Lauren Haney - Curse of Silence

His rigid stance and the edge to his voice betrayed his irritation. As the senior military officer in the caravan, he had begun to ready the men for a possible battle, giving no thought to Amonked. The inspector’s summons had caught him off guard, and nothing Bak said could convince him that he was not being called to account. As soon as the pavilion had been erected for the night, while still the don keys were being fed and watered and the men had begun to prepare their evening meal, an ill-humored Nebwa had accompanied Bak to the shelter.

“Lieutenant Merymose and his fifty guards have spears and shields,” Nebwa continued, “but they have no replace ments and no small arms, and not a man among them has had sufficient training. Of the twenty-eight drovers, sixteen are former army men, experienced with bow or spear, but only nine brought along a full complement of weapons.

One porter who brought a basket of herbs, potions, and salves has volunteered to tend any wounded we might have, and Thaneny has offered to help. The other porters have agreed to carry injured men to safety.”

Amonked, seated on his chair, his dog sprawled at his feet, gave Thaneny a look of surprised pleasure.

Bak stood with Nebwa, facing the inspector. Horhotep stood beside the chair, while the scribe, Sennefer, Min kheper, and Merymose stood off to the side. Nefret sat on a low stool in an opening in the hanging that divided the pavilion, with Pawah on the ground beside her, clasping his knees to his breast. Though the chill of night had not yet set in, a brazier burned fitfully, giving off the faint smell of dung not as thoroughly dry as it should be.

“You failed to mention Lieutenant Horhotep,” Amonked pointed out.

Nebwa’s eyes darted toward the adviser. His face re mained impassive. “I’ve yet to learn whether the lieutenant brought arms to Wawat, and I’ve no idea how skilled he is. Until proven otherwise, I must assume he’s no better trained in the arts of war than was Lieutenant Merymose.”

“Are you implying I’m unfit?” Horhotep, an angry flush spreading up his neck and face, glared at the troop captain.

“I’ll have no quarrel!” Amonked barely raised his voice, but his tone broached no argument.

Nebwa went on, unperturbed. “As I’m certain you’ve noticed, Lieutenant Bak, Sergeant Dedu, and I have begun to train Merymose and his men. Given time, they’ll become worthy soldiers.”

“I’d like to take part in that training, if I may,” Sennefer said. “I’m a fair shot with a bow, but my skills with the spear have declined. Other than the wrestling I learned as a youth, I know nothing of hand-to-hand combat.”

Amonked gave his brother-in-law a nod of approval. “I suggest you follow his example, Lieutenant Horhotep. No matter how skilled you are, the practice can do you no harm.”

“Yes, sir.” The vicious look the adviser shot Nebwa would have felled a lesser man.

Bak staved off an urge to applaud.

Nebwa blinked, betraying surprise, but kept his voice level, unemotional. “We can use our batons of office as clubs, as well as other lengths of wood too short to be used for spears, and we can make weapons from unlikely ob jects. For example, several drovers wear leather kilts, which can be cut up for use in slings and to make thongs needed for constructing maces and other small weapons. Spears can be made from poles such as the uprights that support the tents and this pavilion.”

Nefret gasped, drawing Amonked’s attention and a scowl that discouraged complaint. If the inspector himself was dismayed by the suggestion, he betrayed no hint of the feel ing.

“Captain Minkheper,” Nebwa went on, “has offered to show the men how to make these weapons and to see the work done in the best manner possible and at a rapid pace.”

Amonked again nodded approval.

Nebwa said no more, signaling the end of his report.

The inspector broke the ensuing silence, asking the ques tion uppermost in each and every heart. “Should Hor-pen Deshret waylay us with a large force of men, could we hold them off?”

“If they were to attack tomorrow while we’re on the move, I doubt we could. In a day or two, after we’re better prepared, I believe so. We’ll be close enough to Askut by then to summon help. The garrison there is small, but a few well-armed and trained men could make all the difference.”

“What of the local people?” Nefret asked, drawing all eyes her way. “First they were visible day after day and now they’ve gone. Where are they? Lurking somewhere nearby so they, too, can set upon us?”

“I doubt we’ll have to fight on two fronts,” Nebwa said.

“While the people who dwell here don’t like what this in spection party stands for, they hate Hor-pen-Deshret and his ilk.”

“They’ve been victimized by men like him each time the leaders of this land grew careless or weak,” Bak said, mak ing a point he wanted to be sure the inspector understood.

“They may even decide to help us,” Nebwa said, “when

Bak snares Baket-Amon’s slayer.”

“And I will snare him.” The words, spoken firm and positive, were prompted, Bak felt sure, by some mischie vous god recently given a fine offering by Commandant

Thuty, who took his success for granted.

“Lieutenant Bak.” A man, speaking softly but firmly in his ear, caught him by the shoulder and shook him. “Wake up, sir. Wake up.”

Bak rolled over, struggled into a sitting position, and shook his head to clear away the sleep. The night was black, the sliver of moon low, the stars miserly with their light. He could barely make out the individual hovering over him, a drover, he remembered. “What’s wrong?”

“The donkeys are uneasy, sir. Seshu thinks we’ve an in truder. He asked me to summon you.”

Muttering a curse, Bak hauled himself to his feet, found a spear and shield, and looked down at Nebwa and the archers, bundled up in heavy linen to stave off the chill, sleeping soundly. He thought of the man who had slipped in among them to steal their sandals. This might well be a similar prank. If he needed help, he decided, he could sum mon them later. With the drover in the lead, they headed across the encampment. Stepping over sleeping men and around braziers containing fuel long burned to ash, they wove a hurried path through the darkness. The cool night air seeped beneath Bak’s tunic, chilling him to the marrow.

He soon heard the donkeys’ restless movement, their troubled snorts and blowing. The drover led him around the herd to where Seshu stood with Pashenuro and two drovers who had been assigned to keep watch overnight, scaring off predators, preventing the hobbled animals from stray ing, and keeping a wary eye open for desert marauders.

With eyes growing more attuned to the feeble light, he saw that only the men on watch were armed.

“There’s somebody in there, all right,” Seshu growled.

“Have you spotted him?” Bak asked.

A drover shook his head. “Too dark. Can’t see a thing.”

“Are you sure it’s a man and not a jackal? Or maybe dogs?”

“The pack that’s been following us wouldn’t bother the donkeys and they’d chase off any unfamiliar animals, mak ing a racket you could hear all the way to Buhen.”

Pashenuro nodded agreement. “I’d guess a man, sir, probably one of the nomads who’ve been keeping pace with us.”

Bak was not as sure as the sergeant was. The dogs had barked when the tribesmen had first appeared and had since stayed well clear of them, indicating a distinct lack of trust.

Probably because, when catching the big yellow cur for their vile prank, they had frightened the rest of the pack.

“If he’s not to run away in the dark, we’ll need torches.”

As Pashenuro and a drover turned to go, he hastily added,