Flesh of the God lb-7 Read online

  “Come see for yourself.” Dedu turned on his heel and the villagers parted before him.

  Bak and Imsiba knelt on the damp earth beside the body, which lay full-length on its left side, feet in the water. A spear, its shaft broken close to the point, was embedded deep in the lower rib cage. Arms, legs, and back were thick and solid; the muscles around the waist bulged with fat.

  Snapping out an oath, Bak gripped the cool, clammy shoulder and shoved the body onto its back. A murmur rippled through the surrounding crowd. The dead man’s neck was as thick and broad as his head; his face was square, his mouth full and coarse. A long, open gash, its lips stark white from exposure to water, bared the bone on the left shoulder.

  Imsiba uttered a humorless barklike laugh. “We must call off our search, it seems.”

  Bak rubbed his hand across his eyes, too disappointed to respond. His instincts had warned him to expect the worst, had sent him to Kames in fact, but he had hoped for better. He had counted on taking this man alive, hearing from his own lips how he had slain Commandant Nakht. How he had managed to steal the gold and where he had hidden all he had taken through the year. Nothing was left but to learn the man’s name. The rest, he feared, might forever remain a mystery.

  Dedu whistled softly, as if he had noticed something that surprised him.

  Alerted by the sound, Bak studied the body more closely. He noted a dozen or more spots of discolored flesh on the hands and forearms. He knew what they were; he had seen similar scars as a child. His father, a physician, had cared for a woman who had at some time in the past been badly burned by cooking oil.

  His glance shifted to the spear point and what little remained of the shaft. Muttering a curse, he tugged the spear from the lifeless chest and held it out so Imsiba could see what he and the old man had spotted: the flawless edges of the bronze point, the careful sanding of the short stub of shaft. The workmanship was superb, unlike that of villagers and tribesmen, who had neither the facilities nor the skills to make so finely crafted a weapon. On the shaft close to the bronze point was a symbol that identified the spear as one from his own police arsenal.

  “Have you turned your face from us?” Imsiba asked, stricken. “You stood beside us when Commandant Nakht was slain. How can you not trust us now?”

  Bak followed the sergeant out of the tree-shaded courtyard of the house of death where they had taken the body. The midday heat enveloped him like a cloak, draining the sweat from his flesh.

  “Can you tell me for a fact where each man was throughout the night?” he demanded.

  “Not a man in our company would slay another except to protect himself. I know them!”

  “This spear came from our arsenal,” Bak said, holding aloft the linen-wrapped weapon.

  “They’re innocent, I tell you!”

  Bak’s eyes were drawn to two chatting women, walking across the open stretch of sand on which the house of death stood. One of the pair noticed them, murmured something to the other, and they hastened into the mouth of a narrow, crooked lane that meandered through the dwellings and workshops of the outer city. Imsiba saw nothing-his back was to them-but Bak had seen as they rounded the corner the way they stared with tight, accusing mouths. The rumors are spreading, he thought.

  “Come,” he said grimly, taking Imsiba by the arm. “We have much to do and not enough time.”

  Imsiba shook off his hand and headed across the sand to a well-worn path hugged on one side by the sunken road at the base of the citadel wall, on the other by buildings crammed together in jumbled confusion.

  Bak hurried to catch up. “You misunderstand my questions, Imsiba, and the source of my anger. I don’t doubt our men’s innocence; I question our ability to prove it.”

  “Proof!” Imsiba laughed, incredulous. “Half slept through the night in the barracks, the others patrolled the streets from dusk to dawn. How can we find men who saw them?”

  “It must be done. With no delay. Before every man in this garrison is blinded by suspicion.” Bak’s expression turned flinty. “We must not only learn their whereabouts when the commandant’s house was ransacked, but we must also discover how that spear left our arsenal.”

  Imsiba nodded, his face glum. “Each time you give me a task, it’s ten times ten more difficult than the one before.”

  “Have you made any headway with the men unaccounted for when Nakht was slain?”

  “The three who claimed to walk the streets went on duty at sunrise. I’ll get the truth from them when they return to our barracks at sunset.”

  They reached the mouth of the lane where it opened onto the main thoroughfare. To the west, beyond the hodgepodge of buildings and a strip of barren sand, a long train of donkeys, their backs piled high with hay, was plodding through the great towered gate that pierced the outer wall on the desert side of Buhen. They were bound for the donkey paddocks, whose location could be pinpointed by the fine, pungent dust hanging over the southern end of the outer city. Bak and Imsiba turned east and passed through the gate into the citadel. The two Medjays who had gone with them to the village were walking along at a leisurely pace not far ahead. Three thickset men-craftsmen, from the look of their crumpled sweat-stained kilts-emerged from an intersecting lane farther along the street.

  “Hori crossed the river this morning,” Imsiba continued. “He should have no trouble finding the woman who shared her bed with Amonemopet. As for Ruru…”

  He broke the thought with an angry hiss. The craftsmen were swaggering toward the Medjays on what looked like a collision course. Bak watched with a wary eye, praying his men would have the sense to avoid a confrontation. They held their ground until the last moment, finally stepping aside to let the others go by. One of the craftsmen raised his hand in an obscene gesture directed at their backs, another spat on the ground.

  Imsiba growled deep in his throat. “How does word spread so fast?”

  “I’d not be surprised to learn that someone is feeding the fire.”

  “Nebwa, you think?”

  The approaching craftsmen eyed Imsiba with contempt. Bak put on his coolest, most haughty expression and raised his baton of office. They gave him an uncertain look and swung wide to pass. He turned slowly around, watching them walk on down the street. No man would spit at him and go away unscathed. They did not try.

  He scowled at their backs. “From this day on, Imsiba, I want none of our men to walk the streets of Buhen alone. They must always travel in pairs, especially at night when they patrol the streets, and each pair must take a dog. They must at all times tread lightly, drawing no trouble to themselves.”

  “If they’re forced into a corner? Can they not protect themselves?”

  “If they must fight back, they should. I want none of them to look like cowards. But caution them to strike with care. The death of another man would bring a mob to our doorstep.” Smiling an apology, he added, “Those rules apply to you, too, Imsiba.”

  The big Medjay smiled ruefully. “If Hori and I are to find witnesses for all our men throughout last night, he’ll be walking by my side when my hair is white and I can no longer stand erect without the aid of a staff.”

  Bak’s laugh held no humor, for his eyes were on the Medjays ahead. They had stopped just inside the gate that led to the quay, and two sentries had left their post to speak to them. What now? he wondered. Laughter rang out, not from one man but from four. A sentry clapped a Medjay on the shoulder, the other raised his spear in a mock salute. Bak’s men ambled through the gate. The tension seeped from him, and he thanked the lord Amon that not all men in Buhen thought his Medjays guilty of murder.

  The anxiety drained from Imsiba’s face and he glanced at Bak. “You’ve said nothing about the man we took to the house of death. Was he slain by one who knew he had gold and wanted it for himself? Or was he slain at this time by chance?”

  “Chance, Imsiba?” Bak shook his head. “The gods have played many cruel tricks on us since we came to Buhen, and this is the vilest of al
l. Chance had nothing to do with it. He was slain because of the gold, I have no doubt.”

  “And so our men would be blamed for murder,” Imsiba said, his voice bitter. “Why? Because the guilty one hates and fears all Medjays? Or did he mean to tie our hands until he can slip away from Buhen?”

  “He should not have gone so far.” Bak’s expression was cold and unforgiving. “We now have a personal stake in hunting him down like the animal he is.”

  Chapter Seven

  Bak broke through the surface of the water and propelled himself into the shallows. The strip of dirt along the river was empty; no one stood among the acacias lining the bank. Relieved that Nofery had not yet come, he hauled himself to his feet and waded to the granite boulder. Grabbing his kilt and loincloth, he darted into the shade beneath the trees. A sparrow fluttered to a higher branch, twittering its displeasure at being disturbed. A lizard scurried across the ground and disappeared beneath a rustling bush. Still dripping, he hurried into his clothing. He had no wish to submit himself to Nofery’s lewd comments should she find him undressed.

  He lifted a fishy-smelling package wrapped in leaves from a low, flat boulder and sat down. Through the branches he could see the steep, ill-defined path rising to the top of the long stretch of sand and rock that paralleled the river south of the fortress. He flicked an ant from the bundle and unwrapped it. A dozen limp green onions lay on top of four charred fish mired in a pool of coagulated oil. As unappealing as they were, he was too hungry to care.

  He broke the head off a fish, tore the body apart, and began to eat the flesh from its bones. Am I waiting in vain? he wondered. Did Nofery laugh in Hori’s face when he told her what I wanted?

  No sooner had he asked himself the question than he heard querulous muttering, the swish of flowing sand, a curse. His eyes darted toward the path. Nofery was about a quarter of the way down, slightly off balance on a slope too unstable to support the weight of her heavy body. Her face was flushed, her ankle-length white sheath was stained with sweat and dust. In one hand she carried a long staff, useless in the sand. In the other, she gripped a good-sized beer jar.

  “Don’t sit there with your mouth agape,” she shrieked. “Help me!”

  Thanking the lord Amon she had come, Bak dropped the fish on the rock and raced up the slope. She grabbed him by the upper arm, clung as if her very life was at risk, took mincing steps, and whimpered. She was heavier than he had thought, and throughout the descent she did nothing to help herself. If she had not brought the beer, he would have seriously considered drowning her.

  Reaching the safe, flat earth at the bottom of the slope, she spouted a flood of grievances. The heat, the long walk from the fortress, the rough desert path, the flies. Wondering how he would ever get her back up the hill, Bak ushered the bulky woman to the rock and moved his midday meal so she could sit.

  “When that scribe of yours, that Hori, told me I must visit the house of death…well, I pledged to help you, so I was obliged to go.” She rearranged her huge buttocks on the hard stone. “If he’d told me of the hardships I’d have to endure to meet you here, I’d have thrown him out on his backside.”

  “Come now, mistress Nofery!” Bak gave her his most boyish smile. “You wanted to know as much as I the name of the man pulled from the river.”

  She snorted as if indifferent, but he could see she could hardly wait to tell him what she had learned. “I care only for the living. A dead man can’t buy my wares or lie with my women.”

  “Did you bring the beer to drown your sorrow at losing a customer?” he asked, his eyes twinkling. “Or to thank me for having the good sense to ask you to take a look before any other man or woman?”

  Her laugh, coming from deep within, made her many rolls of fat shake like the gel from a well-cooked cut of meat. As the quaking subsided, she could not resist a final complaint. “I tell you this, Officer Bak. The satisfaction of being the first to lay eyes on him was in no way worth the effort it took to get here.”

  “Would you prefer all who live in Buhen to know you’re my spy?”

  “I’d have little business,” she admitted. “Even my promise to speak highly of your Medjays will cost me much.” Her eyes narrowed, the look on her face turned sly. “I’d be more useful to you if you released me from that vow.”

  Bak bent over and patted her cheek. “You must whisper their praises, old woman, not shout their merits to the world. One word spoken with subtlety is worth ten shoved down a man’s throat.”

  Nofery’s sigh was so exaggerated, so deep and long, Bak imagined her fleshy body shrinking to a twig. Shaking off the image, he sat on the ground in front of her, folded his legs, and laid his food on his crossed ankles.

  “Tell me, Nofery, who was he?”

  She hesitated and he saw the temptation on her face to bargain favor for favor. The stern look he gave her, along with her eagerness to relate what she knew, overcame her desire to negotiate.

  “His name was Heby,” she said. “He came to my place of business perhaps once a month.”

  “I must offer a plump goose to the lord Amon,” Bak said, smiling with relief. “I feared you wouldn’t know him.”

  “I recognized him, yes, but as for knowing him? I doubt if any man did.” She unplugged the jar, took a deep drink from it, and passed it to Bak. “Most men come to relax after a long day and they wish to enjoy the company of others. He came to drink and to relieve himself with my women. He seldom spoke, never smiled, held all men at arm’s length.”

  Bak inhaled the aroma seeping from the jar’s mouth, nodded his approval, and took a healthy drink. “He had no friends?”

  “Who would befriend so sullen a man?”

  Bak finished the fish and began to eat another. The lord Amon had given him the wisdom to send Nofery to the house of death; why then would he not provide the answers he needed? “Did he ever say what he did to put bread in his mouth?”

  “He told me nothing, but another man did. One who worked by his side day after day.” She drank from the jar a second time, taking so much, Bak wondered if any remained for him. “Heby was a goldsmith, one who melted the ore brought from the mines. The scars Hori told me to look for, those on his arms, were old burns, as you thought. He’d been spattered by molten metal.”

  Bak pictured the ingot hidden in his bedchamber and chided himself for being so blind. Who but a goldsmith would have had the skill and the tools to melt down the ore and mold it? Who would be in a better position to steal?

  “Yes,” Neferperet said in a hoarse voice. “Yes, it’s Heby.”

  He backed away from the thigh-high stone embalming table, his eyes locked on the naked body lying in the deep tray carved into its upper surface. Neferperet was a big man, heavy and muscular, a man of thirty or so years respected for his strength, but during the short time he had been in the house of death, his face had turned a sickly green. Bak suspected his own visage looked no healthier. The hot, clammy air, the suffocating odor, the eerie shadows trembling in the lamplight assaulted the senses and made him feel as if he had already set one foot in the netherworld.

  Neferperet swallowed hard, swung around, and rushed past a table containing the body of an old man, stomach slit barely enough to admit a hand, innards lying in a stone bowl on the floor. He plowed through the door and vanished from sight. Bak, close behind, got no farther than the portal, where his path was barred by Min, the freckled, red-haired scribe responsible for maintaining the records in the house of death.

  “We need more than his name, Officer Bak,” Min said, his manner officious.

  Bak edged past him into the adjoining room, crossed to the far wall, and stopped beside a deep stack of sparkling white, neatly folded linen. Even there, he could not evade the smell of death, the taste.

  “I doubt Neferperet went beyond the courtyard,” he said, working hard not to show his discomfort. “He’s the chief goldsmith, the man Heby toiled for.”

  Min screwed up his mouth in disapproval. “I’ve n
o interest in the slain man’s personal habits, sir. I need to know of his family and the way they wish him to be prepared for eternity.”

  “Men talk of death as well as life while they toil.” Bak sidled to the door that would take him out of the building. His eyes darted toward another room. On a table similar to the one Heby occupied, he saw a form cocooned in natron, the white salty substance used to dry the body. Nakht, he thought.

  “We can do nothing on word of mouth alone,” Min snapped. “You must go immediately to the scribal office building and return with his personal record. Only then will we know for a fact whether he’s to be fully prepared for interment in a tomb in Kemet or left as he is for immediate burial here.”

  Bak wondered if this self-important scribe was always so impertinent or if he had heard the gossip about the Medjays and thought he could behave as he liked with their officer. “I have much to do,” he said curtly. “I’ll have the record brought to you when I can, possibly today, more likely tomorrow.”

  He pivoted and hurried along a short corridor to the exit. The courtyard, though shaded by sycamores and palms along each wall, was as hot as the inside of a cooking pot simmering on a brazier, but at least the air was free of stench. He allowed himself the luxury of several deep breaths before crossing to Neferperet, seated in the shade on a mudbrick bench beside a small fish pool. A dozen fingerling perch darted among the stems of a lotus plant beneath open white blossoms floating among the leaves on the water’s surface.

  The goldsmith stared at his scarred, work-hardened hands, clasped tight between his knees. “I thought myself a man, but after this…”

  “Say no more. Those who toil here seem not to mind, but I, for one, have neither the nose nor the stomach for the house of death.”

  Bak sat beside Neferperet and bent over the pool, allowing the sweet scent of the flowers to drive away the odor clinging to his nostrils. He was sure Heby had stolen the gold, but he needed proof. From what he had seen of Tetynefer, the steward would prefer to believe a foreign woman guilty of murder rather than admit that gold taken from beneath his very nose had brought about two deaths. Bak was also convinced Heby had been slain because of the gold. But one who made no friends would never be tempted to confide, so who had learned his secret? This man Neferperet? Or another who toiled in the same workshop?