long as they keep to the trail and behave themselves, we mind our own business. Only if we spot marauding tribesmen or someone in trouble do we signal the patrol. It's their job to keep order on the desert track."

Leaving the lean-to, they walked toward the watchmen hunkered down at the edge of the precipice, looking out over the river.

Bak hated to go with no more knowledge than when he had come. Perhaps if he went on a fishing expedition… "How long have you been posted here without a break?"

"Nine days. Tomorrow will end our time on duty, and we'll be relieved by other men until our next stint." "Do you have much contact with Iken?"

"The patrol comes by each morning to deliver fresh food and drink."

"And garrison gossip as well?" Bak grinned.

"We're no good to anyone if we don't know what's going on around us." The sergeant spoke with a solemn face and a twinkle in his eye.

"I've often found gossip useful," Bak agreed, "but only when filtered through a fine sieve."

"That goes without saying." The humor fled from the sergeant's face, and he grew thoughtful. His eyes darted toward his fellow watchmen; he seemed about to speak but unsure of the ground on which he trod.

"Could it be that you've stumbled onto a chunk of granite which might contain a grain of gold?" Bak prompted. The sergeant nodded, to himself rather than Bak, and walked on toward the precipice. "One of my men was told a tale two nights ago. It's probably of no merit, for it was based on the ramblings of one too besotted by beer to speak his own thoughts. What you'll make of it, I know not, but I feel you should hear it."

"I'll measure its worth with care," Bak assured him. The sergeant knelt among his men, and Bak seated himself on a rocky knob beside them. The former spoke to the oldest of the three spearmen, a tall, gaunt man with thick white hair. "This is Meryre. He walked to Iken two nights ago to see his wife. She's young and soon to bear him a child, so he worries needlessly. Since I'm as soft-hearted as he is soft-headed, I let him go some nights to see her." The older man flushed like a boy talking of his first love. "Tell this officer the tale you heard in the house of pleasure of Sennufer," the sergeant said.

"I've known Sennufer since we were young and green," Meryre explained. "We soldiered together many years ago, and his wife looks in on my wife each day. I always stop to hear of her before I go home and to share a jar of beer with my friend. That night he told me so strange a tale I truly thought it born in the brewer's froth."

Meryre paused, looked at the sergeant and Bak as if uncertain whether or not he should continue. Both men nodded encouragement.

"A man had come the night before, Sennufer told me. He was utterly besotted, stubbing his toe on the threshold as he entered and stumbling against the other customers. Sennufer took him by the arm and sat him down and half listened to his ramblings while he went on about his business.

"The man claimed the lady Hathor had come to him, offering him pleasure through the night. For privacy, she led him outside the walls of the city to a nest among the rocks and gave him jars of beer without number. At last he closed his eyes and, as goddesses are apt to do, she vanished in his dreams. Voices woke him, he claimed, men's voices raised in anger."

Meryre scratched his nose, remembering. "He told Sennufer that one man turned away, thinking to leave, but the other grabbed him from behind and thrust a knife into his mouth. The injured man struggled to get away, but the other was stronger. Soon he collapsed and the man who stabbed him shoved him into the river."

Bak sat immobile, unable to believe his good luck. If he could find that man, that witness, he'd soon lay hands on the one who slew Puemre.

"I can see by your face, you think this tale a true one," the sergeant said.

"It matches the way I believe Puemre's life was taken," Bak admitted. "Do you know anything, Meryre, of the man who told this tale to Sennufer?"

Meryre shrugged. "He was a craftsman, I think, but I know not who Tie is or what he does. Go see Sennufer and ask him."

Bak felt like shouting his thanks to the lord Amon. He had done it! He had solved the mystery of Puemre's death before ever setting foot in Iken. Or had he? Would a man so besotted remember the face of the killer five long days after he witnessed the murder?

The lord Re's solar barque had long since tipped its prow toward the western horizon when they displayed their traveling passes at Iken's northern gate. Continuing along a well-trod path, they crossed an empty stretch of windblown sand before reaching an outer town of stone and mudbrick houses. Many had partially collapsed, some showed signs of burning, and all were blanketed with varying depths of sand. Bak knew they had been built and occupied many generations before, and had been allowed to deteriorate during those terrible years when the armies of Kemet had abandoned Wawat to Kushite kings. Since the Kushite armies had been soundly defeated twenty-seven years ago, the number of soldiers needed to man the garrison was small, and the houses had never been rebuilt.

Flimsy lean-tos and mud-daubed reed mats had been tacked onto structures with broken walls and fallen roofs, providing a modicum of shelter. The dusky-skinned people living there, plainly Kushites, watched the three strangers pass by with shy curiosity. Bak guessed they had come from far to the south to do business in this important trading and manufacturing center, and had set up temporary residence in the ancient dwellings. Thuty had described Iken as "a city as large as Buhen, seven hundred or so people, with half the number of soldiers and twice as many civilians, many of them transients."

They soon entered the lower city, which was more stable in appearance, with warehouses, workshops, and interconnected blocks of white-plastered mudbrick houses. A close look, however, showed as many buildings empty as occupied, some falling in on themselves, others unpainted and neglected.