Lauren Haney: Cruel Deceit

Nebwa and Imsiba, both doting fathers, stopped to explore a woodcarver’s stall, drawn by colorful hanging birds whose wings moved up and down when touched by the breeze. Bak stood off to the side to wait and to watch the passing crowd.

He gradually became aware of a new sound, one out of place in a busy market. The whinnying of horses. Not close enough to catch the ear of people distracted by the abun dance around them, barely audible to him. He raised his head, listened intently. Sometimes the sound vanished alto gether in the closer, louder buzz of humanity. Sometimes he heard it distinctly. The animals were unsettled, fearful. Their anxious neighing, their alarmed snorts, some distance away and not always clear, were unmistakable to a former chari otry officer such as he. They must be looked at, helped.

He peered into the woodcarver’s stall. “Nebwa, Imsiba.

I’m going on ahead. I hear horses in trouble.”

Nebwa, intent on Imsiba, who was haggling for a bird, took an instant to register the words. “Where?”

“Somewhere to the north.”

“We won’t be long.”

Bak worked his way to the water’s edge where the crowd was thinner. He ducked around sailors and porters who stood in his path, jumped over mounds of cargo and ships’ fittings when no other way was open, and broke into a fast trot when the route was clear. He slowed twice to listen, to make sure the horses were ahead, not in a side lane he might unwittingly pass. Both times he heard them, and each time their neighing was louder, more distraught. Other people had begun to notice. Most simply raised their heads to listen, a few took tentative footsteps toward the sound, a handful hurried along after him.

He sped past the last few market stalls. The street ahead was nearly empty. Most people leaving the market had taken the eastbound streets and lanes to reach their homes. The few who had come northward had gathered at the water’s edge and, talking anxiously among themselves, were look ing toward the last ship in line. Baskets overflowing with produce and bulging linen and string bags sat on the ground around their feet. Two boys of eight or so years, one with a yellow puppy in his arms, stood with the adults. Hearing the rapid patter of sandals, they all turned to see who had come.

“Do any of you know anything about horses?” one of the men asked. He pointed toward the foredeck of the ship, a great seagoing cargo vessel, with a broad hull, tall mast and sweeping yards, and what had to be a massive sail furled against the lower yard. “Look at them. If something isn’t done before long they’ll kill themselves.”

“I once was a charioteer.” Bak spoke automatically, his at tention focused on the animals on deck.

Sixteen horses, blacks and bays, each tied securely within adjoining stalls erected in front of the deckhouse. The ani mals’ neighing was loud and unnatural, sharp with alarm.

They flung their heads wildly, trying to rear up, to tear them selves free of the bounds that held them in place. Their hooves pounded the wooden deck, their flanks slammed against the plank walls of their stalls. Something on board that ship had frightened them, and that fear was building upon itself, driving them wild.

“What the…?” Nebwa slid to a halt at Bak’s side.

Imsiba ran up to join them, frowning. “Something’s very wrong, my friend. A snake, do you think?”

“Horses are valuable animals,” Nebwa growled, “much too costly to leave untended.”

“If most of the crew were given leave,” Imsiba said, “and only two or three remained, a viper would set them running fast enough.”

“Summon the harbor patrol,” Bak told the boys. “Ask if they’ve any men who know horses. We must lead them off that ship as quickly as possible, and we could use some help.”

“Yes, sir.” Wide-eyed with excitement, the one boy shoved the puppy into his mother’s arms and together they raced away.

Bak dashed up the gangplank which, he thanked the gods, had been left in place. Nebwa and Imsiba followed close on his heels. They stopped at the top and looked around, searching for the reason for the horses’ panic. Other than the animals, they saw no sign of life. No sailors, no guards, no ship’s master. Nothing but mounds of cargo lashed to the deck, none of which looked as if it had been disturbed by a man bent on theft, but all of which could hide a reptile.

A more likely place of refuge for a snake was the bow, where a dozen bags of grain were stacked in front of the forecastle beside a large mound of sheaved straw and hay. A stack of empty sacks, as well as loose grain and bits of straw and fodder littering the deck, spoke of a lengthy voyage dur ing which a considerable amount of feed had been con sumed by the horses.

Nebwa spoke aloud what they all were thinking: “Who, in the name of the lord Amon, would abandon a shipload of horses with a snake on board? You’d think they’d at least have left a man to stand watch at the gangplank while the others summoned help.”

“We must first tend to the horses. When they’re safe, we can seek an answer to that question.” Bak’s eyes raked the deck, settled on a tunic someone had flung onto the forecas tle railing. He scooped it up, swung around, and eyed his two friends, neither of whom had any knowledge of horses.

“Find a dead end lane in which we can hold these animals,

Imsiba.”

“Yes, my friend,” the Medjay said and hurried off.

Bak turned to Nebwa. “If I can calm them one at a time, can you lead them to Imsiba?”

“Just tell me what I must do,” the troop captain growled, eyeing the animals with undisguised mistrust. He had grown to manhood on the southern frontier and had dwelt there al ways. He had never been near a horse in his life.

Thanking his friend with a grim smile, Bak walked slowly to the closest stall, speaking softly to the horse inside, a bay mare with a white blaze between her eyes. She looked to be carrying young. Nebwa stood a couple paces away, scanning the deck, ready to lash out with his baton of office should a snake slither through the loose straw spread on the floor of the stalls.

Bak had no idea how tame the mare was-or any of the other horses, for that matter. The ship was built and fitted like a vessel of Kemet, but since far more horses were im ported than exported, he suspected they had been brought from some distant land. Which meant the mare had been on board for some time. As far as he was concerned, no sane man would ship a wild horse for any distance at all.

Therefore, he had to assume she was fairly tame, at least partly trained, and somewhat trustful of man.

Throwing the tunic, which smelled of sweat, over his shoulder, willing himself to forget the snake, to concentrate on the one horse and ignore the others, the noise they were making, their terror, he held out a hand. The mare pulled away, whinnied with fear. He forced himself to be patient, to speak softly, gently, revealing no hint of how anxious he was to get her out of that stall, how much he feared the other an imals would work themselves into so frenzied a state that one or more would break a leg or knock down a wall and do serious damage to itself and another.

Slowly, oh so slowly the mare began to calm down. He sensed that the horse in the next stall was also growing qui eter, a good sign that no snake was close by. Again he held out a hand, offering friendship. The mare whinnied in fright, but did not back off. He cautiously leaned over the wall and reached for her rope halter. She jerked away. He remained where he was, leaning toward her, hand held out between them, and continued to speak to her, to cajole her. At last she turned her head and warily sniffed his hand. Soothing her with gentle words, he caught hold of the halter, eased her head around, and rubbed her muzzle.