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.
‘So I found you then?’ Paneb leered, and Tuta’s mind raced, trying to think how on earth his father could have found him in all of Thebes. Trying to calculate how he was expected to behave.
So he did what he always did. He broke out into a grin. ‘I’m glad you’re here, I’ve missed you, Papa, I really have.’
Paneb scoffed, burping. ‘Missed me, have you? That’s a good one. That why you left me behind in Zawty?’
‘Oh come on, Papa, admit it, you would have killed me that day. I wouldn’t be here now if I’d stayed behind. It was self-preservation that took me to my toes. Surely you of all people can understand that? Besides, you knew I was going to come here, to Thebes. Where else would I go, after all? All I know is Zawty and Thebes, and Zawty was out of the question. I knew you’d come and find me here when you’d calmed down.’
His father leaned in. ‘And I suppose since you’ve arrived here you’ve been up your old tricks, eh?’
Tuta nodded, quickly forcing a grin on to his face as though he and his old dad were pals together.
But Paneb wasn’t falling for it, and he lunged forward, grabbing Tuta’s upper arm, fingers squeezing the flesh in an iron grip that Tuta had forgotten in his newfound happiness but now remembered afresh, and slammed him to the wall of the passageway.
‘Where is she, that bitch?’ came the rasp at his ear. A familiar smell.
Thank the gods for presence of mind. ‘That’s what I’d like to know,’ said Tuta. ‘I’ve been told my mother and the little brat left some months ago. No one knows where they were bound.’
‘You’d better not be lying to me, boy. What have you’ve been doing with yourself, then? Where are your friends? I want to have a word with those two.’
‘You’re hurting me …’
The grip relaxed. ‘Come on, talk.’
‘The two from Zawty, I don’t know what happened to them. They aren’t my friends and, as for what I’ve been doing, I’ve been surviving on the streets, just as I always have, just as I did in Zawty, what do you think?’
‘What do I think? What I think is that you look fairly well nourished and clean for someone who’s been living on their wits in a slum like this, that’s what I think.’
‘I have lodgings, of a sort,’ tried Tuta, who’d just had an idea.
‘Oh really? Where would that be, then?’
‘Over the river, in the necropolis. An old tomb there.’
The slap came after a disgusted pause, but it was hard and sharp and as familiar to Tuta as the grip and the beer breath. ‘It’s nobody’s tomb,’ Tuta yelled in pain, ‘looted or never been used, no desecration, no sacrilege, I promise. It’s dry and it’s warm at night when the cold bites and what more could you want? Papa, I’m telling you, it’s a good place to live. Why don’t you let me take you there? We could be together again.’
At last the grip was released. But if Tuta had any thoughts about making a run for it then he was denied, his father blocking his way with his body.
‘Well, that’s very nice of you to say, son,’ he said, his head lolling slightly, drunkenly, giving Tuta hope that he might simply pass out and allow him to slip away, ‘but yer old papa has somewhere to live right now, and either way, I don’t intend spending much time in this cesspool.’
Tuta looked at him and forced a grimace as though he was disappointed about that, his father pulling a disbelieving face in return. ‘Don’t bother,’ he spat. ‘If you had any affection for me you wouldn’t have left me for dead back in Zawty, would you?’
‘No one was left for dead, Papa; you were yelling all kinds of murder. If I’d stayed I would have been the one dead, you know that, the mood you were in.’
His father nodded. ‘Either way,’ he said, ‘I need you to do something for me,’ and he’d given Tuta the address of his lodgings, a time he wanted him there, and details of some theft he planned to carry out ‘where we need a little scrap like you to get in somewhere for us’, and a dire warning, ‘Don’t be late.’
Then he’d left in search of more beer and wine, and behind him Tuta had screwed up his eyes, and stood for a second, trying to not to cry there and then, in the middle of the city.
39
The next night came shouting, and Tuta gasped with frustration. He was on the outskirts of the slum, about to make his way home, when he’d heard it, and his heart broke, because he recognized the voice immediately. It was his father.
Oh, and not just the voice. Oh no. Tuta recognized the tone too. He knew what that tone meant. It meant Papa was drunk and he was angry, and it meant that Tuta himself had miscalculated.
‘I know you’re here, you lying little shit,’ he heard bellowed from somewhere among the houses. Residents were poking their heads out of windows, wondering what was going on, and Tuta heard somebody telling his father to pipe down – for all the good it would do. He experienced a strange moment of guilt, as though it were his fault that the peace (Ha! Peace!) of the slum had been destroyed. As if those who peered out of their windows would see him and know that he, Tuta, was responsible for all the commotion.
Just as quickly, his main concern was for his mother and for Kiya. Last night he’d hurried home from his encounter in the alley and the first thing he had said to his mother was, ‘He’s here.’
‘What do you mean, little one? Who’s here?’ she’d asked him without concern. Not even when he told her, because she remembered the man she had last seen, and even though he was drunk and ill-tempered and prone to resort to the fist in order to settle his arguments, he’d never been as bad as he was now. No matter what Tuta had tried to tell her since his return to Thebes, she hadn’t quite grasped that fact.
‘Mama, he’s dangerous.’
‘Oh, you don’t need to tell me that.’
‘No, Mama, he’s badder than that, he’s more than a mere rat, he’s changed for the worse. He’s evil. And even if he isn’t evil then he’s downright dangerous. I don’t think I should go. I should stay here, make sure nothing bad becomes of you.’
She had shaken her head vigorously, telling him that she’d had years of having to handle the terrible Paneb, and if he came round again, well, then she’d just have to handle him again.
And even though Tuta wasn’t sure she could do that, he so powerfully wanted to go to Elephantine that he let himself do something he was at this very moment beginning to regret. He let himself believe it would be OK. And the price of his delusion was this: Paneb in the slums, drunk and raging, incensed that he had failed to turn up to the agreed meeting place. No way was he going to let that pass.
Right, Tuta, he thought to himself. Get a grip. Think this through. The only way you can sort this situation out is to meet it head-on. And at the same time, whatever you do, keep him away from the house.
But Aya and Bayek were there. Together they could handle him, surely?
Mind still racing, trying to explore all the angles. No. If he led Paneb home then he’d know where Mama and Kiya lived. They would have to leave the house that they had made their own.
So Tuta took a course of action that scared him but was the only one he could think of. Instead of taking off in the opposite direction to all that shouting he could hear, he went towards it.
Some moments later, there he was, his father, hammering his fist against the house while he shouted for his son. What Tuta would have done for an incensed homeowner to appear. No, an incensed and very tough homeowner. An incensed and very tough home homeowner in an especially bad mood.
Unfortunately for Tuta, no such saviour appeared. There was just his father, his drunken father, leaning on the house, then squaring his shoulders to resume his cries for Tuta when he caught sight of his son standing watching him.
Tuta swallowed but stitched a smile on to his face, greeting his father, trying to stay jov
ial. ‘Why are you making so much noise, Papa?’ To which his father had thrown back his shoulders and turned to look exaggeratedly around the area, at the crumbling walls, peeling paint and the tattered awnings, as though he were accustomed to great luxury, this man of taste. Tuta felt bile rise just looking at him.
But keep smiling, he thought. Keep smiling. This slum was home to his mouty and Kiya and what happened next would be vital when it came to keeping it that way.
‘Where were you, boy?’ growled Paneb.
Tuta, still grinning, trying to bluff it out, said, ‘I came to your lodging, ready for the job and keen to earn coin, just as you said, but you weren’t there. Thank the gods you’re here now. Is it too late?’
His father wasn’t having it. ‘What are they like, my lodgings?’
Still trying to bluff. ‘Better than you deserve, old man. Come on, let’s get out of here and go to some more salubrious part of the city. You look like you need a drink.’
But now his father fixed him with a beady-eyed stare, his beard glistening, his mouth wet as he spoke. ‘They’re here, aren’t they? Your liar of a mother. My little Kiya. They are, aren’t they? I’m going to find them. They’re mine. They had no right to leave.’
Tuta felt his heart skip a beat. This was bad. This was the worst. Fear inched up his spine and, as he spoke, he smiled still, brightly. Coaxing.
‘No, Papa, just as I told you, they’re long gone, and so should we be. Come on. Something tells me you’ve got some stories to share.’
A look crossed Paneb’s face, something unreadable. In the next instant he stepped forward and punched Tuta in the stomach.
Tuta shouted, groaned, his hands going to his belly as he staggered back, and then, looking down, he saw blood – blood on his hands, on his tunic. He saw the knife in his father’s grasp dripping with it, and realized it was his own blood. His father was shaking a befuddled head, as though unable to choose between anger and fear and regret and then taking flight instead, running off down the street, even as somebody from a window overhead was shouting for the soldiers.
Tuta went to his knees. His mouth dropped open. His head emptied of all thoughts apart from, I’ve got to get to them. I’ve got to warn them before I die.
40
‘Where is he?’ Aya was saying, fond and amused. ‘Where is that little scamp?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. Tuta made his own rules, that’s what we all liked about him. He wouldn’t have been Tuta otherwise. ‘Tell you what, I’ll go and have a look for him,’ I said, and bent for a kiss from her before she went to return to the backyard, where Kiya and her mother were enjoying the last of the evening sun.
I stepped out, looked left and right along the street. One end of it opened out on to a square with an old disused and overgrown fountain at its centre, the other took you deeper into the slum.
I couldn’t see all the way down the street, a large cart was in the way, as well as a stack of boxes. But from that direction came the sound of a commotion, and somebody shouting over and over, ‘He’s dying.’
I started off down the road, boots slapping a rhythm on the wet and dirty stone as I picked up speed.
‘He’s dying, he’s dying!’
And now, rounding the cart, I saw a crowd of people, one woman who stood there with her hands held in front of her, hands that were covered in blood, another man who looked my way as though I might know what to do.
And I knew, even before I arrived and shouldered my way through the crowd to see who they were talking about, that the blood belonged to Tuta.
I knew instinctively that it was he who lay dying on the street.
I fell to my knees by his side. His eyes had been flickering but they opened now and focused on me. I could see him trying to smile, his lips parting to reveal teeth stained with blood, and my guts turned to liquid. Emotions I couldn’t name thrust their way towards my fingertips so that for a mad moment it felt as though I could simply touch Tuta and with all of the love I felt for him heal him.
But my hands went to his face, his cheeks burning hot beneath my palms, and no healing came, just a dying – a dying that originated from his stomach. His hands were at the wound and the front of his shirt was saturated with blood. Wringing wet with it. A trail of it leading away in the streets. Far too much blood, his face paling as the life-force seemed to drain away from him before my very eyes.
I’d saved him once but I couldn’t save him again.
Oh, please, no.
‘Gods, Tuta, please, stay with me.’
His eyelids were still flickering but I put my thumbs to them, roughly enough to elicit gasps from those standing around us, but I didn’t care, because all I knew was that I had to keep him awake; I had to prevent him from sleeping because sleep was the brother of death, and if he closed his eyes he might never wake up, and at that very moment there was nothing – nothing – in the world that was more important to me than making sure Tuta lived.
‘Tuta, who did this?’ I asked him, as much to get him to focus as anything else. I wasn’t thinking then of revenge, just of preserving his life.
‘Papa,’ he managed, the word a whisper that hit me like a slap.
‘Gods, no,’ I spat.
He took his hands from his stomach and with what felt like an unfeasible surge of strength reached to grab me, bringing me closer, clutching at my belts and dragging me to him, ‘Don’t let him find Mama and Kiya,’ he begged. ‘Please, Bayek. Do what you have to do to keep them safe.’ He gave me a location, each word forced from between his dying lips.
‘Tuta, stay,’ I said, and I don’t think I’ve ever meant anything so deeply and fervently as I meant those words, but that passion wasn’t enough, and I saw the light ebb from his eyes, and all of that emotion, all that love I felt for him, I wanted him to take with him on his journey to be with the gods. I wanted him to be safe now – safe from what had killed him.
His hands slipped from my face. His eyelids fluttered and then closed. His head lolled to one side.
From my pouch I took a white feather. Tuta had loved them; he’d always been fascinated by them. I wasn’t thinking now. One had appeared in my hand and I pressed it to his blood-soaked shirt, whispering my pledge as I did so, telling Tuta’s departing spirit that his blood would soon be mingling with that of his father.
‘Hey!’ cried one of the bystanders as I pulled myself to my feet and set off at a run. I’d briefly considered returning home to break the news, and perhaps I should have put the feelings of his immediate family before my oath, but may the gods forgive me, I didn’t. Instead I took off running in the direction of Paneb’s lodgings, Tuta’s blood a heart-wrenching trail which confirmed my destination.
As I dashed through the streets, I thanked the gods for Thebes’s down-at-heel appearance. I attracted a few glances as I flew along the streets: people recoiled from my bloody face, one or two even called out after me. But nothing too intrusive, nothing that stopped me.
And then, suddenly, he was there. He hadn’t made it home yet, was just dragging himself along the street. Was he armed still? There was no sign of a knife. From behind he just looked like any other shabby old drunk. I could see darker, fresher stains on his hip. Where he’d wiped away Tuta’s blood perhaps.
The mark of a murderer.
I pulled up and stopped, staying behind him. Now I had him in my sights I began wondering, could I do it? My knife hung heavy at my belt. To pluck it out and use it would be an action altogether different from the battle at Menna’s settlement. I hadn’t killed Maxta. I had no idea whether I would have done it. The decision had been taken out of my hands.
But here I was creeping up on a man – a drunken man at that – about to be an assassin.
No, not just a drunken man, I told myself, trying to steel myself. Much more than that, much worse than that. A murderer.
And I had promised revenge. Was this the Medjay way? I didn’t know. I had a debt to pay. A brother’s family to protect. It
was all that mattered.
I drew myself up. Paneb had stopped on a corner, hand going to the distressed sandstone for support, moving around the corner into a side street, shuffling, his feet knocking vases that toppled and fell with a loud clatter. I turned the corner behind him, to where he stooped, trying to set the vases back up straight. It was only us, the air quiet and still.
‘Turn to face your killer,’ I said, and my voice fell like a stone.
He froze momentarily, and then continued with what he’d been doing, one hand swinging by his knees as he reached for a jar.
I heard something else as well. Snuffling. The sound of crying.
I took a step closer. ‘I come to avenge your son.’
‘Come on, then,’ he said through a wet mouth. ‘Come and finish it. Do it.’
‘Turn to face me.’ My hand gripped the knife and I took another step closer, wanting to end this but even so knowing that despite the depths of my hatred I couldn’t stab him in the back, not like that. I thought of what Khensa and the priestess had told me. I wondered if stabbing a man in the back was true to the Medjay way. I wondered if it mattered.
I wanted Paneb to know. To see. To understand what was happening to him, and who was responsible for it.
‘You can’t do it, can you?’ he said, his sobs ebbing. ‘You can’t take a life without looking into my eyes. I can I understand that, boy, I can respect that.’
‘Turn to face me,’ I said through gritted teeth, the knife like a red-hot poker in my hand, gripped so tight I could feel the bones of my fingers. A man who would kill a child understood nothing at all, I thought.
‘All right, all right,’ he said. ‘I’ll turn.’
Slowly he began to rotate and face me. I saw hooded eyes, his straggly beard, a face that reminded me of Tuta even though looking at him only increased my loathing.
And then, like a snake, he struck.
I almost didn’t see it. His arm angling, a vase in his fist and a grunt as he hefted it from the ground and swung it towards my head.
Desert Oath: The Official Prequel to Assassin’s Creed Origins Page 15