Lauren Haney - The Right Hand of Amon

Bak had thanked the lord Amon many times that he had been spared a stepmother. "Your apprentice said you had clues to the malady, yet how could you? Until yesterday, you never laid eyes on the boy."

Kenamon looked in at the prince, his expression a mix of self-satisfaction and compassion. "I asked many questions of the couriers who came from Amon-Psaro, and I talked with men who've lived in his capital. Through the months, I learned much of Amon-Karka's sickness and the way he lives and even the weather. I came to know as much about him as his servants do, and more, I think, than his father knows."

"And from among the details of his life, you plucked out the clues to his illness." Like a policeman searching out a murderer, Bak thought, though so illustrious a physician as Kenamon might not appreciate the comparison.

Kenamon walked back to his stool and sat down. "By the time we sailed into Buhen, I knew he suffers most during the months before the river rises, when the winds blow hard from the western desert. I knew he grows ill when he travels or when he drives a chariot or plays with his dogs." He took a daub of ointment on his fingers and waited for Bak to settle down on the pillow. "I thought I knew the cause-it's common enough in children-but I couldn't be sure."

Kenamon spread the ointment over the cut. "The reports I heard during his journey from Semna seemed to verify my diagnosis. When they brought him to me here and he responded so quickly to medication and prayer, I knew I was right. He has a breathing sickness that befalls many children. Most outgrow it; some never do."

Bak thought of the lord Amon and the long journey he had made from the land of Kemet. He thought of the great tribal king who had traveled from far-off Kush in the firm belief. that the greatest of the gods would answer his prayers. "Have you told Amon-Psaro his son may never recover?"

"He knows I can do nothing but ease the boy's symptoms." Kenamon wrapped a bandage tight around Bak's arm to hold the cut together and tied the ends in a small, neat knot. "I've told him how best to protect the boy from further attacks. Other than that, all we can do is pray and make suitable offerings."

"Then I'll get well, won't IT' The childish voice drew both men's eyes to the doorway and Amon-Karka leaning against an upright, rubbing one leg with the other foot. Before the priest could answer, the prince's large dark eyes darted toward his patient. "You must be Lieutenant Bak, the policeman who saved my father's life. The one who went through the rapids."

Without thinking, Bak spoke as he would to an ordinary child. "How'd you guess?"

The boy laughed, delighted by the quick rejoinder. "Because you're bandaged all over, halfway to being a mummy."

Bak grinned. "Are all princes so impertinent?" Amon-Karlgn wrinkled his nose at the smelly room behind him, sauntered over to the two men, and plopped down beside Kenamon. "Can I watch?" His eyes leaped from the priest to Bak. "Will you tell me about the rapids? And the man you chased? And how you knew he wanted to slay my father?"

Bak hoped, if ever he got to meet Amon-Psaro, that he would be as bright and open-hearted as his son.

"Lieutenant Bak." The herald's voice resonated with authority. "Son of the physician Kames of the southern capital of Waset in the land of Kemet. Lieutenant of chariotry in the regiment of Amon. Lieutenant of the Medjay police at the fortress of Buhen. Right hand to Commandant Thuty of Buhen."

The man stepped back so Bak, on his knees, his forehead on the floor mat, could no longer see his feet. All he could glimpse was the edge of the dais on which Amon-Psaro sat. The rough surface of the mat dug into his scabbed knees; his broken arm throbbed. A heavy perfume smelling of lilies and myrrh tickled his nose. He prayed he would not sneeze.

"You may stand, Lieutenant," Amon-Psaro commanded.

Bak rose as gracefully as his battered muscles allowed and stood at rigid attention. The king studied him in silence, taking in the bandages and bruises, the splint. Bak, clinging to Kenamon's prediction that the interview would go well, examined Amon-Psaro as closely as the king studied him, but not as openly.

As he had the day before, the king wore the garb of a royal son of Kemet: simple white kilt, multicolored broad collar, and bracelets, armlets, anklets, and rings of gold and precious stones. Twin golden cobras mounted on a golden diadem rose above his forehead, and he carried a scepter of gold. Spotless white bandages covered the cuts across his ribs and arm. He sat enthroned on a gilded armchair, his feet on a matching footrest. The royal backside was made comfortable on a thick red pillow embroidered with gold threads, and the royal spine was eased by a magnificent leopardskin draped over the back of the chair. Every inch a king, he was also a man: tall, muscular, leonine. Attractive at close to forty years; no doubt doubly so in his youth-especially to women.

Red-and-white banners fluttered from the frame of the open pavilion in which he sat. Two of Bak's Medjays stood guard with two soldiers from the king's homeland. Other than a few lookers-on, only a half dozen functionaries stood nearby, murmuring together while they waited to obey their ruler's slightest command.

"I owe you my life, it seems," Amon-Psaro said. "Yes, sir."

"Commander Woser tells me he looked upon Inyotef as his friend, and he had no suspicion of wrongdoing. He says only your tenacity unearthed the plot to slay me."

Bak suspected the king would prefer a simple yes or no answer, but if he did not speak up the mute child Ramose would soon be buried and forgotten in a desert grave. "The boy who died at Inyotef's hands, the one who served Lieutenant Puemre, left drawings behind pointing to a plot. Without them, I'd have been as blind as the commander."

"The boy, yes." Amon-Psaro's thoughts turned inward. "Younger even than my own son." He rubbed his eyes as if to rid himself of the vision. "I've asked Commander Woser to see him properly entombed. I pray the gods give him a voice and hearing in the netherworld, and he leads a better life than in the past."

"Thank you, sir."

"No, Lieutenant, it's I who must thank you. Not merely with words, but with all the good things of life." AmonPsaro sat up straighter on the throne and his voice grew more formal. "I wish you to return with me to my capital in the land of Kush and serve as my right hand while I govern my people. I've few men I trust and I believe you'd be a worthy adviser. I'll give you a fine house, much land, and many cattle. And so you may fill your life with children, I'll give you my youngest sister, a woman of merit and beauty."

Bak was struck dumb, The offer was the last thing he expected-or wanted, for that matter. It was too generous by far, the task too demanding for one who had no experience in such lofty company, too precarious according to Senu's wife. But how, he wondered, does one say no to a king?

Late that evening, Bak stood atop the fortress wall, looking out over the roaring waters that had come so close to taking his life. Seen from above, the rapids looked like a demon's brew boiling in a great cauldron, with the water bubbling and foaming and pounding the deadly boulders, teasing the eye with a multitude of rainbows trembling in the mist. The sight filled his heart with awe. How had he survived? He felt sure that walking the corridors of power would be equally dangerous.

"Do you often swim in such waters?" Amon-Psaro asked, his voice raised to be heard over the thundering rapids.

Bak swung around, startled, and fell to his knees. "Stand!" the king commanded. "I'll have no bowing and scraping from you, Lieutenant." _ Bak hastened to rise. "Yes, sir."

Amon-Psaro had abandoned the glitter and gloss of office, he saw, retaining only the royal diadem and the broad collar and bracelets of gold and lapis lazuli that he had worn during the procession through the city the day before.