That was interesting, Bion had thought, the bond between them. He did not understand.
And so at market he bought a belt, small cage, a basket and a two-handled copper bowl to which he attached the belt. He baited the cage and caught a rat, which he placed into the basket. When night fell he rode out to the homestead and waited in the dark until he felt confident that the two occupants of the house were asleep, before making his move.
Taking the rat, basket and bowl, he moved to the front door, placed the items on the ground, drew his knife and listened. In the distance was the cry of a scavenger bird but otherwise all was silent. As for any noise from inside the home, there was nothing, not a sound. Silence.
Stealthily, the killer let himself in, sliding into the door like smoke and standing there, listening and letting his eyes adjust to the pitch-blackness as he took stock and gathered himself for his next move.
He felt a blade at his neck.
‘I am blind, intruder,’ came a young voice from behind. ‘My world is as dark as yours, but I have the advantage of this knife at your throat. What’s more, I know this house, and you do not.’
The killer went still, sensing that the young man with the blade at his neck would use it if necessary, but knowing also that as soon as he allowed himself to be disarmed he was a dead man, his mission a failure, his legacy of death superseded by one of defeat, and he could not let that happen.
He was, after all, Bion, killer of men. If one listened to Raia, anyway.
He sensed another figure standing before him, the old man who spoke now, a disembodied voice in the blackness. ‘Take his knife, Sabestet.’
Don’t try anything, said the prick of pain he felt as the pressure of the knife increased at his neck and a hand snaked across the front of him, reaching for the knife he held.
‘I’ll take that, please,’ Sabestet said close to his ear. Bion’s eyes had adjusted now. He could make out Hemon standing beside the table, which had been put there, it seemed, to create a barrier. Clearly the pair of them had known he was coming. Not such outcasts in Djerty as Bion had been led to believe, they had evidently been warned about him. He for his part had been careless. Meanwhile, the old man held something, a lantern, ready to light it when Bion was disarmed.
But that wasn’t going to happen.
Bion wasn’t going to allow that to happen.
He let the blind boy take his knife, having allowed its leather retaining loop to slip from his own wrist, bringing his arm up slightly as though to cooperate.
And then he made his move.
With a flick of his hand he slipped the leather loop over Sabestet’s wrist, turned it fast to make it excruciatingly tight and yanked forward. Sabestet’s knife dug into his neck but Bion had pulled back, rendering it useless, and the boy gave a yell as he was dragged sideways and forward.
Hemon cried out. Sabestet swung wildly with his knife hand, his other one out of action, but Bion had control now, and he used the table that had been placed there to help stop him, surging forward with Sabestet, writhing, ahead of him, snatching at the flailing knife hand, running him against the side of the table at the same time.
Again, a howl from Sabestet – a cry of frustration followed instantly by one of pain as his spine slammed into the tabletop. The old man was on the move now, a curved sword gleaming dully. In a second he’d be upon Bion, who shoved Sabestet over the tabletop, ramming the boy’s knife hand on to the table, once, twice, hearing the jangle of the blade as it span away and at the same time switching his efforts to the boy’s other hand, held fast by the retaining loop of his own blade.
Sabestet was dazed and in pain – too dazed and too pained to stop Bion from twisting his own arm across his chest and jamming the blade through his shoulder into the tabletop, pinning him there.
By now the old man had rounded the table, seen that the momentum of his attack was lost and switched his stance.
His speed impressed Bion, but even so, he was old, and though he was faster than his years, he wasn’t as fast as Bion. When he darted forward with an attacking jab, Bion ducked beneath it easily, feeling the sword whistle over his head as he dived, took the old man’s legs from beneath him and jerked upwards at the same time, upending The Elder and slamming him upside down to the stone, his head making painful contact with the floor and knocking him out cold.
The skirmish was over. Bion felt for blood at his neck, a small cut there, nothing to worry about. Groaning, the boy lay pinned by the knife to the table, his top half bent over it, his feet scrabbling weakly to the stone for a moment or so before he lost consciousness.
Good.
Bion knelt to the old man, feeling for a pulse. Excellent, he was alive. He needed them both alive for what he planned next. Ensuring the boy was pinned to the table, he left them for a moment or so, fetching the basket with the rat and then returning inside the house, lighting the lantern and closing the door.
Work to do.
36
‘Do you know who I am?’ said Bion.
Light was provided by lanterns and a fire bimbling in a freestanding brazier not far away. There were only two chairs in the room and the old man was tied to one of them, his arms behind his back and dried blood on his face from his head wound, his white beard caked with it.
‘I know what you are,’ said Hemon groggily. He pulled at the rope that bound him to the chair, and then regarded Bion with a blank stare. ‘You are the end of life. You come here to take away all that we are.’
Yes, I am death, thought Bion. It was nice, when his targets understood. But to Hemon he just nodded. ‘I am that, yes, and more.’
‘He won’t tell you anything,’ said Hemon, inclining his head towards the table, where Sabestet lay splayed across the top, as though for sacrifice. Bion had unpinned him before tying him to the legs and then cutting open his tunic to expose his stomach and chest. Next he’d placed the rat inside the upturned copper bowl and strapped it to Sabestet’s chest.
They could hear the rat moving inside the bowl, scratching, trying to find a way out.
Lifting his head every now and then, Sabestet was trying to be brave, but was unable to stop himself emitting nervous little sounds. He could feel the trapped rat on his bare skin. He probably knew what Bion had in mind.
‘I know he won’t talk,’ said Bion to Hemon. ‘It’s not him I expect to talk, it’s you.’
‘I shall not either,’ The Elder shook his head.
‘I think you will,’ said Bion, ‘Now tell me, where is the rest of your kind? The last of them.’
Hemon shook his head, bitter. He knew that both he and his ward were as good as dead. ‘There is no rest of us. You’re looking at them. You should congratulate yourself when you leave here that you leave the Medjay extinct.’
‘I’m not sure about that,’ replied Bion evenly. ‘I think there are plenty in Egypt who share your ideals, plenty who call themselves Medjay.’ He moved around to the brazier to blow on the hot coals, which glowed in response.
‘These people you speak of are not the original Medjay, merely pretenders, idealists, those on the fringes of society who like to see themselves in opposition to the prevailing consensus.’ Hemon spat to the side, in disdain. ‘I’ll grant you that these people do exist, but they are not the authentic followers of our creed.’
‘They don’t share the bloodline, is what you’re saying?’ asked Bion.
Hemon nodded. ‘And the bloodline has died. The bloodline ends here. It ended with the death of my wife and my just-born son many years ago. Kill me, extinguish the last weak flames of our order and your job is complete.’
Bion sighed. Inside he was full of admiration for the old man’s courage, his ability to stick to the story even when the odds were so severely stacked against him. But he had to be sure, and besides …
‘You’re right, the Medjay is close to its demise,’ he said, ‘but my employers have found documents in Alexandria that suggest your kind plans to rally, that a new ge
neration of Medjay is being prepared to take over from the old. You claim that you are the last rightful Medjay. I have already recovered one medallion that proves the opposite. Now, please, before I am forced to take this further, tell me where I can find the last of you.’
Hemon shook his head and Bion knew his plans would not go to waste.
‘Well, then, I think we both know what happens next,’ said Bion. ‘I place hot coals on the copper bowl. The bowl heats up and the rat inside tries to escape, which it begins to do by trying to gnaw at the bowl before giving up and tunnelling out another way. How do you think the rat escapes, Hemon?’
Sabestet groaned. Hemon shook his head at the savagery of it.
‘It is painful, Hemon,’ continued Bion serenely. ‘A terrible pain that, depending on which route the rat chooses to take, can be extraordinarily lengthy. I have seen it before. I have administered it before. It is a death I would not wish upon anyone.’
He paused, thinking that he in fact did not really care, but he’d learned over the years – over the kills – that pretending sympathy unnerved his prey even more, for some reason.
‘Now, tell me,’ he said, wondering at what Hemon’s deepest, most private thoughts were at this very moment, ‘where is the last of your kind?’
The old man shook his head. A little more unsettled now. ‘You have no need to do such a barbaric thing. There is no last of our kind. I’ve already told you. You’re looking at him.’
Bion used tongs to place a hot coal on top of the copper bowl. The rat inside responded straight away and the scuttling, snuffling sound seemed to increase in urgency. Sabestet whimpered. Bion added another coal, and then another. ‘Unfortunately for you’, he said evenly, ‘I believe you are lying.’
The scuffling sound from inside the bowl became more and more frantic. The copper began to glow, Sabestet moaning as the copper heated, but while that would be painful enough, it was nothing compared to what was coming. Bion had seen rats gnaw their way to freedom. He had heard the screams of the tortured. He had seen a burrowing rat nose its way from between a man’s ribs.
Sweat had broken out on the old man’s forehead. ‘It’s me you want,’ he tried weakly, but Bion just shook his head, leaning over the bowl and blowing on the coals which flared red in the flickering light of the room.
The rat was squealing in pain now. Soon it would begin to worry at the skin. It would start to chew the flesh. Sabestet was steeling himself, as bravely as he could. Bion would have been impressed, if he’d cared about such things.
Tell me, thought Bion. They always do. You will as well. Why fight?
‘You haven’t got long,’ he warned the old man. ‘Soon it will begin and there will be little I can do to stop it.’
‘All right then, all right,’ gabbled the old man, ‘I’ll tell you. Please, just remove the coal, I’ll tell you.’
Bion looked into his eyes and he believed him. Reaching for the tongs, he removed two of the hot coals. One remained.
‘Please …’ prompted Hemon.
‘We’re close,’ said Bion. ‘Just tell me, let me decide if you’re telling the truth and then we’ll see about the last one.’
‘There is one other Medjay,’ swallowed the old man. ‘One other true Medjay. One who is, as you say, at the vanguard of a resurgence.’
Bion shook his head. ‘Try again,’ he said.
Inside the bowl the rat was still trying to escape.
‘What do you mean?’ stammered Hemon. The sweat shone on his forehead now. Still they could hear the rat.
‘There is a bloodline …’ pressed Bion.
‘There are two,’ agreed Hemon, nodding his head vigorously. ‘A father and son.’
Bion looked into his eyes, saw the man was telling the truth. ‘Good, good,’ he said, ‘and what else?’
He dropped the second coal back into the brazier and then removed the last one, but held it there poised above the bowl. The boy had been holding his breath, his back arched awaiting the moment that the rat began burrowing, every sinew in his body anticipating the agony to come, but now he relaxed a little. The bowl itself, which had been glowing, seemed to calm. ‘Names?’ said Bion.
‘Their names are Sabu, and his son Bayek.’
The old man bowed in defeat. Bion suspected it was shame he was seeing in those old eyes. Shame in himself, for failing his calling, for the sake of his ward, whom he knew would die anyway once he had disclosed the last Medjay’s whereabouts.
37
It had been several weeks since the battle at Menna’s hideout, and I’m not sure any of us had fully recovered. Cuts and bruises had healed – or almost so in the case of Neka, who had suffered the most – but as for what went on in our heads? Aya, Tuta and I had returned to Tuta’s mother’s house in Thebes after the battle. As we walked in, she’d rushed over from the kitchen area to take him in her arms.
‘Gods! Tuta, my son, where have you been all this time? I’ve been so worried. Feverish with worry I’ve been.’ She’d enfolded him so tightly in her arms that all I could see of him was a squished face, his eyes gleaming with newfound light and life.
Seeing him there in his mother’s arms, the edge of a smile that he was directing at me, brought to mind a conversation we’d had on the journey back from Menna’s settlement, when he’d taken me to one side: ‘What we did back there at the tomb-robber’s place was just about the most exciting thing ever in my life, sir,’ he’d said, and then tailed off, shaking his head in disbelief.
The thing was, he didn’t need to say anything else because I’d felt it myself, racing along the plain in the chariot, something that had been building within me these past months, maybe even since I’d left Siwa.
Yes, I knew the feeling. I knew exactly what it was.
It was a feeling of purpose.
And Tuta was right, it felt good. It felt good to have it in our lives.
We’d left the bodies of Menna and Maxta on the desert, food for the scavengers; the remainder of Menna’s men we’d barred into the storehouse before scattering their horses and then leaving. The storehouse wouldn’t hold them for long but it gave us enough time to make headway. In any event, with no paymaster to offer a bounty, a pursuit was unlikely.
Ever since the battle I had watched as a strange kind of lassitude seemed to descend over Khensa and Seti. The emotions of peace and triumph I had expected to see now that their years-old struggle with Menna was finally over were curiously absent. I wondered if, in killing Menna and fulfilling the pledge they’d made to my father and to the Medjay, the Nubians were now at a loss. Without purpose.
On the way back Khensa had been quiet, deep within herself. She’d promised that when Neka was recovered he would find out more about the Medjay imprisoned in Elephantine – this man, after all, was the only lead we currently had – but other than that? What could they do? What would they do? Resume their nomadic ways, once Neka was fully healed and had investigated the Medjay rumours in Elephantine? Likely. I had a feeling I would soon be bidding a fond farewell to Khensa.
In the meantime, things had, for the time being at least, gone back to how they were before. Neka pronounced himself fit for duty and departed south. Time stood still as we awaited news.
And now he had returned, and Khensa had come to Tuta’s door, seeking us out and summoning us into the street, where I couldn’t help but notice a difference in her. The listlessness and melancholy that had descended over her after our battle at Menna’s hideout seemed to have diminished. In her eyes was a new vitality, a rekindled spirit.
Khensa fixed me with a look – a look I knew well. An important look.
‘Neka brings news of the Medjay imprisoned on the island of Elephantine,’ she began. She took a deep breath before continuing. ‘It seems that I was wrong,’ she said. ‘The Medjay imprisoned in Elephantine might not be an impostor. Neka has unearthed information that indicates he is the scion of a genuine Medjay bloodline. This man is currently imprisoned in a pit in the g
atehouse of the Temple of Khnum on the southern side of the island.’
I sensed something important was afoot. I hardly dared allow myself to believe as her eyes and their newfound fire found mine, wanting to gauge my reaction when she delivered her news.
‘Bayek, if Neka is right … the prisoner is your father.’
38
Tuta had no idea he had been followed. Not until he was halfway along the narrow passageway, heading towards the slums, and a figure stepped out in front of him.
Before that, he’d been excited. Why? Because he was due to join Aya, Bayek and the Nubians on another adventure – this time on an expedition to rescue Bayek’s father from a pit in Elephantine.
Why was Bayek’s papa in the pit? Tuta didn’t know and, truth be told, he didn’t really care. Oh, he had heard all about the Medjay, and it all sounded pretty important and very exciting to him, not that he pretended to understand any of it. The thing was that it was important and exciting to Bayek and Aya, which made it that way for him too. These days he felt as though he were a part of something, as though he had a contribution to make. As though he mattered.
But that feeling was nothing compared with the thrill of the battle itself. Was ‘thrilled’ the right word, when people had lost their lives? Who cared? The right people had lost their lives. That was all that mattered to Tuta, because while he was doing good, being a part of something, mattering, he was also doing important stuff. That boy who had spent his time in Zawty trying to part strangers from their money and goods, scraping around for food and the odd bronze coin? He was gone. New Tuta was here, and he was about to embark on a fresh adventure.
And then the figure stepped out in front of him and Tuta knew at once that things had gone from being mended to broken again.
His father’s eyes, rheumy with drink and bitterness and loathing for himself and for Tuta, bore into him like twin augurs. It was a look that promised nothing but more pain and despair.
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