Desert Oath: The Official Prequel to Assassin’s Creed Origins

by Oliver Bowden

  She did as asked, and after Neka took a few gradually steadying steps, we headed out.

  33

  Easy success was quickly taken from us. It was all for the sake of a man having a piss. Whatever plan formulated by Khensa and Neka might well have worked were it not for that bladder bursting with beer.

  We had crept outside of the storehouse, back into the basin, where across the way Tuta and Aya were crouched in the stables.

  They were waving at us. It took me a moment or so to see what they were doing, my eyes adjusting to the night, maybe having difficulty believing what I was seeing. But no, they were definitely waving. I squinted, trying to make out why.

  Waving and pointing to …

  My eyes went to the other buildings in the encampment, and there at the larger of the two huts I saw one of Menna’s men relieving himself against the side of the wall. On the ledge Seti stood with his bow drawn back and ready to fire, but right now the guy was on the wrong side of the building. His chosen urinal was in one of the few areas Seti couldn’t cover, and now, if he looked to his right he’d see Tuta and Aya, but if he looked to his left he’d see me, Khensa and Neka.

  Shit!

  Khensa began silently and frantically indicating for us to return inside the storehouse. The only sound in the basin was the henchman’s stream of piss against the side of his hut.

  He’d be in trouble for that, I thought crazily. They probably had rules about going out to the boundary but he was too tired to bother.

  Steam rose. He stopped.

  And then started again.

  And then stopped, let his tunic drop until he stepped backwards, unsteady on his feet, either with drink or sleepiness.

  Terrified of a movement that might catch his eye, but just as terrified of staying out in the open, we froze – even Khensa, who gave up on trying to shepherd us back inside, simply crouched, motionless. Likewise. Tuta and Aya had fallen still on the other side of the hollow. I didn’t dare turn my head to see Seti.

  All of us were petrified of being seen, praying the man would simply stagger back into his quarters.

  But he didn’t.

  He’d stopped, cocked an ear, and then he put his hands to his mouth to make the hawk sound, or at least a drunken approximation of it.

  We held our breaths, watching as he once again cocked an ear, listening, waiting for the answering hawk call and seemingly irritated that it didn’t come. Next he appeared to take stock, and with his chin raised and his chest puffed out he took a look around himself like a drunken king surveying his realm. His eyes passed the stables and didn’t linger there, Tuta and Aya concealed by the shadows. But then his gaze came to where the three of us crouched outside the door of the storehouse and suddenly I felt terribly exposed, thinking, This is it, Bayek. The friendly moon shining down on us pointing us out. There they are.

  Surely we’d been spotted.

  Khensa thought so too. She gestured to Seti. Both started to move slowly, weapons at the ready.

  But the unthinkable happened. Finally coming to a decision, the man shouted once – beginning to raise the alarm. Khensa faded into the shadows and Seti stood, no longer hidden. The man saw him and launched himself forward, his second shout delivered with more volume and urgency, throwing himself at the door to his lodgings and battering them with both palms.

  For him, it was too late. Moving to the door of the billet had brought him into the sightline of Seti, who fired. An arrow pierced the man’s cheek, his barrage of blows stopped and his yells were cut off by the shaft in his oesophagus.

  But the damage was done, and in a moment the door of the billet was flung open. ‘Hey,’ came a cry from within, a voice filled with sleep that became a shout of shock when the man inside saw his friend’s body sprawled on the ground.

  He charged out. Foolhardy. Khensa’s spear caught him as she lunged out of the shadows, the kill neat and quick. My knife in my hand, I kept watch still, alert and attentive. I felt movement at my side, turned to see Aya arrive, Tuta there too, lurking and grinning at me as they settled nearby.

  On the other side of the camp, Seti had used the lull in combat to jump down from the ledge. The Nubians, reunited, embraced, but then almost immediately a strange sense of indecision was cast upon them: What to do now? We knew there were four or five men still inside the main building. And in the other building …

  Menna.

  It was as though we all woke at the same time. It wasn’t over. Khensa was gesticulating for Neka: Get over there. Cover the door. Meantime, Aya had notched an arrow in the sentry’s bow. ‘Seti,’ whispered Khensa harshly, ‘check the back. Make sure there’s no way out of the rear.’

  Though the Nubians clearly had known patterns to rely on, the rest of us were at a loss. Already unprepared, we’d been caught off guard by the pissing man; now we were desperately trying to play catch-up with the seasoned hunters.

  The first we knew of more trouble was a sound we heard from the stables where Menna and his lieutenant were already clambering into a chariot.

  I heard myself shout, ‘No!’ even as they pulled out of the stables in a thunder of wheels and hooves, and for the first time I got a good look at Menna’s lieutenant.

  It was him. It was the man who had come into my bedroom window all those years ago, the man who had rendered me rigid with fear. I saw the crooked eye. I saw the terrible twist of his lips, enjoying himself, even now, when the odds were so horribly stacked against him.

  At his side Menna seemed to be nothing by comparison. A small man. Lean and weathered, his skin the colour of the leather belts that crossed his chest.

  Neka levelled his bow, checked himself, then darted to gain a better position, loosing on the run. But his bad eye hindered him, and his arrow slapped into the side of the chariot, piercing the basket and lodging there harmlessly as the chariot turned, thundering towards the camp approach road.

  I tensed, waiting, hoping, no, praying for Seti’s own response, when from the other side of the building came a scream of pain that told us he was otherwise engaged. And now it was too late.

  Gods! Curses!

  Khensa had snatched her bow and quiver from Neka. ‘Stay here,’ she yelled at Aya, ‘contain them.’

  At the same time she set off in the direction of the stables. ‘Bayek, with me!’ she commanded and I didn’t need telling twice, staying on her heel as we sprinted to the chariot. When I glanced behind I saw Aya, training her bow on the hut. Seti came racing around the back wall, notching an arrow to take aim at Menna’s chariot, already slipping out of sight, and then in the same movement swinging back to cover the rear entrance. They had their hands full but between them they’d be all right: two experienced Nubians; Aya, new to this still but smart and confident; Tuta, who no doubt had a few tricks up his sleeve.

  ‘Can you drive this thing?’ yelled Khensa, jumping into the chariot. I grabbed the reins, shook them in response and steered us out of the stables, wheels cutting a groove in the sandy ground as we described an arc around to the entranceway. One of the few things my father had been unstinting about was this, at least. We were behind Menna, it was true. But we had one major advantage.

  We had Khensa.

  Our horse snorted, mane fluttering. I held on tight, painfully aware that it was a long time since I’d last driven a chariot – back in Siwa, of course, and that seemed like years ago now – as well as the fact that it was so dark.

  I could have laughed at how the moon alternated between being our enemy and our ally. Now at least it illuminated Menna and Maxta ahead. Maxta was driving, casting frequent looks over his shoulder as Menna crouched in the basket on the board, arms braced along the sides.

  I shook the reins, used the switch. Were we gaining? Out there, right then, it didn’t matter. My teeth were bared, numbed by the same wind I felt in my hair. But through me coursed a feeling of utter exhilaration. And if we weren’t gaining just yet, then we would. I knew it in my bones, and anyway …

  Be
side me, Khensa had been crouching like Menna, finding her balance as we thundered along, each dip and rise of the uneven ground threatening to tip us over to one side, buckle the wheel, crack its wooden spokes. These old things were better for sedate trips to the market, maybe even as far as Thebes and back, not for racing over the desert at night.

  Ahead of us the whip cracked. I heard Maxta urging on their horse. I did the same. Menna stood up, planting her feet apart, one leg behind mine so that our thighs touched, bracing each other. I saw the muscles in her forearms tense, bow held. In her right hand was an arrow and she notched it, drawing back the bow, riding the board of the chariot, bracing herself against me and on the basket, doing everything she could to keep herself and her aim steady.

  But it was not quite enough.

  Her first arrow sailed past the escaping pair in front of us. She looked at me, and I back at her, and there was no screaming, no shouting, no cursing, just a silent mutual assurance that, whatever happened, we would get the job done.

  ‘Next one,’ she yelled above the drone of the chariot wheels, and notched a second arrow, her muscles tensing as she drew back the string.

  She was yelling with the effort, arm trembling with fatigue when she finally loosed her second arrow. This one found its mark, spinning Maxta around in the basket as it sank deep in his left shoulder.

  He fell, yanking at the reins, causing the horse to stop and rear. In the same instant the chariot snapped round, wheels spinning in the air as the entire contraption twisted then crashed to the ground, the occupants still inside.

  We pulled alongside. Khensa had notched another arrow and I had my dagger in my hand, and we stepped from our basket and went to investigate.

  Their chariot was upside down, one wheel smashed, the other spinning lazily to a halt, both men trapped beneath. Trying to get to its feet, their horse was whinnying painfully and as Khensa kept her bow trained on the overturned chariot, I moved towards it, cutting the leather straps that held the animal, setting it free. I then walked to the rear, crouched to see underneath, wincing at the sight that greeted me. There was a lot of blood.

  At first I’d thought both men were alive. Their eyes were open, seemingly regarding me dispassionately. My attention was drawn to Menna. There was something odd about the way he simply regarded me. And then I realized he was unblinking and also that his head was at a strange, unnatural angle to the rest of his body, as though stuck to the side of the basket.

  At that moment his jaw dropped open and I saw something inside his bloodied mouth and realized that he was in fact pinned – during the crash he had tumbled against the point of Neka’s arrow, which was now embedded in his face. Had it killed him? Or was it a broken neck? Either way, he was dead.

  As for Maxta, he was still alive. And unlike Menna he was staring at me with eyes that saw.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked, and though his voice dripped with malice it was forced and weak. A line of blood ran from his mouth into his beard.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said, still crouching. ‘You’re beaten at last. And by a Medjay’s son.’

  His eyes widened in horrified recognition as he coughed his last, a bubble of blood appearing at his lips and then bursting as he died.

  34

  Bion had met Raia on one final occasion before leaving Alexandria, this time at a location with which Raia was more comfortable: a grove of fig trees deserted but for clouds of insects, drooping foliage and a stone bench on which they sat, able to converse in peace without fear of being overheard. Without Raia worrying about all the things Bion’s presence within his life could bring.

  Bion had inhaled the sweet scent of figs and watched insects among the trees as he updated Raia on his meeting with the scholar Rashidi, telling him what he’d learned about Hemon and Sabestet, this blind boy and his master living in Djerty.

  ‘An ancient, eh?’ Raia snorted with scorn, and Bion was glad they sat side-by-side, sure that his distaste for Raia was written all over his face. It was strange, he thought. The commander he knew from the old days was ambitious and prone to bouts of misplaced self-belief, but not stupid, not one for unthinking, unquestioning acceptance; the man he saw now, especially in his home surrounds of Alexandria, who sat beside him, occasionally closing his eyes and turning his face to the last of the afternoon sun, was a very different beast indeed.

  ‘So you leave for Djerty soon,’ Raia said, ‘to continue our mission?’

  Bion wondered which part of the mission was our mission. ‘At first light,’ he replied, his mind going to a task he planned to undertake beforehand.

  ‘Good, good. I shall look forward to news that the ancient and his blind helper are dead by your hand.’

  ‘Yes,’ Bion said simply, thinking, Yes, they would die soon, the fact as inevitable as the rising of the sun. They would die soon and then, he knew, Raia would have another mission for him. Raia would always, he suspected, have another mission for him.

  Bion found that the thought did not displease him.

  This, his legacy. His gift to the world. Death. There was rebirth after wars, after all. And if he hastened the timing a little, well, so what? Death visited everyone, sooner or later. Peace awaited his victims there. Was it such a terrible fate, to find respite from life, to move on to the next one?

  ‘Something of a coup, don’t you think?’ Raia was saying, and Bion set aside his wonderings to focus on the man, plotting away before him. ‘To find the ringleader this early into our mission? Feels like cutting off the roots before felling the tree?’ Raia settled back, raising his face to the sun, pleased with his turn of phrase.

  Bion’s scars itched. He wished to be elsewhere. ‘Yes,’ he said, uninterested.

  There was a pause, the kind of silence that allowed a little awkwardness to sidle up beside them and make its presence known.

  ‘I don’t detect within you a loss of heart, do I, Bion, killer of men? You know how important this mission is to me. You know how grateful I will be when it is complete.’

  ‘You have one medallion,’ Bion said, wondering how Raia could not understand that he cared little for rewards, that the killing itself sufficed. ‘Soon you will have several more.’

  ‘Don’t let me down, Bion,’ said Raia. His eyes had taken on a steely texture. Bion was amused, though his features did not shift.

  ‘I won’t, Commander.’

  Raia flashed teeth as a smile returned to a face that said Life is treating me well and I intend for it to stay that way. ‘Good, good.’

  For some time they sat side by side, until at last Raia spoke. ‘You remember Naukratis, Bion?’

  You reminded me about it in Faiyum, thought Bion, but instead of saying so, merely nodded his head.

  ‘The landowner, Wakare, you remember him?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘He was murdered not long after that. Murdered in his home. Did you know that?’

  Bion remained silent. It had no bearing on today.

  Raia stood to go, looking down at where Bion remained seated on the stone bench. ‘I wonder,’ said Raia, ‘whether if I were to investigate further, then I’d discover that Wakare was killed by a knife through the eye socket into the brain.’

  I wonder, thought Bion, but said nothing, watching Raia leave until he was out of sight, listening until his steps faded away to nothing.

  That night, before returning to his lodgings, Bion wandered across the city, marvelling at its newness, its Greekness. Yes, Alexandria reminded him of his time in Naukratis, it had that same haughty air of its own importance, except even more so, if such a thing were possible. Here you had to hunt high and low to see the peasants, the sekhety, the poor, the shouaou. A dirty face was a rarity in Alexandria; those who made their way along the streets and narrow passageways were well-to-do and assured of their own importance, happy and safe in the security of a consensus. These were the rich, the opposite of the sekhety, the people who could count upon fortune’s good grace. Once upon a time he had kil
led for their like. And despite believing that he had left that life behind, he was doing it again.

  His walk, purposeful, brought him to the door of a well-appointed home, nestled among those occupied by the very rich he had been watching before. He knocked and the door was answered by a servant. He asked for the master of the house, or perhaps the lady of the house if the master was not available, which he wasn’t.

  The servant stood nervously to one side as an elderly but well-dressed woman appeared and eyed him with suspicion. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I was wondering if I might speak to your husband, Theotimos,’ said Bion.

  She was a woman of some bearing, and if she was intimidated by Bion’s appearance she gave no sign, regarding him from along the bridge of her nose before replying. ‘My husband is dead,’ she said simply, with only a faint trace of emotion.

  ‘I see,’ said Bion, and then when he realized she was waiting for his condolences added, ‘I’m very sorry to hear that.’

  He made as if to leave and then stopped, shoulders dropping as he turned to regard the widow in her doorway. ‘How did he die?’ he asked.

  ‘He was set upon by a gang of thieves,’ she said.

  ‘What did they take, the thieves?’

  ‘Nothing.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘Just some scrolls.’

  35

  Before he died, the scholar Rashidi had told Bion that Hemon and Sabestet were to be found in Djerty, and so that is where he went.

  In Djerty he paid for information, and from what he could gather, Hemon and his ward lived outside the community. He had also discovered that the old man was reputed to be something of a mystic, and also that Hemon had taken in Sabestet at a young age. The blind orphan had been begging, performing a cups trick in the streets for money, when Hemon had passed by, seen him at work and been even more impressed when he realized the boy was blind.

  The two had struck up a relationship and Hemon had taken Sabestet off the streets to live with him out east. Sabestet was now in his early twenties, but despite the fact that his blindness seemed barely a handicap to him, he’d never shown any inclination to leave in search of adventure or the big city, the way young men are prone to do.