Lauren Haney - Curse of Silence

“Thaneny…” A slender youth of about twelve years peeked into the room. “Oh, we’ve a guest. I’ll come back later.”

“Come in,” Bak commanded the already retreating fig ure.

From the deep ruddy skin and dark, tight curls, he guessed the boy was a child of the western desert, the her ald Pashenuro had befriended, another individual who must journey across the desert sands for no good reason. A child brought along, like the concubine and her servant, not out of necessity but to satisfy Amonked’s personal needs. And how was Thaneny to travel? A man whose every step was a struggle.

The boy turned back, his eyes wide with curiosity. He held four ostrich feathers, their long shafts rising far above his bony shoulder.

“You found something for her.” Thaneny gave the youth a grateful smile. “I thank the lord Thoth.” Thoth was the god of writing and knowledge, the patron of scribes.

“I found a merchant who’s come from far-off Kush.”

Guilt vanquished the boy’s sunny smile and he glanced around as if afraid he had been heard. “I know Amonked told us not to stray, but when I asked the drover Pashenuro where I could find something for mistress Nefret… Well,

I had to go aboard a ship outside the walls of Kor.” His eyes leaped toward Thaneny’s face and an anxious smile touched his lips. “The feathers were worth it, don’t you think? She’ll like them, won’t she?”

“How can she not?” The scribe took them from the boy, held them at a distance, nodded. “Yes, they’re lovely. No woman could ask for better.” The pleasure left his smile and resignation entered his voice. “Now I fear she’ll wish to visit that ship.”

“It’s gone. The captain wanted to reach Buhen before full dark.”

Thaneny gave the boy a relieved smile, then his eyes flitted toward Bak. “Pawah, this is Lieutenant Bak, officer in charge of the Medjay police. Pawah is Amonked’s her ald.”

The boy gaped. “A police officer? Really?”

Forming a smile, Bak asked the boy, “Have you always lived in Kemet, or was Wawat the land of your birth?”

“I was born here, sir, into a tribe that roamed the desert.

Five years ago, when a drought struck and many waterholes dried up, my father traded me to a merchant so my brothers and sisters wouldn’t starve.”

Thaneny laid his arm across the boy’s shoulder as if to shelter him. “The merchant took him to Waset and traded him to the owner of a house of pleasure. Later, Sennefer bought him, saving him from unspeakable cruelties, and passed him on to our household. He’s been with us ever since, a part of our family.”

Bak ruffled the boy’s hair, distracting him from his un pleasant past. “Are you glad to be back in Wawat?”

“It’s all right.” Pawah shrugged. “As long as I can serve my master, I’m happy anywhere.”

Bak eyed the pair standing before him. He wondered how they would feel about Amonked a week or two hence, after spending the days marching across the hot, barren des ert and the nights trying to sleep in cold, drafty tents.

They’d not be so charitable, he suspected.

“What am I to do, sir?” Pashenuro asked. “Return to

Buhen? Or travel upriver with you?”

“You’ll remain with the caravan.” Bak had been unde cided as to where the sergeant would be better placed, but a brief visit to the animal enclosure and a close look at the mounds of supplies that had to be transported had given the answer. “Seshu is greatly overburdened. He needs a strong right hand, and that you must be. Say nothing of your true task to anyone in Amonked’s party. As long as they believe you to be a drover, they’ll speak with a far less guarded tongue when you’re near.”

“Yes, sir.”

They sat with the archers from Buhen, who were seated around a rough mudbrick hearth to absorb the small amount of warmth the dying fuel offered. The men passed around large cooking bowls containing braised duck and vegeta bles, a feast to send them on their way upriver. The fire in the hearth oft times flared, making the barracks wall behind them glow, but its light was transitory, its heat negligible.

“Maintain your friendship with the youth Pawah. I doubt he’s had any contact with his family since he was taken from the land of Wawat, but be watchful anyway. I don’t want the child tempting his desert kin with tales of Amon ked’s wealth.”

“I understand, sir.”

Bak raised his voice, catching the attention of the men around them. “You all know Pashenuro as a policeman, but to Amonked and all who travel with him, he’s a drover.

The truth must never be aired.”

“I’ll personally geld the first man to betray him.” Nebwa, closer to the hearth, scanned the circle of archers, his eyes catching the flame, burning with promise. “Do I make my self clear?”

The men murmured assent.

“What am I to do, sir?” Sergeant Dedu asked.

Nebwa reached into a bowl and tore the wing off the remains of a duck. “I’ve not traveled through the Belly of

Stones for several years, so I’ve lost touch. This journey will give me a chance to perform an inspection of my own, to check on the state of repair of the fortresses, the needs of the officers and men, their morale.” He tore the wing into two parts and gnawed off a bite. “I know Seshu could use you, too, but as I’ll be otherwise occupied much of the time, you’ll be of more use as a military man, standing at the head of these archers. You’ve some experience with the bow and you’ve spent many long weeks on desert patrol, so you know how dangerous this land and its people can be. Especially if Hor-pen-Deshret has come back. Frankly,

I doubt the rumor is true, but you never know.”

Hissing a sudden warning, Pashenuro shoved himself backward to vanish in the dark. Two men strode out of the gloom beyond the hearth, Lieutenants Horhotep and Mery mose. How much they had overheard, Bak could not begin to guess.

“What do we have here?” Horhotep looked around the circle of men, his lips curled into a sarcastic smile. “Good food. Good company. Entertaining tales designed to bolster courage and self-worth. What good fortune for us. May we join you?”

Pashenuro’s hearing was as sharp as a jackal’s, Bak knew. With luck, this cursed military adviser had been so preoccupied with planning his own performance that he had heard nothing but the march of his own two feet.

Horhotep glanced at Bak and surely saw him, but his eyes came to rest on Nebwa. He looked down his nose at the more senior officer, assuming a superiority designed to chafe. “First you try to frighten Amonked with talk of im minent attack by Baket-Amon’s subjects, who in truth are nothing but impoverished farmers. Now you speak of rag tag tribesmen as an army. What do you take us for, Troop

Captain? Children who’ll believe any tale you throw at us?”

Lieutenant Merymose stepped back a pace, as if distanc ing himself from the sharp-tongued adviser.

Nebwa stood up, teeth bared in an unfriendly smile. “If we come upon an enemy during this journey, even if only one man with a pole sharpened to a point for use as a spear,

I pray to the lord Horus of Buhen that you’ll be the first to face him.” He spat on the ground, reinforcing the contempt in his voice. “You with your proud bearing and unproven courage. How will you fare when tested?”

“You swine!” Horhotep, forgetting himself, throwing off his haughty indifference, reached for his dagger, drew it.

An archer slipped back, out of range of the flickering light cast by the fire. He took a bow and quiver from among several leaning against the barracks wall and armed the weapon. Two other men followed his example. Aware the situation could rapidly go out of control, Bak scrambled to his feet.