Flesh of the God lb-7

by Lauren Haney

  She tilted her head and gave him a crafty smile. “You’re to leave at midday for Ma’am, I hear, with the commandant’s widow, mistress Azzia.”

  “I’ve no time to haggle,” he said impatiently. “I must convince the steward we can’t go now. I must stay in Buhen until the threat to my Medjays is resolved.” And until the man who took Ruru’s life is within my grasp, he thought. “What have you heard?”

  She gave an elaborate shrug. “Why should I speak, when by saying nothing, I could be free of you?”

  He wanted to shake her. Instead he let out a sigh as exaggerated as her shrug. “I’ve grown fond of you, old woman. To take you before the viceroy for inciting a riot will pain me deeply. But if I must, I must.” He glanced around the room, his lips drooping as if he were looking at a favorite haunt for the last time. “You’ll like mistress Azzia. She’ll be a pleasant companion on the long voyage we face.”

  Nofery had the temerity to laugh. A forced laugh to be sure, but a laugh nonetheless. “Many men in Buhen believe death walks in your shadow. Though I think they err, I must admit I’d not like to be on a ship for days on end with you as my companion.”

  Bak did not think her words funny. “Tell me what you’ve heard. Make haste, for Tetynefer is not a man of patience.”

  The old woman sobered. Her face, her voice reflected a worry unlike her in its depth. “The rumors are multiplying ten times ten that your Medjays took the lives of Commandant Nakht and that sullen goldsmith Heby. There’s much wild talk, with one man’s anger building on that of another. They say your Medjay Ruru was slain as an act of vengeance for the commandant’s death, and other acts of violence are sure to follow.”

  Bak shifted from one foot to another, moving into the sunlight that flooded the forecourt of the mansion of the lord Horus of Buhen and back to the shadow of a fluted column. Muted voices and, when the breeze was right, the faint musty odor of the river drifted over the high walls enclosing the god’s mansion. He shifted his weight, frowned at the small stone building and the bright painted reliefs of Maatkare Hatshepsut marching with the god across its facade. Tetynefer was inside, assisting the priest with the morning ritual in the dimly lit, probably cool sanctuary. If Bak had known the steward was serving as a web priest through the month he would have found a more worthwhile task than lingering in the hot, stifling courtyard.

  At first, the time had seemed like a gift from the lord Horus himself, for it had given Bak a chance to rehearse his plea. However, as the minutes dragged and doubts assailed him, his argument seemed shallow, unconvincing. What could he say? The rumors about the Medjay police were multiplying; further trouble was inevitable. All of which Tetynefer must already know.

  Too fretful to stay motionless for long, Bak left the shade to pace the open court, his path parallel to the colonnade running along the precinct wall. He searched his memory, trying to recall any appropriate words of wisdom Maiherperi might have uttered. He could think of none. Even worse, as if to emphasize the fact that he stood alone with no one to share his burdens, he could barely remember the timbre of the commander’s voice, and his dark, well-formed features had faded to a blur.

  The squeak of a door and murmuring voices tore his thoughts from the morass in which they had sunk. Tetynefer and an aging priest, a slight man with a shaven head, emerged from the god’s dwelling. The faint aroma of incense drifted across the court, tickling Bak’s nostrils. The steward bade good-bye with a promise of returning for the evening ritual and strolled toward the outer portal, enveloped in an aura of piety. The priest slipped back inside the stone building.

  Bak cut diagonally across the court to catch Tetynefer, who offered an indifferent nod and walked on. Bak muttered an oath, certain the steward had forgotten his summons.

  “You wished to see me, sir?” he asked.

  Tetynefer stopped, managed somehow to look surprised and blank at the same time. His eyes narrowed and he pursed his mouth. “I summoned you at first light, Officer Bak, and I expected you then. Do you never come when bidden?”

  Bak tried to look contrite.

  “To waylay me here, to rob me of my moment of peace…” Tetynefer sniffed. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised by your lack of good judgment. You’d not have been sent to Buhen if you behaved judiciously.”

  “Another man has been slain, this time one of my own, and rumors about my Medjays are fouling the air.” Bak’s voice was stiff, bordering on insolent. “I thought, before you sent word to the viceroy about Ruru’s death, you’d want to know the direction of the wind and how strong it is, for no man wants to be blown away in a gale.”

  “Well!” Tetynefer said, surprised. “It seems you’re not as indifferent to political necessities as I thought.”

  “I fear for my men.” The steward’s half-formed smile froze, and Bak hastened to add, “Their well-being reflects on all of us-you, me, the other officers in this garrison. If they’re forced to run before an angry mob, word of our failure to keep order will go far beyond the viceroy. Maiherperi will hear without doubt, as will our sovereign, Maatkare Hatshepsut herself.”

  Tetynefer’s eyes darted around the forecourt as if searching for an eavesdropper. The mansion door remained closed and no one had come through the portal in the enclosure wall. With a satisfied grunt, he drew Bak well away from the entry and into a narrowing strip of shade cast by the wall.

  “How any man can believe those rumors is beyond me!” Tetynefer said irritably. “No one but the widow Azzia could’ve taken Nakht’s life and a villager slew the goldsmith, as we both know.”

  The steward had obviously convinced himself the tale he had concocted for the viceroy was true. Bak could not hope to dissuade him without speaking of the gold. To do so before he laid his hands on the thief would be a mistake. At best, Tetynefer would choose to believe he had an over-fertile imagination. At worst, he would consider the thin bar of gold an additional reason to take Azzia before the viceroy as soon as possible.

  Bak could not let that happen. “Mistress Azzia is well-liked, greatly admired in fact. Most men find it easier to blame a Medjay for her husband’s death than to think she slew him. As for the goldsmith Heby, I told you before: the spear found in his breast came from my police arsenal.”

  Tetynefer tugged a square of linen from his belt, shook out the folds, and scrubbed the sweat from his face, bald head, and the roll of fat around his neck. “Are you saying, after all, that your Medjays were responsible?”

  “No!” Bak tamped down his exasperation. “Men’s thoughts follow the shortest path to the thing they wish to believe, sir. They say Ruru’s life was taken to avenge Nakht’s death. Untrue, I know for a fact, but a logical step along the path of self-deception.”

  “You know who slew the commandant?”

  Cursing his slip of the tongue, Bak went on as if he had not heard. “If the rumors continue to grow, and I’ve no doubt they will if left unchecked, an attack will be made on my Medjays. For that reason, I must not take mistress Azzia on the ship scheduled to leave today. I must be seen to stand beside my men, and I must do all I can to prove their innocence and their worth to this garrison.”

  A smile spread across Tetynefer’s face. “You’ve been thinking much as I have, it seems.”

  Bak had no idea what the steward was talking about, but he doubted their thoughts ever coincided. “I can stay?”

  “You’ll not be separated from your Medjays, and you’ll have every opportunity to prove their worth.”

  Bak eyed him with suspicion. He was not at all reassured by the steward’s self-satisfied expression.

  Tetynefer refolded the linen and tucked it into his belt. “Ahmose…I doubt you know him; his caravan returned yesterday from the desert.” He clasped his hands behind his ample buttocks and paced the length of the shade in a parody of every military officer of high rank Bak had ever seen. “Several days ago, Ahmose was warned by a wandering shepherd that the next caravan bringing gold from the mine called the Mountain of Re
will be attacked by a large and well-armed contingent of tribesmen. The caravan, as you surely know, will leave Buhen tomorrow.” Facing Bak once again, he added, “Every fighting man who can be spared will go with it.”

  Bak was appalled. How could a man wise enough, or wily enough, to rise to the high scribal rank of steward presume to take the authority of a military commander? To make so rash a decision based on the word of a shepherd was beyond belief.

  “That, young man, is why I summoned you,” Tetynefer said. “You’re an officer trained in the art of war, and I’ve heard you yearn for battle. Now you’ll have your wish. Your Medjays will accompany the caravan, and you, their commanding officer, will go with them.” He glanced around and lowered his voice, as if taking Bak into his confidence. “With your men away in the desert, far from Buhen, neither of us need worry further about trouble brewing within these walls.”

  Bak was so disgusted, he was robbed of speech. Tetynefer might be stupid enough to accept the word of a lowly shepherd, but he was smart enough to shift potentially embarrassing problems onto the shoulders of the officer in charge of the caravan. To Paser, a man equally watchful of his own interests. Which left no one but Bak to take the blame if the fear and mistrust of his Medjays came to a boil while they were in the desert.

  “What of mistress Azzia?” he asked. “What will happen to her?”

  “She’ll remain here until I find a suitable escort.”

  “Only I know all the facts about Nakht’s death. How can any other man present her case fairly to the viceroy?”

  Tetynefer scowled. “You came to me, young man, saying you wanted to stay with your Medjays, to stand beside them. Have you altered your thoughts? Have you decided you prefer the safety of this fortress instead?”

  So sour was the taste of bile in Bak’s throat that he paid no heed to the implication that he might be a coward. “I’ll go with my men into the desert.”

  Bak hurried along the narrow, sun-drenched lanes, his thoughts in too much of a turmoil to notice the people he passed, the donkey train, the dogs fighting over the torn body of a rat. As much as he had hoped to face an enemy on the field of battle, he found scant consolation in the thought that at last he might have the opportunity. Tetynefer had left him no option, but even if he had, Bak would have chosen to go with his men. In spite of the fact that by doing so, he was turning his back on Azzia in her time of need. He would be gone for many days; she would reach Ma’am long before his return. She might somehow convince the viceroy of her innocence, but with no one there to cast doubt on her guilt, he thought it unlikely.

  Even if she were allowed to remain in Buhen until Bak’s return, he might well lose any chance he had of proving her innocence beyond a doubt, of laying his hands on the man who had stolen the gold and had slain Nakht, Heby, and Ruru. True, he would be crossing the desert with two of his suspects, Paser and Harmose. Mery would certainly stay in Buhen to command his sentries, and Nebwa, the senior and most experienced infantry officer, would have to remain to oversee the more junior officers who patrolled the desert around Buhen. If either of the pair had taken the gold, the respite would give him time to bury his tracks much deeper-or to escape if he felt he must.

  Bak could see a single glimmer of light. The Mountain of Re, Tetynefer had said. The mine from which the gold had been stolen. He would be able to see for himself how the ore was handled, might learn-should the gods choose to smile on him-how a portion could have been stolen undetected, and by whom. He let out a cynical laugh. The knowledge would be of little use if the man behind the thefts got away. Nor would it bring Ruru back to life or save Azzia if Tetynefer sent her to Ma’am as planned.

  Despair hounded him all the way to the unmarried officers’ quarters. Paser stood ramrod stiff at the far end of the courtyard, his face stormy. Nebwa paced back and forth, slapping his thigh with his baton of office. Mery slouched on the mudbrick bench, hair rumpled, expression morose. The servant boy huddled in a corner, his eyes darting from one officer to another while he scrubbed out the eating bowls with dry sand.

  “That old fool must be mad!” Nebwa snarled. He spotted Bak, nodded a perfunctory greeting. “To strip this fortress of half its men is folly.”

  Mery raised a hand to Bak. “Buhen hasn’t been attacked for many years. He must believe the walls alone have kept it safe.”

  “You can be sure Senenmut, my cousin, will hear of this,” Paser promised with a cruel sneer. “He’ll not keep silent before our sovereign. And she listens when he speaks!”

  Nebwa turned his back on him, hiding his contempt for a back-stabber, and eyed Bak. “I see by your face you’ve talked to Tetynefer.” His voice took on a jeering note. “Did he let you convince him you must go with Azzia to Ma’am?”

  “I’m staying where I belong, with my men.”

  “I thank the lord Amon! I feared they’d be left in my charge.”

  “Tetynefer said nothing about placing them in your command. He’s sending them to the mine with…” Bak realized the implication of Nebwa’s statement, gaped. “You’re going with the caravan?”

  “We’re all going,” Mery said bitterly. “Nebwa with an entire company, a hundred spearmen and archers. Me with half my sentries, fifty spearmen who should remain on duty atop the walls of this fortress. Paser, who must take twice the number of donkeys to supply us with food and water, and twice the number of drovers to care for the animals.”

  “Not to mention your wretched Medjays,” Paser said. “Twenty-four men whose very presence among the rest bodes trouble.”

  Bak barely heard him. If all his suspects went to the mine, his search for the murderer would not be disrupted. “What of Harmose?” he asked, as casually as he could. “Will he also go?”

  “You don’t think that dolt Tetynefer would fail to include the regular caravan guards, do you?” Nebwa snarled.

  Bak’s relief at the news was tempered by sadness. He might catch his prey, but too late to help Azzia.

  “He’s halving the forces in this garrison!” Mery was so distraught he ran his fingers through his hair, making it stand on end. He had never looked so untidy.

  “Only a civilian would make so stupid a decision,” Nebwa snarled.

  “I’ve led more caravans to the mines than any other man in Buhen.” Paser was stiff with indignation. “I’ve lost no more than fifteen donkeys at the hands of raiding tribesmen, and just six men have died. Six! Yet he treats me as a new and untried officer, one who needs help to do a task I’ve done well for many months.”

  “You’ve no need to worry, Paser.” Nebwa reached over his shoulder with his baton to scratch his back. “I’ll not usurp your authority. I’ll be off in the desert much of the time, looking for that ass Tetynefer’s great army of tribesmen.”

  “If you hope to see an army,” Paser scoffed, “you’ll have to stand atop a hill and look down upon your own infantry.”

  Even Mery smiled at that.

  “Will my Medjays and I go with you, Nebwa, or remain with the caravan?” Bak asked.

  “I’ll not have those savages with me! I want no trouble between my men and yours.” Nebwa’s harsh growl faded to a grumble. “Besides, you’ll be of more use with the caravan. I’ve always thought Harmose sends word to his desert cousins before the raids. With you keeping watch, he’ll not have the chance this time.”

  “Bak has trained with the regiment of Amon,” Paser said, “and he’s practiced warfare with men numbered in the thousands. If by chance the tribesmen have formed into an army, you’ll need him with you as a leader of men, not with me as a spy.”

  “I sorrow for you, Paser,” Nebwa said, “but with Mery by my side, I’ll have all the officers I need. No, Bak and his Medjays will stay with the caravan.”

  For the first time in his life, Bak knew how a pariah must feel.

  “Can I not go with you?” Hori asked for perhaps the tenth time in half that number of hours.

  Imsiba rolled his eyes skyward. “You’re like a gnat,
Hori, buzzing and buzzing around our heads. Will you never give up and fly away?”

  Bak ran his finger along the bright, freshly honed edges of the spear point. Satisfied with the way they bit his flesh, he laid the weapon on the rooftop beside his thigh and reached for his battle ax, which lay outside the shadow of the pavilion. The bronze blade was almost too hot to touch. He placed the handle between his knees and began to rasp the whetstone across the cutting edge.

  Hori fussed with the ears of his puppy, lying half-asleep in his lap. “What if you don’t return?” he blurted.

  Imsiba made a rude sound with his mouth. “If you wanted to be a soldier, you should’ve learned the arts of war.”

  Bak shook his head in exasperation. “How many times must I tell you? Your task here is more important than ours by far.”

  “To watch over this house and our barracks?” Hori scoffed. “To look out for Mistress Azzia for the short time she’ll remain?”

  “Caring for our storage magazine and arsenal is no light burden.” Imsiba plucked a fish from the bowl sitting on the cold brazier. “Seeing that our stores are re-filled when next month’s rations are issued is more important yet.” He broke the fish apart and peeled the spine away. “We’ll eat poorly while we’re gone and suffer from a lack of water. We’ll return with our clothing in shreds and our weapons broken or lost.”

  Hori’s mouth continued to droop.

  Bak understood the boy’s yearning for adventure, and he sympathized. So he glanced around, examining the rooftops spreading out in all directions. Two women, a mother and daughter, he thought, were laying linen out to dry across the lane. Though they were too far away to hear, he leaned close to Hori and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Do you think I’d dare leave the gold and scrolls behind if you weren’t here to keep them safe?”