Lauren Haney - Path of Shadows

Wensu had rolled out his thin sleeping mat in the most comfortable place in which to rest, a wider than average swath of shade free of fallen rocks. While Nebenkemet and

Amonmose had helped the drovers unload the donkeys, while Ani had wandered across the wadi floor in search of in teresting stones, he had surrounded himself with his posses sions, wasting precious shade better used by men and donkeys than by objects.

“I must speak with you, Wensu.” Bak lifted the young man’s waterbag, inadvertently trailing sand along the youth’s leg, and moved it into the sun so he could sit in its place.

Clearly annoyed, Wensu brushed away the sand and moved the waterbag back into the shade, placing it on top of a basket of clothing and toiletries. “I’m not accustomed to rising so early in the morning, Lieutenant, nor am I used to walking so far. I’m tired and need to rest.”

Unimpressed, lacking in sympathy, Bak said, “I never had the good fortune to meet Minnakht. If I’m to find him, I must know how he looks. Can you describe him for me?”

Wensu appeared torn, reluctant to give up his petulant atti tude but eager to speak of the man he had admired above all others. The latter won out. “He’s an admirable man, one who lives a life of adventure and excitement. A brave man, who daily risks his life so our sovereign and the noble ladies of our kingdom can bedeck themselves as befits their lofty sta tions in life.”

Bak wondered if Wensu’s father had risen through the scribal ranks by spouting similar trite phrases to his superi ors. “I seek Minnakht’s physical description, not your assess ment of his character.”

If Wensu noticed the cynicism, he gave no hint. “I see.”

The wrinkled brow, the slight frown, made Bak wonder ex actly how well the youth remembered the man he professed to admire so much. “He’s a fine figure of a man, much taller than average and broad shouldered, as well formed as a statue of our sovereign’s deceased husband, the Osiris Akheperenre

Thutmose. He has short dark hair, piercing eyes as black as night, and the sun-darkened skin of an outdoorsman.”

“What was he wearing when last you saw him?”

“A thigh-length linen kilt. A very fine broad beaded collar and bracelets. A lovely gold chain from which hung amulets representing the ibex, gazelle, and falcon.” Wensu gave Bak a supercilious look. “You’ll not find him adorned like that out here, Lieutenant.”

No, Bak agreed. What Wensu had described was finery one would expect a young man of substance to wear in

Waset. He wondered if the gold chain was the same as the bronze chain Ani had noticed, the lesser metal turned to gold under the uncritical eye of the young admirer. “Did he reveal anything of himself to you?”

“He told me a few of his many exploits. He spoke of the time he climbed the red mountain, which he said was the tallest in the Eastern Desert. And the time he got caught up in a flash flood and…”

“Did he speak his innermost thoughts?” Bak cut in. “Did he tell you of his dreams, his fears, his failures?”

“Failures? Fears?” Wensu looked shocked at the very idea.

“I doubt he fails at anything he attempts. I’m certain he fears nothing.”

Bak prayed to the lord Amon for patience. The youth was so blinded by admiration that he refused to see Minnakht as an ordinary man with ordinary feelings and dreams. “Other than his love of adventure, did he give any reason for spend ing so much time in the desert and so little time at home in the capital?”

“His father is a commander in the army, assigned to the garrison at Waset.” A look of contempt fell upon Wensu’s face. “An overbearing man, he is, one who wants Minnakht to walk in his footsteps. Where he should support his son’s explorations, he never ceases to argue in favor of the army.”

Interesting, Bak thought. Inebny’s every word and action had made him seem a doting father, inordinately proud of his son and the young man’s journeys into the desert. Had Min nakht truly believed his father disapproved of him? Or had he created an image that would appeal to Wensu, one whose fa ther pushed him to rise through the ranks of the scribal hier archy. Or had Wensu heard what he wished to hear?

As the sun moved westward, the shade widened, shelter ing both men and animals from the burning heat. A light breeze blew up the wadi, stirring the air but offering no relief.

Everyone slept except Rona and Nebre, who each took a turn standing watch. When Bak relieved Rona at midafternoon, the Medjay reported that all was quiet, the wadi deserted. A couple of times, he had heard pebbles fall down the cliff face, but had seen nothing on the rim above.

Seated alone in the sparse shade of an acacia, Bak mulled over the inconsistent and ofttimes contradictory descriptions of Minnakht. He tried to blend them together to recreate the man in his thoughts. A dozen images came and went, none in which he had any confidence.

They were slow to leave the shade. A donkey had stepped on a stone early in the day, but had given no sign. After walk ing on it for several hours and embedding it deeper in his hoof, it had begun to bother him. When the drover began to load him, he favored the one leg. The drover tried to dig out the stone, but succeeded only in hurting the animal and mak ing it fractious. User finally ordered the man away, ap proached the donkey with gentle words and hands, and performed the task, exercising an unexpected gentleness and patience.

By this time, Bak had begun to worry about Kaha and

Minmose. He had heard nothing from them since they had walked up the wadi before daybreak. As if to justify his fears, he more than once saw Nebre and Rona looking up or down the wadi and at the clifftops to either side, their faces clouded by worry.

With the lord Re an hour above the western horizon, preparing to descend into the netherworld, and the caravan already on the move, the two Medjays appeared far up the wadi. Instead of walking down the dry watercourse to meet the caravan, as they normally would have done, the pair sat down in the first patch of shade they found and waited. Their decision to rest told Bak truer than words how tired they were.

He grabbed a goatskin waterbag and hurried on ahead of the caravan. The pair made motions of rising as he ap proached, but he signaled them to remain where they were.

He handed the waterbag to Kaha, who drank from it greedily.

As he had suspected, after so many hours walking the hot and barren land, their waterbag was empty.

“What kept you?” he asked.

Kaha wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and passed the bag to Minmose. “Where yesterday we found a few isolated footprints at widespread points overlooking the wadi, today we found a multitude of tracks. Not here, but far ther upstream. We spent much of the day following them.”

“They were fresh?”

“Each print was distinct, not blurred by time. I’d guess a day or two at most.”

Bak imagined the rough terrain to either side of the wadi.

No man would choose the much more difficult path over the sandy floor of the dry watercourse without good reason. He did not like the implication. “You say a multitude. Can you be more specific?”

“Fifteen to twenty men,” Minmose said. “Possibly more.”

Kaha’s expression was grim. “Men alone, with no women or children.”

Bak muttered an oath. “Warriors, do you think?”

“It would appear so.”

“Nomads?”

Minmose nodded. “Most were barefooted. A few wore sandals that were old and worn.”

“Was the watching man among them?”

“No, sir,” Kaha said. “I looked specifically for the print of his sandal, but never found it.”

“Our caravan is small,” Bak said, thinking aloud. “Fifteen men total, with just six of us equipped and trained to fight.