Lauren Haney: Face Turned Backward

The contents of the last basket were called out. Hori checked off the final item, collected his writing implements, and dropped off the cabin roof, hitting the deck with a hollow thud. The search team filed down the gangplank, Bak relieved them of duty, and they trotted up the quay toward the fortress. The ship’s crew cut their game short to hurry aboard, arguing heatedly about the final cast of the sticks. With Imsiba watching, Hori tied and sealed the manifest and turned it over to the captain. They spoke a few words, the seaman clapped the big Medjay on the back, and shouted an order for the oarsmen to take their positions.

“I see no men scurrying around, counting baskets laden with contraband,” Nebwa said, coming up behind Bak.

Bak swung around, amazed. “By the beard of Amon!

What’re you doing in Buhen?”

“I left Ptahmose in charge. Not a man in Wawat has led more desert patrols than he has, and not a caravan master in the world can deceive him.” Ptahmose was Nebwa’s sergeant, as close to him as Imsiba was to Bak.

“You’d better keep well out of Thuty’s way. You know how he feels about men who shirk their duty.”

“You lay blame where no blame is due.” Nebwa screwed up his face, trying hard to look aggrieved. “I’ve a legitimate mission. One even Thuty can’t frown upon.”

Bak rolled his eyes skyward. “I don’t believe you for a moment, but let’s hear your tale. Practice now before you must repeat it to him.”

30 / Lauren Haney

Nebwa grinned like a child newly escaped from scribal school, but soon sobered. “Captain Mahu will sail from Kor before nightfall, his ship heavy with merchandise. It was more than half loaded when I arrived at dawn, so I can’t vouch for what was stowed on board yesterday. When he sails into Buhen, I suggest you search it from stem to stern.”

“We’re inspecting every vessel. You know that.” Bak eyed his friend, suspicious. “Now speak the truth: Was this merely an excuse to slip away from Kor, or do you have good reason to urge undue diligence on our part? Mahu’s always seemed an honest man to me.”

“It was an excuse to come home, I admit, but…” Nebwa scratched his head, frowned. “I saw him talking to a man I wouldn’t trust with my rattiest pair of sandals, a boatman from the south, as slick a man as I’ve ever seen. Not much, I know, but…” Again his voice tailed off; he looked almost embarrassed. “I like Mahu. I’d hate to think he’s not the man I always believed him to be, nor do I wish to harm his reputation. But they were standing close, their voices low and secretive. Furtive.”

“If we find nothing on board,” Bak promised, “his reputation will remain unblemished.”

Forming a smile, Nebwa raised a hand in greeting to Imsiba and Hori, walking down the gangplank. “Fair enough.”

A nearly naked dock worker scurried along the quay beside the ship, releasing the hawsers from their mooring posts. At a brisk command from the captain, a sailor pulled the gangplank aboard, the drummer set the rhythm for the oarsmen, and they dipped their long paddles into the water. As the vessel swung away from its berth, they began to sing a song of the river, their voices loud and merry but with scant beauty. Bak raised his baton of office, returning the captain’s salute, while Nebwa and the others waved a farewell.

“Neglecting your duty again, I see,” Imsiba said, altering his voice to sound like Thuty, “and you a troop captain, too.

A fine example you’re setting for one whose every deed should be above reproach.”

The gibe prompted a careless laugh. “I’ve better things to do than listen to the squawks of a flock of caravan masters.”

Nebwa turned his head aside and spat on the ground, showing his contempt. “We’ve found not a single item of contraband. Nor will we ever, with all the world expecting to be searched.”

Still grumbling, he walked with Imsiba and Hori up the quay. Bak remained behind, unwilling to leave until his men finished inspecting Ramose’s ship and it set sail for the north.

He sat on a mooring post, tapping his ankle with his baton, letting his thoughts run free. The sun, a pale yellow orb in a blue-white sky, seemed for a moment to cling to the edge of the high fortress wall, then dropped behind it. A sentry, reduced to a silhouette against the light, paced the battlements. A half dozen fishermen stood among as many skiffs pulled up on the revetment near the end of the quay, their voices raised in argument, speaking in a local dialect Bak could not understand.

He listened to the murmurs of the ship’s crew farther out on the quay, inhaled the fishy, musty odor of the water flowing past, savored the breeze caressing his shoulders. He thought of the ship that had already sailed, wondered where it would tie up for the night and what safe harbor Ramose would find. And he thought of Mahu’s cargo vessel, soon to arrive from Kor. Nebwa’s suspicions seemed farfetched, based on instinct rather than fact. At times that instinct was infallible, but now? Mahu’s reputation was exemplary, his honesty unquestioned.

Bak, yawning broadly, stepped out of the dark passage through the towered gate and walked south along the upper terrace. One large vessel, a broad-beamed cargo ship with the river god Hapi painted on its prow, was moored alongside the southern quay. The crew hustled about the deck, securing the lowered mast and yards for the long voyage downstream to Kemet. The ship was Mahu’s, riding low in the water, reeking of the farmyard. When it had sailed into Buhen at dusk, too late to inspect, the cattle and goats it carried on deck had been led away to the animal paddocks.

The harbor guards had assured Bak that the remainder of the cargo had lain untouched through the night.

The heavy ship wallowed in the swells raised by a stiff breeze. Across a strip of water and tied to the central quay, a line of smaller boats-fishing skiffs, papyrus rafts, and vessels used to ferry people, animals, and produce across the river-bobbed up and down, tugging at their mooring ropes.

Bak eyed the quay, the bustle on board Mahu’s ship, the men working in and around the lesser craft. He smelled the faint fishy odor of the river, smoke from many small hearths and braziers, and the sweet, clinging odor of manure. Long red banners whipped in the breeze from atop four tall flagstaffs clamped to the facade of the pylon. The rustling of heavy linen vied with the clamor inside the fortress: the barking of dogs, the braying of donkeys, the shouts of sergeants goading the garrison troops to their day’s activities.

At that moment, all seemed right with the world. Almost too right. If I were a superstitious man, Bak thought with a smile, I’d start looking over my shoulder, fearing trouble close behind.

Imsiba strode through the gate, followed by a scraggly line of Medjays and soldiers and the elderly scribe from the records office. He paused, eyeing two men standing midway along the quay. “Our morning, it seems, has been blessed beyond words.”

The big Medjay, Bak knew, was referring to the younger of the pair, Userhet, overseer of warehouses, impeccably clad in a calf-length kilt, a broad bead collar, and matching bracelets. From a distance, the tall, broad-shouldered bureaucrat looked more like a soldier than a scribe. His hair was dark and curly, his nose aquiline, his skin oiled gold. Imsiba had taken a dislike to him the day he set foot in Buhen.

Userhet was charming-too charming, Imsiba had grumbled-much admired by garrison wives and daughters.

Mahu, the second man, was of medium height and build, with skin dark and weathered from too many years standing unprotected on the deck of a ship. He wore a simple knee-length white kilt, bronze bracelets and armlets, and a pectoral with a design too finely worked to see from so far away.