Cruel Deceit lb-6

by Lauren Haney

  Amon was leaving his southern mansion and the standard bearers had turned west to lead the procession toward the river.

  Bak prayed Pahure would remain on the grass, staying well clear of the processional way, and that he would not turn back toward the temple. He did not wish to become en tangled by priests and dancers and musicians and, above all,

  Maatkare Hatshepsut, Menkheperre Thutmose, and their ret inue. The very least that would happen would be the stew ard’s escape.

  The dog raced toward the flock. The old man yelled more desperately, trying to call it back. Untrained, Bak guessed, and excited by the chase, it ran on, barking wildly. As it raced in among the stragglers, making them bleat in terror, the flock broke apart, with sheep and goats trotting in all di rections, several threatening to run Pahure down. Forced into the crowd, he shoved men and women out of his way, raising a chorus of angry objections. Bak, also caught up in the melee, stayed behind the spectators, ducking around one animal after another, fearful of losing sight of his quarry.

  The ram turned and, head down, charged the dog. With a sharp yelp and its tail between its legs, it raced away through the flock. Frightened and confused, the sheep and goats pushed in among the spectators, bumping bare legs and stepping with sharp little hooves on sandaled feet. The people began to scatter, the approaching procession no longer able to hold their attention. Men yelled and cursed and tried to beat back the animals, while children laughed with glee, thoroughly enjoying the commotion. The soldiers along the near side of the processional way broke their line to help.

  The thoroughfare, a wide expanse of sparkling white limestone chips, empty of humanity all the way to the river’s edge, was too inviting to resist. Pahure burst out from among the spectators to run west along this easier course.

  Bak shouldered his way through the crowd, unwittingly opening a path for the ram. He glanced to the east, glimpsed the standard-bearers leading the procession toward him.

  With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, he set off af ter Pahure, who was dashing along the thoroughfare, kilt held well above his knees. The waterfront lay not fifty paces ahead of him.

  The line of soldiers along the south side of the pro cessional way broke apart and the men ran onto the lime stone path. Bak thought at first they meant to chase Pahure, then realized half the flock had followed the ram through the crowd and the animals were spreading out across the thor oughfare in front of the approaching procession.

  Openly horrified by the potential for catastrophe, the ser geant in charge yelled to his men, “Get those wretched crea tures out of here.” Practically tearing out his hair, he added,

  “The ram. Somebody catch him. Lead him away. Cut his throat if you have to.”

  The soldiers, many of them innocent in the ways of ani mals, tried to press them back in among the spectators; in stead, they set them to flight. The men and women lining the thoroughfare surely recognized the seriousness of the situa tion, but, following their children’s example, they began to laugh. Even Bak, racing on, had to smile, though he suspected he would be the man held to account. Especially if he didn’t lay hands on Pahure.

  Forcing himself to greater effort, Bak gradually closed the distance between himself and his quarry. Ahead, the royal barge was moored against the riverbank at the end of the processional way. Behind the highly polished wooden craft and tethered to it by thick ropes, the golden barge of the lord

  Amon rocked gently on the swells. In front of the royal ves sel, tied to temporary mooring posts embedded in the mud bank, were the ten boats that would tow the barges downstream, guiding them along the water’s edge to Ipet isut. Each boat, bound to the vessel behind it by a long, stout rope, had been freshly oiled and painted. Colorful pennants fluttered from masts and stays.

  All along the shore against which the barges and boats were moored, spearmen held the crowd back, allowing plenty of space for the royal pair and the lord Amon, the standard-bearers, priests, and musicians to board the appro priate craft for the voyage downstream.

  With the sacred barge raised high upon the floodwaters, its deck above the riverbank, the priests standing on the bow had a clear view of the processional way, of the scurrying soldiers and frightened flock. Garbed all in white and shaven bald, with two men wearing leopard skins over their shoul ders, they lined the rail, staring down the thoroughfare, ap palled by the pandemonium.

  The boatmen on the royal barge had an even better view.

  Rather than standing in serious expectancy while they awaited their sovereigns and their god, they were laughing heartily at the frantic gathering up of obstinate sheep and goats. The spectators waiting along the riverbank craned their necks, trying to see what was going on.

  Pahure ran to the water’s edge along which the royal barge was moored. He glanced over his shoulder, saw how close Bak had come. With the path ahead barred by the ves 280

  Lauren Haney sel and with any retreat cut off, he turned southward to race along the muddy shore toward the stern.

  A soldier yelled, “Now look here, sir! You’re not al lowed…” He spotted Bak, blustered, “And you…”

  “Police!” Bak ran into the open area along the river and raised his baton of office so all who looked could see. “That man’s a criminal. He must be stopped.”

  Voices buzzed among the spectators, who pressed against the line of spearmen, eager to see. The soldiers, who might have helped Bak, given the chance, had to shove the crowd back, keeping clear the area their sovereigns and their god would, in a short time, tread.

  Cursing the curiosity that so often stole away common sense, Bak ran on after Pahure. The steward, reaching the bow of the sacred barge, paused as if unsure what he should do. He glanced back at his pursuer; looked up the line of vessels tethered to the sacred craft, none of which he could hope to board and cut free; and stared out across the river at the distant shore and the flotilla of boats too far upstream to be of help. Those short moments of hesitation proved his un doing. Bak leaped at him. The steward ducked away, slipped in the mud, and half fell, half dived into the silt-laden water.

  Bak, balanced precariously on the edge of the bank, came close to falling into the river with him, but scrambled back to firmer ground. Pahure surfaced just out of reach, sput tered, looked around to see where he was. The gilded bow of the barge of the lord Amon hung over him, reaching high above his head. The long, sleek prow was surmounted by a huge carved, gilded, and painted image of a ram’s head emerging from the sacred lily. The horned ram, symbol of the lord Amon, wore on its head the golden disk of the sun and over its brow a rearing cobra. A large painted and gilded wooden replica of a multicolored broad collar hung below the image.

  Pahure’s expression clouded, as if for an instant he felt the wrath of the god breathing down his neck. He shook his head, visibly throwing off the feeling, and swam under the prow. A couple of paces beyond the vessel, he treaded water and again looked out across the river at the opposite shore, so far away few men would dare try to swim across and fewer would succeed. Especially not a man already tired af ter a long, hard chase. Bak, very much aware of how tired he himself was, stood poised on the riverbank, ready to swim after his quarry.

  The priests on the barge, their brows furrowed by worry, peered down from the bow, looking at the man in the water and at his pursuer. Bak was as concerned as they. He could hear, over the cheering of the spectators lining the pro cessional way, the beat of drums setting the pace of the pro cession, the harsher sounds of clappers and sistra. He estimated them to be about halfway between Ipet-resyt and the river, approaching the spot where last he had seen the sheep and goats. He prayed the soldiers had removed the an imals from the processional way, prayed he could snare

  Pahure before the standard-bearers and leading priests reached the waterfront and the dual sovereigns, especially

  Maatkare Hatshepsut, became aware that a problem existed.

  Pahure, his decision made, swam upstream, vanishing be hind the far sid
e of the golden barge. Bak pushed his dagger firmly into its sheath so he wouldn’t lose it in the river, flung his baton of office away from the water’s edge, and dove in after him. Rounding the hull he spotted the steward swim ming south alongside the vessel at a good solid pace. The sa cred barge was not large, less than fifty paces long, and its shallow hull, gilded above the waterline, lay low in the wa ter. To a swimmer, it looked like a wall of solid gold, with scenes incised along much of its length showing Maatkare

  Hatshepsut praising her heavenly father.

  Bak glanced up midway along the vessel, saw rising on the deck above him the gilded dais and, beneath its roof, the open shrine in which the barque of the lord Amon would be placed for its voyage to Ipet-isut. Frantic priests hung over the railing, watching him and Pahure.

  He swam on, listening to the sounds of sistra and clappers and drums echoing through the water in his ears, hearing the voices of men and women on the riverbank talking excit edly, no doubt guessing where he and Pahure had gone, what the vile criminal meant to do, where the two would reappear.

  Bak could not imagine what Pahure hoped to gain. He could not swim across the river and the moment he set foot on the near shore, he would be taken. He was doomed one way or the other.

  Ahead, the steward passed the twin rudders, each overlaid with a thin gold sheath incised with the sacred lily and the two eyes of the lord Horus, and swam beneath a second gilded ram’s head mounted on the narrow stern. Spotting

  Bak, he dove beneath the water. Bak kicked backward to grab a rudder, fearing Pahure meant to pull him under. A half-dozen priests fluttered back and forth across the stern, peering over the sides. From their near panic, he guessed they feared he would snap off the rudder, which was much lighter and more graceful than those on working vessels.

  Pahure surfaced some distance upstream and swam south ward with long, fast strokes. Ignoring muscles beginning to ache from the strain, Bak shot forward through the water.

  The steward passed the densest part of the crowd gathered around the sacred barge and appeared to be heading toward an acacia hanging over the river’s edge, a tree Bak remem bered from the day he had walked along the shore with

  Netermose.

  Even if Pahure reached the tree and pulled himself onto the mudbank, he doubted the steward would get away. Too many people were running along the shore, keeping pace.

  Still, he wanted to be the man to snare the vile criminal.

  Pahure leaped upward and grabbed a limb, which bowed beneath his weight. As he began to pull himself out of the water, Bak swam to him and caught hold of his legs. The steward clung with both hands and tried to shake him off.

  The limb drooped further. Bak’s hands slid down the wet legs, stopped at the ankles. He jerked as hard as he could, heard the sharp crack of breaking wood. Though not broken through, the limb bent lower, dropping Pahure into the water to his waist.

  With a grim but victorious smile, Bak looked up at the man he had caught. He saw no fear on Pahure’s face, only a firm determination to fight to his last breath. Beyond the steward, he glimpsed a group of spectators running toward the tree, several armed soldiers gathering around, and four nearly naked, heavily muscled men, each carrying a good size rounded rock, identifying them as competitors in a throwing contest.

  The closest soldier raised his spear and, his mouth clamped tight with determination, thrust the weapon. At the same time Bak heard a sickening thud. Pahure went limp and half slid, half fell into the water, while the spear sped harmlessly over his shoulder. As he vanished beneath the surface, Bak saw that the side of his head had been crushed.

  Startled, he glanced up at the soldier, who looked equally surprised. Beyond, Bak glimpsed the rock throwers, one with a triumphant smile on his face, the others encircling him, smothering him with praise.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “They’re coming! They’re coming!”

  The child’s voice rang out sharp and clear, carried by some whim of the gods all across the landscape in front of

  Ipet-isut. Every eye turned westward, every man and woman stretched to his or her tallest, eager to see the first pair of towboats enter the canal. What had been a soft murmur of voices rose to an expectant clamor.

  So many people had come to see the lord Amon return to his northern mansion that the crowd standing on the raised paths pressed against the row of royal guards lining the arti ficial lake in front of Ipet-isut and the canal to the river.

  Humble men and women unwilling or afraid to push them selves forward, people without means and accustomed to no better, stood among the trees and brush to either side in the standing water left by the retreating flood. Children perched in the trees, looking out over the multitude of heads.

  Bak, having received a summons while donning clean clothing at his Medjays’ quarters, had hastened to join

  Amonked on the raised limestone platform that overlooked the lake. Known to have the ear of his royal cousin, the

  Storekeeper of Amon had been given a place of distinction from which to view the approaching procession of boats.

  Crowded onto the platform with them were ranking priests and dignitaries from throughout the land of Kemet.

  Officiating priests stood at the edge of the lake in front of the platform, some holding lustration vessels, the rest filling the air with incense that rose in a cloud, making Bak’s nose itch. Four royal servants holding ostrich feather fans waited nearby. Standard-bearers stood at the lower end of the shal low stairs that led up to the processional way connecting the lake to the sacred precinct.

  “He’s dead?” Amonked had to shout to be heard.

  Bak did not have to ask to whom he referred. “I dove down after him without delay, but even if I’d caught him be fore he entered the water, it would’ve made no difference.

  The rock struck him hard enough to’ve slain an ox.”

  The strident blare of a trumpet, close enough to destroy a man’s hearing, rent the air. The first two towboats swung into the far end of the canal, each carrying on its bow an en shrined gilded image of the sovereign of Kemet in a sym bolic pose of victory. The second pair carried similar shrines and images, as did the following vessels.

  Behind the towboats, guided into the canal by men stand ing on the riverbank, came the long, slender royal barge on which Maatkare Hatshepsut and Menkheperre Thutmose had journeyed from Ipet-resyt. Enthroned side by side within a shrine, they were swathed in long, tight, white ju bilee robes. While the barge made its slow, deliberate pas sage down the canal, voices rose in adoration, muting the beat of the drums marking time for the towboat oarsmen and muffling the sounds of sistra and clappers.

  “What in the name of the lord Amon did he intend?”

  Amonked shouted.

  Bak could but shrug. The question was not new. Everyone who had watched Pahure’s last desperate attempt to leave the water had asked it of him. “I can only believe he thought the men on shore would be easier to evade than me. Or per haps he hoped to die there, a quick and painless death at the hands of a soldier.”

  “A coward’s way,” Amonked said, scowling.

  “Would you want to face impalement or burning?”

  The golden barge of the lord Amon slipped into view.

  Voices swelled in a fresh round of acclaim as the long, sleek vessel was maneuvered around the tight turn into the canal.

  Though it was linked by rope to the royal barge, a company of soldiers stationed along the paths to either side towed the vessel in the wake of its predecessor. The task was not diffi cult, an honor bestowed by the royal pair.

  In the lull of voices while all who watched practically held their breaths, waiting for their sovereigns’ barge to touch land, Amonked said, “We know what prompted him to take Woserhet’s life and Meryamon’s, but did he ever say why he believed, after more than three years had passed, that

  Maruwa would reveal mistress Meret as a traitor?”

  “He had no chance. I fear that’s one qu
estion which will never be answered.”

  “His death was far quicker and easier than it should’ve been.” Amonked, his expression severe, wiped the sweat from his face and neck with a square of linen. “I trust the other men involved in his foul scheme will suffer appropri ate punishment.”

  “The chief priest will no doubt press the vizier to see jus tice done.”

  The royal barge bumped against the landing stage. Crew men scrambled out to span the narrow gap with a gangplank, while others held the vessel steady. The dual sovereigns stepped out of the shrine and, with the dignity born of their office, removed the robes that had enshrouded them, passed them and the associated regalia to a priest and, with the help of aides, donned more appropriate attire for the final pro cession into Ipet-isut.

  The trumpet blared again and Maatkare Hatshepsut, dressed much as she had been eleven days earlier, strode across the gangplank, head held high, the very image of grandeur. The moment her feet touched earth, the crowd roared. At the same time, Menkheperre Thutmose bounded onto the shore in two long strides. How much of the acclaim was directed toward him was impossible to tell. Bak wanted to believe the young king shared in equal measure with

  Maatkare Hatshepsut the adoration of his people.

  The instant the barge was empty of its illustrious passen gers, the crewmen jumped back on board and withdrew the gangplank so the craft could be towed out of the way, mak ing room for the barge of the lord Amon. The priests on the landing stage stepped forward to purify with water the earth upon which their sovereigns trod and to cleanse the air around them with a scent so pungent it made Bak sneeze.