Tracker bolted. Kaemwaset, by no means old but not young either and certainly not a man of action, hesitated. Bak slipped his arm around the priest’s lower back and half carried him down the mound. Hori was racing eastward along the terrace. The dog dashed past him, not stopping until he reached the front of the temple and certain safety. Kasaya, standing as if glued to the pavement, ignored an initial sprinkling of small rocks and dirt and held the mirror high, signaling.
Bak shoved Kaemwaset after Hori and glanced upward.
The cliff high above the temple looked as if it had blown apart. A thick, yellow dust billowed out from the boulders, stones, pebbles, and dirt racing down the vertical surface.
The roar was deafening.
“Kasaya!” Realizing the Medjay could not hear him, he grabbed an arm and pulled. “Come!” he shouted, leaning close. “You’ll be buried alive!”
Running sideways, signaling, the Medjay stared at the top of the cliff above Djeser Djeseru and shouted something.
The words were drowned by noise, but the excitement on his face directed Bak’s gaze toward the top of the cliff.
A flash of light gleamed from the cliff-top trail. The response from the sergeant in charge of ten royal guards who had hidden above the new temple earlier in the day. Bak saw no other sign of life. Were Pairi and Humay hidden somewhere up there, preparing to send rocks down on Djeser Djeseru as they had on the older temple? Or had the guards snared them before they could do more damage?
A heavier shower of rocks and dirt began to fall around and on them, pelting their heads and shoulders. One razor-sharp stone sliced down Bak’s back, drawing blood. He grabbed the mirror from Kasaya, taking away his purpose, and forced him to flee. They ran for their very lives along the edge of the terrace, where fewer broken stones lay to impede their escape. Their feet pounded unheard across the pavement, lost in the thunder of the rocks tumbling down the face of the cliff, buffeting the tower-like projections and the slope below, hurtling down upon the ruined temple and rolling among the fallen columns, architraves, and roof slabs through which Bak and his friends had so recently walked.
A boulder big enough to crush a man burst out of the dust cloud and rolled along the edge of the terrace, chasing them.
Stones of all sizes came with it, and sand and dirt. The cloud billowed up behind, consuming everything in its path. Bak muttered a quick prayer to the lord Amon and put on an additional burst of speed.
The boulder tumbled over the edge of the terrace and dropped into the sand below. Dust erupted around it, merg-ing with the larger cloud. The leading edge of the slide caught them and stones of all sizes came bouncing, hurtling, rolling around their legs and beneath their feet, threatening to topple them. The dust swallowed them, making their eyes burn, making them cough. Kasaya stumbled, fell. Bak grabbed an arm and tugged. The Medjay scrambled to his hands and knees, his feet, and they ran on. A stone struck Bak hard on the back, slamming him forward, knocking the breath from him. He sucked in the filthy air and ran on.
Suddenly the fall was behind them, the rocks losing their momentum. They slowed to a trot, looked at each other, exchanged relieved smiles. They were safe.
They walked on, legs wobbly, dust coating sweaty bodies, neither man speaking. Each thanking the gods that his life had been spared. By the time they reached Hori, Kaemwaset, and the dog, the worst of the slide was over. A few rocks and boulders dropped from above, bouncing down the vertical face and raising spurts of dust, but the deafening roar had diminished to a sporadic crack of smashing rocks, and the cloud was thinning over the temple, shredded by the light breeze.
From where they stood, they could not see the columned hall and colonnade court, but they could well imagine how the rear chambers had suffered. The northwest corner of the main court, where they had been standing when the slide began, was covered by dirt and rocks. The wall where Bak had found the shrines was buried. The robbers’ excavation had without a doubt been filled in.
An explosive crack sounded from somewhere deep within the temple. Stone grated against stone, a deep and heavy thud set loose rocks to rolling down the slope behind the building, a burst of dust rose above the columned hall.
Tracker whimpered. The four men looked at each other, their faces bleak. Another portion of the hall, or possibly the sanctuary, had fallen: a column or two, a few roof slabs.
Bak’s eyes darted toward the small figure standing on the hillside trail north of Djeser Djeseru. “Menna hasn’t moved from where he stood before the cliff fell. Would not an innocent man have hastened to our aid?” He gave him companions a grim smile. “I’m going after him. I see no further need for you to remain here. No man will rifle the tombs within this temple for a long time.”
Bak hurried ahead with Kasaya and Tracker, loping down the ramp the workmen used to haul stones scavenged from the old temple to the new, climbing the opposing ramp onto the terrace of Djeser Djeseru.
Amonked, walking faster than Bak had ever seen him, in-tercepted them near the white limestone statue of Maatkare Hatshepsut. “May the lord Amon be deluged with offerings!
You’re safe and well.” He clasped Bak’s shoulders. “When I saw the cliff face fall. .” He bit his lip, trying to contain his depth of feeling, and turned to the Medjay. “As for you, young man, standing as you did on the terrace, signaling with that mirror while stones fell around you. .” He patted Kasaya on the back, shook his head in amazement, patted again. “Words fail me.”
Bak was more pleased than he cared to admit with Amonked’s unusual show of affection. “Do you know what’s happening on the rim of the cliff, sir? Have the men up there caught anyone?”
“I know no more than you do.” Amonked cleared his throat, collecting himself. “We were climbing the ramp to Maatkare Hatshepsut’s temple when the cliff began to fall.
Someone-the lieutenant at the head of the special team of guards Maiherperi sent-shouted a warning.” Amonked’s smile held only a hint of humor. “You’ve never seen men run so fast, as if the rocks were falling on us instead of you.”
Bak imagined the scene and returned the smile. “When will Senenmut be leaving Djeser Djeseru?”
“I told him you’d placed men on the cliff above, so he wishes to stay, to see the men snared who set off the rock slide. If the truth be told, I suspect he fears returning to the royal house with a threat still hanging over our sovereign’s most important project.”
“No doubt,” Bak said in a wry voice.
Noting the cynicism, another smile touched Amonked’s lips. “Did you find the tomb you sought? Or did the slide cut short your search?”
Bak beckoned a water boy, washed the grit from his mouth and spat it out. “We found a tomb, sir, but I’ve no time to speak of it. We’ve spotted Lieutenant Menna on the trail north of here. He’s come no closer since first we saw him, which makes him look to me like a guilty man. I’m going after him before he has a chance to flee.” Refilling the bowl, he drank long and deep, readying himself for the chase.
Amonked eyed the figure on the distant trail and his face clouded over with concern. “Yes, you must go.”
“Kaemwaset can tell you of the tomb.” Bak flashed a smile at the approaching priest and turned to the Medjay.
“You must remain here, Kasaya. Go to the lieutenant in charge of the men wearing the red armbands and. .” He raised a hand, silencing the objection he saw on the young man’s face. “See that they follow me as quickly as they can, and you come with them. The trail must be blocked so Menna can’t turn back this way, and I might need help to snare him.”
Bak hastened across the terrace, stopping once when he came upon a foreman carrying a wooden staff about twice the length of his arm. He borrowed the object as a makeshift weapon, a substitute for his baton of office, which was more to his liking than the dagger hanging from his belt. The staff was somewhat thicker than his baton, a little heavier, not as well balanced, and probably not as strong. He offered no complaint. It would suffice.
Leaving the terrace behind, he looked upward to where he had last seen Menna. The officer had not moved. He stood at the far end of a long stretch of trail that traversed the slope below the cliff. From there the path ran almost straight up the incline before turning to the left to climb the cliff, which was much lower and not nearly as steep as at the back of the valley where the temples stood. It was in fact a rough and broken escarpment which gradually tailed off to the east. At the top, the trail followed the rim in a westerly direction to the cliff’s highest point behind the two temples and continued on from there.
Why had Menna not moved? Was he waiting for the cliff to collapse above Djeser Djeseru? Was he trying to figure out whether he could safely come into the valley or whether he should retreat? What would Menna do when he saw him climbing the path to meet him?
Bak knew what he would do: he would turn around and run as fast as he could back up the trail. Of course, Menna could leave the path where he stood and plunge down the slope to the valley floor, but if he did so, Bak could summon the men toiling in the quarry, who would tear him limb from limb if they learned he was the malign spirit. No, if run he decided to do, he had no choice but to go back the way he had come.
Bak had no option but to follow. The trail split above Djeser Djeseru into two paths. Both ultimately joined another, more frequently used track at two widespread locations, one some distance to the southwest, the other crossing a high ridge to travel in a northwesterly direction. At the north end of the oft-traveled track lay the Great Place, the valley where Maatkare Hatshepsut’s father was laid to rest and she was even now having her own tomb dug. At the southern end lay the village where the tomb diggers dwelt.
He had no time to go all the way around to either location.
Nor could he send royal guards to both. By the time he or they reached their destination, Menna would have arrived and gone.
Trying to look casual, unhurried, he crossed a strip of sand to the foot of the trail and immediately began to climb.
Menna made no move to meet him halfway. A clear sign of guilt. As the last of his doubts fled, Bak smiled grimly at himself, at his failure to trust his instincts. After the initial short and fairly steep ascent, the path turned in an easterly direction away from Djeser Djeseru and traversed the hillside in a long, gradual rise to the place where Menna stood.
He strode up the trail, walking easily, as if he had no purpose or goal. Menna was wary, too cautious to descend the path to meet him, but was not yet frightened enough to run.
Bak wanted to get as close as possible before the guard officer guessed his purpose and the chase heated up. If he could stand before him face-to-face, so much the better. An unlikely event, he knew.
Halfway along the traverse, he raised his hand and waved, a friendly signal that would ordinarily have brought the recipient toward him. Menna held his ground and did not return the greeting. Bak walked on, using all the patience he could muster to keep himself from breaking into a faster pace.
Again the distance between them shrunk by half. Bak opened his mouth to call out. Abruptly, Menna turned and, taking long, quick strides, began to climb the steeper slope to the escarpment. The words died on Bak’s lips and he looked rearward, searching for a reason for the officer’s retreat. Kasaya, Amonked, Kaemwaset, and Pashed were standing on the terrace with the lieutenant in charge of the special unit of royal guards. Men wearing red armbands were hurrying toward them from all directions and forming a column, preparing to march. Bak muttered an oath. He had never known an officer to gather his men so quickly. Menna, trained a military man, had guessed their purpose.
Wasting no time on useless anger, pleased the officer had responded so fast, Bak charged up the trail. He was sorely tempted to cut diagonally across the slope, aiming for the spot where the path began its ascent of the escarpment, but experience on the incline above Djeser Djeseru kept him on the trail. Worn reasonably smooth by the passage of many feet, it would be just as fast and far less hazardous.
He soon reached the end of the traverse, the place Menna had remained for so long. As he headed up the much steeper incline, the officer ahead paused and looked back.
“You’ll never lay a hand on me!” he shouted.
“Better me than the workmen down there,” Bak yelled, pointing at Djeser Djeseru.
Menna’s laugh rang loud but hollow, and he swung away to climb on. He could have no illusions about his future should he be snared. If Bak or the royal guards caught him, he would stand before no less a man than the vizier, who would judge him guilty and order impalement or, more likely, burning. If the workmen at Djeser Djeseru caught him, he would be stoned or worse and his torn and broken body thrown to the crocodiles. Whether consumed by reptile or fire, his body would no longer exist and he would be doomed to permanent oblivion, with no hope of an afterlife.
Bak climbed upward at a good steady pace. The heat was intense beneath the cruel sun, quick to sap a man’s energy.
Sweat poured from him, making the cut on his back sting, as well as several fresh abrasions, souvenirs of the rock slide.
His mouth was dry, his stomach empty.
He eyed the man ahead, only a few steps below the point where the trail turned left to rise up the escarpment. For one who claimed to have spent much of his time shuffling scrolls and writing reports, Menna was proving to be both quick and strong. Thanks, Bak assumed, to his many nights in the cemeteries, seeking out old tombs and digging for riches.
Menna turned left and vanished from sight behind a clump of boulders. Bak climbed on, never altering his pace.
To wear himself out in one quick burst of energy might cost him the chase-or, maybe later, the battle, if it came to that.
He rounded the boulders and looked upward.
Menna, about fifty paces away and not far from the top of the escarpment, stopped to look back. “You’ve told the men at Djeser Djeseru?”
“That you’re the malign spirit?” Bak asked, striding on without a pause.
The guard officer laughed at the appellation, but the sound was brittle, humorless. “Yes.”
“I didn’t, but they’ll learn soon enough.”
Menna’s laugh turned cynical. “Such a choice bit of news would be impossible to keep quiet.”
“The life you led is gone for good, if that’s what you’re thinking. My presence is much like the first drop of rain in a downpour. If I fail to snare you, others will come.” Never slowing his pace, thinking to close the gap between them as much as possible, Bak glanced toward Djeser Djeseru and the unit of guards quickly marching toward the base of the trail. Kasaya, with Tracker on a leash at his heels, hurried along beside the officer leading the column. He felt sure Menna could see them from where he stood. “You’ve reached the end, Lieutenant.”
“My life in Kemet may be over, but I’m a long way from finished. I was a child of western Waset. I know the desert wadis beyond the Great Place like no other man alive.”
Bak doubted Menna intended to escape into the desert. He was too much a man of the river and the city. “You were in the garrison this morning. You must’ve heard that soldiers began searching for Pairi’s and Humay’s fishing boat at break of day. I’ll wager they’ve found it by now.”
“There are other boats, Lieutenant.” Menna pivoted and hurried up the trail to the rim of the escarpment, where he disappeared from view.
With a grim smile, Bak hurried after him. The guard officer had given himself away. He thought to escape by water, not lose himself in the sandy wastes.
Bak stopped briefly at the top of the escarpment to get his bearings. He had not traveled this trail since he was a youth, hunting birds and hares in the surrounding wadis, but it had changed very little over the years. The cliff to the west formed a gentle arc, gradually gaining in height all the way to the back of the valley, where it towered above the two temples. Ahead, Menna ran along a trail that eased away from the rim to hug a long and very irregular series of hills atop the ridge separating the valley in which Djeser Djeseru lay from the Great Place.
Below, the royal guards were trotting up the path that traversed the lower slope, spreading out in a line two men abreast, with one of the pair falling back each time the path narrowed. A faint barking carried upward, and Kasaya was looking Bak’s way. Bak waved and pointed west, letting the Medjay know where Menna had gone and where he intended to go.
Setting off again, he eyed the landscape ahead. He saw no sign of the guards stationed on top of the cliff above Djeser Djeseru, but he assumed they were there. Menna would either run into their waiting arms or, more likely, he would spot them before he reached them and try to escape, using either the trail that would take him to the Great Place or some ill-defined and seldom used track that would take him into one of the many wadis west of Djeser Djeseru and the Great Place. A desolate, barren region in which he could easily disappear until such time as he could safely work his way back to the river.
Given time, the army would track him down, of course, but. .
A sudden thought struck Bak. He did not want someone else to snare the malign spirit. He wanted to do it himself.
The realization added wings to his feet and he sped along the trail, his eyes on the man ahead. The short, sharp cheeps of swallows swooping downward to their nests in the cliffs sounded above the rhythmic crunch of his sandals on the trail. Spurts of dust rose each time a foot touched the path, and the dust risen from Menna’s flying feet hung in the air, tickling his nose.
The trail veered closer to the rim of the cliff, dropped briefly into the upper end of a wadi that ran off to the right, and went on, sometimes wandering closer to the cliff, sometimes away toward the hill-like projections atop the ridge.
Sweat rolled from his body, a stitch formed in his side. The calves of his legs ached and the wooden staff grew heavy in his hand.
The distance between him and Menna shrunk to forty paces, thirty, twenty. The guard officer heard his pounding feet, glanced over his shoulder, and managed an added burst of speed. Bak held his pace; the extra effort required to maintain the distance between them would tax him too much.
The cliff grew higher, the horrendous drop to the valley floor more fearsome. A long hill, more like a ridge, rose to the right. The trail, squeezed closer to the rim of the cliff, rose with it. Bak glimpsed Djeser Djeseru below, pale and insignificant in so large a valley, a series of sharp-edged horizontals in a landscape of sand and stone blunted by time and erosion. The imposing rock face towered above the structure, torn by the elements into towers and crevices and folds and great slabs that appeared to cling by a hair to the parent rock. Its shadows had turned a deep rosy pink, the sunstruck features a multitude of golds and yellows.
A quick glance back gave Bak a glimpse of Kasaya, Tracker and the lieutenant who had come with Senenmut running along the trail atop the cliff, followed closely by a half-dozen royal guards filing out of the trail up the escarpment.
As he neared the top of the incline, he once again began to catch up with Menna. The officer’s energy had flagged, his pace had dwindled. Bak gradually closed the distance between them. Less than ten paces apart, close enough to hear Menna’s labored gasps, he chased his quarry along a narrow ridge that rose between the cliff to his left and a wadi that opened off to the right. Just beyond, the branch trail angled off toward the Great Place. He saw no waiting guards.
Menna veered onto the path to the right. Bak bounded toward him, covering the gap between them in a half-dozen paces. Flinging the makeshift baton aside, he tackled the officer around the thighs and pulled him down. They rolled in the dirt, with one on top and then the other. Bak tried to get a better hold, failed. His arms were slick with sweat and so were the guard officer’s legs. Menna tried to kick free, to strike his opponent in the stomach or high between the legs, but Bak held on tight, restricting movement below the waist.
They rolled off the trail, dislodging a small pile of rocks someone had left alongside for some unknown purpose. The heavy counterpoise at the back of Menna’s broad collar snagged on one of the stones. The collar broke and fell away.
The officer twisted, grabbed a rock, struck Bak across the side of the head. A glancing blow that made his head ring but failed to knock him senseless. A warning blow, he took it. He let go of his opponent’s legs, rolled away, and scrambled to his feet.
Menna stood up more slowly, rock in hand, a calculating look on his face. Bak backed farther away, as respectful of the rock as he would have been of a spear. He glanced around, trying to find the baton he had so thoughtlessly flung aside. He spotted it six or seven paces from where he stood, too far. Taking advantage of Bak’s distraction, Menna jumped toward him, rock raised high, poised to smash his head. Bak leaped aside, spun around and made a fist, and hit the officer as hard as he could in the lower back. Menna’s spine arched and he groaned, but he stayed on his feet. Retreating a few paces, he dropped the rock and tore his dagger from its sheath. Legs spread wide, eyes glinting dangerously, he practically dared Bak to come and get him.
Bak slipped his own dagger free. They faced each other about four paces apart, breathing hard, sweat pouring down their grimy faces and bodies. Bak could tell his opponent was as tired as he was, but Menna was desperate.
Hearing the sound of running feet, Bak’s eyes flitted back along the trail. The lieutenant and Kasaya, with the leashed dog running alongside, led a long, straggly line of guards up the path two hundred or so paces away.
Menna glanced toward the rapidly approaching men, then leaped at his opponent and struck out with the dagger. Bak ducked, felt the blade graze his arm and the warmth of blood oozing out. Menna stepped closer, pressing his advantage, backing his opponent toward the rim of the cliff. Bak eased himself sideways, hoping to change the direction of their struggle and work his way to the baton. He disliked fighting with the dagger, the closeness of it, the treacherous blade that could bleed a man to exhaustion or lay waste to an inner organ. And he feared mightily a fall over the edge of the cliff.
The guard officer bared his teeth in a mean grin and moved in for what he clearly expected to be a kill.
Bak leaped at his opponent, striking the hand in which Menna held his dagger, knocking it out of the way, and smashed his left fist hard against the officer’s chin. Stumbling back, shaking his head to clear it, Menna lowered his shoulders and charged like an angered bull. Bak jumped aside and retreated. His eyes darted toward the baton, no more than a couple paces away. The rim of the cliff equally close. Menna stepped forward and sidled around, trying to get between him and the weapon. Trying to force him over the edge.
Bak threw his dagger. The blade flashed through the air and buried itself deep in Menna’s right shoulder.
The officer stopped, raised his free hand to the weapon, felt the moisture leaking out around the haft. He looked down, stared with disbelieving eyes at the dagger, the blood seeping between his fingers, and finally at Bak. His weapon fell from his hand. He dropped to his knees, drew in air, coughed. A trace of red trickled from the corner of his mouth.
Bak walked to him. Kasaya, Tracker, and the lieutenant came running up. A sergeant and a few men were close behind, followed by those strung out along the trail. Menna stared at the men collecting around him. Bak later imagined him looking not at them but at the fate that awaited the malign spirit.
Menna struggled to his feet. Without warning, taking them all by surprise, he pushed Bak roughly aside and lurched toward the rim of the cliff. Before anyone realized his intent, he pitched himself over the edge.
Stunned by the act, Bak hurried to the rim and looked down the face of the cliff. Menna lay about two-thirds of the way down on the steep slope of a tower-like formation that rose above the rear corner of the temple. His body lay twisted and torn, his arms and legs flung wide.
Kasaya and the lieutenant came up beside him and they, too, looked down. The officer’s stunned expression changed to one close to relief. “No man could have fallen so far and lived.”
Bak nodded. “He knew he was trapped, a man already dead.”
A sound of cheering carried on the breeze, softened by distance. Cheering?
“Look at the men, sir.” Kasaya pointed downward.
What looked like every man who toiled at Djeser Djeseru stood on the terrace among the statues and column parts, cheering the demise of the man who had, over the past few years, brought into their lives so much injury and death.