by Lauren Haney
The sky had darkened, Bak saw, and the lord Re had long ago entered the netherworld, allowing the stars to show their faces. He hoped he could find a boatman to ferry him across the river in the night. “I’ve spent the last two nights at Djeser Djeseru, so I don’t know how my father feels about having a man in constant attendance.”
“From what I’ve been told, he made no secret that he resented the need for a guard, but he doesn’t hold the sergeant responsible. In fact, he treats him as a friend and companion rather than holding him at a distance.”
Thanking the lord Amon for small favors, Bak trudged down the lane to the gate, bade good night to the sentry, and walked out into the darkened city.
The world was black, with the quarter moon pale and weak. Stars were sprinkled like bright grains of salt across the sky. Bak heard the rustle of a small unseen creature slipping through the tough dry grass that grew along the irrigation channel. A hare bounded across the path in front of him, leaving a melon patch to hide within a field of henna. Indistinct images off to his right were all he could see of cattle resting in a neighbor’s field of stubble. The distant cry of a jackal set off a chorus of barking dogs. The air was cool and smelled of the manure spread across a fallow field.
His father’s house was dark, Ptahhotep no doubt asleep.
He saw no sign of the guard, but assumed Sergeant Huy would show himself when he spotted him approaching in the dark. To make sure the sergeant did not set upon him, thinking him an intruder, he began to whistle.
He approached the paddock where his horses lazed away their days, fully expecting the guard to appear. He saw no one. The shed, a small and unattractive but sturdy structure at the other end of the paddock, was dark, the horses safely inside for the night. The back of the structure and one end were mudbrick, the remains of a partially fallen building. A wooden front and second end had been tacked on and a new roof built when Bak had brought the animals from the garrison stables. They were much too valuable to leave outside each night, risking theft.
Walking along the paddock wall, he began a livelier refrain. Still the guard did not appear. A sense of unease washed through him. He stopped whistling and stepped up his pace, trotting past the wall and across the plot of grass in front of the house. The silence was unnerving, the failure of the guard to appear disturbing.
He ducked beneath the portico, his eyes on the wooden door. As dark as it was, he could see that it stood slightly ajar and a man lay crumpled on the ground before it. Alarmed, he took a quick step forward. His foot struck something and he lost his balance. He grabbed a wooden column to save himself, spotted the long spear he had stepped on, dropped onto a knee to see who the man was. The face was unknown to him, but the spear and the white cowhide shield beside the limp body identified him as a guard of the royal house.
Sergeant Huy, the man Maiherperi had assigned to keep his father safe!
The guard was breathing. Bak found no open wounds on his broad back or chest, but when he ran his fingers over the thick short hair, he discovered a large wet lump on the back of his head. The sergeant had been struck down by a hard blow. As he could do nothing for the man, he rose to his feet, stepped over him, and pushed the door wide.
The loud, terrified scream of a horse and the clatter of hooves on a hard-packed earthen floor sounded in the shed.
He stiffened. His father could as easily be with the horses as within the house, trying to save the animals from. . From theft or worse?
Snapping out a curse, he leaped from beneath the portico and raced across the scraggly grass toward the paddock.
Vaulting the wall, he veered around the water trough and sped toward the shed. Another shriek of equine panic gave wings to his feet, as did thoughts of his father alone and in desperate need of help. Bursting through the doorway, which should not have been open but was, he stopped abruptly.
A minimum of light came through the high window on the mudbrick end of the building, but his eyes were as accustomed to the darkness as they would ever be. Both horses, tied to stone hitches near the manger, were scream-ing, bucking, kicking out, trying to break free, trying to escape from whatever they feared. Ptahhotep was not there.
Bak’s first thought was a snake, perhaps a deadly cobra or some other poisonous reptile crawling through the straw strewn across the floor. Before he could dwell on the thought, a loud crack sounded against the doorjamb beside his head. Another struck somewhere inside the shed, adding to the horses’ frenzy.
A sling! Someone was pelting the animals with rocks. Not large killing rocks, but smaller stones designed to sting and make them panic. He glimpsed the head and shoulders of a man at the window. The image vanished at the blink of an eye. He swung around, thinking to give chase, but stopped himself. In their hysteria the horses could break a leg or injure themselves or each other in some other fashion. They must be calmed quickly so he could go back to the house and his father.
Forcing himself to be patient, to appear unruffled-at least to the horses-he left the doorway and sidled around those flying hooves. He approached Defender, the horse farthest from the window, slowly from the side, careful to make no sudden or threatening moves, murmuring words that had no meaning. The sound of his familiar voice, his cautious approach, the absence of further flying stones, quieted both animals’ screams and stilled their frantic bucking. As poor as the light was, he could see their trembling limbs, and when he reached out to catch Defender’s rope halter, he felt his flesh quiver.
Without warning, the horse jerked his head. Victory snorted in terror and at the same time Bak smelled smoke.
He pivoted, spat out a curse. The door was closed and fire curled under the bottom edge. The straw!
He raced toward the door, tried to shove it open. It held tight, barred, he felt sure, by the man he had seen at the window. He stamped out the flames reaching out beneath it, but other bits of straw fueled the spreading fire. The horses screamed hysterically, bucked and kicked out, shook their heads and jerked backward, trying to free themselves of the ropes that held them fast.
Bak checked his own fear, the desperate need to escape that stifled common sense and straight thinking. He knew the shed well. He had helped build it. And he knew its weak-nesses.
He darted around Defender, the flying hooves, and grabbed a wooden rake standing in the corner. Using its butt end as a battering ram, he struck out at the join between the wood and the mudbrick. A crack formed between the two.
He forced the rake handle into the gap and pried the wood farther from the brick. The dowels connecting the first two boards broke with a loud crack.
He flung the rake aside, raised his foot, and kicked the board as hard as he could. The cords binding it to the roof tore away and it crashed onto the ground. A family of rats scurried out through the hole and disappeared in the darkness. Trying not to breathe the smoke that filled the shed, ignoring the crackle of the fire sweeping across the floor, the clatter of hooves, the terrified equine screams, Bak kicked another board loose and another and another until the space was wide enough for a horse to go through.
Satisfied with the hole, he swung around and stared, appalled. The straw was burning all across the floor, and flames were licking the legs of the frantic horses. He could smell their singed hair. He scooped up the rake and swung it from side to side, sweeping a path through the burning straw, pushing as much as he could away from the panicked animals.
Dropping the tool, he tore his dagger from its sheath and cut through the knot that held his kilt in place. He lunged at Defender, flung the kilt around the horse’s head, blinding it, and slashed through the rope that held it captive. Catching the halter, he led the trembling, terrified animal through the hole in the wall and away from the burning shed, jerked the kilt off its head, and slapped it on the flank to send it to the opposite side of the paddock.
He raced back inside. The grain in the manger had begun to smolder, making it hard to breathe, and all the bits of straw scattered across the floor were flaming like tinder.
The palm frond roof was burning, snapping and popping and shooting out sparks. Ignoring the heat, the smoke, the stench, he hurried to Victory. The horse sidled away, as afraid of him and the cloth in his hand as it was of the fire.
He grabbed the rope holding the animal in place. It reared back, flung its head, flailed out with its front hooves.
Bak ducked, saving himself, and lunged at the horse to grab its halter and throw his kilt over its head. Holding both with one hand, he severed the restraining rope, got a better grip on the halter, and urged the trembling horse across the shed and through the gap in the wall. Outside, he jerked the kilt from its head and slapped its flank with the fabric to send it across the paddock to its mate.
He looked back at the shed. Its blazing roof collapsed, setting off a shower of sparks, and flames were leaping out of the cracks between the boards. Soon nothing would be left but the mudbrick walls, and they would probably fall.
Turning away, thanking the lord Amon for standing beside him while he saved himself and the horses, he walked slowly to the water trough. He dipped his kilt in the none too clean water and wiped his sweaty face. Tension and effort had worn him out.
A movement beneath the portico in front of the house caught his eye. The guard hoisting himself into a sitting position, staring at the burning shed.
Father! Bak thought. Forgetting his exhaustion, half sick with worry, he raced across the paddock, leaped the wall, and sped to the house.
Chapter Fourteen
“My father!” Bak knelt beside Sergeant Huy. “Where is he?
Is he all right?”
The guard, looking dazed, tore his eyes from the burning shed and lifted his hand to his injured head. He flinched, withdrew the hand, stared at the dark, wet stain on his fingers. “He went. .” He frowned, trying to think. “He went to a neighbor’s house, a man whose leg was cut by a scythe.”
“Who came for him? Did you know him?” Bak heard the sharpness in his voice, the peremptory demand.
“No, sir, but your father did. The name was Amonemopet and he said they were longtime friends. Neighbors. He’s a big man, looked as strong as a bullock.”
Bak knew Amonemopet, a man to be trusted. “When?
When did they leave?”
“Not long after sunset. Darkness was falling.”
Some time ago, Bak thought. Close on two hours. “He hasn’t yet come home?”
The sergeant looked again at the burning building, but his eyes were vague, puzzled. “I. . I don’t know. I don’t remember seeing him, but. .”
Fear raced into Bak’s heart. The blow to the sergeant’s head had been hard. It had clearly befuddled him and might also have stolen a portion of his memory. He leaped to his feet, ran into the house, sped from antechamber to main room to bedchambers to bath to storage rooms. The house was empty, his father’s sleeping pallet on the rooftop smooth and unused. A hasty look at the cooking area outside revealed no one. He grabbed a short-handled torch his father kept for emergency use and lighted it on a bit of hot charcoal he found in the brazier. A peek at the lean-to where his father kept his two donkeys revealed one missing. The smell of smoke from the burning shed was making the remaining donkey uneasy, fidgety. The half-dozen goats lying on a bed of drying hay were calmer but wary.
He was not entirely reassured. The man who had trapped him in the shed and set the structure on fire could have waylaid Ptahhotep in the dark somewhere away from the house.
Or he may have had no designs on the physician’s life. The man’s intent had clearly been to slay Bak. Once that purpose was accomplished, why take the life of an innocent party?
So Bak told himself.
He hurried around the corner to the portico, where the sergeant was trying to stand, hanging onto a column for support. He took the guard’s arm and pressed him back down.
“Sit, Huy. You’ve a nasty wound. When my father comes, he’ll never forgive me for allowing you to move about.”
When my father comes. The words were spoken in hope, a prayer.
Huy stared dismally at the shed, where the fire was beginning to burn itself out. “I should’ve been more alert, sir.
You’ve no idea how sorry I am.”
Bak knelt beside him. “Do you remember what happened?”
“I was angry with myself for letting Ptahhotep leave without me. Commander Maiherperi had ordered me to stay with him, but when he insisted that I remain here, assured me his friend would not let him out of his sight, what could I do?
Then I sat where you see me now, upset because I’d failed to obey orders. I was worried, too. I like your father, you see, and. .”
“My father can be a most persuasive man,” Bak said, his wry tone betraying his own past experience.
“Yes, sir.” Looking rueful, Huy reached up to touch his head but stopped himself before his fingers reached the wound. “I’ve no clear memory of what happened, sir, but I must’ve relaxed my guard, and the man who struck must’ve come upon me from behind.”
“How long did this happen after my father left?”
“I’m not sure. A half hour at most.”
“Do you remember the name of the man he went to help?”
“Djehuty.” Huy smiled, pleased that he could answer one question, at least, with certainty. “He dwells on the farm adjoining Amonemopet’s property to the south.”
Convinced the assailant was nowhere near and the sergeant in no danger, Bak stood up. “I must see that my father has come to no harm. Can I trust you to stay where you are and rest?”
“Listen!” Huy stared into the darkness toward the path that ran along the paddock wall.
Bak heard the quick thud of hooves and men’s excited voices. A donkey came trotting at its fastest pace into the circle of light cast by the torch. Two men ran alongside the sturdy beast: Ptahhotep and Amonemopet. Both stared at the shed, where flames still spewed from what remained of the palm frond roof, casting light over blackened wooden beams sagging onto the few charred boards of the wall left standing. Red glowed where the wood smoldered, and flames sporadically darted upward.
Bak offered a silent prayer of thanks to the lord Amon that his father was well, while the sergeant spoke his prayer aloud.
Ptahhotep looked with a critical eye at the sergeant seated on the ground and Bak standing over him. “What, in the name of the lord Amon, has happened here?”
Bak suddenly remembered that he wore no kilt, merely a loincloth, and that he was smeared with soot. “Are you all right, Father?”
“Of course I am,” Ptahhotep said in a gruff voice. “Now tell me what’s happened.”
“No one tried to attack you either coming or going to Djehuty’s farm?”
“No.” Ptahhotep knelt beside the sergeant, who turned his head so the physician could see the wound. “Bring that torch closer. Can’t see a thing.” He gave his son a stern look.
“How many times must I ask? What happened here?”
Bak thanked the lord Amon that he rather than Ptahhotep had been meant to die. The assailant had come to his father’s small estate, either intending to slay him during the night or to check out the lay of the land for another time. When Ptahhotep had been called away and Sergeant Huy had grown careless, the assailant had taken advantage of the moment, thinking to disable the guard and await his arrival. Luck, or that wretched lord Set, had been with him, and he had walked into the assailant’s snare not in silence, but whistling a loud and spirited tune to announce his arrival.
“Defender’s burns are insignificant.” Ptahhotep dropped a rear hoof of the first horse Bak had saved from the burning shed and rose to his feet. “His legs should heal in a few days.”
Bak, who was holding the animal’s head, nodded toward the horse Amonemopet was holding. “What of Victory?”
The physician picked up a bowl containing a thin greenish substance and walked around the flank of the horse that had remained in the burning shed a longer period of time.
Sergeant Huy, seated on
the edge of the watering trough, shifted the flaming torch so Ptahhotep could see his second patient. The guard’s head was swathed in a white bandage, and he looked bleary-eyed from the medicine Ptahhotep had given him for his headache. He should have been on his sleeping mat, but had insisted instead on helping with the late night doctoring.
“This may sting, Amonemopet, so hold him quiet.” Ptahhotep knelt, lifted a hoof, dipped a soft cloth into the poultice, and daubed the burned area. “His front legs are no worse than Defender’s back ones, but the rear legs will take 210
Lauren Haney
a while to heal. You’ve no need to worry, though. Unless the gods turn their backs to him, he’ll fully recover.”
Bak watched, puzzled, while his father wrapped a soft cloth around the scorched leg and tied it in place. “You’ve always told me a burn heals best when left open to the air.
Why bandage Victory?”
“The gods will look more kindly toward him if we keep the flies away from the wound.”
Soon after daybreak the same young apprentice scribe who had summoned Bak the first time he had met with the Storekeeper of Amon hurried up the path to Ptahhotep’s small farm. Bak was preparing to go to Waset to report to Commander Maiherperi and ask that he replace Sergeant Huy, who would be in no condition to guard anyone for the next few days. Kasaya would remain with his father until the new guard arrived, then go to Djeser Djeseru.
“Amonked wishes to see you, sir,” the scribe said.
“Surely he’s not heard of the fire!” Kasaya exclaimed.
“Did he tell you why?” Bak asked the apprentice.
“Something important has turned up, he said, something you should know about.”
The scribe escorted Bak to Amonked’s home in Waset.
The dwelling was located in an even older and more desir-able neighborhood than that in which the architect Montu had dwelt. The property was larger and therefore the house more spacious. The street was as narrow and dark and had the same musty odor, but here guards stood before each entrance, holding at a distance unwelcome visitors.
