Lauren Haney - Cruel Deceit

Bak, balanced precariously on the edge of the bank, came close to falling into the river with him, but scrambled back to firmer ground. Pahure surfaced just out of reach, sput tered, looked around to see where he was. The gilded bow of the barge of the lord Amon hung over him, reaching high above his head. The long, sleek prow was surmounted by a huge carved, gilded, and painted image of a ram’s head emerging from the sacred lily. The horned ram, symbol of the lord Amon, wore on its head the golden disk of the sun and over its brow a rearing cobra. A large painted and gilded wooden replica of a multicolored broad collar hung below the image.

Pahure’s expression clouded, as if for an instant he felt the wrath of the god breathing down his neck. He shook his head, visibly throwing off the feeling, and swam under the prow. A couple of paces beyond the vessel, he treaded water and again looked out across the river at the opposite shore, so far away few men would dare try to swim across and fewer would succeed. Especially not a man already tired af ter a long, hard chase. Bak, very much aware of how tired he himself was, stood poised on the riverbank, ready to swim after his quarry.

The priests on the barge, their brows furrowed by worry, peered down from the bow, looking at the man in the water and at his pursuer. Bak was as concerned as they. He could hear, over the cheering of the spectators lining the pro cessional way, the beat of drums setting the pace of the pro cession, the harsher sounds of clappers and sistra. He estimated them to be about halfway between Ipet-resyt and the river, approaching the spot where last he had seen the sheep and goats. He prayed the soldiers had removed the an imals from the processional way, prayed he could snare

Pahure before the standard-bearers and leading priests reached the waterfront and the dual sovereigns, especially

Maatkare Hatshepsut, became aware that a problem existed.

Pahure, his decision made, swam upstream, vanishing be hind the far side of the golden barge. Bak pushed his dagger firmly into its sheath so he wouldn’t lose it in the river, flung his baton of office away from the water’s edge, and dove in after him. Rounding the hull he spotted the steward swim ming south alongside the vessel at a good solid pace. The sa cred barge was not large, less than fifty paces long, and its shallow hull, gilded above the waterline, lay low in the wa ter. To a swimmer, it looked like a wall of solid gold, with scenes incised along much of its length showing Maatkare

Hatshepsut praising her heavenly father.

Bak glanced up midway along the vessel, saw rising on the deck above him the gilded dais and, beneath its roof, the open shrine in which the barque of the lord Amon would be placed for its voyage to Ipet-isut. Frantic priests hung over the railing, watching him and Pahure.

He swam on, listening to the sounds of sistra and clappers and drums echoing through the water in his ears, hearing the voices of men and women on the riverbank talking excit edly, no doubt guessing where he and Pahure had gone, what the vile criminal meant to do, where the two would reappear.

Bak could not imagine what Pahure hoped to gain. He could not swim across the river and the moment he set foot on the near shore, he would be taken. He was doomed one way or the other.

Ahead, the steward passed the twin rudders, each overlaid with a thin gold sheath incised with the sacred lily and the two eyes of the lord Horus, and swam beneath a second gilded ram’s head mounted on the narrow stern. Spotting

Bak, he dove beneath the water. Bak kicked backward to grab a rudder, fearing Pahure meant to pull him under. A half-dozen priests fluttered back and forth across the stern, peering over the sides. From their near panic, he guessed they feared he would snap off the rudder, which was much lighter and more graceful than those on working vessels.

Pahure surfaced some distance upstream and swam south ward with long, fast strokes. Ignoring muscles beginning to ache from the strain, Bak shot forward through the water.

The steward passed the densest part of the crowd gathered around the sacred barge and appeared to be heading toward an acacia hanging over the river’s edge, a tree Bak remem bered from the day he had walked along the shore with

Netermose.

Even if Pahure reached the tree and pulled himself onto the mudbank, he doubted the steward would get away. Too many people were running along the shore, keeping pace.

Still, he wanted to be the man to snare the vile criminal.

Pahure leaped upward and grabbed a limb, which bowed beneath his weight. As he began to pull himself out of the water, Bak swam to him and caught hold of his legs. The steward clung with both hands and tried to shake him off.

The limb drooped further. Bak’s hands slid down the wet legs, stopped at the ankles. He jerked as hard as he could, heard the sharp crack of breaking wood. Though not broken through, the limb bent lower, dropping Pahure into the water to his waist.

With a grim but victorious smile, Bak looked up at the man he had caught. He saw no fear on Pahure’s face, only a firm determination to fight to his last breath. Beyond the steward, he glimpsed a group of spectators running toward the tree, several armed soldiers gathering around, and four nearly naked, heavily muscled men, each carrying a good size rounded rock, identifying them as competitors in a throwing contest.

The closest soldier raised his spear and, his mouth clamped tight with determination, thrust the weapon. At the same time Bak heard a sickening thud. Pahure went limp and half slid, half fell into the water, while the spear sped harmlessly over his shoulder. As he vanished beneath the surface, Bak saw that the side of his head had been crushed.

Startled, he glanced up at the soldier, who looked equally surprised. Beyond, Bak glimpsed the rock throwers, one with a triumphant smile on his face, the others encircling him, smothering him with praise.

“They’re coming! They’re coming!”

The child’s voice rang out sharp and clear, carried by some whim of the gods all across the landscape in front of

Ipet-isut. Every eye turned westward, every man and woman stretched to his or her tallest, eager to see the first pair of towboats enter the canal. What had been a soft murmur of voices rose to an expectant clamor.

So many people had come to see the lord Amon return to his northern mansion that the crowd standing on the raised paths pressed against the row of royal guards lining the arti ficial lake in front of Ipet-isut and the canal to the river.

Humble men and women unwilling or afraid to push them selves forward, people without means and accustomed to no better, stood among the trees and brush to either side in the standing water left by the retreating flood. Children perched in the trees, looking out over the multitude of heads.

Bak, having received a summons while donning clean clothing at his Medjays’ quarters, had hastened to join

Amonked on the raised limestone platform that overlooked the lake. Known to have the ear of his royal cousin, the

Storekeeper of Amon had been given a place of distinction from which to view the approaching procession of boats.

Crowded onto the platform with them were ranking priests and dignitaries from throughout the land of Kemet.

Officiating priests stood at the edge of the lake in front of the platform, some holding lustration vessels, the rest filling the air with incense that rose in a cloud, making Bak’s nose itch. Four royal servants holding ostrich feather fans waited nearby. Standard-bearers stood at the lower end of the shal low stairs that led up to the processional way connecting the lake to the sacred precinct.