by Lauren Haney
whistled another signal. The yells of the spectators never faltered.
Like Nenu before him, Bak paused atop the stairway to look down. Sailors, soldiers, traders, townsmen, five or six women at most, stood in the fluttery light of four flaming torches mounted high on buildings around the open square. Their attention was focused on two well-oiled and sweating wrestlers locked together in combat; the raised voices goaded them on. A judge hovered close, keeping the pair honest. The spectators formed a loose circle, staying well back and out of the way, filling much of the squarish expanse of sand enclosed by housing blocks whose walls were unbroken by windows or doors. Somewhere down there were Pahared's crewmen. Families who lived within the surrounding dwellings looked down from the rooftops.
Nenu was shouldering his way through a clamorous crowd indifferent to everything but the match, with Kasaya a few strides behind. Stepping aside so Psuro could go on ahead, Bak whistled again. One man looked up, saw the short, stocky Medjay racing down and the officer from Kemet above. He grabbed the shoulder of another man, who shook off the offending hand, made a horn of his own hands, and yelled at the wrestlers, demanding greater effort.
Bak muttered a curse. From where he stood, he could see the mouths of six or eight dark, narrow lanes, any of which Nenu could enter. If the guard knew the rest of Swenet as well as he did this area, he would lose his pursuers with ease. They needed help, men who knew their way around, even in the dark. How could he attract the attention of Pahared's crewmen?
Feeling the weight of the weapon in his hand, he had an idea. He had first hurled a spear as a small boy and, given sufficient time and care, was reasonably skilled in its use. He studied the scene, chose as his target a clear patch of sand near the combatants, and launched the weapon. The blade buried itself deep in the earth. The long shaft stood tall and rigid, vibrating from the force of the thrust.
Silence descended over the crowd. The wrestlers grappled and grunted and groaned, unaware. The judge stepped back, gave the spear a startled look, hissed a warning. The pair continued to fight.
Bak whistled again, the -sound loud and clear, impossible to ignore. To a man, the spectators looked upward, as did Nenu and Kasaya. Psuro leaped off the bottom step, too intent on his goal to be distracted. Six or seven men, Pahared's sailors, headed toward the stairs from several different directions.
"There!" Bak yelled, pointing emphatically at Nenu, who was elbowing his way through the crowd, angering the people he passed and drawing attention to himself. As the seamen altered course, Bak called out to the rest, "Get on with the match!" and raced down the steps.
The wrestlers paused, looked around, saw their audience's attention turned elsewhere. Bewildered, they broke their hold and drew apart. The judge repeated Bak's order. Like everyone else in the makeshift arena, the pair ignored the command and watched with rapt attention the fleeing man and his pursuers.
Nenu burst free of the crowd and slipped into the nearest lane, its mouth dark and forbidding. Kasaya darted into the blackness a few paces behind him. Bak flung his shield aside for better mobility and leaped off the steps. He glimpsed Psuro and Pahared's crewmen shouldering paths through the spectators, trying to catch the younger Medjay and his quarry.
Questions broke the hush of the crowd: What's happening? Who're these men? Why are they chasing the man in the lead?
Bak's identity and word of his quest spread through the crowd. Suddenly the mood changed. Excitement crackled in the air. The spectators turned their backs on the match and, with voices raised in a frenzy of purpose, moved as a single unit in the direction Nenu and Kasaya had gone, lured by the promise of livelier entertainment.
Entangled in the flow of men, helpless to stop them, and thoroughly disgusted by this unforeseen turn of events, Bak clamped his hands together, forming a battering ram, and' thrust his body forward. Those he struck ducked aside, muttering curses and glaring resentment. He caught up with Psuro, who was pushing forward behind spear and shield, opening a path for the few crewmen who had caught up with him. Ahead lay the lane that had swallowed Nenu and Kasaya.
The narrow thoroughfare was as black as a nobleman's tomb closed and sealed for eternity. An invitation to an ambush. The more timid onlookers dropped back, unwilling to face whatever terrors the dark might hold, but most surged forward, caught up in excitement and the flow of humanity. Bak prayed Kasaya was close on Nenu's heels, prayed he would not allow himself to be waylaid in the dark, prayed he would lay hands on the guard before this mob, in its very zeal to witness Nenu's downfall, provided a setting in which the guard could escape.
He pointed toward a torch protruding from the neck of a large pottery jar on the roof of the corner dwelling. "We need that light," he shouted to Psuro.
Sailors in tow, they veered toward the building and forced their way to the wall. With no prompting, Pahared's burly pilot locked his hands together, forming a step, and lifted Bak high. Bak pulled the torch free and dropped back to earth. Several more sailors trickled out of the crowd, the remainder of Pahared's crew taking advantage of the detour to catch up.
Moments later, they merged with the stream of men crowding into the lane, jostling for space, shoulders brushing shoulders, elbows digging ribs, toes prodding heels, voices pulsing with the thrill of the chase. Cursing the crowd beneath his breath, Bak held the torch high and pressed forward through what looked in the flickering light like a river of heads flowing along a curving streambed. Bronze spearpoints glinted among them, carried by soldiers from the garrison who had come across the river to watch the match. Faces looked down from the rooftops, men, women, and children drawn by the tumult.
They gained on the leaders slowly, too slowly. When first Bak had heard of the wrestling match, he had thought it a gift of the gods, a place where Pahared's men could merge into the crowd and remain unseen. It had been a gift alright, a gift handed out by the demons of the night.
A sharp, piercing whistle sounded over the din. Kasaya's signal. Ahead and to the right. Relief flooded through Bak that the young Medjay had not fallen in a shower of arrows. "They're heading upriver," he said unnecessarily.
The men ahead, as quick to interpret the signal, swerved into a narrow side lane that meandered toward the river. Dust rose beneath stumbling feet; the smell of donkey manure was strong. Determined to reach Nenu first, Bak lowered the flame to just above head level and, using man's fear of fire, drove a wedge into the crowd before him. Psuro plowed forward behind his shield, widening the path.
They burst through the leaders of the mob and out of the lane. Compared to the dark, narrow thoroughfare, the shoreline and river seemed awash with light. The moon and stars glowed strong and full on the narrow sandy beach. Low swells on the river glittered with a reflected sheen, carrying fragments of light north on the current.
Some distance upriver-how far was hard to guess with night flattening the landscape-two figures ran along the steep bank above the strip of sand and the water. Farther south, bank and shore gave way to blackish boulders much like their counterparts across the river at Abu. To get away, Nenu must either go into the river or out on the desert. Either way, he could vanish in the night.
The mob burst from the lane. Seeing Bak and his party at a standstill, they spread out along the riverbank, momentarily at a loss as to, where to go.
Determined to reach the guard before the crowd could interfere, Bak issued hasty orders. "Take Pahared's men and cut Nenu off from the desert." Psuro would need all the help he could get to cover so vast an area. "I'll try to catch Kasaya. With luck, the two of us can keep him out of the water."
Psuro gathered up his men and hastened away. Bak headed down the bank, half sliding, half running on earth that tore away beneath his weight. He hit the sand at the bottom and, without breaking stride, raced full-tilt along the shore. The torch he carried sputtered; sparks showered in his wake. He heard pounding feet behind, glanced back. The crowd had begun to move upstream along the bank, those at the rear urging their l
eaders to greater speed. 'Three men, one a soldier carrying a spear and shield, raced after Bak along the water's edge. He could have ordered them away, but decided not to. He might need the weapon.
Approaching a small flotilla of skiffs drawn out of the water for the night, he plunged into the shallows. Water splashed around him, cooling his legs and dousing a kilt already damp with sweat. Flying sparks struck the water and sputtered out. Ahead, Nenu slid down the bank to the river, sped along the shore to the first of the boulders, and ducked out of sight in its shadow. Kasaya slowed, wary of an opponent carrying bow and arrows, and pulled back from the edge of the bank to kneel behind a rock not nearly large enough to shelter his bulk. On the riverbank, the flow of men stopped well out of Nenu's range yet near enough to have a good view of the action. The excitement dwindled, sapped by inactivity and speculation. Someone yelled a wager, hoping to revive the fun with bets on the outcome of the chase. Soon the betting grew raucous, loud with fervor.
A speck of white caught Bak's eye, a kilt. Nenu, hunched over to make himself small, slipped farther along the water's edge and disappeared behind another boulder. Bak darted forward, giving"him no time to arm his bow, and took shelter behind the first boulder. Kasaya leaped to his feet to race along the riverbank to a stony outcrop above the archer. The trio following Bak held back, unwilling to face a rain of arrows, but the mob surged after the young Medjay, their voices gaining in volume and excitement, each man's frenzy feeding on that of his fellows. Bak's blood ran cold.
Nenu had no choice but to enter the river. Vowing to catch him before he disappeared as he had at the island of inscriptions, Bak rammed the torch into the sand. He disliked giving up the light, but could not manage it in the water. He patted his sheathed dagger, reassuring himself that he had not lost the weapon in the crowd, then waved to catch Kasaya's eye and signaled his intent.
Certain the Medjay understood that he must remain on shore, Bak slipped into the river. Keeping his head low, making as little noise as possible, he swam upstream toward Nenu's hidingplace. Each stroke he took seemed to tear his shoulder muscle further, making the swim a trial as well as a necessity. He offered a silent prayer to the lord Amon, pleading for a hasty end to the chase.
The distance shrank to fifteen paces, ten, five. Someone among the mob spotted him in the water, yelled to urge him on, and pointed so all could see-including Nenu. Others joined in, pointing, yelling, so intent on winning their bets that rational thought fled. Nenu fired off two arrows in rapid succession, both missing by at least an arm's length. The onlookers booed and jeered.
Bak sucked in air, ducked beneath the surface, and lunged toward his quarry. Touching bottom, he clutched his left arm close to relieve the pain and eased his head out of the water. Nenu, standing not five paces away in the shadow of the boulder, was looking straight at him. The guard let out a harsh laugh, flung his bow aside, tore the quiver from his shoulder, and leaped. Bak shoved himself backward, making for deeper water, and rolled sideways. Nenu struck the river's surface hard and flat. Water erupted, showering them both. Bak reached out, meaning to grab the other man, but again his shoulder failed him and he missed.
Nenu, taking advantage of a weakness he clearly did not understand, grabbed Bak by the neck and began to squeeze, at the same time forcing his head underwater. Feeling himself sink, Bak spread his legs wide, caught Nenu's legs between them, and pulled the guard down with him. Nenu held on. Their combined weight dropped them to the riverbottom; the
current dragged them across the rocky bed and through the heavy silt. Bak's head began to throb, his lungs felt ready to burst. He tried to pry the guard's fingers from around his neck, but Nenu simply tightened his grip.
They struggled on, a silent desperate battle in the black depths of the river, with neither man able to gain an advantage. Bak weakened fast, his fingers grew numb, his thoughts fuzzy. He had to free himself. Soon. Or he would die.
Then he remembered his dagger. Or perhaps the lord Amon whispered in his ear.
He fumbled for the weapon, pulled it from its sheath, and pressed the point against Nenu's side. Though close to a state of utter desperation, he hesitated. If he took the guard's life, he would leave unanswered a multitude of questions.
He released Nenu's legs, and together they rose through the water, slowly, gradually, a journey that seemed never to end. They broke the surface. Gasping for air, the guard shoved Bak's head back underwater, never for an instant relieving the pressure on his neck. Bak sliced the top ofNenu's left wrist. Blood gushed. The guard tore the hand away, cursed, but continued to hold on with his right hand, his fingers digging deep and cruel. Bak shifted the blade to Nenu's neck and ran it across the flesh, no longer caring how deep the cut. Again blood gushed. Nenu's eyes widened. He jerked back, released Bak's neck to touch the wound, and stared at the stains that came away on his hand, stunned, horrified.
Bak sucked in air, tried to swallow. The sound of yelling, made hollow by ears clogged with water, seeped into his thoughts. The mob, forgotten in the struggle. Ignoring his aching shoulder, the queasy feeling, and a blackness around the edges of his sight, he lunged forward and grabbed Nenu by the upper arm. The guard offered no resistance, apparently convinced he had only moments to live. Bak knew better; the cut could not be much more than skin deep. Shifting the dagger from neck to breast, displaying not the slightest sign of weakness, Bak forced Nenu to swim toward the shore. The crowd on the riverbank roared approval.
Locked together and exhausted, they swam erratically, splashing water, bright gems of liquid color. Along with the moonlight, Bak realized, the waves around them were aglow with light beaming from several torches on the shore. He aimed for them and a large silhouette he hoped was Kasaya.
Not until they neared the shore and Bak's feet touched the bottom did he notice that the river had carried them a couple hundred paces downstream. The onlookers, who had followed, were standing along the bank, looking down upon them, while a dozen or so spearmen stood at the water's edge with Kasaya.
The big Medjay waded out to meet them, the look on his face one of intense relief. Bak, his knees so weak he could barely stand, shoved Nenu roughly through the shallow water. The guard stumbled. To save himself, he grabbed his captor's arm. Bak staggered, came close to falling. A soldier raced forward and plunged his spear deep into Nenu's breast. The guard crumpled to the earth. The crowd gasped.
"No!" Bak croaked.
He signaled Kasaya to snare the soldier and knelt beside Nenu. He spoke fast, aware the guard's life was draining away. "Did you slay mistress Hatnofer and the others in the governor's household?" His throat hurt; his voice sounded raspy.
"No," Nenu whispered.
"Did you leave those gifts in my quarters? The fish, the doll, the scorpions?"
Nenu, looking puzzled, tried to raise his hand. Bak lifted it for him and laid it on his chest. The guard inched it upward to clutch the spear. "Scorpions?"
The confusion on his face verified Bak's guess: someone else had left the unwanted gifts. "Did you strike me with a sling while I stood at the water gauge?"
Nenu licked his lips as if about to speak, but shook his head instead, the effort to talk too great for his failing strength.
"Why did you try to slay me?" The question was too broad, demanding too much of a man breathing his last. "Who told you to slay me?"
"I won't..." Nenu frowned, trying to think or maybe just to form the words. "Governor Djehuty. He said..." He coughed. Blood bubbled from his mouth. His head fell to the side and his body went limp. His ka, his eternal life force, had fled.
"Is it possible?" Psuro asked. "Would the governor order slain the man who's trying to save his life?"
"Who knows? He becomes more irrational each day." Bak tilted the bronze mirror to reflect the early morning sun and raised his chin to examine his neck. Dark bruises marked the flesh, fingerprints of the dead guard. "He reeks of fear."
Kasaya swallowed a mouthful of bread spread liberally with ho
ney. "I'd be afraid, too, if I knew I would die in only two days' time."
The monkey, perched on the young Medjay's knee, licked honey from its sticky hands. The black dog lay against Psuro's thigh, sniffing a chunk of bread the monkey had thrown aside. A soft breeze drifted across the rooftop, carrying the mingled odors of the river, animal waste, and beer. In a nearby lane, a woman hummed a love song in a light, sweet voice.
"No, as witless as he is, I doubt he'd have me slain for trying to save him." Bak laid the mirror on the rooftop, broke a chunk from a flat slab of fresh bread, and dunked it into the fish stew left from the previous evening. The cold stew was soft and bland, easily swallowed. "More likely, he wants me gone before I learn the secret he refuses to tell."
Psuro swirled his bread in the stew, stirring it up. "What could be so important, so shameful he'd take another man's life rather than speak out?"
"And at the same time risk his own life," Kasaya added. "No officer wants to be accused of incompetence, especially if men have died at his orders." Psuro frowned, thinking. out loud. "Djehuty's poor leadership caused the deaths
of more than one hundred men, but we've known that for some time."
"No officer-no soldier, for that matter, wishes to be thought a coward," Kasaya said, "yet rumor hints that he behaved in a craven manner during the storm."
"Look at him now," Psuro sneered. "Hiding away in his bedchamber like a frightened babe."
Bak swallowed another bite of stew. "If he took Min's life, especially if he did so with his own hands ... Now there's a secret that if divulged would not only destroy his reputation but might well cost him his life. I doubt even his friend the vizier could turn his back on such a crime."
"We have no witnesses," Psuro said with a slow, thoughtful nod, "and as long as he doesn't admit to wrongdoing, he knows we can do nothing."