Lauren Haney: Face Turned Backward

“You know rumor will make the smugglers cautious,” Thuty said, “and I know it, and the viceroy knows it. But try sending word to the capital. To the vizier. Do you think he’ll listen to the men in the garrisons, those who know from experience?”

Bak had no answer, nor did Thuty expect one. The complaint was chronic, one common to all frontier commanders who longed to be heard by the men who walked the corridors of power, but whose messages were more often than not lost in bureaucratic indifference.

Thuty crossed the walkway to the battlements that looked down on the outer city, a huge rectangular area surrounding the three desert-facing sides of the citadel, and enclosed by walls as high and as strong. Bak and Nebwa followed, sneaking a glance at each other, a shared thought: How long would this exercise in futility continue?

Below, the lanes were crooked, the blocks irregular in shape, the buildings thrown together in random fashion.

Within these cramped structures were workshops and homes of craftsmen and traders. Farther out lay the animal enclosures, encampments for transient soldiers, and an ancient cemetery.

“I thought at first to make this solely a military operation, but now I believe the police, not the army, should be responsible for the task here in Buhen.” Thuty saw the surprise on Bak’s face and raised his baton, staving off objections. “I know. The Medjay force is too small to shoulder this effort and perform its normal duties as well. So we’ll use a 26 / Lauren Haney mixed team-police and military-with you, Lieutenant, in command.”

Nebwa heaved an unmistakable sigh of relief. “I can’t think of anyone more suited to the job,” he said magnanimously.

“Let me know how many men you’ll need and I’ll be glad to oblige.”

Bak resisted the urge to elbow his friend hard in the ribcage. He knew Nebwa preferred rough-and-tumble soldiering over the more mundane duties of manning a frontier garrison, and he sympathized much of the time. But now, with so onerous a task ahead, it was difficult to feel compassion.

“Lest you fear I’m neglecting you, Troop Captain,” Thuty said with a wry smile, “Kor will be your responsibility. Your men will search every bag and basket on every donkey traveling north through the desert, just as Bak’s men will investigate the vessels sailing these waters.”

Bak stifled a laugh. The old fortress of Kor, subsidiary to Buhen, stood at the lower end of the Belly of Stones, a long stretch of rapids not navigable through most of the year. The fort served as a place where northbound trade goods were shifted from donkey caravans to trading vessels, or the reverse. It was a dry, dusty post, far less appealing than the harbor of Buhen.

“How was I to know he needed a pass?” Ramose, the florid-faced captain of the trading ship moored alongside the quay on which he stood, planted his legs wide apart, his fists on his hips, and glared at the officer standing before him.

“He told me he came from the north, not the south. You can’t hold me responsible for another man’s lies!”

Bak let the seaman’s belligerence pass over him with an indifference born of practice. Most of a day had passed since the commandant had ordered the all-out search for contraband, and every boatman on the quay had vented his anger and resentment in one way or another-the smaller the boat, the louder and more vociferous the complainant. He turned to the lean, sinewy man whose arm was caught in the firm grip of a hulking young Medjay policeman. “Explain yourself, Tjanuny!”

The dusky offender drew his shoulders back and raised his chin high, refusing to be intimidated. “My brother lives in Kemet, sir, tilling the fields of an illustrious nobleman whose estate is a day’s walk north of Abu. I thought to go there, to make a new and better life for myself.”

Bak waved off a fly buzzing around his face. “How do you know you’ll be welcome?”

Tjanuny hesitated, his dark eyes betraying the agony of decision. With obvious reluctance, he untied the neck of a leather pouch suspended from a thong around his waist, withdrew a broken chunk of grayish pottery, and handed it over. The writing on the surface was cramped but clear. The scribe of the nobleman Amonhotep guaranteed Tjanuny’s passage north from Wawat. The shard had only to be presented and payment would be made.

Bak glanced at Ramose’s ship, riding low in the water, heavy with merchandise brought from far upriver to the south. A mixed unit of soldiers and Medjay policemen swarmed over the craft, probing the contents of baskets and bundles and chests filled with exotic and precious items. An elderly scribe borrowed from the garrison records office followed their progress, comparing the cargo with the manifest he held, making sure the captain had omitted no items for which he had to pay a toll. The colors of the deckhouse-red, yellow, and black-were faded and blurred, while the forecastle was bright with fresh paint. On the prow, the faded symbols forming the name had been outlined in black, pre-paratory to repainting. The vessel creaked, a black dog tied to the deckhouse whimpered to be free. A bulging linen bag gave off an intriguing but alien scent that mingled with the smell of paint.

Fifteen or so men wearing the skimpiest of loincloths, their skin burned to leather by the sun, clustered on the quay near the stern. Tjanuny’s fellow oarsmen. Realizing they had drawn Bak’s attention, they hurriedly looked away, making 28 / Lauren Haney their interest conspicuous by their effort to appear disinterested.

The ship looked reasonably well tended, its crew a congenial lot, the captain no doubt good-natured when all went well. Not a bad berth, Bak concluded. A vessel on which Tjanuny could work his passage north so that later another man, a trusted friend, could pretend to be a ship’s captain and present the chit to Amonhotep’s scribe for payment.

Suppressing a smile, he asked Captain Ramose, “If he had a pass, would you keep him on board as far as Abu?”

“Good sailors are hard to find.” Ramose eyed Tjanuny thoughtfully. “He’s proved his worth, I guess.” A pause, a nod. “I don’t suppose he meant any harm. Yes, I’d keep him on.”

“Take him to the scribal office building, Kasaya,” Bak told the Medjay. “Get him a pass to travel north.”

Tjanuny’s face registered surprise, pleasure, and then dismay as Bak walked to the edge of the quay and dropped the shard into the river.

Another day of this wretched task, Bak thought, and I’ll be the most infamous man along the frontier, shunned by all. He had another thought and laughed aloud, surprising a fisherman stowing his nets in the prow of his boat, preparing to cast off and sail home to his village. No, not the most unpopular. From what he had heard from men newly arrived from Kor, Nebwa in his usual tactless way had already out-stripped him for first place.

Thanking the lord Amon that the day was nearly over, Bak stopped at a gangplank bridging the gap between the quay and a long, slim traveling vessel. Imsiba stood on deck, watching his inspection team probe the cargo. They were closing on the rudder, nearly finished with their task. Hori sat on the deckhouse roof, legs dangling, writing pallet, water jar, and extra pens beside him. The manifest was spread across his lap so he could check off objects as the men called them out. The captain, a short, wiry individual with a mottled complexion, lounged in the forecastle, while the crew looked on from the upper terrace, where they had gone to play throwsticks in the shade of the fortress wall.

The ship was bright and new, its wooden hull not yet darkened by time, its bronze fittings unblemished and shiny.

A lightweight wooden lean-to hung with white linen was attached to the chevron-patterned deckhouse, sheltering from the sun and the breeze a tiny, wizened woman and her three female servants. A white coffin in human form was lashed up against the deckhouse. The old woman’s husband, the captain had told Bak, on his way north to Kemet to be buried in the family tomb.