Flesh of the God lb-7

  Flesh of the God

  ( Lieutenant Bak - 7 )

  Lauren Haney

  Lauren Haney

  Flesh of the God

  Chapter One

  “All men who err must suffer the consequences. If you’d offended the gods to the extent some men have…” Commandant Nakht must have realized how harsh his voice had become, for he clamped his mouth shut, focused on Bak, and smiled. “Forgive me. I’ve no wish to burden you with the wrongs of others.”

  Bak uttered a sharp, bitter laugh. “Is that not why I’ve been sent to Buhen?”

  Nakht, commandant of the fortress of Buhen, eyed him thoughtfully, shook his head. “No. Some burdens are mine alone.” He turned away, closing the subject, and began to climb the long series of ladders that led to the battlements. “Come, Officer Bak, let me show you your new home.”

  Bak wondered if he should press further, but Nakht’s rigid back forbade him. He climbed after him, his thoughts returning to the dull and dreary life he faced in the grim, uninviting fortress.

  The interior of the tower was dimly lit, the mudbrick walls too thick to admit much light through the narrow loopholes placed at regular intervals so archers could rain arrows down on the enemy. Except, Bak thought dismally, the last uprising in this foul land of Wawat had been smashed twenty-six years before. The battles now were little more than skirmishes with tribesmen who swooped down on the caravans, stole whatever they could, and slipped away in the desert.

  The two men climbed to the uppermost landing, passed through the open portal, and stepped onto the sunstruck walkway atop the massive white mudbrick wall surrounding the city. The hot breath of the lord Re, the sun god, enveloped them. Rivulets of sweat trickled down Bak’s face, chest, and legs. Even skirmishes, he thought, would be better than the loathsome task he had been given.

  “I’m an officer,” he said, “a man trained in the art of war. Give me a company of spearmen or archers. I’d at least be doing what I best know how to do.”

  “No, Bak.” Nakht’s voice carried a note of sympathy, but was firm nonetheless. “Commander Maiherperi sent you here to police this city. That you will do.”

  As if to stress the finality of his words, he strode up the walkway. Wide enough for four men abreast, the path connected the regularly spaced towers projecting from the outer face of the battlemented wall. Bak walked beside him, half-blinded by the glare. A warm northerly breeze stirred the air, vying with the heat to dry the moisture seeping from his body. A dog’s mournful howl sounded in the distance. The faint odors of fish, cooking oil, and animal waste mingled with a dust so fine he could feel it between his fingers but not see it.

  Far below the breastwork lining the walkway, the white rooftops of the buildings within the citadel lay spread out like a map. Block after block of interconnected structures filled the almost square fortification, each block separated from the others by narrow lanes and streets. The heat rose in waves from the roofs. Air-shafts and courtyards, flimsy pavilions erected for shade, and the people who walked the lanes seemed to shimmer in the slight breeze. A second, outer wall enclosed a much larger rectangular area spreading north and west and south of the citadel, its stark white towers appearing to melt into the pale sandhills rising behind Buhen.

  Bak eyed the city with distaste. “I’ve been torn from my regiment and my companions. Another officer leads my men. My horses grow fat and lazy at my father’s home and my chariot grows dusty. Is that not punishment enough?”

  Nakht stopped in the shade of a tower and silenced the plea with a reproving scowl. “You were a lieutenant of high merit, I’ve been told. Yet you felled a man of noble birth and you, with the men in your company beside you, laid waste to a house of pleasure frequented by the highest men of our land. What do you expect from me? A reward for your lack of wisdom?”

  Bak smarted at the repetition of his offense. “Not a man in that house used honest throwsticks. They won all my archer’s implements of war and mocked his loss. They thought the rest of us too lowly, too meek to speak up for what was ours.”

  “There are many ways to right a wrong, Bak, but few so rash they draw the eye of our sovereign, Maatkare Hatshepsut herself. You should be grateful you’re here and still an officer. Instead you plea for a task I cannot grant you.”

  Bak studied the commandant, searching for a crack in his will. He found none. A hint of compassion maybe, but an unbreakable resolve to follow the instructions he had been given, instructions sent by Maiherperi, commander of the palace guard in the capital city of Waset.

  Maiherperi had called Nakht an exemplary officer, a man without peer. So he seemed, in bearing more than appearance. He was of medium height, a hand’s breadth shorter than Bak, and probably fifty years old, more than twice Bak’s age. Where Bak’s shoulders were broad and his muscles clearly defined, the commandant was slender, his well-formed body more graceful. His dark curly hair, gray at the temples, was clipped short and followed the curve of his head. Bak’s hair was thick and straight, bobbed below his earlobes in the military fashion. Both men were tanned a deep bronze. Both wore thigh-length white kilts with a sheathed dagger hanging from a narrow belt. Only the commandant wore jewelry, a turquoise scarab ring and a broad collar made of red and blue beads. And only he carried a baton of office. Bak had not yet been given a new baton denoting his altered status.

  “I’ll do as you command,” Bak said, bowing his head to acknowledge Nakht’s authority.

  Nakht could have reminded him he had no choice. Instead, he glanced toward the sun as if checking the time, then walked to the nearest crenel, rested his hands on the base of the opening, and looked out at the distant horizon.

  “To be an officer in charge of a company of Medjays is an honor many men would envy,” he said. “Those who guard the palace and those who police the mightiest cities of Kemet are highly esteemed for their courage and honesty.”

  “That I know,” Bak admitted. “During the voyage from Waset, I learned to like and respect the men I brought with me, especially my sergeant, Imsiba. But to stay within these walls, to punish men who pilfer and cheat, to break up drunken brawls…” He paused, unwilling to confess he thought the task degrading.

  Nakht swung around so Bak could see his wry smile. “The punishment suits the offense, does it not?”

  Bak’s face grew hot with embarrassment.

  The smile vanished and Nakht leaned back, elbows resting on the base of the crenel. “You think your task unimportant and not worthy of your skills. In that you err. True, you’ll not have your chariot and horses, but you’ll use your other skills. And your wits as well.”

  Bak was offended. Surely the commandant knew he had led the first rank of chariots, the premier company of charioteers in the regiment of Amon. Was he implying such a task required no thought or planning?

  Nakht raised his baton to acknowledge a passing sentry, a muscular, square-faced man wearing a kilt like Bak’s, carrying a white cowhide shield and a spear taller than he was. The sun, high overhead, touched the bronze spearpoint, making it glitter more like gold than the baser metal.

  If the commandant was aware of Bak’s indignation, he gave no hint. “Since the great king Akheperkare Thutmose took back this land from the rebels, we’ve rebuilt the city within these walls. Now, the time has come to hone its rough edges, to make it more a place for living and less a garrison. The soldiers, the traders who come and go, the prisoner-miners who pass through, and the camp followers who serve their base needs-all must learn to behave as they would in any city of Kemet. That is why I asked Maiherperi to send a company of Medjay police. They, with you at their head, will go far toward making that happen.”

  “Will we bring order to Buhen?” Bak asked in a dry
voice, “or will we be the center of a storm?”

  “You surprise me,” Nakht said, eyeing him with approval. “How did you guess so soon?”

  “Wawat is the birthplace of my Medjays. Their grandfathers fought the soldiers of Kemet, hoping to free their land of intruders, and many lives were lost on both sides. Their fathers rebelled and again men died. Their brothers live here still and some of them raid our caravans, taking lives each time. Even though my men grew to manhood in Kemet and think of it as their homeland, I know-as do they-that they’ll not easily be accepted or trusted by men who think of Medjays as the enemy. I said as much to Maiherperi.”

  “And he said?”

  Bak had to smile. “‘To face a challenge and win is far more satisfying than to win by default.’”

  Nakht chuckled. “Yes, he would say such a thing. He spouts wisdom with the ease of a priest.”

  They laughed together.

  Nakht sobered, gave Bak a speculative look. “I think you have the wit to do any task set before you, the stubbornness to see it through to the end, and the pride to do it well. You’ll need those traits and more to assimilate your Medjays into this garrison. Do you think you can curb your rashness and swallow your resentment at being sent here long enough to prove your worth and theirs?”

  Bak took the question as a challenge, one his pride would not allow him to resist. “Last evening when our ship docked at the quay and we entered this fortress, few men we passed greeted us with a smile. I can make no promises, for men’s thoughts are difficult to change. But I hope, when I sail back to Kemet, that I’ll see my Medjays standing beside those same men as trusted companions.”

  Nakht nodded his satisfaction. “I can ask no more.”

  He stepped aside, making additional space at the crenel so they both could look beyond the wall. Bak frowned at what he considered the most forbidding land he had ever seen. Below, along the terraced base of the fortress, the brownish waters of the river that gave life to this land flowed wide and deep, north to Kemet, where he longed to be. Three long stone quays projected into the water in front of two towered gates and a broader pylon gate. Two sturdy cargo ships and four smaller, lighter trading vessels were moored alongside. A line of men plodded along the quay between the gate on which they stood and the larger of the two cargo vessels, their backs bent low beneath heavy copper ingots bound for workshops in Kemet.

  Farther out, a dozen fishermen’s skiffs tacked diagonally across the water, their sails appearing in the distance like the wings of birds. Across the river, a long stretch of green, a fertile oasis in a land of rocks and sand, looked dusty and indistinct in the sweltering haze. Nothing lay beyond but sandhills bleached almost white by the unforgiving sun.

  The faint honking of geese drew both men’s gaze to the pallid sky above. A flock of thirty or more birds flew south, too high for arrows to reach, too wily to rest and feed near an oasis inhabited by man. Bak watched them fade from sight, envying them their freedom to go where they wished.

  Nakht, who must have noticed the wistful look on his face, gave him an understanding smile. “I lived in the land of Hatti for many years, a place as rich in its own way as the valley of this river. As I grew older, I yearned to return to Kemet, the land of my birth. I thought to spend the remainder of my life with my feet on its rich black soil, walking through fields of grain and fruits and vegetables.” His smile gave way to a cynical chuckle. “When finally I did return, I was sent here to the southern frontier.”

  “You dislike Buhen, as I do?”

  Nakht’s smile dissolved. “The fortress, no. It’s much like any other garrison. And dislike is too pale a word; I was afraid.” He held out his hand as if making an offering of the view across the river. “It was the land itself I feared, this dry, barren land of Wawat, this desert which surrounds us. I thought it an empty and brutal place where no man could walk without thirst or hunger, heat or poisonous creatures. However, in the year I’ve been here…” He paused and his smile this time contained no irony, no cynicism. “I cannot say I’ve grown to love the desert, but I respect it and think it a place of great beauty.”

  Bak could think of nothing to say; he was too surprised the commandant would utter such personal thoughts to a man he had met less than an hour before.

  Nakht laughed-at himself, Bak thought. “I’ve said enough, perhaps too much. I hope one day you’ll come to like Buhen and be as proud to serve this garrison as I am to command it.”

  Bak swallowed a denial. He was convinced he would never like this vile city or the onerous task of policing it.

  The commandant seemed not to expect a hasty and insincere promise. He once again glanced toward the sun, and his voice became crisp, purposeful. “You must, within the next few days, impress on the men in this garrison that I mean to have order here. They must see you and your Medjays in action and me standing behind you with the scales of justice. Sweep the market for false weights or…?” His expectant look left no doubt he wanted a suggestion which could be expanded to a plan.

  Bak stared at the sunbaked land across the river, mulling over various ways of introducing a police force in a place where none had ever been. The most obvious idea was the least appealing, for it was born of his own past behavior.

  “I’ve heard the monthly rations were given out today,” he said. “Many men will visit houses of pleasure this night. Name for me the foulest of the lot, one with many patrons, a place louder and more unruly than all the others. My men and I will come upon them in the dark and take them like fish in a net.”

  He felt like a traitor, plotting the downfall of men no better than he.

  Bak raced around the corner with six armed Medjay policemen close on his heels. In the flickering light of the torch he carried, he saw twenty-five or more men scuffling in the gloomy moonlit lane. The hard-packed sand beneath their bodies was slick and wet, the air thick with the stench of sweat, stale beer, and vomit. A far-off chorus of barking dogs mingled with garbled, drunken taunts and the thud of fist striking flesh.

  A pottery jar flew through the air, spewing beer from its open mouth. Bak spotted the missile, ducked. The jar whipped past his head and smashed into the wall beside him, splattering its sticky contents over his bare torso and fresh white kilt. Muttered curses echoed his own and he guessed several of his men had also been caught in the shower.

  He raised his torch high. The lane, three cubits wide, broad enough for three men abreast, ran arrow straight between two rows of connected single-story mudbrick houses, their doors shut tight. It ended at a broad path which ran along the base of the massive wall enclosing the fortress. A torch at the far end told him Sergeant Imsiba and six additional Medjays were there to bag the prey he meant to sweep into their hands.

  In the middle, trapped between the two forces, were the brawlers: soldiers alleviating the boredom of frontier duty, sailors relieving the tedium of a long voyage, prisoner-miners celebrating the completion of their sentences before going home to Kemet. Their shadows flitted across the facades of the houses as they pummeled each other, rolled over broken jars and puddles of beer, tried to creep away only to be caught up and drawn back into the fray. A dozen or more heads peered down from above, residents who had complained long and loud, so Nakht had said, about the frequent brawls outside their homes.

  The focus of the battle was a place of business midway along the lane, the house of pleasure of the old woman Nofery. Her bulk, planted in the doorway, cut off much of the light streaming from within. She stood, crossed arms resting on her mammoth belly, braying like an ass to goad the fighters on. She would sing a different song later, Bak thought, would whine like a starving cur at what he had in mind for her.

  He turned to the men behind him. “Ready?”

  The way they hefted their spotted cowhide shields and heavy, head-high wooden staffs told him they were. The way their teeth flashed in their dark-skinned faces told him how much they were looking forward to the skirmish. He raised his torch and waved it bac
k and forth. The flame sputtered, sparks cascaded to the ground. The signal was returned from the far end of the lane. He handed the torch to one of his men and took in exchange his shield and baton of office.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  With three men behind him and another three behind them, they swept forward, filling the lane so no one could slip past. The nearest pair of besotted men, both on their knees swinging ineffectual punches, glanced up and gaped. Bak relished the look of disbelief on their faces. He could imagine what they saw: a baton-wielding officer of Kemet followed by a wall of bright shields, the Medjays’ legs, arms, and heads vague shadows in the dark. One of the pair bellowed like a rampaging bull, scrambled to his feet, and tried to run away from what he clearly thought were demons from the netherworld. The second man tried to rise, blundered into the first man’s legs, and they fell together. Bak prodded them with his baton, forcing them forward into the melee.

  The pair stumbled into another man, who grabbed one of them, shoved him against the wall, and slammed his head onto the plastered surface with as much force as he could muster. A Medjay broke ranks, grabbed the attacker by the hair, and pitched him into a trio wrestling on the ground.

  “The Medjays!” someone shrieked. “The Medjays!”

  Bak’s eyes homed in on Nofery, whose hands were cupped around her mouth to form a horn.

  “Don’t let them take you without a fight!” she screamed. “They don’t belong here! You do!”

  Bak saw the closest of the brawlers stiffen, pull away from each other, stare at him and his men. He saw the besotted grins forming on their faces and knew he had just a few precious moments before every man in the lane took up the old harridan’s challenge.

  “Let’s move!” he shouted to his men. “Quickly! Before her words give them the courage of lions!”

  Irritated by her defiance, afraid of what would happen if she had her way, he swung his baton wide and whipped it down, clouting a swaying figure. Then he used it as a prod, forcing others to scramble forward. The Medjays followed, using their staffs on heads and arms and legs, their shields to squash the closest men into those farther ahead, shoving them into a helpless mass that could do nothing but retreat.