‘It wouldn’t do any good, even if you did. My own mind is made up.’
‘I know, I know. You’re as headstrong as he is.’
She rolled her eyes and I resisted the fond impulse to remind her that my father was far from the only one I’d inherited stubbornness from.
‘Should I tell Aya?’ asked my mother.
‘Do you think she’ll understand?’
‘I know that she will.’ She smiled faintly, and even though she was clearly worried at my departure, I could see approval for Aya there, as well.
‘And will you find it difficult to say goodbye?’
‘Impossible.’
‘It’s your decision,’ she said, and left the room, leaving me to collect my things, buckling belts at my torso and hanging a pouch at my waist, dropping into it a purse of coins, my savings accrued from a lifetime of errands and village chores, every coin I had ever earned – enough, I hoped, to see me clear on my travels.
I said my farewells. Mother hugged me tight, then let me go, shooing me out of the door and turning away with tears in her eyes, and I found myself on the deserted and silent street, lit by a moon that hung over the oasis and watched me impassively as I shouldered my pack and then made my way to the stable at the side of our home where my horse was waiting.
As I rode out of the town my route took me past where Aya lived with her aunt Herit. Many was the evening I’d come to her window, whispered her name and thrilled to the sight of her climbing out so that we could talk, hold hands and exchange kisses beneath the stars. For a moment I wondered if I could bear to leave Aya, whom I’d loved from the moment I set eyes on her: me the little Siwan boy, son of the town’s protector and full of myself; she the girl from Alexandria, ready to put me in my place.
She’d understand. She and I were two people waiting: me for my destiny to begin and her to be called back to Alexandria to study with her parents. She’d know I was leaving because I had to follow my path. But leaving without telling her? I did that for myself. I couldn’t face the alternative.
‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered, and my words dropped like stones in the chill night.
8
The journey to Zawty took me across the desert of the Red Lands. At night I made camp, sure to keep myself warm, piling rocks to make windbreaks, and there I discovered that there is no lonelier place than on the plains at night, with only the sound of the vultures for company. I yearned for Aya. I told myself that I would prove myself to her just as I would to my father, my mother and Rabiah, and, looking back, it was that thought that kept me going.
For water, I made stills by digging a hole in the ground and covering it with a sheet to let the sun create condensation on the underside. I sucked water out of what plant stalks I found, and made sure to preserve my own fluids by keeping my pace steady, breathing through my nose. This was what I’d been taught by Khensa, and then my father. Growing up, Aya and I would take trips, build shelters, hunt and forage, and to her I passed on the advice given to me: ‘You need to hunt against the wind or across it. The ideal time to hunt is at first light, that’s when the animals are abroad …’
Thanks to my tutors, I knew what tracks and signs to look out for. I knew which droppings indicated which animals, and how to skin them when the flesh is still warm, removing the glands that create scent and spoil the meat; I knew where to make my cuts, careful not to rupture the stomach and digestive organs.
I cooked my kills on fires made from desert scrub: rabbits, rodents, wild sheep and goats, wild pigs. (‘You can’t skin a wild pig, Bayek. Gut it first, then burn off the hair.’) I remembered being told that liver needs less cooking and that the kidneys are a good source of nourishment but require boiling. Roast the heart. Boil the intestines. Spoon the jelly from the feet, boil the tongue and bones, save the brain to cure hides. I used entrails to re-bait the traps. I drank the blood for nourishment and sucked the eyeballs for fluids.
My first weapon was a slingshot, but the weapon in which I took the most pride was my bow. I made it when I was over the most arduous part of the journey and closer to the river, where the land was more fertile. There I found a yew tree and cut from it a supple wand for the bowstave.
‘Here, hold the tip of the bowstave like this. That’s your reach. That’s how long your bow should be,’ my father had told me.
He’d shown me how to strip the bark, taper the stave, notch the ends for the bowstring and whittle it into shape before rubbing it with the animal fat from my kills. I used rawhide for my string and then wound the stems of nettles at the tips of the stave to strengthen my knots and keep the bow tensed.
I made arrows, fashioning them from straight pieces of sycamore. I’d collected feathers whenever I saw them, storing them in my pouch, and used them for fletching.
Alone on the plain, making my bow, I thought of them all – Khensa, my father, my mother and Rabiah, Hepzefa … Aya – and I wondered when I would see them again. If I would see them again.
9
Eventually I found myself travelling in the green splendour of the Nile’s shores. Where once all I could see was arid desert in every direction, now there were farms, trees in abundance, plantations and wildlife. No longer was I alone. Everywhere I looked were other travellers, merchants, labourers, farmers, even a procession of priests at one point.
And then there was the river itself: the great Nile, whose fluctuations decided the fortunes of those who lived by its shores. When the snows in the high lands melted during the middle months of the year, thick mud was sent torrenting along the river, and this was the akhet – the inundation – when people would thank the god Hapi for blessing the land with fertile soil to produce food for themselves and their families. It was their life, their source. They used it for water, food and transportation; they relied on its floods to sustain crops.
These were all things I already knew, of course (things, I realized with a pang, that had been told to me by Aya). There were countless pictures of the river in the temples at home, meaning that I’d already formed a mental picture of it, and I had always imagined it to be grand. Even so, nothing could have prepared me for the sight of it. It was vast, a huge mass of water that twisted, turned and, though busy with boats, flowed in a slow and stately fashion, as though its only response to the thick humidity was languor.
I could hardly take my eyes from it as I passed through fields green with the fruit of the inundation. In the water I saw islands of reeds and palms, and everywhere boats: some large and sumptuous, with huge silk sails that flapped in the breeze with a sound like the beating of a drum; others tiny one-man vessels, not made of wood but woven from reeds. Fishermen propelled themselves using long poles, tossing nets on the river surface. I saw water birds and heard their call, and for the first time in my life I saw the ibis, the great wading birds with their down-curved beaks, long necks and legs. They stood in the shallows and appeared to tolerate the human beings in their boats, the children paddling on the shore, the oxen in the fields.
Another first: a hippopotamus, this great beast which inspired so much fear and respect, a reminder of the goddess Tawaret. I watched as its snout broke the surface of the water as it, too, watched the day go past.
I eventually found myself on the outskirts of Zawty, where I set my mind to the task at hand. What a difference it made to be among people again. Alone in the desert, I’d felt small and vulnerable, and even at times afraid. But now the hustle and bustle of the town gave me a kind of strength, a different kind of security to the one I felt in Siwa, where everybody knew me as the protector’s son. Here, I was anonymous. And that made me bold.
I found a place to stable my horse, paying a boy with coin from my purse before taking my leave in order to drink in the sights of the city. Trying not to gawp I wandered among stalls, weaving my way through townspeople, stopping to admire wares every now and then.
The streets were narrower than I was used to in Siwa. Here they had shops with shutters and colourful awnings. Everywhere I looked str
eets became other streets, forking left and right, branching first one way and then another … To slow down invaders, Aya had once told me.
Oh!
I came to a halt. This was the best way to get lost, I realized. Stable your mount, go exploring. The next thing you know you’ve forgotten where your horse is.
As I cast about to find a useful landmark, I glimpsed a sudden movement behind me. I couldn’t be sure, but it looked like a small child – a child who was anxious not to be seen.
With a better idea of my bearings, I moved on, stopping to admire the wares at a stall further along the street. This particular one boasted a selection of knives, all of them more fit for combat than the one I’d taken from home.
One in particular caught my eye. I pulled out my purse to pay for it but before I tucked my new purchase into my belt, I pretended to inspect it one last time, using it to watch over my shoulder, and once again saw movement between the legs of fellow shoppers. A street kid with designs on my purse, perhaps?
At the next stall was a selection of jewellery. I picked up a polished collar, angling it once more to see the street behind. What I saw, of course, was my own face, heavily stubbled, thick with the dirt and dust of the desert, and then …
There!
In the reflection I saw him. A boy, younger than me. He wore a tunic not dissimilar to my own, but without the leather belts that crisscrossed my chest.
The question was, why was he following me? What did he want?
Time to find out.
10
I kept going, drawing the boy with me until I found a square. Stone benches lined the walls and weeping almond trees provided shade for customers who milled around stalls selling food and alabaster jars. I bought a honey cake covered in seeds and then took a seat at a mosaic table to wait.
Right, I thought, show yourself, little rat.
In time he sidled into the square. Though it was far less populated than the other streets in the city he was still able to use much taller people as cover. I watched him as covertly as I could. I saw his eyes go to the honey cake and there was no mistaking the hunger there.
I looked over and gestured to him. A look of indecision immediately flitted across a face that was almost as grubby as my own and he went to turn away.
‘Hey,’ I called over. ‘Are you hungry? There’s a honey cake here that I’m happy to share.’
That brought him up short. He turned and slunk along the wall towards where I sat, coming close and appraising me with world-weary eyes before he spoke. ‘You think you’re the big man, do you?’ he said, and reached for the honey cake.
‘If you’re going to be rude then …’ I scooped up the cake and held it away.
‘All right, all right, just that I ain’t used to somebody barely older than I am talking to me like they was a military commander.’
I frowned. ‘How old are you, then? What’s your name?’
‘Name’s Tuta. I’m ten. What’s your name? How old are you? And when are you going to give me that honey cake, or are you planning on making me beg, “Oh, please, sir, please, sir, can I have a bite of your honey cake? Do you a dance if you like, sing you a little song if it would please you, sir”?’
True, my arm was still up, honey cake and all. I brought it down, indicated for him to sit. ‘Help yourself. My name’s Bayek. I’m fifteen summers, and I want to know why you’ve made yourself my shadow.’
He sniffed. ‘I’m hungry, and I live on the streets. I’m always on the lookout for something to eat.’
‘I might believe that – but for the fact that I had no food when you first began following me. Why do I have the feeling that it’s not cake you’re interested in so much as this?’ And with that I plopped my purse on to the mosaic table.
Lips dusted with seeds, cheeks full of honey cake, he rolled his eyes. ‘All right, all right,’ he said, spraying crumbs. ‘I got a friend at the stables. He’s good enough to put me on to anybody new in town who might have some spare drachme …’
‘To steal it?’
He shook his head furiously. ‘No, just be generous enough to help a boy out.’
There was a pause.
‘Do you think you might do that, then?’ he said hopefully. ‘Help me out, I mean? A little loan. Maybe a gift if I show you the sights?’
‘Well, that’s a possibility, I might well be able to do that …’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really. First, though, I’d like to know more about who it is I’m helping. What’s your story, Tuta?’ I indicated for him to take more cake.
He spoke around mouthfuls of cake. ‘I came to Zawty from Thebes when I was very young. My mother and father brought me and my little sister, and for a while things were good, as far as I can remember. But there was a fire – a terrible fire, sir, one that claimed the life of my mother and sister.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
‘Thank you sir, it was a couple of years ago now, and there’s plenty in my situation.’
‘What about your father?’
‘Well, that’s a tale that’s almost as tragic. For losing my mother and sister in the fire meant I also lost my father, who took to drinking and may well have drunk himself to death by now, for all I know.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I repeated. ‘Where do you live?’
‘Well, I’ve lived in this very square more than a few times.’ He grinned. ‘Matter of fact, there’s hardly a street in this whole city that hasn’t been my home at one time or another. It gets a bit cold at night but I make the best of it, and it’s not like I’m the only one out here.’
‘Where did you get that?’ I pointed at a bruise on his neck.
‘I said it wasn’t all that bad.’ His look darkened, ‘But I’m not saying it’s all that good either.’
‘Right,’ I said. ‘Well, maybe we can help each other, if – big if – you can help me in return. Being a visitor, I don’t know the place as well as you, but I’m here in search of a messenger who paid a visit to Siwa, recently. This man had striking blue eyes, and he wore a brown leather satchel across himself, a bit like this,’ I indicated the belt across my own shoulder, ‘but with the bag down here …’
‘Don’t narrow it down much,’ said Tuta doubtfully.
I tried to think. ‘All right, the last time I saw this particular gentleman, he was pushing a purse of what looked very much like coins into that satchel of his. I wonder if he might have been spending his earnings, perhaps attracting a little attention to himself in the process.’
‘I take it back then, sir,’ said Tuta, ‘there might be something I can do. In fact, I know just the person to ask. A trader of my acquaintance, a man who deals in all sorts of wares. I could start there if you like.’
‘You think you can find the man I seek?’
Tuta winked, already looking better nourished thanks to the cake. ‘To be honest, there isn’t anybody in this town I couldn’t set eyes on. You just happen to have hired yourself the right man for the job. Wait here.’
I did as I was asked, blissfully unaware of the terrible mistake I was making.
11
Sabu had ridden for over twenty days by the time he reached his destination. It had taken him longer than anticipated because he’d been very cautious. He had to be certain he wasn’t being led into a trap. The safe place – ‘Mother’ – was used in the message, so he could be reasonably certain the source of the missive was genuine, but even so … there was no such thing as being too careful.
He reached the Mother location, a small oasis in the Eastern Desert, where he waited for a day or so until in the distance he saw the familiar shape of a cart, trundling slowly towards him. On the plank seat was The Elder’s ward, a boy of about fifteen, his eyes shining white with blindness.
Sabestet, for that was his name, was considered by many to have almost supernatural abilities. But the truth was, his hearing was his secret weapon, even as his sight was not so poor as he allowed people to believe. It wa
s on the advice of The Elder: ‘Find your advantage and use it. Keep your friends guessing as you do your enemies, you never know when their loyalties might change.’
The Elder, Hemon, was usually to be found sitting beside Sabestet on the cart. Though not today, it seemed.
The two greeted one another and Sabu stood to one side, knowing better than to offer Sabestet a hand to climb down from the cart. Shortly, the two of them sat with their backs against a tree trunk, sharing the last of Sabu’s flask.
‘Hemon thanks you for responding to our message and attending so quickly. We were confident you would,’ said Sabestet when he had rinsed the dust from his mouth.
Sabu swatted at a fly. ‘How is he?’
‘Our master is in good health and as mentally robust as ever, though now reliant on a staff to walk. He would have come with me but he has travelled much lately. Thus we felt it was better that he stayed at home in Djerty on this occasion. Our master hopes you are not at all offended by his absence and thanks you for coming.’
‘And this travelling he’s been doing?’
‘Yes. The travelling he’s been doing. This is why he summoned you. He thanks you for coming.’
Sabu sighed, thinking of Ahmose and Bayek back home, the town he’d left. ‘He thanks me for coming, Sabestet, I understand that. How about the reason why? The travel? What does this all concern?’
‘Our master sent word to Emsaf. He requested they meet regarding a serious issue. Emsaf did not arrive at the meeting place. Instead he sent a communication from Ipou requesting that we go to an alternative location. Why would Emsaf do that, do you think?’
Sabu stood, put his hands to the small of his back and stretched out his shoulders as he tried to put himself in Emsaf’s position. He thought back to the days and nights he had just spent traversing the desert.
‘He’d reached Ipou, then,’ he said, gazing down at Sabestet. ‘All the way from his home at Hebenou. He must have thought himself followed.’
Desert Oath: The Official Prequel to Assassin’s Creed Origins Page 4
