Flesh of the God lb-7

by Lauren Haney

  In the dry streambed below, the tribesmen’s charge had been halted by the spearmen who stood behind the crude, hastily constructed breastwork. The yelling had ceased with the need to save every breath for the labor of combat, but the donkeys, terrified by the clash of weapons and the smell of blood, refused to be quieted.

  Bak doubted the raiders would stand and fight for long at a location impossible to breach. They would spread out, working their way around the boulder field in search of another, weaker point to attack. He was certain they would find one. He had been an officer long enough to guess that, soldiers being soldiers, many of the men assigned to guard the flanks had been drawn by excitement to the forefront of the battle.

  He no sooner had the thought than a stream of tribesmen emerged from the cloud and began to work their way along the outermost boulders under cover of their shields. He glanced toward the outgoing trail. The sun lay squashed on the horizon, its orange glow veiled by the rising dust. The mouth of the trail was shadowed, almost lost in the haze. Imsiba, he prayed, had relieved Paser, and their men had entered the fray.

  Bak stood up and gave a piercing whistle to attract the attention of the men he commanded. Arrows flew from below, one nicking the edge of his shield. Those who heard his signal passed it on from one man to the next around the bowl. Harmose, half enveloped by dust, waved an acknowledgment. Bak raised an arm and swept it in a semicircle, motioning the men to his left to move down the slope. They ran in fits and starts from one stony refuge to another, forming an arc across the hillside with Bak at one end, the man farthest to the left at a point near the boulder field. Harmose’s force on the opposite incline performed the same maneuver.

  Bak whistled a second time, and, as the sun shrunk to a sliver, he swept both arms forward, ordering an advance along all fronts. He and his men began to move, closing on their foes. The men across the wadi did the same. Forced to make a stand on the lower slopes, the raiders were caught between Mery’s spearmen inside the breastwork and the archers on the slopes above. Abandoning their offense, they turned around to retreat. They had nowhere to go. The route they had used to enter the bowl, the landslide, was blocked by Paser and Imsiba with their joined forces.

  Some of the tribesmen surrendered, a few lay where they had fallen. The rest broke ranks and took off in all directions. Mery’s spearmen scrambled over the breastwork to give chase. The line of archers swept friend and foe alike toward Imsiba and Paser. The battle deteriorated to a free-for-all, with pockets of men battling face-to-face.

  Bak raced toward them, infected by excitement, drawn by the clatter of weapons striking shields, the grunts of fighting men, the cries of the wounded. A spear-wielding tribesman streaked with sweat and dust broke away from his fellows and charged him. Bak sidestepped and deflected the deadly point with his shield. Too close together to thrust their weapons effectively, they leaped forward, shields clashing. Bak pressed his assailant backward with the strength of a victor. The tribesman, with the desperate tenacity of the vanquished, twisted away and leaped to the side, ready to drive his spear home.

  Bak raised his shield to ward off the thrust. An arrow sped from out of nowhere and lodged in the wooden frame. His assailant’s spear splintered the shaft, driving the arrowhead deeper. The tribesman, looking as startled as Bak, jerked his weapon back to strike again. Bak danced half around, feinted with his spear. A second arrow flew over his shoulder and lodged in his opponent’s upper arm. The tribesman gave a strangled curse; the spear slid from his hand and rolled downhill out of his reach. He let his shield fall and slumped to his knees in a gesture of surrender.

  Bak dropped to a crouch beside the man and swung his shield around to protect them both should another missile fly their way. None came. The battle was over, the dust settling, the donkeys quieting down.

  Clusters of men were descending the slopes, soldiers bringing in tribesmen who had tried to run away. The men in and around the boulder field were disarming captives and binding their arms. Others had begun to collect the weapons strewn across the battleground. A few soldiers, a far greater number of raiders, sat on the ground, trying to staunch the flow of blood. The more badly injured lay among them, moaning for relief from their pain. A dozen or more lay motionless, enveloped in the silence of death. Bak saw a couple of his Medjays among the wounded, but neither looked badly hurt.

  Imsiba, standing low on the opposite slope, waved to attract Bak’s attention, then clasped his hands high above his head in celebration of victory. From his broad grin, Bak guessed the men in their company had suffered no serious casualties.

  Delighted with their good fortune, he stood erect, let his shield slip to the ground, and raised his spear high, acknowledging their triumph. His prisoner yelled and lunged toward the shield, plowing into Bak and knocking him off his feet. As he toppled, something scraped his shoulder blade and he lost his spear. He rolled away from the tribesman, grabbed the weapon close to the point, and scrambled to his knees, ready to brain the man should he attack again.

  He glimpsed Imsiba, running toward them through the boulder field. He waved the sergeant off, for the man posed no threat. He lay sprawled on the ground, holding his right shoulder. Blood flowed between his fingers. The impact of his fall had torn the arrow from his flesh. The man spoke a few urgent words in his native tongue, his voice choked with pain, and stretched an arm toward the shield.

  He wants the shield! Bak thought, and something struck me as I fell!

  Cursing his slow wits, he spun around, caught the edge of the shield with one hand, and reached back with the other to touch his shoulder blade. His fingers came away bloody. The sweat from his hand made the open wound sting.

  A cold chill raced up Bak’s spine. If this man had not knocked him over…he dropped low beside his prisoner and held the shield upright in front of them both. Tense, wary, he glanced at the spent arrow and followed the course it must have traveled from the western end of the bowl. The dust was slow to settle there, making it difficult to see. A large group of men were milling around the wadi floor, too many for one among them to use a bow without being seen. He concentrated on the higher elevations, staring so hard his eyes watered. His patience was rewarded. A figure emerged from a clump of rocks near the landslide and scuttled through the haze to the denser cloud below. The grunt of his prisoner indicated that he, too, had seen the bowman.

  Bak sucked in his breath and let it out in a long, slow hiss. The figure had been clad as a man of Kemet, not wearing the colorful leather kilt of a tribesman. The man who had stolen the gold had tried once more to take his life.

  Harmose, whom he had already concluded was innocent, stood in the boulder field, supervising the men who were tying up the captives. Nebwa was far away in the desert. Which left Paser and Mery.

  Not until he was sure the danger had passed did he stand up and help his prisoner to his feet. He placed a hand on the man’s shoulder and smiled to reassure him. The look he got in return was wary and a bit puzzled. Bak wished with all his heart he could speak the man’s tongue, could thank him properly.

  As he led his prisoner to the boulder field, he examined the dry watercourse below, looking for Mery and Paser. He spotted them both in the thinning dust near the mouth of the outgoing trail. Neither held a bow, but such a weapon could have been easily enough disposed of. One of them, he was convinced, was the murderer he sought.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The caravan emerged from the wadi at daybreak the following morning. The plateau receded behind. An endless surface of golden sand spread out before them, broken at intervals by isolated, flat-topped rocky formations and crosscut by broad, shallow watercourses as dry as the desert through which they ran. This was the dreariest portion of the journey, yet men and donkeys alike walked with a lighter spirit than they had for many days. The animals sensed water ahead; the warriors, flushed with victory, knew the tall gates of Buhen lay less than two days’ march away. Only the prisoners trod with little enthusiasm.

 
Not long after they stopped for their midday rest, they spotted a faint smudge in the sun-bleached sky far behind them. By the time they finished eating, the stain had grown larger, turned yellow like the sand from which it rose. They were being pursued by a fast-moving column of men. Maybe Nebwa and his infantry. Maybe another contingent of raiders. Tension spread through the camp. The men prepared for battle.

  The cloud drew closer, expanded. Officers and men alike stood ready, their attention divided between the approaching force and a lookout posted atop an eroded rock monolith several hundred paces to their rear. When at last his mirror flashed an all-clear signal, apprehension melted away and good humor took its place. The men broke ranks and hurried back to their makeshift shelters, not to rest but to busy themselves with unnecessary tasks, to exchange delighted quips and grins. Not a man among them wanted to miss the look on Nebwa’s face when he laid eyes on their many prisoners.

  Bak slipped away to climb the low escarpment beside which they were camped. Imsiba, Harmose, and twenty archers were strung out along the rocky rim. In case of attack, they would have been in a perfect position to pick off enemy troops. Though no longer needed for its strategic position, it offered a panoramic view of the expanse of sand where Paser, Mery, and a dozen others awaited Nebwa’s arrival.

  “I’d not like to be in Nebwa’s sandals today,” Bak said, sitting on the rough, weathered stone beside Imsiba. He flexed his wounded shoulder, grimaced. The injury stung; the bandage wrapped around his upper torso, glued by grit and sweat to his flesh, itched.

  “You should be among the men who greet him. If not for you, the caravan would’ve suffered a horrific loss. He should be made to know that.”

  “He’ll know soon enough.” Bak smiled a bit sheepishly. “The truth is that I wished to distance myself from Mery and Paser. Each time I’m with them, my thoughts go round in circles until I’m dizzy. One has done nothing; the other has slain five men.” He expelled a derisive laugh. “Before yesterday’s battle, I’d have sworn Paser the one and Mery too weak. When facing the enemy, however, Mery stood up well, with no lack of courage.” He stared out over the camp, his expression glum. “I don’t know what to think, Imsiba.”

  They sat in silence, watching the dust-shrouded column. It passed the towering chunk of rock where the lookout was posted, floundered across a broad, shallow wadi, and advanced along the final stretch of sand, the men marching at a killing pace. Bak identified Nebwa in the lead, followed by a sergeant and the foremost unit of spearmen. Those behind were enveloped in the yellowish haze, their spear points glinting dully through the dust.

  “Do you think an army of tribesmen is hot on their heels?” he asked in a wry voice.

  Imsiba snorted. “I think, as they passed through the place where we fought, they saw many signs of battle and they mean to rescue us from the fierce tribesmen they believe hold us captive.”

  As if to verify his guess, the column slowed to a stumbling walk about two hundred paces away and spread out across the sand, the men positioning themselves for battle. Paser waited. Not until Nebwa raised his arm, preparing to signal his troops to attack, did he lead the welcoming party out to meet the column. The infantry officer hesitated for a long time, evidently suspecting a ruse, but finally signaled his men to halt and strode forward with a small party of his own. Imsiba watched him with the expression of a man who had bitten into something sour.

  Bracing himself for an argument, Bak said, “I mean to tell Nebwa about the gold, Imsiba, and all we’ve learned since Nakht’s death.”

  The Medjay’s head swung around, his expression incredulous. “You would take that one into your confidence? Him, of all people?”

  “He’s a good officer. A bit foolhardy, but…”

  “Bah!” Imsiba’s eyes burned with contempt. “His idea of soldiering is to charge at the enemy like a wild bullock gone mad with the pain of an arrow in its haunch.”

  Bak agreed-to a point. “I can well understand how you feel. I, too, hold him responsible for the mistrust and hatred our men have had to face. But this is not the time to harbor a grudge. We need the kind of help he alone can give.”

  “What of Harmose? Could he not help as much?”

  Bak made no effort to hide his irritation. “We’ve looked for many days and have found no stolen gold among the supplies the donkeys carry. Either the scribe Roy passed on none this time-which I doubt-or it’s hidden too deeply within a basket or bundle for us to lay our hands on easily. Can Harmose order a more thorough search?”

  Imsiba gave a noncommittal grunt. Whether it denoted acquiescence or was intended to draw attention to the scene playing out below, Bak had no idea.

  Nebwa, a dozen paces short of Paser’s small band, was staring toward the camp. The men assigned to guard duty, a dozen of Bak’s Medjays among them, were urging the captive tribesmen onto their feet. They stood up a few at a time, unwilling objects of a joke they well understood.

  Bak thought the jest cruel, but would not have interfered even if he had been forewarned. Every man in the caravan had to share his precious food and water with the prisoners, tend their wounds, and help carry the badly injured on litters. True, they would be rewarded later, when the captives were sent north to Waset to serve Maatkare Hatshepsut and the lord Amon. But now they had the right to celebrate their victory in any way they chose short of slaying or maiming the prisoners.

  Nebwa stood dead still, apparently too stunned to speak. Suddenly he began to laugh. The welcoming party and the men in the camp added their voices to a rising chorus. The good humor was infectious, prompting even Imsiba to join in. The men in Nebwa’s company, drawn by curiosity, broke ranks to swarm toward the source of the merriment. Their laughter was slower to come, somewhat chagrined, but ultimately just as hearty.

  “Nebwa takes the joke well,” Imsiba said.

  Recognizing the words as a tacit admission that the infantry officer might have a few worthy traits, Bak smothered a smile.

  After a long silence, Imsiba asked, “What task am I to do that I must overlook his faults?”

  “Once I convince him of the truth of my tale, I’m certain he’ll agree that we must search the caravan far more thoroughly than we’ve been able to so far. I want our men to conduct that search and I want you to lead them.”

  Imsiba uttered a short, sharp laugh. “You expect the gods to hand you a miracle, my friend. Nebwa would never lay so much temptation before men he believes dishonest at birth.”

  “I hope to make it his idea.”

  Imsiba’s smile died before it was fully formed. “What of Paser? Will he not interfere?”

  “He must be drawn away. And Mery as well.” Bak eyed the pair walking with Nebwa toward the prisoners. “An archery contest might be a good way. I’d like to learn how skilled they are with the bow and how they react when hard pressed.”

  “You have the audacity of a priest,” Nebwa growled.

  In one fluid motion, he pulled an arrow from his quiver, seated it, drew the bowstring taut, and sent the missile hurtling through the air. Shouts of approval burst from the onlookers and competing archers. Harmose stood among the men who meant to compete, mostly archers and sergeants. The lieutenants Mery and Paser stood with them.

  “You drag me into your dangerous game and only then do you admit…” Nebwa’s eyes narrowed. “What else have you failed to tell me?”

  Bak frowned at the black cowhide shield propped against a low hump of sand one hundred paces away. The arrow had struck dead center, joining four others Nebwa had fired off before them. All were buried so close together and so deep that they looked, from so far away, like a white flower in the center of the shield. Like all senior officers at Buhen, Nebwa used a composite bow, which was considerably more powerful than the ordinary bow used by lesser men. Except for Harmose and a couple of other worthy men who also carried the composite bow, the latter would compete in another match, facing no competition from the much better weapon.

  Unlike most chario
teers, who depended on the archers riding with them to strike down the enemy, Bak had some skill with the bow. Not nearly enough, however, to outshoot a man as talented as Nebwa. “I’ve held nothing back.”

  “How could you think me capable of so vile a deed?” Nebwa asked indignantly. “The goldsmith and your Medjay were names without faces; the scribe at the mine was of no account. But Commandant Nakht? I thought him the finest man who lived.”

  Bak glanced toward the camp, a sea of shelters touched with the golden glow of the late afternoon sun. Most had been abandoned by men who preferred the distraction of the contest over rest. The sole activity was at the far side, where the drovers were working among the donkeys. He itched to walk among them, but he could not be in two places at once. To display too much interest would make a lie of Nebwa’s tale of redistributing the remaining food, water, and supplies so the weaker donkeys carried less weight. Imsiba was there with the other Medjays, helping, watching. None but them knew of the stolen gold, and it had been an easy matter to convince Nebwa that the secret should go no further.

  Bak shook off his impatience. If there was any gold to find-and he prayed there was-Imsiba or one of the others would recover it. “Four men were in mistress Azzia’s courtyard the evening I gave Ruru the package and the scroll. You were among them. I assumed, when you recognized Nakht’s seal, that you knew how to read.”

  “I make no secret of my lack of learning.”

  “I’ve not been long in Wawat,” Bak reminded him.

  “Long enough,” Nebwa said, scowling at the many prisoners confined between the escarpment and the camp.

  Bak suspected any comment he made would be unwelcome, so he readied his weapon and released the arrow too quickly. It thunked into the shield a hand’s length above Nebwa’s arrows. He muttered an oath, waited for the good-natured jeers he well deserved. The spectators made no sound, disappointed, he guessed, at so poor a showing from the man who had planned their victory. He raised his bow, determined to live up to their expectations, and fired the next missile, taking greater care than before. It plowed through the hide a hair’s breadth above the clustered feathers. He shot off three more in rapid succession, placing them so close together they formed a bud atop Nebwa’s flower. The watching men shouted, not as loud as they had for his opponent but with enough enthusiasm to let him know he had redeemed himself.