Lauren Haney - Curse of Silence

“As storekeeper of the lord Amon, he must now and again toil in the service of the god.”

She rolled her eyes skyward. “He spends hours upon hours in the warehouses, going through records, checking quantities, doing innumerable tasks I suspect could be done by lesser men. He comes home smelling of dusty documents and sometimes of onions or the granary or the animal paddocks.”

Bak had assumed the task a sinecure, Amonked nothing more than a figurehead. Another error, it seemed. “As a favorite of our sovereign, she must often summon him to the royal house.”

“Not so much anymore.” Nefret looked thoughtful. “I don’t know why. Probably because he has too many other tasks.”

“Among them would be to provide masculine entertain ment for lofty friends of the court, such as the hunting and fishing trips you told me about before.”

She waved away a fly. “Also chariot races, wrestling matches, games of skill or chance. Activities all men enjoy,

I’ve been told. Most of the time, anyway.”

Bak asked further questions about these gatherings, but without success. The woman knew nothing about the manly pursuits, nor did she show any interest. Her life clearly revolved around the domestic. “I gather you get on well with Amonked’s wife.”

“Sithathor is wonderful.” Nefret’s face glowed. “She’s kind and gentle and she bears no jealousy toward me, as other wives sometimes do for their husbands’ concubines.”

Her features clouded over, banishing the smile. “My failure to give Amonked the children he wants has been a great disappointment to her.”

“Is she not barren?”

“That’s why he took me into his household.” Nefret’s eyes dropped to her hands; she bit her lip. “I’ve failed them both.”

Bak’s physician father would have suggested that with two women childless, the fault might lay with Amonked, but as no man wanted to think of himself as incomplete, the thought was better left unsaid.

“Sithathor isn’t beautiful or youthful like I am,” Nefret said, “but she has a presence that draws everyone to her.

She’s very well-connected also. Well, you know she’s Sen 196

Lauren Haney nefer’s sister.” The concubine paused, awaiting his nod.

“She can talk to our sovereign with ease, I’ve been told, and is equally comfortable with all the nobility. She gives wonderful parties. She’s…” The young woman stopped, laughed softly. “I guess you can see that I adore her.”

A quick glance toward the sun told Bak he must draw this conversation to a close. Pashenuro would be awaiting him. “Amonked admitted he quarreled with Baket-Amon because of you.”

“So he said.” Nefret looked down at her dress, again smoothing it across her thigh. “Sithathor was angry with me then. She said, and I saw for myself, that the confron tation shamed him.” Her chin shot up and she gave Bak a defiant look. “Baket-Amon was a man with two faces: charming and handsome, but self-indulgent. He wanted me but I didn’t want him. I vowed to die rather than go with him, and Amonked knew I spoke the truth.”

Bak did not believe for an instant that she would take her own life. She was much too fond of herself. “Would you have slain the prince rather than share his bed?”

“No. Only myself.”

“That’s the formation you must slip behind.” Seshu looked toward a black flat-topped hill with steeply sloping sides that rose above the desert sands not far ahead. “The dune on the far side goes all the way to the river. Unless tribesmen have been posted behind it, they’ll never know you’ve gone.”

The lead donkeys were already walking along the base of the formation, as were the members of Amonked’s party.

Bak and Pashenuro, carrying long spears and shields, were fifty or so paces behind, two soldiers among many. A yell cut the silence, drawing every eye toward the rear of the caravan. A drover and a guard, spouting curses, exchanged blows. Men abandoned their positions and ran toward the confrontation. Some donkeys plodded on without their drovers, others stopped in their tracks, a confusion of ani mals, a further distraction.

“May the lord Amon go with you,” Seshu said and has tened off to break up the sham fight. Nebwa sped past a short time later, giving them the briefest of glances and a wink.

Bak and Pashenuro strolled away from the caravan. Two of the feral dogs, one brindled and one gray, trotted after them. Soon men and dogs were hidden from the tribesmen by the formation and the high, seemingly endless dune that had formed on the hill’s downwind side.

The trek across the desert was uneventful, allowing Bak and Pashenuro to reach the river long before dark. A farmer weeding a melon field told them where they would find the hamlet in which the headman Rona lived. The lengthy floodplain, with its heavy black soil squared off into fields and dotted with groves of date palms, was richer in re sources than any other location between Buhen and Semna.

Along much of the oasis and beyond the reach of all but the highest flood, an equally wide but more irregular strip provided enough natural vegetation to offer limited grazing.

The area’s greater wealth and population accounted in large part for the old man’s influence.

As the lord Re slid toward the horizon, turning the sky a flame red shot through with gold, Bak and the Medjay crossed a series of small fields lush with vegetables, fodder, and grain on the brink of harvest. Beyond, they climbed a low bluff to Rona’s village, twenty or so dry-stone and mudbrick houses set among a scattering of spiny acacias.

A heavy blanket of sand crept over the surrounding hills, threatening to smother the dwellings. A serpentine wall, looking small and fragile against so enormous a peril, held back the encroaching desert.

The village dogs, spotting intruders on their territory, be gan to bark, drawing men, women, and children from their homes. The people stood in silence, watching the armed strangers with wary faces and mistrustful eyes.

“I’m Lieutenant Bak, head of the Medjay police in Bu hen. I must speak with your headman, Rona.” Amonked’s ring hung heavy on a leather thong around his neck, a gift of mutual regard, not a bargaining tool.

A stooped old man, using a long staff to help him along, hobbled forward. “I am the man you seek.”

Stopping at a mudbrick bench that overlooked the fields, he sat down with a stiffness that told of worn and aged joints. He pointed toward his feet, indicating Bak should sit on the ground in front of him. Bak preferred to stand, feeling that height gave him an advantage, but prudence dictated he accommodate the old man. Seated cross-legged, spear and shield beside him, Pashenuro kneeling behind with the two dogs, he began the customary ritual, asking about the state of Rona’s health. Proceeding along a time honored path, they discussed the past year’s flood, the promise of an abundant harvest and the flood soon to en velop thirsty fields. The villagers slipped away a few at a time, only to reappear on the rooftops, preparing their eve ning meal while watching and, if close enough, listening.

Courtesies complete, Bak said, “I speak for Troop Cap tain Nebwa, who in turn speaks for Commandant Thuty of

Buhen.”

The old man’s expression hardened. “Don’t try to mis lead me, young man. You speak for Amonked, inspector of the fortresses of Wawat, newly come from the land of

Kemet.”

“I don’t.” Bak thought of the ring hanging at his breast, which made a falsehood of the denial. “Perhaps I do, but not from choice. If I had my way, he’d have traveled no farther south than Ma’am, and there the viceroy would’ve convinced him he came on a fool’s errand.”

Rona looked long and hard at the man seated before him.