Desert Oath

by Oliver Bowden

  That was something to look forward to, thought Sabu bitterly. ‘Our master believes the old enemy is behind it, I presume,’ he said.

  Sabestet nodded again. ‘This is what our master fears and believes.’

  12

  It was dusk and the courtyard traders had packed up and gone home by the time Tuta returned. He sidled back into the square, took a seat at the table and regarded me from beneath dark, scruffy hair. ‘I think I might have found your man, sir,’ he said, and showed me an empty open palm.

  I looked at the grubby hand, grinning at his impudence and liking him despite myself. ‘Oh no, no coin yet. Not until I’m sure of the merchandise. Where do I find my messenger?’

  ‘You drive a hard bargain,’ said Tuta, but he withdrew the hand without protest. ‘You need to make sure you’ve got your man and I of all people understand that. Follow me.’

  He led us along narrow, winding streets, and I was heartened to remember landmarks from earlier in the day, thinking I could probably find my way back to my horse when the time came. More to the point, I felt the first rumblings of an excitement, a growing confidence. I can do this.

  At the end of a street, Tuta pulled me to one side. ‘Careful,’ he hissed, ‘the one you seek is up here a-ways.’

  Along the lane sat men beneath awnings, eating or drinking with friends. There were still people around, but through the pedestrians I could make out the man Tuta indicated and just as described. His eyes were an intense blue, and at first glance might well have been the rider I’d last seen back home. Even so …

  ‘I can’t be sure,’ I told Tuta, having spent several moments studying the man. ‘There’s no satchel?’

  ‘He has it with him, no doubt, sir,’ said Tuta, ‘perhaps under the table by his feet. Besides, that’s the man my contact says has been spending so much lately. According to my friend, who is a very well-connected gentleman indeed, your man with the sudden supply of coin has only recently returned to the city, having been away close to a month.’

  I gave it thought. ‘That makes it a lot more likely, I’ll grant you. If I could hear him speaking, perhaps.’

  ‘Well, let’s go down the road, shall we, sir?’ said Tuta. ‘Before you get too serious a case of the frights and I lose out on my reward altogether.’

  I grabbed at his shoulder as he was about to make off. ‘No, he might recognize me.’

  Tuta gave me a shrewd look up and down. ‘Was that your appearance the last time he saw you?’

  ‘No. Maybe you’re right.’

  ‘Come on, come with me, even if he does notice you pass by, he’ll only take you to be my older brother. Come on, I haven’t got all night.’

  My heart was hammering as the two of us slunk past where Blue Eyes was sitting with a number of others. However, he seemed happy to listen to their conversation, and, while closer up I was pretty sure it was the right person, I still wanted to hear him speak.

  Tuta responded to the warning glance I flashed him, moving over to the seated group. ‘Can you spare a drachma, sir?’ he asked the man.

  ‘Get out of it, street rat,’ he replied, and in that instant I knew he was the messenger I sought.

  ‘Well?’ said Tuta when our promenade was complete.

  ‘That was him.’

  ‘Then that concludes our business, does it not, sir? I’ll take my coin and be on my way if it’s all the same to you.’ He palmed the silver I gave him. ‘What will you do now then? What’s your plan of action?’

  Good question. And it struck me that during the whole of my journey and all of my time in Zawty so far, I’d never got as far as planning what I might say to the messenger if I ever saw him again.

  ‘Strikes me you could do with an intermediary,’ said Tuta, as though reading my mind. ‘I might be able to arrange a meeting.’

  That made sense. If he recognized me and ran off into that labyrinth of alleyways I might never find him again. The messenger would not be so wary of a boy, and less likely to slip away in the open. ‘Go on,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll tell him I have a friend in need of his services. Wait in the theatre. I’ll bring him to you and leave you to do the rest, how does that sound?’

  It sounded good, I thought, and so Tuta disappeared once more and I found myself alone in the Zawty city theatre later that evening, another coin poorer and wondering if my new friend would ever return.

  The place seemed almost unnaturally quiet, and when I coughed the sound echoed around tiers of seating recently vacated by the audience of a production of The Myrmidons. Earlier they would have spread himations on stone seats, chatting away, eating nuts and dates and cake before the players entertained them with verse. Aya would have loved it. She liked to tell me about the fire effects they used in The Furies, the sword fights, the way the theatre company could make it seem to rain, even how they used some sort of crane to create the effect of the gods.

  Then, of course, the amphitheatre would be abuzz with the sound of laughter and chatter and the players delivering their lines. Not now. None of the torches or braziers were lit and it was getting dark. I heard birds moving around in the seating above my head, a rustling that might have been rodents, and swallowed a sudden sharp stabbing of fear, a feeling that I was out of my depth.

  No, Bayek, you’re not. You must do this. Feeling exposed in the area just under the stage, I took a seat to wait, and sat with my hand surreptitiously on the handle of my new knife. I hadn’t had a chance to sharpen it (working left to right with quartz sandstone, just as my father had taught me) so there were still some burrs on the blade, but it would do the job if needs be.

  What job?

  I chased away the thought. There was no reason to suspect anything sinister was afoot.

  Was there?

  From an entrance tunnel close to where I sat came a noise, and the birds heard it too, because it was accompanied by a sudden flapping in the rafters. Appearing from the shadows was the messenger. He looked around himself curiously, then saw me as I stood to greet him, his eyes narrowing.

  ‘You’re the man I’m supposed to meet, are you?’ Fortunately there wasn’t the faintest sign of recognition on his face. Evidently my travels had changed my appearance.

  ‘We’ve met before, you and I,’ I said.

  ‘Have we?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I said, and was about to continue when a sound from the seating above stopped me. I looked up, wondering if it was just a trick of the light that seemed to make the shadows move. ‘In Siwa,’ I went on.

  At last recognition dawned and his face changed. ‘Yes, yes, I remember you. The impudent one. Of course. All right, how about you tell me just what the hell you’re playing at, dragging me here? An offer of work, I was told, a little extra in my purse. But I doubt very much that someone such as you has anything I could possibly want.’

  ‘Oh but I have,’ I said, ‘I have plenty of money, and what I require in return is much less strenuous than what you’re used to. I want to know about the message you delivered to the protector in Siwa. Who sent it, and what did it say?’

  His eyebrows shot up. ‘You couldn’t just ask your father?’

  ‘It’s complicated.’

  ‘He left straight away, did he?’

  ‘That doesn’t surprise you?’

  The messenger shook his head. ‘Not at all. He said as much when I passed on what I had been told to say.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘Don’t get ahead of yourself, protector’s son. Show me the shape of your money and then we’ll talk further … maybe.’

  As I reached into my tunic for the coins there was a movement, a sound, the scrape of sandal upon stone, and I swung about to see a figure emerge from the tunnel. Into the area in front of the stage came a man with a weathered, hangdog face, tattered clothing and a rusting short sword that he held by his thigh. Something about him was familiar – something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. But if I’d thought that he was a friend of the messenger then I was
soon disabused of that notion. The messenger’s brow darkened and he looked quickly from the new arrival to me and then back again.

  ‘What is this?’ he barked. His hands went straight to his satchel, clutching at the bag. ‘What’s going on here?’ He fixed me with a glare. ‘Is this a set-up?’

  ‘No, no,’ I said quickly, terrified that the opportunity would slip through my fingers and suddenly feeling very alone.

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that,’ smirked the new arrival. ‘In fact, I’d say it’s been a perfect set-up.’

  13

  The man with the short sword lifted his head to call into the tiered seats above, and what he said hit me like a slap. ‘Tuta,’ he called, ‘how about you show your face, boy?’

  My heart sank as, sure enough, Tuta emerged from hiding, materializing in the shadows above and making his way slowly down between the seats. Shamefaced, round-shouldered and unable to meet my gaze, he came to stand beside the man who was surely his father, a fresh bruise below one eye. I felt hollowed out – as though I were being punished for my hubris and stupidity, but also like it was no more than I deserved. Serves you right.

  ‘You did well, son,’ said Tuta’s father. ‘You brought them together just as you said you would. Now, if you don’t mind, gentle souls, we shall take our money.’

  The sword was raised in threat.

  ‘Tuta, why?’ I blurted. ‘Why are you doing this? I would have paid – you know I would. I thought we were …’

  ‘Friends,’ smirked Tuta’s father. From him came a reek of beer fumes. ‘No, my old mate, you ain’t friends. He does what I say, when I say, and he’s friends with who I say. And it ain’t either of you.’ He gestured with the blade, the point of it wavering between me and the messenger. ‘Now, hand those purses, both of you.’

  ‘You know these people,’ spat the messenger to me. ‘You set us up.’

  ‘I didn’t,’ I said quickly. ‘I swear I had nothing to do with this. I just want information.’ I turned to Tuta. ‘Do you think this is what your mother would have wanted? Reduced to robbing strangers.’

  ‘What d’you mean, would have wanted?’ smirked the father. ‘What’s he been telling you?’

  I rounded on Tuta. ‘That was a lie, too, was it? All part of making a fool of me,’ I said.

  Tuta swallowed, looked away, his bottom lip trembling.

  ‘Come on, spit it out,’ insisted Tuta’s father, ‘I’m dying to know what he told you.’

  ‘That your wife and daughter died in a fire. That you’ve taken to the bottle.’

  Tuta’s father threw back his head and roared with laughter. ‘And you fell for that one, did you? More fool you, my friend.’

  An extra helping of beer fumes came my way. ‘At least part of it was true,’ I said. ‘And looking at the bruises I can see what Tuta left out.’

  ‘Well, aren’t you the hero?’ jeered the father. ‘Tuta said you were. A minnow trying to swim with the big fish. He said you’d be easily caught.’

  I cast a look at Tuta whose eyes dropped with shame. At the same time his father moved closer and raised the sword until the point of it was under my chin. His rheumy eyes fixed on mine, his lips parted from broken teeth and the stink on him brought back a sudden overpowering memory of the man who came into my window the night of Menna’s attack.

  Not choked by fear now, though. Not a child any more to it.

  With his other hand Tuta’s father reached, took my knife from my belt and dropped it with a dull clunk to the ground. From the corner of my eye I saw the messenger’s gaze go to it and found myself willing him not to make his move. Don’t risk it, I wanted to call. Not when I’ve come so far. But the blade at my chin was insistent and sharp – no burrs on this one – and I felt something warm tickle at my throat and realized it was blood as my assailant’s other hand went to my pouch.

  He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t open the pouch one-handed.

  ‘Tuta, take his money,’ he said with irritation.

  Without looking at me, Tuta came and unbuckled the pouch, drew out the purse and handed it to his father. A feather fluttered to the ground.

  The messenger had moved a couple of steps closer to my knife.

  Don’t do it.

  ‘Tuta,’ I pleaded, the movement of my mouth pressing my flesh further into the sword so that a fresh trickle of blood made its way down my throat, ‘at least tell the messenger I had nothing to do with it. Just tell him that.’

  ‘He had nothing to do with it, sir,’ said Tuta firmly, suddenly looking the messenger square in the eye. ‘This was all down to me and my father and our wicked ways. This man here just wants to find his kin; he just needs answers. He’s a good man, I can vouch for that, for what it’s worth, and if you have a heart you’ll tell him what he wants to know so that he can rest easy.’

  ‘Now just you shut your mouth,’ snapped his father, ‘I’ve had about enough of this,’ and with that he punched the boy, sending him sprawling to the ground.

  The messenger saw his chance. Using the distraction, he took a step, bent, scooped up my knife and came at the bully, the blade swinging upwards.

  He met his target and Tuta’s father screamed in pain as my knife tasted blood in the hands of another.

  But the messenger’s blow was harried and wild, a first strike aimed at gaining the advantage and sadly failing, while making it impossible for me to help him in the bargain. He had opened a cut in the robber’s thigh, the tunic gaping, blood already gushing down his leg, but Tuta’s father, injured and drunk though he surely was, was still the more experienced fighter and a better knifeman, and he bit down on the pain and rounded on the messenger, his own blade flashing as he charged forward.

  The messenger had no chance of a second attack. In the blink of an eye the short sword was in his stomach, Tuta’s father grunting with the effort as he punched the blade in with a thump like the washerwomen on the Nile beating their sheets, and then another, and then, when the messenger was bent over clutching at his torso, coughing and spasming with the pain, a dead man for sure, again – just out of spite.

  Now Tuta’s father swung towards me. His leg was awash with his own blood, his blade dark with that of the messenger.

  ‘You stupid little bastard,’ he screeched, and I wasn’t sure whether he was talking to me or Tuta or maybe both. All I knew was that I was stumbling back, my heels knocking against where Tuta lay sprawled so that I too was dumped to the stone.

  My eyes were on the short sword as Tuta’s father lumbered forward, dragging his bad leg behind him.

  This is it. This is what the moment before death feels like. My thoughts went to Aya, to my mother, and to a Siwa I would never see again.

  ‘No, Father, please,’ shrieked Tuta, and threw himself in front of me, just as the blade came arcing down.

  Thank the gods – his father pulled back in time, letting out a curse that promised worse punishment later and reaching to haul Tuta off, depositing him once more to the ground and then coming forward again, intent on delivering the deathblow. Tuta had brought me precious time, though, and I had managed to get back to my feet, and was thinking my way towards defending myself.

  ‘Hey, what’s going on in here?’ came a shout from the tunnel, and while Tuta’s father whipped around to locate the speaker, I lunged for my knife. It was one of the theatre workers, alerted by the commotion. With a shout of frustration, Tuta’s father abandoned murderous thoughts and turned instead to the stricken messenger, rifling him for his purse. Taking the money, he reached, grabbed Tuta and yanked the poor injured boy to his feet, dragging him towards the exit just as the theatre worker appeared.

  The worker began to protest: ‘What …’ before his face fell at the sight of the blade and he was flattening himself to the wall of the seating area, letting robber and his small accomplice barrel past.

  Out in front of the stage, I scrambled to the messenger. There I knelt by his side and put one hand to his temple, my eyes going to his tunic,
all red and torn and wadded up. Three stab wounds. Punch, punch, punch.

  All my fault. I’d been such a fool.

  He coughed blood, eyes already glazing. When I put my hand to his heart it was beating, but only just. Fluttering like a wounded bird.

  He was going to die here – he was going to die here, and it was all my fault, but even so I had to know, and although I hated myself for doing it, for putting my own needs above his last moments, I bent to him, saying, ‘Please, tell me, what did the message say?’

  He passed out, but before he went, he whispered to me what the message said.

  And it meant nothing to me.

  14

  I sat back on my heels, feeling a potent brew of anger and frustration and hatred. From across the way the theatre worker shouted, ‘Now you just stay there while I fetch the soldiers,’ but I was doing no such thing. I pulled myself to my feet and, ignoring the worker’s shouts, ran into the seating area and dashed up the stairs until I reached the rafters.

  I came to an overhang. Jumping, I grabbed it, swung myself up on to the roof of the theatre and crouched there, scanning the Zawty streets from my new perch with a bird’s eye view.

  The streets were less crowded now that large sections of the city were shrouded in darkness, torchlighters only just beginning their night’s business. Even so, I thought I saw my quarry two streets away: an older man and the younger boy hurrying along, the man limping.

  I stood, gauging the distance between the theatre’s overhang and the flat roof of what was either a shop or house next door. It was a long way down, with no awnings and nothing soft to break my fall if I missed or came up short.

  Taking deep breaths, I squatted, feeling my leg muscles bunch – and then took the jump.

  I made it, feet finding purchase, forward motion taking me on as I traversed first one roof and then – jump – another. On the roofs was bedding, but thankfully nobody settling down for the night. I raced on, keeping Tuta and his father in my sights, leaping from one rooftop to the next.