Face Turned Backward lb-2

by Lauren Haney

  Bak formed what he hoped was an optimistic smile and ruffled the child’s hair. “We’ll come back, and you with us.

  If for no other reason, we must close this tomb and seal it for eternity.” The irony of his words did not escape him: the tomb was already sealed.

  “What of the objects we’ve found? What of those still here?”

  Bak shrugged. “The less of value we leave, the safer the dead will be. But that’s a decision Commandant Thuty must make.”

  Collecting chisel and mallet, bracing himself for another stint of hard labor, he walked with leaden feet into the outer chamber. Imsiba followed, no more enthusiastic than he.

  After clearing away the stones that cluttered the floor, the two men crowded into the entryway, a space barely wide enough to work side-by-side, and attacked the blockage. Mery shifted the rocks that fell around their feet. Sweat trickled down faces and backs and thighs; dirt built up in the creases of their bodies. Imsiba grimaced now and again, but refused to admit to pain. In spite of the need to stop at regular intervals to let the dust settle, exhaustion set in.

  Far too soon-at what they judged to be midway along the entryway-the torch began to sputter, signaling its end.

  Mery searched out the second lamp and set it unlit beside the first, ready for use when needed. And he brought a jar of beer, providing a welcome excuse to rest. Bak rolled the warm liquid around inside his mouth, wetting his parched tongue and savoring the tangy bite. How many jars remained? he wondered. How much food? How long would they live in the dark, hot tomb if they failed to dig themselves out?

  Stifling a fresh burst of fear, he took a final mouthful and passed the jar on to Imsiba. Back in the entryway, he gripped chisel and mallet, gritted his teeth, and began to pry stones out of the blockage. They fell one, two, sometimes three and four at a time, raining dirt, choking him. The sweat turned to mud on his shoulders and back; his hair felt glued together.

  A mass of stones broke free, forcing him back, raising a cloud of dust. Through the gloom, he saw an unbroken expanse of rock. The boulder he had feared they would find.

  He felt as if he was about to be sick.

  Imsiba came up behind him and stared. “What now, my friend?” His voice was flat, its natural ebullience gone.

  Bak had no answer.

  Refusing to think, summoning a strength born of desperation, he raised his arms high and began to hack away the stones jammed into place above the boulder. Imsiba, saying nothing, shifted the debris from around his feet. Drawn to the antechamber by the silence, Mery spotted the wall of rock and he, too, lost the power of speech. Bak toiled on, loosing the stones until he could reach no farther. At last, he sagged against the wall, tired, hot, dirty, and thirsty, his upper limbs numb from holding them high for so long.

  Imsiba sat at Bak’s feet, his forehead on his knees. Mery went to the donkey, wrapped his arms around the creature’s neck, and buried his face in its hair. Bak had an idea the boy was crying.

  He raised his face, resting the back of his head against the wall, and closed his eyes. Why would the gods frown on them now? he wondered. Why hand them an ugly, lingering death in this dreary tomb when, as men of action, they should be given a quick and honorable death on the field of battle?

  He took a deep breath, drew in air cooler and cleaner than before. As if his ka had flown from his body and escaped from the tomb. His eyes popped open; he tore himself away from the wall. No! As if air was seeping in from outside. He drew in a long, cautious breath. Sure enough. The air was sweeter, purer. He must have opened a tiny crack or hole above the boulder.

  Afraid to speak aloud news of his discovery, fearing it would prove an illusion, Bak grabbed a lever. He raised the tool and attacked rocks the chisel had been too short to reach. The angle was bad and his blows not as hard as he wanted, but several stones fell, allowing him to imagine air pouring in instead of seeping. When next he tried, the whole mass collapsed, a deluge of rocks and grit and dust. Yelling a warning, he leaped back. Imsiba scrambled out of the way on all fours. Rocks clattered, building up in a pile, rolling into the antechamber. A dense cloud surged through the tomb. Retreating to the inner chamber, they closed their eyes tight and tried not to breathe. The donkey squealed and fought for freedom, entangling his forefeet in the rope. Awed by the noise and the roiling cloud of dirt, Bak prayed he had not brought down the whole face of the ridge, entombing them forever.

  As the dust settled, they saw a sloping pile of rocks reaching through the doorway. Fearing the worst, they hurried to its leading edge and looked into the antechamber.

  The slope rose steeply to the top of the boulder, a loose conglomeration of stones illuminated by light flowing through a good-sized hole above the entryway. The sky was pale and tinted with gold, harbinger of sunset.

  Bak let out a delighted whoop, grabbed Imsiba around the waist and Mery by the shoulders, and hugged them tight.

  The Medjay returned the embrace, squeezing the breath from the others. Mery’s grip loosened and he backed off to gulp air.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Bak said, breaking free. The words sounded feeble, trite, but he could think of no worthy way to express the joy he felt.

  Mery scrambled up the loose rocks. At the top, he raised his hands high and yelled, “We did it! We’re free!” And he raced out of sight along the ridge.

  Imsiba went to the donkey and scratched its head, calming it. “What of this creature? Can we get him out, do you think?

  Or must we slay him?”

  Bak studied the steep slope. With the rocks so loose, the donkey could easily break a leg, especially if the stones began to roll beneath his hooves and he panicked. If they could somehow build a road…Should they take the time? Or should they go instead in search of Userhet? They had been trapped in the tomb for close on two hours, plenty of time for the overseer to reach his skiff and sail away to safety.

  His eyes fell on the wooden box. “There. The box. We can break it up, leaving the sides and bottom intact, and lay them end-to-end up the slope.”

  “Lieutenant Bak!” Mery squatted at the opening, looking down. “I’ve found tracks. Userhet’s, I bet.”

  Imsiba scooped up a chisel and mallet. “Go, my friend.

  See what the boy has found. I’ll tend to the donkey.”

  Bak climbed the treacherous slope, taking care where he 254 / Lauren Haney placed his feet, trying not to disturb the stones beneath him lest he set off another slide. At the top, with a light breeze drying the sweat on his body, he stared out across the tawny desert, savoring a world he had feared never to see again.

  Barren and dry it was, nothing but sand dunes and rock formations, but beautiful beyond words. He offered a silent prayer of thanks to the lord Amon for allowing him to stand once again in the sunlight.

  “Here,” Mery said, pointing to a scuffed trail down the side of the ridge.

  Bak half ran, half slid down the incline. The place where they had tied the donkey when first they came was a mass of intermingled prints. Its journey to the tomb, where its hooves had been driven deep by Imsiba’s weight, was clear, as were the footprints of the man who had led it. The slide had covered the fissure and the rock face to either side, concealing the burial place as if it had never existed. A good stiff breeze would have covered the tracks and deposited sand on the fallen rocks, leaving no sign of human presence.

  Anger surged through him. As Imsiba had said, Userhet had meant them to die.

  The long, drawn-out bray drew Bak’s eyes to the top of the ridge. Imsiba stood with the donkey above the rock slide, letting it rhapsodize. Bak’s anger slid away in a smile. Not only had the Medjay rescued the creature, but he had loaded on its back their weapons, what little food remained, and no doubt the ancient jewelry and statue as well. The tools, he had left behind.

  After sharing a celebratory jar of beer and rewarding the beast with water, they set off at a good pace. Two men, a boy, and a donkey, all coated with dust, streaked and mottled. Beca
use the ridge offered a broader view of the landscape, Bak suggested they walk along the top. From there, they could keep an eye on the path they had followed to the tomb, now a multitude of intermingled impressions.

  Should Userhet stray, they would be sure to see his trail when he left the trampled sand. A further inducement was the breeze, stiffer on the high ground, a gift from the gods after their sojourn in the tomb.

  Beyond the low rise from which Bak had first spotted the entrance to the burial place, the ridge narrowed and its eastern face steepened. From above, it looked as if a giant bite had been taken out of the rock. A ledge spanned the cut, a flat shelf cluttered with boulders and lesser chunks of stone.

  “That’s the ledge I thought we should explore.” Eyes dancing with enthusiasm, Mery leaned so far out Bak grabbed him by the belt so he could not fall. “See how smooth it is?

  I bet there’s a tomb behind all those rocks.”

  Bak eyed the ledge, noting scuffs in the sand he assumed Mery had left on their outbound trek. His glance dropped to the path below, and he stiffened. The many smudged footprints were suddenly overlaid by the twin impressions of runners, the mark of a sledge. The track ran south along the base of the ridge as far as he could see.

  “A sledge has been lowered from above,” Imsiba said, voicing Bak’s thought. “Perhaps the boy is right.”

  Scrambling to his feet, Bak grinned at Mery, “If you say ‘I told you so,’ I’ll send you back to keep Wensu company.”

  Laughing, the boy plummeted down the steep, rocky slope to the ledge, so eager to find a tomb he risked a twisted ankle or worse. Bak hurried after him, leaving Imsiba to hobble the donkey. Scuffed sand and a smudged footprint led to the back of the ledge. There they found a lever leaning against a boulder and a gaping, rectangular portal.

  “Didn’t I tell you?” Mery’s eyes glistened with excitement.

  “I saw no opening when I climbed up here before-the boulder must’ve stood in front of it-but I knew there was a tomb. There had to be!”

  Certain Userhet had gone long ago, Bak allowed the boy to enter first. Following close behind, he heard Mery’s disappointed grunt. The instant he crossed the threshold, he understood the reaction. The small amount of light falling through the door illuminated a shallow chamber with rough, undecorated walls and a doorway cut at center back that led nowhere. A tomb never completed.

  Imsiba peered into the empty room, casting an elongated shadow across the floor. “A second hiding place? Could this be where Userhet stored his share of the contraband?”

  “More likely, he was holding out on his partners,” Bak said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Wensu, suspecting deceit, followed him into the desert in search of enlightenment.”

  “And Userhet slew him rather than share?”

  Bak shrugged. “What better reason to slay a long-time ally?”

  Buzzing flies drew his eyes to a pile of leaves crumpled in a corner. He picked them up, spread them out, sniffed. They were slick with oil and reeked of fish. From the small number of ants he found, he concluded the bundle had not long been emptied of its contents. Flashing a sudden smile, he handed the leaves to Imsiba. “Maybe we’re not as far behind Userhet as we thought.”

  While Imsiba unhobbled the donkey, Bak studied the landscape to the south, searching for a sign of life among the lengthening shadows that heralded the approach of nightfall. In the distance, heat waves rose from the tawny sands, merging land and sky in a wavering, shimmering world more fanciful than real. A broad swath glistening like water teased the imagination. A figure the shape of a man came and went, a small indistinct image moving through the shiny pinkish, yellowish haze. He reappeared, his head dis-jointed from his body.

  “The headless man,” Bak murmured, barely above a whisper.

  Imsiba’s head snapped around. “Userhet? You see him?”

  “I’m not sure. I…” Bak stared at the distant haze, willing the figure to again show itself in the sparkling, gauzelike vapor. As if on cue, the image reappeared, this time with no legs or feet. “In the haze! Can you see?”

  “There!” Mery yelled, pointing roughly in the right direction, his finger bobbing up and down with excitement.

  “I don’t…” Imsiba laughed. “It’s him! It has to be him!

  Who else can it be?”

  Mery ran to the laden donkey. “Where’s my sling?”

  “Wait!” Bak caught the boy by the nape of the neck, stilling him. He had risked the child’s life once during the day; he had no intention of doing so again. “Darkness will soon be upon us and we’ve no time to lose. You must ride to the cove and…”

  The boy’s smile crumpled. “No! Don’t send me away now!”

  “Psuro must be warned,” Bak insisted. “Tell him to borrow skiffs from the local people and spread men across the river from the cove to the far bank. Should Userhet sail downstream, they must snare him.” He paused, waiting for a response.

  The corners of Mery’s mouth turned down in a pout.

  “Can you see the donkey making speed with my weight or Imsiba’s on his back?” Bak asked.

  The boy gave a slow, reluctant shake of the head. “No, sir.”

  Imsiba retrieved the weapons from the creature’s back and Mery climbed up in their place, settling himself among the nearly empty baskets. His eyes looked close to overflowing.

  Bak squeezed the boy’s knee and backed off. “Go with haste, little brother. Userhet has defied the lady Maat, making light of right and order. He must not be allowed to get away.”

  The importance of the task stiffened Mery’s spine, the term of affection drew forth a faint smile. “I’ll do my best, sir.” He jerked the rope halter, pulling the donkey’s head around, and kicked it in the ribs. It plunged down the ridge and trotted toward the river, boy and baskets bouncing to the animal’s gait.

  Bak armed himself with spear and shield, while Imsiba shouldered the quiver and carried the bow. With their quarry in sight at last, they hurried south along the base of the ridge, following the dual channels left by the sledge. They lost much of the breeze, but were less likely to be spotted by the man ahead. For the first time in many hours, they dared hope for success.

  When they reached the trail of smudged footprints joining the ridge to the cove, the twin depressions left the well-beaten path and continued south, straddling the prints of a single man. Userhet was heading for his skiff, not Wensu’s ship.

  How far away had Ahmose said the backwater was? A half-hour’s walk?

  “His sledge isn’t large,” Imsiba said, “but the furrows it leaves are deep. Whatever his load, it’s holding him back.”

  “I pray it includes an elephant tusk.”

  “As do I.” The Medjay’s face, his voice were grim. “I’d not like to spend the rest of my days, searching every wretched ship and caravan passing through Buhen and Kor.”

  “If Wensu hid the tusk on Mahu’s ship, and I’m convinced he did, Userhet told him to do so.” Bak blew a drop of sweat off the tip of his nose. “He’ll confess. He must.”

  Imsiba’s strides were long and regular, designed to cover a lot of ground fast. Rivulets of sweat trickled down his breast and back. If his head still ached, he gave no sign, nor did he display any trace of exhaustion. Bak, barely able to keep apace, shaded his eyes with a hand and stared at the distant figure. The haze had been blown away by the stiffening breeze, but heat waves rising from the sand made dunes and rock formations and the man they chased quiver and tremble.

  “We’re gaining on him, Imsiba.”

  “I’ve never liked him. He’s altogether too fond of himself.

  But I’d not have thought he’d take one man’s life and then another and another.”

  “He came close to taking a fourth,” Bak said, touching the dirty bandage on his friend’s arm. “That arrow was meant for you, I’m convinced.”

  “Me?” Imsiba gave him a startled look. “I posed no threat.”

  “Did he not wish to wed Sitamon
? He no doubt desired her-she’s a woman of infinite charm and beauty-but he must’ve coveted more the ship she inherited from Mahu.”

  A wry smile touched Imsiba’s lips. “To have control of a great cargo ship would certainly ease the path of one who deals in contraband.”

  “Not if he must share his authority with a man whose task it is to balance the scale of justice.”

  “Look! He’s veering toward the river.” Imsiba clutched his side, which he refused to admit pained him. “We must be nearing the backwater where he leaves his skiff.”

  “I thank the gods he’s not once looked back. He must think us still entrapped.” If the big sergeant would not confess to a human frailty, Bak was not about to complain of his knotted calves.

  Imsiba glanced toward the lord Re, making his final descent to the netherworld, streaking the sky with gold. “If we don’t snare him within the hour, we’ll lose him to darkness.

  He knows this land far better than we. It’s been his play-ground for months.”

  “We’re closing on him.” Bak wiped his brow and dried his hand on his kilt, damp with sweat, stained gray by dirt. “Not long ago, we couldn’t see the sledge. Now we can. Nor could we see…” His voice tailed off and he stared at the man ahead.

  Userhet had slowed his pace and turned around as if to check the sledge and its load. His head came up. His step faltered. The sledge bumped his ankles, shoving him. He swung around and moved on, his stride longer, faster than before.

  “He’s spotted us!” Bak said, breaking into a loping run.

  “Who’d have thought a man could run so fast when pulling a laden sledge?” The question was rhetorical, a waste of valuable breath, and Bak knew it.

  Imsiba must also have felt the need to talk. “He’s taking advantage of the slope down to the water. Gentle as it is, it’s enough to keep the sledge moving.”

  Bak scanned the river, no more than a thousand paces away, with Userhet halfway between. In many places, water lapped the desert’s leading edge, stealing the golden grains, 260 / Lauren Haney yet he saw no reed-filled backwater. It had to be nearby.