Lauren Haney - Curse of Silence

Bak suspected was a long-dead mouse.

“In addition to trade goods and tribute,” Thuty droned on, “we also keep here the more valuable items paid as tolls by individuals crossing the frontier on legitimate busi ness and items of worth confiscated from smugglers and other wrongdoers.”

Amonked walked along the narrow aisles, peering at tags, poking and prodding lumpy sacks, sniffing packets wrapped in linen or papyrus or leaves. Horhotep tried to emulate his superior, but could not shut out the wearisome lecture. He glanced often at Thuty, obviously suspicious the commandant was mocking them. Sennefer remained near the entry, taking in everything, saying nothing, wearing a good-humored smile that might or might not have been sincere.

When the inspector indicated he was ready to move on,

Thuty signaled a guard to precede them to the next room.

Larger than the first, it had a ceiling supported on two col umns. Light was admitted through high, narrow windows secured by stone grills. This was the safest room in the treasury, its contents the most valuable. Jars containing pre cious oils, myrrh, and incense. Baskets laden with chunks of stone destined to be worked into royal jewelry. Piles of skins taken from lions and leopards and long-haired mon keys. Ostrich eggs and feathers.

Amonked, his hands clasped behind his back, wandered along the aisles with the same relish as before. At the far end of the room, he stopped before six elephant tusks lean ing pointed-end-up in a corner. “Magnificent.” He glanced at Bak. “Were you not the man who laid hands on the vile criminals who were smuggling tusks downriver?”

“Yes, sir.” Bak was surprised by the question, and by the fact that Amonked would have heard of his exploit.

Horhotep’s head snapped around.

“Lieutenant Bak is a fine officer,” Thuty said, forgetting for a moment the monotone. “We’re fortunate to have him at Buhen.”

“Indeed.” Amonked walked to a small wooden enclosure built into the corner of the room. The solid wood door was closed. A dried-mud seal affixed to the latch verified its integrity. “What have we here?”

Irritated by the quick dismissal, Thuty signaled the guard, who broke the seal, released the latch, and swung the door wide. Gold glittered in the torchlight. Small rec tangular bars stacked in rows. Thick bracelet-sized rings collected on stout wooden rods. Rough kernels, formed when molten gold was slowly poured into water, mounded in baskets. Pottery cones filled with gold dust.

A smile spread across Amonked’s face. “Most impres sive. Would that Maatkare Hatshepsut could be here to see so magnificent a display in its native land. No doubt one day, when I can assure her she’ll suffer no harm…”

“One day soon, I’ll wager.” Horhotep flashed the officers from Buhen a look of satisfaction that reminded Bak of a jackal watching a poor family place a deceased relative’s body in a too-shallow grave in the soft desert sand.

“How did the inspection go?” Baket-Amon asked.

Bak gave him a bleak look. “Let me put it this way: Throughout the day I could imagine Amonked rubbing his hands with delight at so comfortable a place to rest and relax in a land flowing with the bounties of trade.”

The prince, who had been examining a newly repaired rudder on his traveling ship, turned his back to the stern to study Bak’s face. “That bad. I see.”

Noting the objects on deck, baskets and bundles securely tied down and five stalls spread with fresh hay, Bak asked,

“You’re preparing to leave Buhen?”

“Tomorrow at first light we sail north to Ma’am. My firstborn son, my heir, will celebrate his eighth year in four days’ time. I wish to be there.” Baket-Amon flung a per functory smile at the two sailors who had repaired the rud der. “Well done. You’re free to go into the city, but take care how much beer you drink. You must bring the cows from the paddocks at daybreak.”

The men hurried away, arguing about the merits of the several houses of pleasure in Buhen. Nofery’s apparently ranked high in their esteem.

“I’m taking ten cows to Ma’am,” Baket-Amon explained.

“My tribute to Maatkare Hatshepsut. Another ship will carry them north from there.” As a native prince, he was obliged to send gifts to the sovereign of Kemet and to pay court to her as would any subject of note.

Bak walked to the rail and stared out across the water.

Specks of gold and orange and red danced on the swells, a shattered reflection of a sky painted bright by the setting sun. “I’ve come again to ask if you’ll speak with Amon ked.”

“Would that I could, Bak, but I can’t.” Baket-Amon crossed the deck to stand beside him. He looked sincerely distressed, but adamant. “Now more than ever…” He paused, frowned at the water splashing against the hull.

“Now that I’ve seen…” A sharp laugh. “Now that my past has come back to taunt me.” He shook his head. “No, I will not, I cannot speak with Amonked.”

“But, sir…” Bak said, planning to beg if necessary.

“I’d leave Buhen today if I could,” the prince said, cut ting him short, “but the hour is late and neither my men nor I are so foolhardy as to sail through the night.”

Looking closer at the man beside him, Bak saw that his face was drawn, his manner distracted. He clasped tightly the pendant of the ram-headed Amon, as if holding the golden image would give him strength. Whatever had oc curred between him and Amonked must be serious indeed.

As much as Bak hated to give up, he saw that to continue his plea would be fruitless.

Baket-Amon stiffened his spine, pulled his head back, and forced a smile. “I feel greatly in need of diversion. Will

I see you at Nofery’s place of business this evening?”

Bak shook his head. “Like you, Amonked sails tomor row, though in a different direction. So far, the people of this garrison have behaved themselves, pretending to ignore him and his party when in fact they’re seething with anger.

Neither my men nor I dare rest easy until they’re gone.”

“There they go, my friend, and good riddance.”

“My feeling exactly, Imsiba.” Leaning against the para pet that edged the terrace running along the base of the fortress wall, Bak watched the distant flotilla sailing upriver toward the fortress of Kor. With the hulls too low to see, the rectangular sails, swollen by the northerly breeze, looked like birds skimming the water’s surface in the blue morning haze. “I’d be happier if they were sailing north to

Kemet.”

Imsiba broke a chunk of hard bread from the loaf he and

Bak were sharing and dunked it into a bowl of goat’s milk.

“If only Amonked had taken the commandant with him. At least we’d have some reassurance that all might go well.”

“After the inspection, he had nothing but praise for all he saw here. For a short while, I dared hope he was so impressed he’d think Thuty’s presence necessary.” Bak, dipping his bread to soften it, added in a bitter voice, “How wrong I was.”

“This fortress is well-run, the best I’ve ever seen.”

Bak took a bite, testing for hardness. “Lieutenant Hor hotep, oozing honeyed words, reminded Amonked that the warrior kings whose blood he and our sovereign share re built the fortress after centuries of neglect and established the rules by which it’s run.” He popped the soggy chunk into his mouth, ate, and licked the milk from his fingers.

“He made it sound as if anything accomplished since that long ago time is of minor significance.”

“Amonked allowed a glib tongue to influence him?”

Bak shrugged. “I spent the whole day trying to under stand what sways that man. I failed utterly.”