Flesh of the God lb-7 Page 25

  “You seem not to have made too big a fool of yourself,” Nebwa said, his good humor restored.

  “I’ll never have your skill,” Bak admitted ruefully.

  Nebwa laughed. “After you found the target, you performed well enough. Not bad at all for a charioteer.”

  “A policeman,” Bak said, laughing. He realized this was the first time he had used the word to describe himself, and, much to his surprise, it bothered him not at all.

  He had no time to dwell on the thought. The next pair of archers, men who served as caravan guards, were approaching to take his and Nebwa’s places. Mery’s match with Harmose would follow. Before their turn, Bak had to plant in the watch lieutenant’s heart, with Harmose’s help, the seed of competition and a desperate need to win.

  As he and Nebwa rejoined the spectators, a youthful soldier with a bandaged arm hurried to the target. He pulled out the arrows and threw aside the shield, whose center had been riddled by the sharp, pointed missiles. After smoothing the disturbed sand, he set up a new target, this one a deep reddish brown.

  Contestants and onlookers alike took barely a moment to praise Nebwa and commiserate with Bak. Their thoughts were on the next contest, the archers’ prowess, how the long, arduous journey might have affected their strength and accuracy. Bets were offered, negotiated, settled on. Nebwa dropped his bow and quiver on the sand and hastened away to stake a bronze dagger and a dozen other objects he had won by betting on himself to win his match with Bak. Paser, who had again usurped his authority, glared at the more senior officer each time he crossed his path. Mery made a few bets and wished competing archers luck with a slap on the back, but his smile was fixed, his voice too hearty.

  Are his thoughts on stolen gold hidden among the supplies? Bak wondered. Is he thinking of Azzia and guilt-ridden for what he’s done to her? He swallowed the anger rising in his throat and the fear for her safety that clutched his heart. Mery might not be the guilty man, he cautioned himself. He might simply be one who bends beneath the weight of misfortune, who loses hope too easily, who needs others close by to stiffen his spine. A man unworthy of so strong yet gentle a woman.

  Harmose approached the young watch officer, a few words passed between them, and they slipped out of the crowd. Uttering a silent prayer to the lord Amon that the charade he and the archer had planned would reveal the truth, Bak laid his bow and quiver next to Nebwa’s and strode toward the pair.

  “It was an omen, Lieutenant Mery,” he heard Harmose say. “I know it!”

  Mery’s face registered a confused wonder, doubt mixed with hope. “Can it be true?”

  An arrow whished through the air and rammed into the target. The second contest had begun.

  Harmose saw Bak approaching and smiled a greeting. “The lord Horus came to me in a dream last night, sir.” His words were quick, excited. “I was telling Lieutenant Mery. It bodes well for mistress Azzia.”

  Bak feigned surprise, curiosity.

  “He gave me wings,” Harmose went on. “We soared together, the good god and I, across the sky to the west.”

  “He must favor you exceedingly,” Bak said, acting suitably impressed.

  “He must.” Harmose paused as if the thought overwhelmed him. “We flew to Buhen. From high above I saw mistress Azzia, standing atop the wall, welcoming this caravan as it passed through the gate.” He laughed, delighted. “She’s not yet gone to Ma’am, sir!”

  Bak wished with all his being that the tale were true. “Could the man who slew Commandant Nakht have been found?”

  “No.” Harmose looked deep within his memory and let the words tumble out. “When next I saw her, she was with a man, a bowman, a renowned warrior he was. This man, whose face I couldn’t see, stood with her before the viceroy. He cared for her above all others, his love so strong and true the viceroy knew she must be innocent.” Another pause and he added, “I saw her a third time, in the courtyard of the commandant’s residence. She was weaving a swath of fine cloth for a man’s tunic, her body heavy with his child.”

  Bak prayed Harmose had not gone too far, prayed the watch officer did not know Azzia was barren.

  “Who was this warrior?” Mery demanded. “Bak?”

  “He was there, I think, but…” Harmose shook his head. “No, he stood apart.”

  “Who could he have been?”

  Bak relaxed. From the wistful look on Mery’s face, he had no doubt the officer believed every word and wanted above all things to be identified as Azzia’s lover.

  Shouts, whistles, and clapping announced the end of the match. The bowmen, Bak saw, had planted every arrow inside a circle the size of a clenched fist. “You both value mistress Azzia over all other women. You’re both reputed to be excellent marksmen, and you’re next to compete with the bow. Could not the dream have meant that the better man will be the one to save her?”

  Harmose’s eyes widened. “Of course! Why did I not see so obvious a truth?”

  “Who’s next?” Nebwa yelled.

  Harmose raised his bow and waved it. “We are. Lieutenant Mery and I.”

  “I’d wager my best pair of sandals that the man who saves her will be the one to win her heart,” Bak said.

  Mery paled, the scar at the corner of his lip flamed.

  Harmose appeared eager but practical. “You’ll take along the winner when you sail with her to Ma’am?”

  Bak looked from one man to the other, his own face solemn. “I cannot change the fate the lord Horus has revealed.”

  The archer flashed a broad grin and strode away to face the target, walking with a brisk, confident step. Mery produced a distracted smile, stiffened his spine, and hurried after him.

  Relieved the pretense was over, Bak glanced toward the camp, seeking reassurance that all was as it should be. Imsiba stood facing the archery field, talking across the back of a donkey to another man. Several Medjays were standing guard, the rest were helping the drovers. He could not see what they were doing, but Nebwa had told them to pour foodstuffs from one basket to another, water and wine from jar to jar. To rebundle extra weapons, clothing, and the officers’ tents. Nothing would escape their sharp eyes, he knew, but would they find stolen gold?

  Nebwa hastily settled on one last bet and rushed to Bak’s side. “All went well?”

  “Harmose could make a man believe night is day and day is night.”

  “That’s the Medjay half of him.” Nebwa’s expression turned sour and he glanced toward the donkeys. “I know you trust your men, but…”

  Will the poison never drain from his heart? Bak wondered. “If my Medjays find stolen gold, Nebwa, you’ll hold it in your hands before darkness falls.”

  “Will I?”

  An angry retort rose to Bak’s lips, but he swallowed it. He had no wish to quarrel with the one man who could help him get under Paser’s skin. Especially now, for the caravan officer was next in line to compete. He, like Mery, must be stretched as tight as his bowstring before he fired his first arrow.

  An image of Mery’s handsome face, drawn and tense, flashed before Bak’s eyes. He felt a momentary guilt, which he quashed with a vision of Azzia standing before the viceroy and Nakht and Ruru lying lifeless on the floor of the commandant’s residence. The thought strengthened his resolve to do whatever he had to do, no matter how distasteful.

  He looked at Paser, standing among the wagering men, speaking with a gangly archer whose skin was mottled by a peeling sunburn. “If he doesn’t soon come to us, we must go to him.”

  “He’ll come. I’ve trod too hard on his toes for him to register no complaint. My order to consolidate the supplies without so much as telling him I intended to do so should be the tiny flame that sets the village afire.”

  Bak detected a surprising lack of enthusiasm. “I thought you enjoyed baiting him.”

  “Baiting is one thing. The possibility that I might doom him is another.”

  Bak could think of nothing to say. He well understood Nebwa’s qualms.

&
nbsp; The caravan officer must have felt their gaze. He glanced toward them, and a ruddy flush spread across his face. Has nothing more than anger at Nebwa sent the blood to his cheeks? Bak wondered. Or is his anger mixed with fear that stolen gold will be discovered? That he himself will be named a thief and murderer?

  Paser abandoned the archer without a word and wove a path through the betting men, his expression dark, smoldering. He stopped squarely in front of Nebwa. “I hope you’re satisfied. Our food and supplies must now be scattered to the four winds. We’ll not be on our way before dawn tomorrow.”

  “So be it,” Nebwa said, shrugging.

  “If we lose one man or donkey for lack of water, I’ll take you before the new commandant and see you broken.”

  Nebwa spat on the ground near Paser’s left foot. “Tired men fall away from a column, too. And my men need rest.”

  The bettors’ voices ebbed to whispers. Harmose stood facing the new target, bow poised, string taut. His arrow took wing and slashed through the center of the pale brown hide, burying itself to the feathers.

  “They’d be no more weary than mine if you’d been less gullible,” Paser snapped, “if you’d not marched them off to chase tribesmen who didn’t exist.”

  Nebwa’s expression turned stormy. “They grew tired when I hurried after you, thinking you needed help.”

  “How many are here, watching this match when they should be sleeping?”

  “An hour or so of amusement never hurt anyone.”

  A second arrow slammed home and a third, peeling the feathers from the first, littering the sand with bits of white. Awed murmurs burst from the onlookers, silencing Nebwa and Paser, drawing their eyes to the match. Mery stood stiff and silent, his face unreadable from so far away. Bak prayed he had not already convinced himself he had no chance to win.

  Harmose let fly his next arrow, which began to flutter the instant it left the bow. It thunked into the target a hand’s breadth below the other three. Many of the onlookers, men who had bet on his skill, groaned. The archer scowled, fussed with the bowstring wound around the end of the weapon. Bak suppressed a smile. Harmose, he was sure, had planted the arrow exactly where he intended.

  “After a few hours’ sleep,” he said, “I see no reason why Nebwa’s men can’t march throughout the night.”

  Paser’s eyes raked him from head to toe. “You know nothing of the desert, Bak. We could at any time be overtaken by a storm or our water could go foul and the donkeys die of its poison.”

  “You worry like an old woman,” Nebwa said, dismissing the possibility of catastrophe with a wave of his hand.

  Paser’s cheeks turned fiery. “I see why Nakht no longer allowed you to lead the caravans. He looked into your heart and found you irresponsible.”

  Harmose sent his final arrow hurtling through the air. It plowed into the shield within a hair’s breadth of the first three. The men who had backed him shouted with glee; the rest yelled encouragement at Mery.

  “If you think me so reckless in my duty,” Nebwa sneered, “why do you not write the worst to your cousin, the high and mighty Senenmut? As our sovereign’s toady, he commands far more power than any fortress commandant-or viceroy, for that matter.”

  “Don’t press me too hard, Nebwa. I’m loathe to use my influence, but I will if I must.”

  Mery moved into position. The timing could not have been better. Bak placed a hand on Paser’s broad shoulder, ushered him a few paces away from Nebwa, and spoke as one friend to another. “Make no threats, Paser, I beg you. You’re a fine officer, brave beyond all others. I’d not like to see you…”

  He stopped deliberately, watched Mery pull back the bowstring and release it. The missile flew straight and true, sending more bits of feather raining down on the sand.

  Bak lowered his voice to a confidential murmur. “The regiment of Amon stands at full strength an hour’s march from Waset and the royal house. The regiment of Ptah, they say, could take the northern capital of Mennufer within a day.” He paused, watched Mery’s second arrow take wing, cut through the shield next to the first. “As you know perhaps better than most, both regiments are commanded by Menkheperre Thutmose, whom many believe the rightful, sole heir to the throne.” Mery pulled the bowstring taut. “I know nothing for a fact, but…”

  A shrill, tooth-jarring whistle pierced the air. Paser’s shoulder twitched beneath Bak’s hand. Mery’s bow jumped, sending the arrow high and wide to bury itself in the sand behind the target. One of the bettors moaned as if the missile had penetrated him instead. Bak swung away from Paser. He saw Imsiba weave a path through the mounds of supplies and drop from sight behind a donkey. He doubted gold had been found. The signal was intended to harry, not pass on information. With a noncommittal grunt, he turned back to the caravan officer.

  “What I’m trying to say is this,” he said. “Hold yourself far away from Senenmut. If what I’ve heard is true, he’ll not long be the most powerful man in Kemet.”

  Paser’s eyes were on Mery, his face impossible to read. “I’m not a blind man, Bak.”

  What does that mean? Bak wondered.

  Mery wiped his brow with his hand and elevated his bow. His stance was wrong. All who watched could see he had given up the struggle. The arrow thudded into the target three fingers’ breadth above those he had shot off before. He seated his final missile, raised the bow, and stood as if immobilized. Slowly he lowered his weapon, said something to Harmose, and clapped the archer on the shoulder. The winning gamblers laughed and shouted. The losers grumbled about the fool whose whistle had ruined Mery’s concentration.

  Paser pivoted on his heel and hastened to join the sergeant with whom he would compete. Mery and Harmose walked back together, the former with a set smile in a haggard face.

  Nebwa hurried to Bak’s side. “Well? How did it go with Paser?”

  Bak tore his gaze from Mery, spread his hands wide, shrugged. “If my words troubled him, he gave no sign.”

  Nebwa grunted, apparently not surprised.

  The betting dragged on. The orange-red orb of the lord Re hugged the horizon, casting long shadows across the sand. Bak and Nebwa stood shoulder to shoulder, studying the two suspects. Paser chatted with the sergeant as if he had not a care in the world. Mery quickly withdrew from the onlookers to stand alone with his unhappiness. Nebwa shook his head, unable to decide which man might be guilty. Bak refused to speculate.

  The sergeant raised his weapon. The bettors’ voices tailed off. One arrow followed another, forming a tight knot at the center of a reddish shield. As he released the fourth missile, Imsiba let loose another earsplitting whistle. The sergeant started, sending the arrow a finger’s breadth too high. Bellowing a curse, he threw a murderous look toward the camp. Angry murmurs burst from the men who had bet on his skill. The sergeant jerked a final arrow from his quiver and drove it deep into the center of the feathery mass. Those who had backed him shouted with delight; the remainder yelled at Paser, urging him to win.

  Bak closed his eyes and promised a host of offerings to the lord Amon if he allowed him to learn before the match ended what he needed to know. Deep down his suspicions were focusing on one man, and he wondered if the prayer should be more specific. No, he decided, for if I err, the god might give me no answer at all.

  Paser lifted his bow. The instant before the arrow took flight, Imsiba’s whistle tore through the still, calm air. As far as Bak could tell, Paser never flinched. The missile flew high nonetheless, slicing through the shield four fingers above those the sergeant had bunched together. Paser readied the weapon a second time. He hesitated as if awaiting another whistle, but finally let the arrow go. It plowed into the hide lower than the first, but still too high. The third shaved the edge of the sergeant’s cluster. He steadied the bow for his next attempt. Bak had no doubt the arrow would fly true. He had seen men before who shot well enough to wound a creature of flesh and blood but had to find by trial and error the heart of the beast.

  “Bak
!” Imsiba’s shout.

  Paser, his arms steadier than the branches of a tree, sent the arrow straight and true. It thunked into the shield among those the sergeant had let fly. One or two onlookers grumbled at the distraction, the rest howled their approval of Paser.

  Bak pivoted, saw Imsiba loping toward him and Nebwa. He prayed the big Medjay was bringing stolen gold and not merely pretending for the suspects’ benefit.

  “You found it?” Nebwa called.

  Imsiba slid to a stop before them and, with a soft, deep-throated chuckle, grabbed Bak’s wrist and dropped two pottery cones into his hand. Neither was impressed with the royal seal, nor had their weights been noted by the scribe Roy as they should have been. Nebwa gave an ecstatic yowl and clapped the Medjay on the back so hard he almost lost his balance. Bak laughed, partly because they had found the gold, partly because Nebwa had forgotten, temporarily if not for long, his dislike and mistrust of at least one Medjay.

  Reminding himself that all was not yet over, he wheeled to watch the end of the match. Paser’s weapon was armed and ready, his stance good, his arms steady. The arrow sped through the air and smashed into the target’s heart. Paser said something to the sergeant, laughed.

  Bak could not be sure and he had no proof, but he thought he knew the name of the guilty man. Curbing his elation lest he be premature, he beckoned his companions and headed back toward the camp.