Flesh of the God lb-7

by Lauren Haney

  “You’d better go, sir.” Hori was practically dancing with excitement. “After all the vile things that have been said about our Medjays, I can’t wait to see you and Imsiba and all the others march at the head of the prisoners you took.”

  “I thought to let Nebwa…”

  “You can’t!” Hori exclaimed. “You won the battle. They say he wasn’t even there!”

  “You must enter this city with your men, Officer Bak.” Azzia cleared the tears from her throat, brushed a hand across a wet cheek. “They’ve earned the right to walk tall and proud, all together, behind the man who led them to victory.”

  One of the soldiers who had been listening piped up, “I’ve followed Lieutenant Nebwa into the desert a dozen times. We’ve brought back prisoners-though not so many,” he added ruefully. “Half the fun was marching behind him through that gate when we had something to show for our trouble.”

  Bak remembered the grueling practice sessions with the regiment of Amon and the joy he had shared with his men whether they won or lost. How could he have forgotten? To march past the residence, knowing Azzia was standing on the roof, watching, smiling at him, would increase that pleasure tenfold.

  He grinned. “I’ll return the instant the donkeys are inside their paddocks. We must talk.”

  He headed back toward the quay and his men. As he approached the donkeys in front of the treasury, he thought of Paser and the fearless way he had walked into the tribesmen’s trap. He, too, had earned the right to march at the head of the procession, to have his brief moment of glory before being brought to his knees.

  Bak checked, not for the first time, the dagger at his waist. The weapon slid easily into its sheath. His belt and kilt were too snug for it to catch on a stray bit of fabric should he need it quickly. Realizing he was fidgeting, he forced himself to sit still. He wanted to appear wary, not eager to do battle or fearful.

  He sat midway on the open flight of stairs which rose from the commandant’s residence to the walkway atop the battlements. He was clearly visible in the moonlight to the patrolling sentries-and would soon be to Paser, lurking somewhere in the building below.

  For almost an hour, he had heard the infrequent signals his Medjays had given while they stalked the car-avan officer: the call of a nightbird, the whine of a lost puppy, the harsh yowl of a tomcat prowling for a mate. The sounds had begun not long after their quarry had slipped out of his quarters. They had signaled his ascent to the battlements, where he had stood for a long time, studying the rooftops and lanes within the citadel. They had marked his descent and followed his slow progress as he made a careful and painstaking examination of the dark, deserted buildings in the vicinity of the commandant’s residence. The shriek of a female cat mounted by a tom had warned Bak that the man he awaited had entered the antechamber below. Since then, time had dragged.

  Bak scanned the roof-flat, ghostly white, empty. His eyes probed the dark rectangular opening where the stairway descended past Nakht’s reception room to the ground floor. He studied the larger, dimly lit square of the courtyard. Paser could be watching him from the stairwell or hiding among the potted trees and shrubs, one shadow among many. Bak pictured Azzia and her servants, lying awake and fearful, listening to the stealthy footsteps of the man who had taken the life most dear to them. He had wanted to move them elsewhere, but their absence would have aroused Paser’s suspicions. In fact, Azzia, brave beyond all other women, had insisted he let her stay.

  He surveyed the rooftops of the nearby blocks of buildings. He saw no movement, heard only the usual chorus of barking dogs. The bird, the puppy, the tomcat were silent. His hand inched toward his dagger. He jerked it away and wiped the sweat from his face, cool sweat in a chilly night. Will Paser never convince himself I’m here alone? he wondered.

  A soft thud, the sound of baked clay bumping mudbrick. He started, almost laughed aloud. Paser was coming, climbing the stairs. He had caught his toe on the string Bak had stretched along a step, setting in motion a stemmed bowl.

  Paser’s head and shoulders burst out of the black stairwell. With barely a glance at Bak, he pivoted, making a fast but thorough inspection of the rooftop. Satisfied they were alone, he ascended to the open trapdoor and stepped onto the roof. He carried a spear. A sheathed dagger hung from his waist. Bak rose to his feet to give himself greater mobility.

  Paser looked up at his adversary, safely out of reach of a quick thrust. “You’re a careful man, Bak.”

  “I’ve underestimated you before. I know better now.”

  Paser eyed him with open curiosity. “Why did you have me march with you and Nebwa when the victorious troops entered these walls?” He tilted the spearpoint toward Bak, drawing attention to the sharp, deadly weapon. “Did you believe so generous an act would lower my defenses?”

  “I doubt much of anything could weaken your instincts to survive, Paser.” Bak kept a cautious eye on the spear. “You didn’t hesitate to slay your accomplices Heby and Roy even though, without them, you no longer had any way of laying your hands on the precious ore from the mine. It’s clear you value your life above all things.”

  Paser’s laugh was as brittle as poorly made glass. “You understand me better than I thought.”

  “A man who hunts a dangerous beast must learn its habits.”

  “Is that meant to be a compliment?”

  It depends on the beast, Bak thought, but the glittering spear point warned him not to press his luck. “If I thought you like the lowly jackal, a creature that slinks among the tombs, waiting to tear the flesh from the un-resisting dead, would I have taken such care to protect myself?”

  Paser opened his mouth to respond, but Bak hurried on, “The night is growing short. I think it time we discuss the scrolls mistress Azzia gave me.”

  “I can make no bargains until I see them.” Paser held out his free hand. “Since you refuse to trust me, I suggest you throw them to me.”

  “I didn’t bring them.”

  Paser tensed; he hefted his spear as if making ready to throw it.

  Bak’s hand flew to his dagger. “Think, Paser! Would I offer up the very objects that serve me as a shield?”

  “You’re despicable!”

  “Fine words from one who’s slain five men.”

  Bak slid his weapon from its sheath and raised it slowly, letting his opponent know he would use it if he must. Both men knew who held the advantage. A man could throw a lightweight dagger faster and truer from a hilltop than hurl a heavy spear from the valley below with the force and accuracy necessary to take a life.

  “Set your spear at ease, Paser.”

  The caravan officer muttered an oath beneath his breath, swung the spear point high, and rammed the butt of the shaft on the rooftop with a solid thud. “What do you want from me?”

  Bak let himself relax, but not too much. “Did Nakht let you read the scrolls when he called you into his office the day of his death?”

  “Do you jest? He told me of their existence, but left no doubt as to their contents.”

  “Good! We’ve no need to haggle over their worth.”

  “What do you want?” Paser repeated through gritted teeth.

  “I’m not a greedy man.” Bak’s voice was smooth, generous. “For each scroll, I wish to receive a single bar of gold. I’ll need a third bar for the document I prepared that relates in detail the path I took that led me to you.”

  “You swine!”

  Bak made a tut-tut sound with his tongue. “I suggest we meet again within the hour. Here on this roof. I’ll have the scrolls with me, that I promise, and I expect you to bring the gold. After the exchange is made, I’ll withdraw my Medjays from the gates. If you choose to remain in Buhen, your life and mine will go on as before and I’ll make no further demands. If you flee with the remainder of your prize, I’ll do no more than go through the motions of tracking you down.”

  “If I fail to meet you here?”

  “You’ll not survive the night.”

&
nbsp; Paser glared, stretching the silence and the tension gripping Bak’s heart. “All right.” He swung away to plunge down the stairs.

  “Leave your weapons behind,” Bak called to the back of his head. “I’ll make no trade with a man I can’t safely approach.”

  Paser lost himself in the darkness. The baked clay bowl made no noise. He must have torn it from the step.

  Bak stood quite still, alert to every sound no matter how ordinary: the hoot of an owl, barking dogs, the faint squeak of a rat. At last the tomcat yowled. Paser had left the building. Bak rammed his dagger into its sheath and slumped onto the step. He thanked the lord Amon for his help so far and prayed for additional favors. Only the god could allow the Medjays to blend into the dark and follow Paser unseen to the place where he had hidden the stolen gold. Only the god could lead Paser back to the rooftop and give him enough self-confidence to loosen his tongue.

  Not until later did it occur to him that Paser had never once mentioned his powerful cousin, the high and mighty chief steward Senenmut.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The moon had passed over the battlements and the open stairway lay in shadow when next Bak heard the caterwauling tomcat. Relief flooded through him. He had told the Medjays who had been following Paser to give no signals after the caravan officer left the building, preferring to remain ignorant of his movements rather than risk raising his suspicions. The long silence had threatened to erode his confidence.

  He had recovered the scrolls from their hiding place in the courtyard, grabbed a plugged jar filled with wheat he had found by the grindstone, and raced back to the roof. After mounding a portion of the grain near the stairwell opening, he had left the container on a lower step and climbed back up to his previous perch. Then he had waited, so still and silent that eight or nine rats had crept across the rooftop to devour the feast he had provided them.

  Taking care not to frighten away the rodents, he shifted from one buttock to the other, touched for reassurance the scrolls on the step beside him, and fingered the handle of his dagger. Miniature rivers of sweat, cold and reeking of tension, trickled from beneath the bandage around his shoulder and upper chest. He imagined Paser hidden in the shadows of the courtyard, studying him, searching for a sign of danger-or an indication of weakness.

  One of the feasting rats, the largest, lifted its head and stared toward the stairwell. Bak sucked in his breath, held it. The creature remained motionless, listening. Abruptly it let out a shrill squeak and shot across the roof, away from the opening. Its mates scampered in all directions, leaving nothing behind but a scattered pile of grain. Paser’s dark head rose to the level of the rooftop.

  Bak scrambled to his feet, vowing to thank his unwitting allies with the wheat he had held in reserve.

  If Paser noticed the grain, he gave no sign. As cautious as before, he climbed out of the stairwell and stepped onto the roof. He carried no spear and the sheath tied to his belt was empty. The absence of weapons surprised Bak, troubled him.

  “Have you brought the gold?” he asked.

  “Here.” Paser held out his right hand, displaying a small, neat parcel wrapped in linen. “Where are the scrolls?”

  Bak nudged the three cylinders with his toe, shifting them on the step so Paser could see them. “Unwrap the package.”

  Paser folded back the corners of the fabric to display three thin bars of dully gleaming metal, exactly like the bar Nakht had left for Azzia to find. “Let me see the scrolls. I must be sure they’re what you say they are.”

  “You don’t trust me, lieutenant?” Bak asked, forcing a smile to hide his own mistrust. Buying time.

  “No more than you do me, policeman.”

  Bak eyed the officer’s short white kilt, so smooth around the waist and hips he could conceal nothing in-side bigger than a battle scar. “Lay your package on the stairway, on the highest step you can reach. I must be sure you’ve brought the flesh of the lord Re, not a lesser metal.”

  “I’ll not walk to a place where you can jump me. We meet on level ground or not at all.”

  The demand was reasonable, but Bak hesitated. His instincts cried out, warning him to take care. Unfortunately, he could see no other way of making the exchange. “Stand away from the stairs. I’ve no more wish to be attacked than you do.”

  Paser backed away as directed, but stayed close enough to the opening to leap into the stairwell if threatened. Bak scooped up the scrolls with his left hand, leaving his right hand free to draw his dagger. Paser’s failure to comment on the weapon added to his sense of unease.

  They met near the trapdoor, two arms’ length apart, close enough to trade one object for another, far enough to duck away from a sudden attack. Bak laid two scrolls on the step beside him and held out the third, the record of precious objects which had passed through Buhen on their way north to the capital. Paser took the document and handed over one golden bar.

  “Tell me…” Bak eyed the ingot, caressed it with his fingertips to convince Paser of his greed. “…Did you set out to blame my Medjays when you used a spear from the police arsenal to slay your ally Heby?”

  Paser glanced up from the scroll he had begun to unroll, raised an eyebrow. “Is that why you went to such effort to track me down?”

  “Nakht’s legacy to mistress Azzia prompted me to act.” Bak formed a wry smile. “I must admit the trouble the spear brought about goaded me to a greater effort.”

  “I didn’t plan on laying the blame at your men’s feet.” A note of bitterness crept into Paser’s voice. “I thought, when I shoved him into the water, the current would carry him far away, not deposit him on a riverbank an easy walk from Buhen.”

  “You must’ve known him well to enlist him in your dangerous game-and to trust him to handle so much gold without being tempted.”

  “We played together as children, grew to manhood in the same village.” Paser’s voice softened. “No two men could’ve been closer.”

  “Yet you took his life.”

  “Not without regret, believe me.” Paser sounded truly remorseful. “Heby knew the wound in his shoulder would lead you to him, and he wanted his share so he could flee. However, he didn’t know this barren land as I do. He could never have survived the desert and he would’ve been snared within a day or two if he’d traveled by boat. What could I do but slay him?”

  Bak was too aware of the careless way Paser had admitted to murder to think up an appropriate reply. It was obvious the officer had no intention of letting him live to repeat his words. When would he strike? With what? He remembered how evenly matched they had been when fighting in the goldsmith’s house. If they were to clash here, and he suspected they would, the weapon Paser used might well give him the advantage.

  Keeping a wary eye on his adversary, Bak examined the ingot he held. The weight, the color, the softness of the metal told him it was indeed gold. A faint, satisfied smile touched his lips. If Paser had taken it from his cache, he had led the Medjays who had been following him to all he had stolen through the year.

  “This document, by itself, is worth nothing.” Paser rolled the scroll into a thin cylinder and tossed it toward the stairwell opening.

  Dropping the golden bar beside the container of grain, Bak picked up the second scroll, which listed the amounts of ore recovered at the mines, and held it up with a wry smile. “If it has no value, I doubt you’ll want this one.”

  Paser offered an ingot without a word. While he studied the document, Bak inspected his prize. His thoughts, however, were on the scroll so carelessly thrown aside. Though the action had appeared casual, it was as ominous as Paser’s easy admission of guilt.

  “What of the scribe Roy?” he asked. “Was he also a childhood friend?”

  “He was Heby’s friend, not mine, but I knew him well enough.” Paser’s laugh overflowed with scorn. “His greed was immense, but his fear of the desert knew no bounds. I knew he’d not run from the mine with what belonged to me.”

  Bak did not c
hoose to remind him that the gold belonged to the royal house, not mortal men. “I feared you’d slay him while I was away in the desert, hunting for game. Were you not afraid I’d get to him before you could silence him forever?”

  “I’d guessed by then how close you were to the truth, and I knew that to take his life alone would be futile. Later, after I decided how best to slay you, I needed him to lure you into the mine.”

  Bak’s blood chilled at the matter-of-fact way he spoke. Laying the ingot on the step, he picked up the third and final scroll. It took all the patience he could muster to stand there, doing nothing to protect himself, while he waited to hand over the document.

  Paser rolled up the second papyrus. As before, he flung the cylinder toward the stairwell, not bothering to watch where it fell. Bak eyed the scroll teetering on the edge of the opening and the other document lying on the roof a half pace away. He could think of but one reason for so cavalier an action. Paser was freeing his hands, preparing to make his move. Since he had not once turned around, he must have a weapon concealed at his spine, something small, probably a dagger.

  Paser held out the third golden bar, his expression open, sincere, trustworthy.

  Bak ignored the offering. He had more to learn. “When you took the commandant’s life, did you mean for mistress Azzia to shoulder the blame? Or was that, like the Medjay spear you used on Heby, a quirk of fate?”

  “I’ve no love for the foreign woman,” Paser admitted, tearing his eyes from the scroll. “She’s always been too much the grand lady for my taste. But at the time, I thought only to slay him, to save myself from disgrace and death. Later, when I learned she was found with blood on her hands, I thought to cast doubt on her honor.”

  For that alone you deserve a slow, cruel death, Bak thought. “Nakht expected you that night?”

  Paser’s mouth twisted with contempt. “I was to bring all the gold we’d collected through the year and a written admission of guilt, then fall on my dagger. If I failed to obey, he vowed to take me before the viceroy and make my shame public before I suffered an official death.”