An arrow sped toward Bak, its bronze tip and white feathers ghost images in the dwindling light. He ducked low and swung his shield up. The sudden movement wrenched the torn muscle in his shoulder, catching him short, slowing him. The shield's heavy wooden frame deflected the missile, saving him from a mortal wound, but the point sliced through the bandage wrapped tightly around his upper torso and tore across his ribcage under his left arm. A hasty glance showed blood beading up along the edge of the slit linen.
Shouts burst out in the open area south of the building block. Whistles. Applause. The wrestlers entering the arena, the match about to begin.
Kasaya burst from his hidingplace and raced across the rooftops, zigzagging around families, leaping over braziers and pets and pottery stacked for cleaning. Raised voices followed in his wake. Adults and children craned their necks, anxious to see what provoked such haste. Nenu, seating another arrow, must have heard the alarm in their voices, the curiosity. He swung around, spotted the large dark figure racing toward him like a creature risen from the netherworld, spearpoint glinting eerily in the failing light. He raised his bow toward the new target, released the missile. A cry rang out and a woman crumpled into her husband's arms. A man yelled, angry voices rose in the air: the family and friends of the injured woman. Nenu froze, evidently realizing what he had done.
Spitting out a curse, Bak grabbed his spear from the rooftop, ran to the parapet, and flung it hard at the archer on the opposite roof. The weapon flew past, missing its target by a hair's breadth. Nenu pivoted, startled by the near miss. He fumbled with an arrow, obviously panicked by the heated voices and Kasaya pounding toward him. Finally seating the missile, he took a wild shot at Bak and dashed for the southern end of the block. There an outside stairway led down to the street and the open space where the wrestlers would compete. Where Pahared's sailors waited.
"Psuro, now!" Bak yelled.
The Medjay was already on the move. Lifting a long board from the shadows, he darted to the edge of the roof, planted a foot on the parapet and leaned forward, and dropped the plank over the span, bridging the lane.
Not sure he could be heard over the shouting spectators, Bak whistled the long, loud signal meant to alert Pahared's sailors. Still carrying his own shield, ignoring the drag of its weight on his sore shoulder, he scooped up Psuro's spear and shield, shoved them at him, and leaped onto the board to race across. As he knelt to retrieve the spear he had thrown, he noticed again his torn and blood-smeared bandage. The cut merely stung, indicating a surface wound, with no harm to the rib. He offered a silent prayer of thanks to the lord Amon.
Psuro leaped off the bridge and Kasaya dashed past. Bak glanced at the woman lying amid a circle of family and neighbors. Confident she would be cared for-if still she lived-he raced with Psuro after Kasaya and the fleeing man. He heard thudding feet behind, a small party of men who knew the fallen woman, seeking vengeance.
Nenu set a straight course for the stairway, making clear his knowledge of the area. He paused on the top step to look down at the wrestlers and their audience, whose shouts had gained in volume and enthusiasm as the match began. A quick glance back at the men in pursuit and he plunged down the stairs. Kasaya raced after him a dozen paces behind. Bak 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 leaders 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 honey. "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."
Bak aired the thought that had kept him awake far into the night. "A secret too dreadful to reveal, whether the death of Min or some other vile deed, would surely be an abomination to the gods." He took a bite and let the stew slide down his throat, cooling, soothing. "Would he not, then, do all in his power to remain alive, giving himself time to seek absolution so he could enter the netherworld and the hall of judgment with a free conscience? Would he not wish his heart to reveal no trace of deceit or treachery when it's weighed against the feather of truth?"
Psuro and Kasaya stared, both men silenced by the reminder that the stakes reached beyond Djehuty's worldly life. If he had ordered Nenu to slay Bak, the one man who might be able to save his life, the risk he took was awesome, an invitation to spend eternity unjustified, unable to enter the Field of Reeds.
"There must be something else," Bak said. "Some other reason for his mad behavior. Something I've overlooked." "My fathei is very ill, Lieutenant." Khawet stood in the hallway outside Djehuty's private reception room, a reddish pottery bowl in her hand. The contents smelled of vomit. "I can't let you see him."
"I must speak with him." Bak's voice broke, the vehemence straining his bruised throat. Irritated, he tried again. "If he wishes me to save his life… If you wish me to save him, you'll let me see him."
"I can't." Her voice was tense; the flesh stretched tight across her face. "Don't you understand? He's too ill to see anyone."
He was reluctant to add further pressure, but if he was to save Djehuty, he had no choice. "My father, a physician, believes speech can free a man from worry."
"If you have a message, one that will drain my father's heart of fear and anxiety, I'll relay it to him." Her voice turned chilly. "If you've nothing but endless questions, I can't help you. I won't add weight to his burden."
Bak glanced pointedly into the empty reception room, which was as clean and neat as if the governor had never set foot inside. "Where's Lieutenant Amonhotep? Did not Djehuty order him to remain by his side at all times?"
"I needed more herbs. As soon as my father slept, I asked Amonhotep to go to the market for me. He wanted instead to send a servant, but I insisted he go. He was sorely in need of a respite." Her mouth tightened. "You'll not gain admittance through him, Lieutenant. Even he, as exhausted as he is, wouldn't be so foolish as to let you disturb a man so ill."
Bak bit back a sharp reply. At times she was as impossible as Djehuty, as stubborn. "You've surely heard that Nenu, one of the guards here in this household, tried to slay me last night, and he, in turn, was slain."
"I've heard the tale, yes." She gave him a sharp look. "What does that have to do with my father?"
"Nenu told me as he lay dying that Djehuty ordered him to take my life.'
She flung up her head, startled. "He wouldn't do such a thing. The guard lied."
"Perhaps." Though his voice was difficult to control, he hit exactly the right note: noncommittal with doubt seeping in.
"Why would he?" she demanded, defensive. "If your theory is correct, if you're his only chance of survival, as Amonhotep believes, it would make no sense."
"Now you know why I must speak with him."
She hesitated, glanced down at the bowl, scowled. "I'm giving him a herbal broth that should relieve his stomach. When he's able to see you, I'll summon you."
Bak strode away, cursing the day the vizier had suggested he come to Abu. Why were people always so unwilling to do what was best for them?
"He's worked himself into such a state he can keep no food in his stomach. I didn't want to leave him, but how could I refuse mistress Khawet? Her days are already too long and filled to the brim. So I went to the market for her." Amonhotep held out a basket from which several bundles of dried herbs protruded. Beneath lay linen-wrapped packets containing crushed herbs and potions. "Actually, I didn't mind. I needed a reprieve, as she, said."
Bak had intercepted the aide at the back gate opening onto the narrow lane behind the governor's compound. "She told me he was sick, very sick."
"He is, but the illness is of his own making, I'm sure." "If that's the case, her broth is unlikely to settle his stomach enough for me to speak to him."
"I'll see that you do." The aide's voice was firm, the words a promise.
"Do you have any idea why he'd order Nenu to slay me?" "It makes no sense." Amonhotep stared down the lane at a young woman heavy with child, dragging a naked boy of three or four years along behind her. The child was dirty, his face tear-stained, his arm stretched as high as it would go. "I was surprised when he told me to remove the guard from his post at Nebmose's villa so he could use him to run errands. Until then, I didn't know he knew the man."
"Nenu admired Senmut, the sergeant who was slain. And Senmut was close to Djehuty."
Amonhotep nodded, understanding the tie. "What of the soldier who slew Nenu?"
"We took him to the garrison." A whine drew Bak's attention to the woman and child, who rounded the corner at the end of the block and walked out of sight. "He thought Nenu was attacking me, trying to escape. An honest mistake, but to use his weapon without thought…" Bak shook his head in disgust. "Antef will deal with him."
"I expect soon to see him in fhe audience hall." Amonhotep gave a cynical snort. "If Djehuty can ever tear himself out of bed. Or if he survives the next two days."
He'll survive, Bak thought grimly, if 1 have to sit beside his bed and guard him myself. "When can I talk to him?" "After midday." The aide gave Bak a humorless smile. "I think it best not to warn him that you'll be coming, but I'll need time to pacify mistress Khawet."