The Right Hand of Amon (35 page)

Bak strode to the end of the quay and looked out over the river, its waters a reddish brown flecked with silver where the sun caressed the ripples. His abused muscles had loosened up, but he was tired and uneasy, his mood in need of continual bolstering. He had rushed from Inyotef's house to the mansion of Hathor, where he found Imsiba and the Medjays standing outside, awaiting their royal charge. Huy and the other garrison officers had been with them. He had exchanged his knowledge for theirs: Inyotef had not been seen since the previous evening.

Leaving the pageantry behind, he and six borrowed spearmen had hastened to the lower city. Kasaya, who had returned from the island to help, joined them there. The small party had swept through the homes and warehouses along the official route of march, warning the residents to invite only people they knew onto their rooftops and clearing away or blocking potential hiding places both near and as far away as an arrow could fly, praying all the while they would find Inyotef. The gods had failed to smile on them. The spearmen had gradually lost their spark and even lighthearted Kasaya had to work at a smile.

Bak eyed the southern quay, crowded with vessels of all sizes, their decks jammed with spectators. Nothing could hold the smaller boats back, he knew, after the official party sailed out of the harbor.

He hurried back to shore, passed through the line of sentries posted on the slope to keep the spectators off the quay, and stood at the lower end of the thoroughfare down which Amon-Psaro would march. The route was lined with men, women, and children, the buzz of their combined voices rising and ebbing, shattered now and again by a childish laugh, a yell, a hawker touting his wares. Soldiers dressed in ceremonial finery, their weapons polished to a fine sheen, held back the crowd. People from faraway Kemet wearing white linen and bright jewelry rubbed shoulders with poor, half-naked farmers who lived off the sparse lands along the Belly of Stones and ragged nomads who roamed the desert. Wealthy tribesmen and villagers clad in white kilts overlaid with colorful cloaks and jewelry stood among people from far to the south dressed in skins and feathers and fabrics, bejeweled and beribboned, their faces and bodies scarified or painted. Bak imagined the desert tracks and the river during the past few days dotted with people coming from afar to see the greatest of the gods and the Kushite king who had come to seek his help.

Shouldering his way through the spectators, he located a hawker selling beer and sweet bread. He negotiated a trade and, loaf and jar in hand, walked to a crumbling warehouse ten or so paces behind the people massed along the street. The spearman standing atop a ruined wall, watching the throng, jumped down to report that he had seen nothing of note. As he melted into the crowd, Bak climbed the wall and sat down, letting his feet dangle. From there, both the lower portion of the street and the harbor spread out below him. He spotted Kasaya and the other spearmen moving among the spectators, chatting, asking questions, studying faces.

Bak tore chunks from the bread, sweetened with chopped dates, and sipped the beer. He longed to forget Inyotef and enjoy the pageantry. The day remained temperate, the breeze as soft and gentle as the kiss of a goddess. The air smelled of the river and fish, of sweat and perfume. Fine dust stirred up by many feet settled on moist bodies and greased hair. Dogs tall and sleek or short and round, black, brindle, white, or dun-colored, trotted among the onlookers, sniffing heels, probing leaf packets emptied of food, exploring. A few donkeys tied well out of the way munched hay, stamped impatient feet, swished their tails to rid themselves of flies. A trio of crows called from the rooftops, their cawing raucous and persistent.

As much as he wished to forget his mission, thoughts of Inyotef intruded. And fear for Amon-Psaro.

"If he means to attack, he'll do it now," Captain Mery said, raising his voice to be heard above the roaring crowd, "before Amon-Psaro steps onto the quay."

The officer, a hard jawed, muscular man closing on forty years, stood tall and straight on the prow of his warship, watching the priests at the head of the procession march to the quay. He was garbed much as Senu and the other garrison officers: short white kilt, broad multicolored bead collar, bracelets, armlets, and anklets. He wore a short, tightly curled wig, several rings, and carried a baton of office. Bak, standing beside him, felt like a common sparrow sharing a perch with some bright bird of passage.

For perhaps the hundredth time, he checked that all was secure. His eyes traveled from the priests-distinguished by their ankle-length white kilts, wide beaded collars, shaven heads, standards held high-down the sloping street and along the quay to the traveling ships moored at the far end. He scanned the harbor and studied the vessels tied against the southern quay, large boats and small crammed together in reluctant assembly.

"A man who can run with ease might escape in the confusion of the moment," he admitted, "but remember: Inyotef's hampered by a weak leg. And he's long been a man of the water, more skilled than most with a boat."

Mery's quick glance conveyed a grudging respect. "He's so agile on a ship that I forget his limp."

Bak looked back at the procession, the chanting priests, marching downd' the street while the enthralled masses pressed in from either side, shouting their adoration, jostling for a closer look. The priests passed through the line of soldiers posted along the revetment and stepped onto the quay. The rapture on their faces never wavered, but Bak could well imagine how relieved they must be to reach the open harbor.

While the lead priests marched past the warship, Kenamon walked onto the quay, waving his censor before him. As befitted his illustrious position, he was decked out in full regalia: long white kilt, short-sleeved tunic, fine linen robe, gold pectoral hanging from his breast. His face was calm and untroubled, free of such mundane worldly cares as the possibility of an assassination. Beside him walked the priest of the lady Hathor, a chubby young man, not as imposing but equally tranquil. A cloud of sweet-scented incense drifted around them.

The sailors pressed against the rail of the warship, their eyes wide with awe, their shouts lost in the overall clamor. Bak nodded at Kasaya, standing at the head of the gangplank, clutching a long spear, his eyes darting back and forth along the quay, his face tight with tension. The spearmen were on board the traveling ships, watching, waiting, but no less enthralled than the adoring spectators.

Four lesser priests walked behind Kenamon, purifying the deities' path with incense and libation. The lord Amon followed, his gilded barque carried high on the shoulders of four white-garbed bearers, his golden shrine open so all could view the elegant golden statue of a man wearing a twin-feathered crown. Four additional priests walked alongside, cooling the god with ostrich-feather fans. A second barque followed, not as magnificent but just as lovely, on which rode the gilded image of the lady Hathor in her human form, carried in her open shrine. She was accompanied by two fan-bearers and followed by seven women wearing long white sheaths and broad collars, each shaking a sistrum, a ceremonial rattle bearing the effigy of the goddess.

Bak scanned the shoreline, the harbor, the river, and found nothing out of order. But the evidence of his eyes could not drive away his anxiety. Inyotef was lurking somewhere nearby; he felt it deep inside.

The lead priests walked up the gangplank of the traveling ship on the downstream side of the quay. Kenamon, the younger priest, and the gods moved past the warship in slow and stately splendor. Behind them, ten men, shaven and purified for the occasion, carried the gilded, inlaid, and painted chests filled with ritual equipment and the god's clothing.

Next came a herald, his trumpet blaring above the shouts of the spectators, his cheeks puffed out, his face scarlet with the effort of blowing the instrument. The first contingent of Kushites marched onto the quay behind him: forty spearmen clad in leather kilts and wearing long feathers in hair dyed odd shades of red and yellow. Behind them, mounted on tall poles, waved twenty or so white-and-red pennants that Bak knew preceded Commander Woser and King Amon-Psaro.

The cheerful flags brought dread to his heart. He knew as well as he knew his own name that every vessel in the harbor had been searched, every man vouched for, yet he was equally certain Inyotef was somewhere nearby, waiting. Oblivious to the captain beside him and the seamen lining the rail, he climbed onto the forecastle for an overall view.

In the lower city, the spectators' shouts had increased in volume, losing awe in favor of enthusiasm, telling him the royal party had gone by and the garrison troops were parading past their families. The merchant ships moored at the southern quay showed no sign of activity, but the smaller boats were preparing to move out. The moment the first traveling ship set sail, they would scoot across the harbor like a flock of eager ducks.

Bak's eyes leaped to the end of the southern quay, and he muttered a curse. Two soldiers stood there, one pointing toward a small'skiff floating just out of reach. Barely more than a rowboat, its mast lowered with the masthead resting on the prow, it was drifting in the general direction of the stronger current outside the harbor, where it would be swept downstream into the path of the traveling ships. Bak cursed again, his thoughts locked on InyotePS But the vessel floated too high in the water to carry the weight of a man.

The soldiers stared at the craft, talking, probably deciding if it was worth the effort of swimming out after it. One of the men shook his head, and the pair turned around to walk back along the quay. The vessel must truly be empty and adrift, Bak told himself, but an image took form in his thoughts: the pilot clinging to the outside of the boat, guiding it through the water unseen.

Unsure of himself, worried, he glanced back at the procession. The block of Kushite spearmen had split apart, with the men now lining both sides of the quay. Three heralds marched between the two lines, trumpets raised high, faces looking about to burst, blasting the air with strident notes. Next came the men carrying the banners, a contingent of Kushites marching before their king.

Bak looked again at the skiff across the harbor, watched it drift, helpless to stop it, unable to make sure it held no threat. He had no way of reaching it himself, nor could he warn the soldiers guarding the quay. They were too far away to hear a shout, even without the clamor of the spectators, and by the time a messenger could reach them, the vessel would be closer to the northern quay than the southem--closer to BA than them. Patience was not one of his virtues, but he had no other choice.

He tore his gaze from the skiff to look at the man who had been uppermost in his thoughts for close to a week. King Amon-Psaro, a tall, well-formed man with graying hair and a careworn but handsome face, strode up the quay with the set expression of royalty, his chin high, his eyes on the distant horizon. He wore a simple white kilt, a broad collar and bracelets made of gold and lapis lazuli beads, and gold anklets and sandals, his garb a conspicuous reminder that he had spent his formative years in the land of Kemet. On his head he wore the twin-cobra diadem of his royal house. Commander Woser, his face pale and tense, dressed in his ceremonial best, walked beside and slightly behind the king.

Four bearers carried the prince, a small shadow of his father, sitting on a gilded palanquin. A fifth man walked alongside, fanning the child with ostrich feathers. The way the boy's chest heaved, Bak could see he was having trouble breathing. And no wonder, he thought. The odor of incense, close to overpowering, was nearly lost in the stronger, more exotic scents of perfumes and oils made from unknown flowers and trees grown in faraway lands.

Imsiba and the ten Medjay policemen marched close behind their illustrious charges, their faces glowing with pride yet alert to trouble.

The skiff drifted northward, unimpeded.

A shout and the rumble of a drum drew Bak's attention to the ships at the end of the quay. He eyed the vessel, more crowded than it should be, carrying the priestly party and the gods. He noted the captain at the prow, the sacred barques settled on the deck amid a flock of priests, the oarsmen in their places along the rail, the stout drummer beating out the tune that would set the rhythm of their strokes.

The captain of the second vessel stood at the foot of his gangplank, waiting to welcome the royal party.

Bak's eyes darted across the harbor, and he swore again under his breath. The smaller boats were pulling away from the southern quay, their owners paddling with all their skill to extricate their vessels from among the larger ships, each man determined to cross the harbor ahead of the rest and lead the flotilla to the island fortress. The empty skiff rocked on a gentle swell, barely moving, soon to be overtaken by the other craft. Overtaken and surrounded. Lost among them.

Amon-Psaio and the royal party marched alongside the warship. Mery saluted with his baton of office, and Bak made do with raising a hand. The king stared straight ahead with majestic disdain, but Woser glanced Bak's way, an unspoken question on his face. Bak gave a barely perceptible shake of his head. The prince came alongside, his great dark eyes huge and round, his face enlivened by a delighted smile. Sick he might be, Bak thought, but he was not too ill to enjoy himself or too regal to display pleasure. Imsiba and the Medjays came even with the warship. The big sergeant raised his spear in an open salute to his sweaty, unkempt officer; the other men followed suit. Unable to smother a proud smile, Bak gave them the same salute he had given the king.

The rhythmic beat of the drum grew stronger, faster, tugging his gaze toward the ships at the end of the quay. The first vessel was slipping away, swinging into the current for the journey to the island. Heralds and flag bearers stood at rigid attention on the end of the quay, well out of the way of the royal party marching to the second ship. The captain fell to his knees before Amon-Psaro, his forehead on the stone, demonstrating the greatest respect. The prince grinned with delight. Imsiba and the Medjays looked discomfited by the unexpected pause, worried.