Lauren Haney: Curse of Silence

The vessel neared the quay. The helmsman shouted new orders, the drummer altered the beat, and the oarsmen’s pattern changed. The ship hit the pier with a solid thud and skidded alongside, fenders grinding between hull and stone.

At least half the spearmen were flung to the deck. Sailors threw hawsers over mooring posts, pulling the vessel up short. The soldiers scrambled to their feet.

The lead vessel and another, both sleek traveling ships with bright-painted deckhouses and fore- and aftercastles, swung one after the other into the space between the south ern and central quays, where oarsmen eased them close to their mooring posts. Another pair of ships fell in behind to moor at the sterns of the first two. Colorful banners high on the mastheads snapped in the breeze. The remaining vessels, one a well-appointed traveling ship and the second a sturdier boat that served as a kitchen, docked along the downstream side of the central quay.

A loud, heartfelt curse drew Bak’s glance toward the northern quay, against which was moored a smaller cargo ship. A broad-shouldered man stood on the stern, glaring at a long line of workmen, each with a heavy sack of grain on his shoulder, that snaked from the forward hold, down the gangplank, and up the quay to Buhen’s northern water side gate. Duty forgotten, the men stood tight-lipped and silent, watching the incoming ships and their unwelcome passengers. The overseer leaped from the deck to the quay and strode up the line, slapping a short baton of office against his thigh. The workmen plodded on with obvious reluctance toward the gate and the storage granaries inside the citadel.

The ship, the largest to make Buhen its home port, be longed to Imsiba’s new wife, Sitamon. At present it occu pied its usual mooring place, but the other vessels that plied local waters were not so fortunate. Two trading ships, scarred from hard use and needing paint, lay on the oppo site side of the quay from Sitamon’s craft. Three other trad ing vessels were moored north of the harbor, close to the muddy riverbank. Dozens of small boats and skiffs had been pulled out of the water and lay along the shore. All had been forced out of time-honored mooring places to make space for the visiting flotilla.

“I’ll wager my new kilt that those seven vessels will remain in Buhen throughout the time Amonked travels up river,” Imsiba said in a sour voice.

Bak knew what his friend was thinking: Sitamon’s ship and all those that sailed nearby waters would have to wait in line to load and unload cargo at the single quay available to them. “Where else can they moor this far south? Kor has no space for them.”

Imsiba muttered an oath in his own tongue. He had no desire to captain his wife’s vessel or tend to her business, but anything contrary to her well-being distressed him.

The three small boys scrambled to their feet and ran to the massive pylon gate that stood before the mansion of the lord Horus of Buhen. The snake slithered quickly into a hole in the mudbrick wall. Commandant Thuty, Nebwa, a white-clad priest, and several local princes, each wearing the bright garb of his own people, filed through the portal and walked down the southern quay.

A rather plump man of medium height crossed the gang plank of the lead traveling ship and strode forward to greet them. He wore the calf-length kilt of a scribe, a broad mul ticolored bead collar, and wide matching bracelets. An un impressive costume for a man who trod the corridors of power. A younger man followed, carrying a spear, a shield, and a baton of office; an army officer, Bak guessed. Not far behind walked two more men, both tall and slim, one with hair so light it caught the sun. The women remained on board.

The two parties met and words were spoken. Thuty and his party swung around to escort the newcomers up the quay. A crow flying overhead called to two of its mates perched on the battlements. Their loud, harsh voices shat tered the silence, emphasizing the absence of people and their failure to welcome this man who had come to steal away the fragile prosperity along the Belly of Stones.

Bak prayed to the lord Amon that Amonked would come and go without incident. He did not know the man and he abhorred the task he had traveled south to perform, but he could well imagine the wrath of their sovereign should her cousin suffer hurt or humiliation while traveling at her be hest.

Bak raised his baton of office, saluting the guard standing in the entry hall of the commandant’s residence, and hurried down the corridor beyond. Coming toward him were the priest of the lord Horus of Buhen and the local princes who had accompanied Thuty to the harbor. Greeting them with a smile, he stepped aside to let them pass, then hastened on to the audience hall.

Bright shafts of light reached through windows near the high ceiling and fell into a forest of red octagonal columns.

Across this largest room in the building, he heard voices softened to murmurs beyond the open portals of several rooms in which scribes and officers toiled. The hall itself was empty, the public scribe gone, his place by the entrance unoccupied. No craftsmen or soldiers or traders sat on the long bench built against the opposite wall, awaiting their turn to speak of a record gone awry, a reprimand made, short rations, long hours, or any other of the innumerable complaints arising from life in a frontier garrison. The empty space, the near silence, and unfamiliar voices in the room Thuty used as an office told him Amonked and his companions had not yet gone.

The commandant had summoned Bak, the reason unspe cified. Not sure if he should make himself known or wait until the lofty visitors left, he peeked into a good-sized room with four red pillars supporting a high ceiling. Thuty oc cupied an armchair that held pride of place on a low dais against the far wall. He sat stiff and straight, feet planted flat on the floor, hands flat on the arms of his chair, his demeanor stern. Bak smiled at the stance. Thuty giving the visitors from Waset a taste of frontier formality.

Nebwa, standing at the commandant’s right hand, noticed

Bak and beckoned. Crossing the room, he took his place at

Thuty’s left hand, where he studied the newcomers with interest. Amonked stood immediately in front of the dais.

He was probably in his mid-thirties but looked older. Wear ing no wig over his thinning hair and jewelry that could only be described as modest, he was no more impressive at short range than at a distance. To his left stood the man with golden hair. On his right, a tall refined-looking indi vidual, groomed to perfection, also in his mid-thirties. A nobleman without doubt.

“This is Lieutenant Bak,” Thuty said. “He’s the officer in charge of the Medjay police in Buhen. His men will guard your quarters while you’re here.”

“I have my own guards,” Amonked said. “I need no ad ditional men.”

Bak queried Nebwa with a raised eyebrow. The only guard he had seen anywhere near the commandant’s resi dence was the man in the entry hall, long assigned to the garrison. Certainly not a member of Amonked’s entourage.

“Our worthy guest has brought fifty men,” Nebwa said.

“Spearmen.” Only one who knew the troop captain as well as Bak did would have noticed the covert cynicism.

“They’ll accompany him upriver.”

The soldiers on the cargo ship, Bak assumed. A guard of honor probably. But would they be alert, competent de fenders of Amonked’s person? Directing a smile at the lofty visitor from Waset, he said in a smooth voice, “You’re a man of substance, sir. One who shoulders the weighty tasks of the storekeeper of Amon. My Medjays may not be needed, but their presence will add to your status in the eyes of those who reside in this city.” He dared not look at Nebwa, fearing his friend would laugh aloud at so shameless a ploy.