Lauren Haney - Face Turned Backward

“What’re they up to?” Bak asked Imsiba.

“They’ve a bet, and it rests on your shoulders.”

“Do I want to know the details?”

“It’s simple enough,” the big Medjay laughed. “One man bet you’d throw Hori out in less than a week. The other said you’d let the boy stay longer. Now you’ve given them your decision.”

Bak shook his head in amazement. “They’ll bet on anything.”

“They will.” Imsiba’s smile faded, and he nodded toward the coffin. “Can we not find a better place for that?”

“The entry hall is inappropriate. And we can’t move it into our men’s quarters. They’d rebel. Nor can we put it in the prison area, not with Rennefer in there. Her tongue’s sharp enough as it is, without giving her an object on which to hone it.”

“She’s made no friends among those who stand guard, I can tell you.” Imsiba finished his beer and laid the jar on the floor. “The men long for the day you take her before Commandant Thuty and they’re rid of her.”

“As soon as I can, I will. I’ve had no time yet to document her offense.” Bak stepped over Hori’s mess and looked down at the white man-shaped box. “Leave the coffin here. I’d not like it to remain forever, but a few days will make no difference.”

“Who lies inside?” Imsiba asked, scrambling to his feet to stand beside him.

Bak moved a lamp close and let his eye run down the band of symbols that ran the length of the coffin from the broad painted collar to the projecting foot. He had struggled through the inscription earlier, so the poorly drawn symbols came easier the second time. At the end of a simple offering formula, he found the name, which he read aloud.

“Amonemopet, web priest in front of lord Khnum; son of Antef, scribe in the place of truth; son of house mistress Hapu.”

“An ordinary man.” Imsiba let out a long, slow breath. “I thank the lord Amon for sparing us. I feared he might be a man of noble birth and no end of trouble.”

82 / Lauren Haney

The following morning, Bak awakened close on sunrise with Rennefer uppermost in his thoughts. He rousted Hori from his sleeping pallet; they took bread, dates, and writing implements onto the roof; and in the cool of the early morning settled down to record the woman’s offense. With Bak dictating to the scribe, the document was soon completed and they went on to the next, an account of the wrecked ship and the contraband it had held. Half the morning passed and they were close to finishing a third report, one describing Mahu’s death, when Imsiba came to ask when they would see Sitamon. Bak hurried to the end of his task and he and the Medjay set off to an interview neither looked forward to.

“I know nothing of Mahu’s business. If I’d been here longer, perhaps he’d have told me more.” Sitamon, seated on the floor beside an upright loom, made tiny pleats in the hem of her long shift, tucked modestly around her legs. “We were strangers, you see, just beginning to know each other after years of living apart.”

“I understand,” Bak said, and he did. He rose from the chair she had brought for his use and wandered around the small courtyard. Sitting in stately luxury did not suit him.

Sitamon, who had been expecting them, thanks to Tiya, had ushered them into a house of moderate size, with three rooms around an open court. The dwelling was neat and clean, the rooms bright, the few pieces of furniture of good quality. As the air was cooler outside, stirred by an erratic breeze, she suggested they talk in the courtyard. There they found a pale, thin child of perhaps four years, playing by himself near a round mudbrick oven, moving miniature boats across a make-believe river. Each time he thought no one was looking, he stared at the two men who had come to see his mother-soldiers, he must have thought, warriors.

“Did your brother seem anxious about his upcoming voyage?” Bak asked. “Eager to be on his way? Worried about the delay and our inspection of his cargo?”

“All of those and more.”

He exchanged a quick glance with Imsiba, who knelt beside a spindly pole supporting a roof of loosely woven palm fronds, dry and rustling in the breeze.

“Wouldn’t you be concerned if livestock made up the greatest portion of your cargo?” she asked. “Cattle and goats of the highest quality bound for Waset and a royal estate?

He’d carried tribute many times, he told me, and often living creatures, yet he never failed to worry. What would he do if they all took sick and died? The ship was his, but would Maatkare Hatshepsut be content with that as repayment?”

“Our sovereign isn’t known for her forgiving nature,” Imsiba said.

Sitamon flashed a smile his way, thanking him for understanding. She was a small woman, delicate of build, with shoulder-length dark hair turned under at the ends. Her face was pale with shock and grief; dark smudges beneath her eyes spoke of a sleepless night. Imsiba, Bak noticed, could not take his eyes off her.

“Did Mahu ever mention contraband?” Bak asked doggedly. “Or smuggling?”

“Tiya told me of the elephant tusk you found.” Noticing the wrinkles in her hem, she clasped her hands firmly together in her lap. “I can’t explain it away, for you saw it with your own eyes. One thing I know for a fact: my brother would never have allowed it on his ship. He was an honest man.”

“He swore he knew nothing of it,” Bak admitted, “neither could he account for its presence.”

“Was he slain because of that tusk, do you think?”

“Probably, but if he had no knowledge of it, why did he have to die?” Bak walked to the chair, stood behind it, and rested his hands on its back. He thought it best to be frank.

“So far we know nothing. We’ve no trail to follow, no direction to take. We hoped you could set us on the right path.”

Imsiba stood up, as if to better emphasize his words. “Can you remember anything, mistress Sitamon? Anything at all that might help?”

84 / Lauren Haney

The child, his eyes wide open, stared at the big Medjay with unconcealed awe.

“Maybe…” She paused, shook her head. “He did say something, but…” Her voice tailed off; she frowned.

Bak slipped around the chair and sat down. A speck of hope took form in his breast, yearning to grow. Imsiba stood rock-still, his face equally intent.

“I couldn’t sleep last night,” Sitamon said. “My thoughts went round and round, touching on all we talked about since I came to Buhen. Seven days ago, that was. Not long enough to know if a man laughs because a joke is truly funny, or if he makes a joke because he doesn’t want to see the truth.”

Bak leaned toward her, willing her to come up with at least one grain of gold in an otherwise sterile desert. “What did he say, mistress? We need to know.”

Her eyes strayed toward Imsiba, whose smile seemed to reassure her. “It happened the day before he sailed to Kor.

I’d been here only a day and we hadn’t yet grown accustomed to each other’s company. Mahu had lived alone for many years, and I suppose three people in this house seemed a crowd to him. To make matters worse, Tety, my son, was tired and cranky. Whiny, if the truth be told. So, soon after our evening meal, Mahu went out for a while. To meet with friends, he said, and play a game or two of chance.” She smiled wanly. “To surround himself with men, I was sure, and escape for a while the domestic bliss he’d unwittingly let himself in for.” Her smile was strained; tears clung to her lashes.

“Early the next morning, before he set sail, he said a man he knew had whispered in his ear the night before, suggesting he haul illicit cargo, making promises of great wealth. He laughed then, saying the approach had been a joke, not a serious attempt to lead him down a wrong path. I accepted his easy dismissal as fact, but now…” Her voice broke. She cleared her throat and went on, “Now I think he erred.”