Desert Oath: The Official Prequel to Assassin’s Creed Origins

by Oliver Bowden

  Very fitting.

  There, he had found Hemon.

  ‘And you think they’re hunting us?’ he said now.

  The Elder nodded. ‘It is the only explanation.’

  ‘Then we fight.’

  ‘We fight …?’ said Hemon turning his gaze to Sabestet.

  In turn, Sabestet fixed a milky, unseeing gaze on Sabu. ‘Our master has questions. He wishes to know the names of the warriors who make up our army for this particular fight.’

  Sabu rolled his eyes. He’d known this was coming. ‘I have begun to train Bayek, but he isn’t ready.’

  ‘It is your duty to make him ready,’ said Hemon.

  ‘It’ll happen. But don’t forget that Emsaf was training his boy also, and it did them no good. Our stock has become depleted. This makes us vulnerable.’

  ‘Quite so,’ scoffed Hemon, ‘which is precisely why we need to increase our numbers, and one way to increase our numbers is to …’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know. Bayek’s training will be completed.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘When I say.’

  ‘Too late, perhaps?’ said Hemon. ‘By the time you decide he is ready The Order will have annihilated us.’

  ‘Leave Bayek to me. Our most pressing matter now is to find whoever it is that would have us all dead and kill them before they finish the job. We strike at them before they can finish what they’ve started, wouldn’t you agree?’

  Hemon nodded. ‘And how do you propose to do that?’

  ‘I have some thoughts about that. In the meantime – why now? Why is The Order suddenly taking such an interest in our activities that it wants us eradicated?’

  Hemon nodded. ‘A good question. It appears there have been developments in Alexandria.’

  Part II

  * * *

  18

  Several Months Earlier

  One early morning, an ex-soldier by the name of Raia arrived at the Library of Alexandria. It was so early, in fact, that one of the custodians was still fast asleep, slumped against the stone of the entranceway, head lolling on his chest and a thin silvery line of dribble glittering slightly in the growing light. Raia only just resisted the urge to kick him awake as he passed, unseen and unchallenged, into the great entrance hall of the library.

  Inside was a different story. Nobody snoozing in here. Another man might have felt dwarfed by the tall, sculpted columns that stretched away from him, disappearing into foamy morning light to where teachers wandered with their pupils in the garden, and students lined the stone benches of the amphitheatres in order to hang on the sage words of mathematicians and astronomers.

  Another man might have whistled in awe at the thousands upon thousands of scrolls racked in hundreds upon hundreds of shelves, left and right and straight ahead like a vast honeycomb of parchment; the sculpture and bas relief, the sense of industry that permeated the building, musty and damp but learned and wise; the awareness that here, within arm’s reach, close to where he stood, was the repository for all human knowledge, past, present and probably future.

  Another man, perhaps.

  Raia stood to get his bearings, watching as young scholars, male and female, moved hither and thither, sandals rasping on the stone. Not that it was lost on him. Not that it didn’t impress him. Just that he had once been a soldier, a warrior famed for his steely nerves, iron will and fortitude in the face of the massed ranks of the enemy. To him the library was little more than an affectation.

  Talking of which …

  He had been meaning to ask directions from one of the older workers who made their way among the shelves laden with scrolls – but as it was he had no need. The sound of Theotimos’s hacking cough, a noise that never failed to set his nerves on edge the way others felt about the sound of grinding teeth or cracking bones, seemed to float through the library and find him.

  He changed direction and made his way towards the sound, glancing to his left and seeing eyes that watched him through the tubular scrolls. A spy? A curious scholar? Coming around the end of the shelving, he satisfied himself it was the latter and fixed the young man with a craggy warning glare anyway. The boy’s shoulders hunched, his chin dropped and he turned away.

  That cough again. Raia moved towards it, eventually finding Theotimos in a corner of the library where he had seemingly set up camp at a table. Already spread out were several documents, and he was returning to his seat with more.

  They were only scrolls, but it was as though Theotimos was bent double under their weight. His progress was slow, one foot seemed to drag slightly on the stone. When he looked up to see Raia his eyes clouded, first with fear and surprise, as though caught in the act of some criminal endeavour, and then with confusion, as he evidently took a moment or so to recognize Raia.

  Standing there and looking down on this diminished man who was, at least nominally, his superior, Raia cursed his luck at being chosen for the job of understudy. He’d had his doubts from the very beginning: Theotimos was obviously infirm, more in need of a carer than an attendant. Having worked with him for over a year now, Raia was even more convinced that Theotimos’s standing in The Order of Ancients was the result of little more than misguided sentiment and misplaced loyalty.

  Centuries old, The Order had been formed to help Egypt adapt to new forms of governance instigated by Alexander at Memphis. Each successive generation of Order leaders had adopted and in some cases adapted the principal ideology of The Order, which was, in a word, enlightenment: a move away from the control-by-fear once exerted by gods, priest and pharaohs, and towards modern modes of self-rule. A new Order to replace the old order.

  Once upon a time, Theotimos had been instrumental to its workings, and was among those who had worked hardest to maintain the organization’s purpose. Then, of course, he’d been a firebrand. There were, in this very library, transcripts of great oratories given by Theotimos – legendary debates in which he had participated. He’d been a truly great man. A terror to his enemies.

  Raia wished he could have known Theotimos back then, when he took his seat among The Order’s most eminent thinkers and policy-makers. He didn’t like the way he felt about Theotimos as he now was; it reminded him too much of what lay ahead of him, should he live long enough. Neither did he enjoy the surge of contempt he felt every time he laid eyes on the man, a sense of rising scorn whenever Theotimos gave his customary salute, as he did now, rheumy eyes finally resolving into recognition as he resumed his seat at the table.

  ‘Hello, my friend.’

  His grey hair was long, his scraggly beard careworn and unkempt. He revealed crooked and broken teeth when he smiled, hopeful as always that the warmth of his greeting might be returned.

  It wasn’t. Raia managed to conceal a sneer at the scholar’s deplorable lack of care for himself, filing it away as yet another justification of his disdain.

  ‘Theotimos,’ said Raia, ‘what brings me to the library at such an ungodly hour?’

  ‘I’ve been given a job to do.’ Theotimos’s eyes had returned to the scrolls before him. His fingers danced over the parchment. It came as no surprise to Raia that he had been ‘given a job’. A member of The Order who outranked them both was in the habit of giving Theotimos somewhat tiresome and inconsequential tasks. These jobs were designed to utilize Theotimos’s scholarly prowess while Raia’s own skills as a tactician grew dusty with neglect.

  ‘What job is that, Theotimos?’ asked Raia, inwardly sighing.

  ‘An assessment of sorts, I suppose you could say,’ replied Theotimos. He leaned closer, squinting at the scroll he read, using his hand as a rule. ‘Aha!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘What is it?’

  Theotimos beckoned him over. ‘You see this?’

  Raia ambled across. Some of the parchments were in Greek, a script he knew, and they spoke mainly of Thebes as far as he could see. Others were written in a script he didn’t recognize.

  He said as much and Theotimos made what was intended to be a jocul
ar tutting sound. ‘This is sekh shat,’ he said, pointing at the scroll, ‘an old demotic script, not that I’d expect a pup like you to know.’

  ‘Is there a point you intend to make? Would it be too much to ask that you made it?’

  Theotimos chuckled.

  At least I’m a source of amusement in your final years, thought Raia. About all I’m useful for.

  ‘This word here,’ said Theotimos. ‘You know what it says?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. Perhaps you might consider telling me before I lose the will to live.’

  Theotimos looked up, eyes narrowed and glittering with old secrets and a sudden, disturbing lucidity. He smiled slowly, and Raia kept himself from taking a step back.

  ‘It says Medjay.’

  19

  Some weeks after Theotimos’s revelation, Raia awoke in an Alexandrian brothel, ideas fermenting in a fuzzy head. He paid his dues, took his leave and returned home to make plans – plans that were intricate and involved and, most importantly, would ensure his ascension through the ranks of The Order as smoothly and as efficiently as possible.

  His first job was to find a translator.

  No, not his first job. There was something else to do beforehand, an act that would give him a great deal of satisfaction.

  And then, when the foundations of his scheme had been laid, he packed, said goodbye to his wife and two daughters and left Alexandria, commissioning a boat along the rippling azure river in the direction of Faiyum.

  When he was close to his destination he disembarked, bought a horse and made his way to the home of the one they called Bion, killer of men.

  He wondered if his old comrade still wore the kohl around his eyes.

  And if those eyes were still as dead as they once had been.

  Bion’s house on the outskirts of the Black Desert, close to Faiyum, was one of a few scattered buildings that made up a tiny settlement. The slight dip in which they stood gave the homes the impression of sinking slowly into the ground, and the wind had a habit of picking up great scoops of sand and flinging them at the walls. It was a hostile environment, and the shepherds who made it their home had the good sense to spend most of their time away, which was just how he liked it.

  It was, therefore, something of a surprise to return from a trip to collect water, and see a horse tethered outside his house. Draped over the hindquarters of the animal was the standard of the Royal Guard, the Machairophoroi.

  Bion stopped.

  So, he thought. He is here. Raia has come to collect. No one else would even know to come and find him here.

  He drew his knife, just in case, looping the leather thong around his wrist, and stepped inside.

  Raia had been waiting. When the killer pushed open his woven wicket door, ducked his head and stepped inside, the older man stood, and for several moments they regarded one another in silence: Raia with his arms folded, smiling, the killer with his knife in his hand.

  It was the visitor who broke the silence. ‘Hello, Bion, my old friend.’

  ‘Commander,’ replied Bion, unsmiling in return. He did not need to attempt social niceties with Raia. In fact, he preferred not to. Keeping Raia off balance was always preferable. He stepped out of the doorway, into the shadows. He hid a smile at the way Raia shifted his weight, as though preparing for an attack but not wanting to offend. ‘What do you want?’

  Raia smiled, practised and polished, indicating Bion’s knife, another relic of the old days. ‘Can I assume you no longer feel in need of protection? And if so, then perhaps you’d consider slipping it back into your belt? I’m only human, you know, and the sight of a sharp blade in the hand of the great Bion, killer of men, is likely to inspire fear in even the bravest among us.’

  ‘You flatter me, Commander,’ said Bion, more from habit than respect, and did as Raia asked.

  ‘You still wear the kohl, I see.’

  ‘To ward off the sun’s glare.’ He felt Raia’s eyes on his scars. He did not move, knowing the shadows only made the marks stand out even more.

  ‘What happened there?’ asked his former commander.

  ‘A disagreement,’ said Bion, his tone inviting no further questions.

  ‘A funny sort of disagreement …’ Raia made a criss-cross motion with his finger at his cheek, as though to picture the kind of swordplay that might inflict such a wound.

  Bion shrugged again, wanting to leave it there. He’d miscalculated on a job. He’d escaped, then finished his work. He would not make similar mistakes again.

  ‘I see.’ Raia took a deep breath, closing the subject. ‘What else has been keeping you busy in the years since we were last acquainted? It must be ten summers or so now …’

  Bion indicated his home. Low ceiling. Walls that seemed to close in on them. Bare essentials telling a story of solitude and subsistence. ‘And you?’ he asked in return.

  In response, Raia seemed to glow, as though he’d been looking forward to the question. As well he might. Bion could see his tunic was of the best linen; his belt worn but fashioned from expensive leather. Everything about him apart from the knife at his belt spoke of a life lived in comfort. And that knife, like the one Bion used, was a souvenir of days in the Royal Guard, in itself conferring status upon him.

  ‘Life in Alexandria has been good to me,’ confirmed Raia. ‘So good in fact that I find myself at the vanguard of creating a new Egypt. Do you know The Order? Has word of our work reached you?’ Bion shook his head as Raia continued. ‘We are a society growing in strength and stature. Our aim is to usher in a new, more modern society. One that moves away from the old established ways.’

  Bion waited for him to go on. He did not bother hiding his boredom. Even as one who had once moved in the same circles – in fact, especially since he had knowledge of that world – he did his utmost to avoid any talk of political affairs and ideology. He’d known his job was not to sit with those who decided policy, but to protect them and kill for them if needed, and for those tasks – especially the latter – he had been very well suited; he had taken pride in his work. It was the one thing he surpassed all others in. No doubt this was why Raia had travelled so far to see him now. It was certainly not to … talk to him.

  ‘The Order is very powerful in Alexandria, Bion, and will only become more so. While you have been making home here, I’ve been busy myself working with them. Not because I am ambitious, you understand …’

  Bion made sure his face remained impassive. Raia had been playing politics for too long. He’d forgotten who and what Bion was.

  ‘… But because I want to work for a better Egypt. A more prosperous, self-governing Egypt. And I’m pleased to say that the elders at The Order have recognized my dedication and integrity. I don’t think it’s too arrogant or big-headed of me to say that I’m being talked of in certain circles, perhaps even suggested as someone who might one day take high office within The Order.’

  Raia smoothed down his tunic, clearly pleased with himself. He obviously expected a response from the man in whose home he stood, and waited for it with smug confidence.

  Bion resisted the urge to take out his knife and sharpen it – juvenile, not worth the reaction. He shifted his weight, eyes fixed on the other man, breathing steadily. Idly, he wondered when Raia had become such a talker – he’d been a man of action, once.

  When Bion said nothing, Raia stammered, then recovered, continuing smoothly.

  ‘Now, of course, that is not for me to decide, I understand that. And something so far out of my hands is hardly worth my thinking about. My immediate concerns are advancing our aims and improving our good works. I’m painfully aware that with the eyes of Rome upon Egypt, The Order needs to be clever if we want to survive and stay in power – we need to take action. Maybe even what you might call pre-emptive action. Do you understand so far, Bion? Am I making myself clear?’

  Bion nodded. He did indeed understand. He understood that Raia was just the same as he always had been: a man who despite his many g
ood qualities was oblivious to his own shortcomings. A man who had grown complacent, and over-confident in his machinations.

  ‘Good, good,’ said Raia, ‘I knew you would. And it’s important you do, because, as I’m sure you realized from the moment you saw my standard, I’m not here merely to catch up on an old comrade. I have a request to make of you.’

  A request, thought Bion. That was one way of putting it.

  Raia went on. ‘In Alexandria I have been appointed assistant to an elder of The Order, a scholar named Theotimos. Not long ago Theotimos discovered scrolls relating to the Medjay. Scrolls that he says point towards a Medjay resurgence.’ He paused. ‘The Medjay. You know of them, don’t you, Bion?’

  Bion nodded. He did indeed know of the Medjay, having once researched them out of curiosity, wondering how to belong. And he thought about them now. They were protectors of the old kingdom, guardians of all that was ancient, the men who once upon a time had stood sentry at tombs and temples and carried out duties as bodyguards and peacekeepers. In ancient times the Medjay had been feared warriors, considered as wise as they were skilled in the ways of combat. But that was hundreds of summers before, when times were different, and so were the preoccupations of Egyptians who lived in those times. With a new era came new guardians and protectors, and such is the way of things that neither the representatives of the modern world nor their enforcers were prepared to tolerate those who represented the old one, and in that regard the Medjay were one of the most visible examples of a way of life that was increasingly regarded variously with contempt or outright hatred. Over time that status of the Medjay had changed. They’d moved from being protectors to almost apocryphal entities. Mostly rumours now. In some parts of the country they were considered quaint but irrelevant, while in other areas of Egypt, where they’d been outright persecuted, they were firmly considered extinct.

  Perhaps they would have simply remained an old, out-of-date force, gradually to be forgotten, were it not for the fact that, as the Medjay’s numbers and their visible presence had dwindled, their reputation and influence had somehow increased in scholarly circles. Though they no longer physically protected anything, their name had come to represent a form of preservation, a noble ideal. A safeguarding of the ‘old’ way, which was, by implication, a better, less corrupt and simpler way of living.