Flesh of the God lb-7 Page 22

  “Kasaya!” a spearman yelled. “Come take this beast on your shoulders. We’d move twice as fast if you carried him.”

  The soldier was trudging along beside a black donkey laden with heavy jars filled with water. He and the rest of Mery’s men had been spread out along the caravan by Nebwa to guard the animals and their cargo.

  “Why don’t you carry the water for him?” Kasaya retorted with an easy grin. “Give him a chance to complain of your slow pace.” The young Medjay had become a favorite among the soldiers who had toiled alongside him on the landslide.

  The good-natured banter continued as they walked along the column, relayed by men who had helped at the mine and many others as well, men who had remained neutral before, waiting to see which way the wind blew. Bak listened to the jokes and laughter as if they were music, paying little attention to the words but enjoying every note of the tune. His eyes were on the donkeys, his thoughts on the loads he had seen placed on their backs before daylight.

  The rangy gray beast with an ugly gall on its shoulder carried food in its baskets: onions, lentils, dried fish. Slung from the back of the next in line, a dainty creature more black than gray, were two equally balanced bundles of spears, a portion of the arsenal. Three spearmen walking alongside joshed Kasaya. A sergeant tried half-heartedly to silence them with a scowl, but failed to do so.

  Bak eyed the next donkey, a sullen creature laden with the officers’ tents. He knew from experience it nipped any man or beast who came near its vicious mouth. Mery was walking beside the fat, bow-legged drover. Bak nudged Kasaya and they veered toward the column.

  “Mery!” Bak called. “I thought I’d find you at the head of the caravan with Paser and Nebwa.”

  The watch lieutenant grimaced. “When those two are together, I prefer the company of animals.”

  His hair was tousled and dusty, his well-formed body coated with sweat-streaked dirt. Bak took a perverse delight in Mery’s disheveled appearance. He knew he looked no better, but if Azzia were to see them like this, she would not be comparing a fine-feathered oriole with an ordinary sparrow.

  If she was alive and well.

  He quashed the thought, refusing to allow his fear for her to distract him from his mission. “They’re still bickering over the disposition of men?”

  “That and everything else. Nebwa yearns to take his company into the desert in search of an enemy, and I pray each day he will. Paser gives an order, he countermands it. If we were raided we’d face disaster.”

  Kasaya, who had struck up a conversation with the drover, dropped back to walk alongside the plodding donkey. Crooning to it as if to a baby, he ran his hands over its shoulder and flank. By the time he left the animal, he would know every solid object it carried. The method was imperfect. He could not probe deep within the larger bundles and baskets without being noticed. It did, however, narrow the number of possible hiding places.

  “And you?” Bak asked. “How do you fare?”

  Mery shrugged. “I resent seeing my sentries turned into caretakers of animals, but it does no good to complain.”

  “You must be proud of those who helped clear the mine. Did you see the mountain fall and the way they toiled to free the men inside?”

  “I’d walked far down the wadi, so I knew not what had happened until later.” Mery stared at an undulating row of hills on the distant horizon. His voice grew thick with emotion. “I mourned mistress Azzia and felt the need to be alone. I loved her, you see, and I’d hoped one day to make her my wife.”

  Bak’s usual compassion failed him. He, too, feared the worst, but to take for granted that Azzia’s fate was already sealed was unthinkable. Had Mery simply given up hope as his appearance suggested? Or was his conscience eating away at his heart because he had allowed the woman he loved to shoulder the blame for one of five deaths he had brought about?

  “You must forgive me for speaking my thoughts,” Bak said in a tone of friendly concern, “but mistress Azzia has traveled with her husband through many lands. She knows much of the world and can even read and write. Do you think she’d be content as the wife of an ordinary officer, a man whose skills are limited to the arts of war?”

  “Except for this vile place, I’ve not been beyond the borders of Kemet,” Mery admitted, “but I am a reasonably learned man. I used to write poetry for her.” He glanced at Bak, flushed. “I dared not show it to her when she was wed to another, but I’d hoped, with Nakht no longer living…” His words tailed off, he sighed. “Now she’s rejoined him in the netherworld-or soon will-and all my dreams have gone with her.”

  Bak wanted to silence the young officer with a blow. Instead, he muttered an excuse and hurried on up the column, leaving Kasaya behind. He did not know which he thought more offensive: pessimism or misery born of selfishness. After he cooled down, after he convinced himself that Azzia might well be safe, he thought about what he had learned. Mery could read; therefore, he might be the man who had been stealing the gold. He seemed too weak, too easily broken by adversity, but his appearance could be feigned. A man so selfish would most certainly sacrifice his love to save himself.

  “I find Buhen to be an interesting place,” Bak said. “It’s a city but not a city. A place where villagers from far and wide come for all the good things in life, yet the objects they consider desirable would be less than ordinary to those who dwell within the land of Kemet.”

  Nebwa dismissed the observation with a shrug. “Other than the fact that we’re the largest garrison in Wawat, and Buhen’s commandant administers all the fortresses along the Belly of Stones, it’s no different than any other in this land.”

  “Commandant Nakht told me he thought to tame its frontier demeanor, to make it a city of women and children in addition to soldiers.”

  “I knew of his dream and wished him well.”

  Bak eyed the long stretch of desert ahead of them. Low, gently rounded ridges of sand punctuated by solitary blackish rock formations and, on the horizon, long table-like mounds that probably rose no more than ten paces above the surrounding landscape, offered a minimum of relief from the monotony. Some men might think the prospect dreary, but Bak rather liked its sparse beauty.

  “If you were to become commandant, Nebwa, would you follow that dream?”

  “Me? Commandant?” Nebwa’s laugh boomed out. “I was born in this land and grew to manhood here. I’ve served in the army on the southern frontier from the age of fourteen. I’ve had neither the opportunity nor the desire to make friends in high places. Nor do I have the talent, if the truth be told.”

  Bak smothered a smile. No truer statement had he ever heard than the last one. “Come now, Nebwa. Don’t you believe that you rather than Tetynefer should stand at the head of this garrison?”

  Nebwa’s eyes narrowed. “What are you doing, Bak? Are you trying to make a case against me as the slayer of Commandant Nakht?”

  “I’m trying to learn who slew him, yes, but I can do that as easily by eliminating a man from suspicion as by pointing a finger at him.”

  Nebwa stopped, planted his hands on his hips, and glowered at his interrogator. “Make no mistake about it: never did I think to step into his sandals. He was one of the finest men I’ve ever known.”

  “Did he ever say he wished you to inherit his position?”

  “No.” Nebwa glanced back toward the unit of spearmen walking at the head of the caravan, saw how close they were, and stepped out of their path. “He said I might in time make a good garrison commander, but he believed the commandant of an administrative center like Buhen should be an educated man.”

  Bak gave him a sharp look. “Educated? What exactly did he mean by that?”

  “I never had the time or the inclination to learn to read and write. How could I? I’ve lived my life as a soldier, with no leisure for scholarly pursuits.”

  Bak chose not to enlighten the infantry officer, but if he was telling the truth-and who would lie about an inability to read? — he had just elimin
ated another man from his list of suspects.

  “This desert is home to many men,” Paser said, “yet we’ve trekked more than half the distance to Buhen and we’ve met no one. Where are they? Why have they not come to trade with us as they always do when we travel this path?”

  “Men don’t change their ways for no good reason.” Harmose’s face was dark with foreboding.

  Bak sipped from the communal goatskin waterbag and let the warm, stale water roll around in his mouth. It barely moistened his tongue and failed altogether to quench his thirst. “My men believe the nomad shepherds have taken their flocks deep into the wadis behind us to a place where they’ll be safe from theft and destruction.”

  Paser accepted the waterbag with a worried frown. “They either fear a tribe that preys on less warlike peoples or an army that must live off the land through which it passes.”

  All Paser’s usual petty pretensions had vanished, erased by his concern for the welfare of the caravan. Bak liked him better for it. The thought was fleeting, swept away by a futile impatience. They could do nothing but watch and wait.

  He stood up and climbed the rocky outcrop beside which the three of them had sought shelter from the midday heat. It provided a minimum of shade, but was better than the broad sand-swept plain where the men and donkeys were resting. From the top, he could see the entire camp rather than the small portion visible from their resting place. Drovers and soldiers alike lay in the shade of any object they could find: a shield, a swath of heavy cloth, a mat, anything to shelter them from the sun’s heat. A dozen sentries walked the periphery, their feet and their spears dragging.

  His glance shifted to an irregular, haze-shrouded escarpment far to the west. It rose from the valley floor like an impregnable wall, spreading to right and left as far as the eye could see. An ancient watercourse, invisible from so far away, cut through the plateau beyond. If they continued at their current pace, they would sleep at its mouth and pass through the next day. Deep and gorgelike in places, shallow with gently sloping walls at other locations, he thought it a perfect place for an ambush.

  “If only Nebwa would trust my men!” His voice rang with frustration. “They should be scouting the land ahead, not plodding along behind the caravan, smothered by dust.”

  Paser’s laugh was hard, cynical. “I’ve told him as much, and so has Mery. Like the rest of us, he senses mischief in the air, but he’ll listen to no man but himself.”

  “He clings to his beliefs like plaster to a wall,” Harmose added bitterly.

  Bak eyed a thin smudge of dust dissolving in the air beyond the caravan. The cloud raised during the morning march had long since dissipated, so something more recent had disturbed the sand while he and the others had shared their skimpy meal. He was about to clamber down the outcrop to investigate when Imsiba broke out of a group of perhaps twenty men standing at the far edge of the encampment and beckoned frantically.

  Certain something was amiss, Bak hastened through the mass of resting men and animals to the sergeant’s side.

  Imsiba flung him a quick but very troubled look and shouldered his way into the cluster of men, mostly soldiers, and two or three drovers. Bak followed close behind. The focus of attention was Nebwa, who stood with a grim-faced Mery and two nomad shepherds, tall rangy men sparsely clad in rags, powdered with the dust of travel. Nebwa was speaking with them in their own tongue. Bak knew no more than a dozen words that his men had taught him, but he could tell Nebwa was interrogating the pair. His tone was brisk, theirs reticent, the answers not easily drawn from them.

  Bak saw none of the sly humor on their faces that he had found in Dedu and had learned to expect from the men of Wawat who dwelt near the river and Buhen. Maybe men of the desert were different than those who lived in villages, but he thought not. He glanced around, searching for the scraggly dogs that always trotted at the heels of shepherds. He saw none, nor did he see any sheep or goats they would have brought if they had come to trade. The scene did not ring true. Imsiba’s dubious expression did nothing to allay his suspicions.

  Nebwa gave a final nod of satisfaction and spoke to a sergeant standing nearby. “Bring them water. Four skins’ full. They’ve earned that and more.” His eyes darted toward Paser, who had hurried after Bak, and a broad smile settled on his face. “That old fool Tetynefer was right after all! Can you believe it?”

  “What are you saying?” Paser demanded. “What did they tell you?”

  Nebwa, his eyes glittering with excitement, raised his baton in a gesture of jubilation. “The tribes have come together! They’ve formed an army! They’re camped at a well a day’s march south of here. If we leave right away, we’ll have them within our grasp before sunset tomorrow.”

  Bak knew Nebwa longed for action, but to leave with that treacherous watercourse a mere half day’s march ahead was absurd. “How can you be sure these men have told the truth? This could be a ruse to draw your infantry away.”

  “We’ve two times the number of donkeys we usually bring and many times the number of weapons.” Paser’s eyes flashed anger. “Not to mention the gold. I can think of no more desirable a prize to men like these.”

  Mery nodded vehemently. “You call Tetynefer a fool, but you propose to leave this caravan unprotected after hearing a tale no more credible than the one he heard.”

  “That was different,” Nebwa said. “I had to pry the news from these men’s lips. If they’d not been desperate for water, they’d have said nothing.”

  “Where are their flocks?” Bak asked. “Why did they not bring at least one ram to trade for what they need?”

  “Did I not say they were desperate for water? They had to leave behind all they own so they could travel fast enough to intercept us.”

  “A nomad’s life depends on his flock,” Paser said. “He cares for it above all things. If this tale were true, one man would’ve come, not two. The other would’ve remained behind to see to the animals.”

  Nebwa waved off the objection. “You know as well as I that the women and children tend the animals.”

  He beckoned two approaching soldiers. Each had a wooden yoke balanced on his shoulders, with full waterbags suspended from either end. A drover helped transfer the yokes to the waiting shepherds, who strode off across the sandy plain, heading in a westerly direction.

  “Rouse the men and arm them,” Nebwa ordered his sergeant. “We leave within the hour.”

  Bak glared. “You can’t leave this caravan unprotected!”

  “It’s folly!” Paser exclaimed.

  Nebwa swung on Mery. “You and your men will stay here.” His eyes slid toward Bak. “You’ll stay, too, you and your wretched Medjays. Does that satisfy you?”

  “How can you divide our forces like this?” Mery demanded.

  “The tribesmen want a battle and I mean to give them one.” Nebwa wheeled around, cutting off further argument, and strode away.

  No, Bak thought, you want a battle and you fully intend to have one.

  As the foremost rank of infantrymen marched out of the camp and Nebwa disappeared in a cloud of dust at their head, Bak drew his sergeant aside. “Those nomad shepherds lied, Imsiba.”

  “They are no more shepherds than I am. They live off the toil of others-stealing, burning, killing.” Imsiba’s voice grew harsh with anger. “Men like them came to my village when I was a child. Well I remember the death and ruin they left behind. They burned our fields and gardens, carried off our flocks and all our young women, my sister among them.”

  “How would you like to balance the scales of justice?”

  Imsiba eyed him with uncommon interest. “The thought pleases me exceedingly, my friend.”

  “I believe those so-called shepherds are part of a band of raiders.” Bak glanced at Imsiba for confirmation, received a nod of agreement. “I’d guess their numbers are too small to risk an attack when Nebwa’s infantry was with us, but are large enough to feel they can succeed with our forces weakened. I think we should give
them the chance to try.”

  A hint of a smile touched the corners of Imsiba’s mouth. “You mean to catch them in a snare while they try to snare us?”

  “You must leave now, taking two other men with you, and follow them. Stay close on their heels, learn all you can, then come back to us with what you know. We must not go headlong into battle with no knowledge of what we face.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Where are they?” Mery fretted. “Should not they have returned by now?”

  “They’ll come.” Bak’s voice betrayed no hint of his own worry.

  “You don’t think they’ve been captured, do you?”

  Bak scowled at the young officer, whose anxiety had begun to wear on everyone around him. “Imsiba is too clever by far to allow himself and the others to be caught.”

  A donkey brayed as if mocking his words.

  Cursing the beast, he pulled his wrap closer around himself and stepped out of the black shadow of the escarpment into the lesser darkness filling the mouth of the dry watercourse. The night was cold, the air so clear the stars seemed close enough to touch. The indistinct figures of men and animals bobbed and shifted in the eerie light before daybreak. The drovers swore at the fractious donkeys, their voices rising above the thunk of hooves on sand, the blowing and squealing and braying. Paser walked among them, overseeing the loading for the morning march. Harmose had drawn his archers aside to issue last-minute orders.

  “What if we’ve guessed wrong?” Mery asked. “What if the raiders plan to attack at the first bend in the wadi?”

  “What if the lord Khepre fails to rise above the horizon?” Bak snapped. “What if the world is shrouded in darkness forever more?”

  Mery recoiled at the sarcasm. “It’s the waiting,” he mumbled. “The thought of battle, the anticipation, makes me babble.”

  A sharp whistle pierced the night. Silence enveloped the camp, then the sounds of men and animals gradually resumed. The voices had changed pitch, quickened with tension.