Lauren Haney: The Right Hand of Amon

Turning his thoughts to the more immediate problem, Bak knelt beside Nebwa. The slain man's face he could see with his eyes closed, but he had yet to get a good look at the swollen body. The skin was gray-white. Pale blotches and ragged tears marked flesh scraped by rocks or other obstacles. A foot with three toes and a missing finger marked the passage of hungry fish or some other carnivorous creature, perhaps a crocodile too young and small to hold on to its feast. Bak had seen worse, for the river was a cruel burial place, but the sight never failed to bring a prayer to his lips that he would die far away from its waters.

He aimed a questioning glance at Nebwa, who had served in Wawat for years and knew many of the men in the garrisons strung along the river. "Do you recognize him?"

"Never saw him before." "Ptahmose?"

The sergeant, who was raising the upper yard, glanced again at the body. "No, sir," he said and turned away to adjust the braces.

Imsiba swung the skiff against the current. The sail rippled in the breeze, caught a stronger gust, and ballooned. The prow sliced through tiny wavelets, holding a course that would carry them to the quay.

Bak studied the lifeless man, picturing him as he had looked when alive and unhurt. The face had been well formed, as flawless as a statue of Maatkare Hatshepsut idealized by the sculptor to make her youthful. Dark eyes, dark regular brows, short red-brown hair curling as it dried in the sun. The body had been of the same perfection, with shoulders and waist and hips, even the height, so well proportioned they would fit a pattern drawn by a master artist. The thigh-length kilt was made of the finest linen and the belt was fastened at the navel by a bronze clasp tangled in the fabric. A ring of gold encircled one finger, its bezel broken and the stone, a scarab most likely, missing.

"A man of quality, from the look of him," Bak said. "A highborn officer?"

Nebwa reached for the hem of the kilt and rubbed the fabric between his fingers. "Maybe a merchant. Some of them, those who have ships above the Belly of Stones and trade with the tribesmen far to the south, have become men of wealth."

Bak rocked forward to take a closer look at the belt clasp. He could see a portion of an embossed design, the profile of a bearded man, a god. "He's no merchant, that I can promise you, but he might be an envoy of our sovereign." "Wouldn't that make Thuty gnaw his fingernails!"

Curious, Bak untangled the fabric and tilted the clasp so they both could see. The twin-feathered crown of the lord Amon rose above the tiny profile. Framing either side were what looked like sheaves of grain but were actually clustered spears. The design represented the regiment of Amon, Bak's old regiment in the capital.

His eyes narrowed. "Impossible!"

"What is?" Nebwa demanded. "What's wrong?" "Not long before I left Waset, a few of the officers, men like me who joined the regiment of Amon soon after Menkheperre Tuthmose took command, began to wear this clasp as a symbol of pride in a military unit we helped rebuild. This man was not one of us."

"Are you sure? His face is so deformed his own brother might have trouble recognizing him."

"I left the regiment less than a year ago, Nebwa. I'm not likely to forget my fellow officers so soon." Bak's voice took on a hard edge. "Even if he joined after I left, he'd have no right to wear the clasp."

He eyed the misshapen face and his anger ebbed. However the man had gotten the clasp, whether by theft or wager or trade, he had surely been repaid a hundredfold for his deceit.

Without allowing himself to think, Bak reached toward the slain man. The task he had to perform was necessary, but one he always dreaded. He pushed his thumb and forefinger into the corners of the cold, clammy mouth, caught hold of the wooden object he had initially thought a tongue, and tugged. The thing resisted and he lost his grip. Swallowing the bile rising in his throat, he shoved his fingersdeeper, tugged harder. A wooden handle popped out and a bronze blade followed. The lifeless head dropped forward, chin on chest.

Bak's eyes darted from the gory weapon-a long, slim chisel-to the drooping head. As he realized what had happened, a chill crawled up his spine. The handle, a handsbreadth long and stained red, had filled the man's mouth. The narrow blade, half again as long as the handle, had been plunged deep into his throat. The flattened metal at the end, sharp and ragged from long use, had torn the flesh, making him bleed inside until he could no longer breathe.

Nebwa shuddered. "What kind of man could take another's life in so cruel a fashion?"

"One_ filled to overflowing with hate." Bak scooted closer to the body to examine the right wrist and the left. Neither showed the bruises or chafing of a rope. "Or so filled with anger he went mad." He ran his fingers through the damp, curling' hair, but could find no lump.

"We'll soon reach the quay," Imsiba said. "Do you wish Ptahmose and me to off-load the body and see it reaches the house of death while you report to the commandant?"

"Off-load it, yes," Nebwa said, "but find somebody else to carry it away. We vowed to return these skiffs to Meru before nightfall, and that you must do."

Across the prow, Bak saw the northern quay close ahead, glimpsed a sailor relieving himself over the stem of a cargo vessel nestled alongside. Farther upstream, a short distance above the southernmost quay and well out in the current, lay the place where the skiff had struck the tree. His thoughts followed the current up the river to where it flowed out of the Belly of Stones. The man had come from there, he felt sure, but from how far away? How long in those waters could a body remain intact?

Ptahmose groaned. "I'd rather face Commandant Thuty than that old devil Meru. When he sees we've holed his skiff, his cries of woe will be heard all the way to Ma'am."

"All men have to dance to the music of an untuned lyre once in a while," Nebwa said.

Bak glanced toward the lord Re, hanging low on the western horizon, then weighed the commandant's summons against the need for information. "Imsiba and I will return the skiffs. We'll drop you two off at the quay and we'll sail on-with this man's body-to the place where the fishermen beach their boats. I've questions that can be answered only by men who earn their bread on the river."

Imsiba voice$ the question in the other men's eyes. "Should you not first report to the commandant, my friend?"

"The days are very hot, Imsiba, and unkind to the dead. This body will soon lose its color and form unless it's dealt with in the house of death. I wish the fishermen to see it now, before any further change takes place."

"Well, Meru, what do you think?" Bak didn't know which was worse, the cloying scent of death, the reek of the grizzled fisherman hunkered on the opposite side of the body, or the rank odor of fish emanating from the half dozen skiffs beached along the shore.

Meru, his mouth puckered in thought, rocked back on his bony haunches and scratched the inside of his thigh. "He died at the hands of another, I'd say."

Imsiba shook his head as if unable to cope with so ridiculous a statement. Three younger fishermen, stark naked, smirked at each other over the nets they were spreading out to dry on rickety driftwood frames.

Bak, well acquainted with the games the villagers played, implored the lord Amon to give him patience. "Your years have given you wisdom, old man, but even I, in my youth, can see how he lost his life."

"Could've been…" Meru eyed the body; his torn fingernails worked their way toward his dirty, tattered loincloth. "Could've been thrown from a ship up by the Belly of Stones."

"Don't be an ass, Meru!" Imsiba nudged the old man's shoulder with a knee, not hard enough to tip him over but with enough force to remind him that he could end up sprawled facedown on the ground. "No ships have sailed beyond Buhen all week."