Lauren Haney: Place of Darkness

“I told him you’d placed men on the cliff above, so he wishes to stay, to see the men snared who set off the rock slide. If the truth be told, I suspect he fears returning to the royal house with a threat still hanging over our sovereign’s most important project.”

“No doubt,” Bak said in a wry voice.

Noting the cynicism, another smile touched Amonked’s lips. “Did you find the tomb you sought? Or did the slide cut short your search?”

Bak beckoned a water boy, washed the grit from his mouth and spat it out. “We found a tomb, sir, but I’ve no time to speak of it. We’ve spotted Lieutenant Menna on the trail north of here. He’s come no closer since first we saw him, which makes him look to me like a guilty man. I’m going after him before he has a chance to flee.” Refilling the bowl, he drank long and deep, readying himself for the chase.

Amonked eyed the figure on the distant trail and his face clouded over with concern. “Yes, you must go.”

“Kaemwaset can tell you of the tomb.” Bak flashed a smile at the approaching priest and turned to the Medjay.

“You must remain here, Kasaya. Go to the lieutenant in charge of the men wearing the red armbands and. .” He raised a hand, silencing the objection he saw on the young man’s face. “See that they follow me as quickly as they can, and you come with them. The trail must be blocked so Menna can’t turn back this way, and I might need help to snare him.”

Bak hastened across the terrace, stopping once when he came upon a foreman carrying a wooden staff about twice the length of his arm. He borrowed the object as a makeshift weapon, a substitute for his baton of office, which was more to his liking than the dagger hanging from his belt. The staff was somewhat thicker than his baton, a little heavier, not as well balanced, and probably not as strong. He offered no complaint. It would suffice.

Leaving the terrace behind, he looked upward to where he had last seen Menna. The officer had not moved. He stood at the far end of a long stretch of trail that traversed the slope below the cliff. From there the path ran almost straight up the incline before turning to the left to climb the cliff, which was much lower and not nearly as steep as at the back of the valley where the temples stood. It was in fact a rough and broken escarpment which gradually tailed off to the east. At the top, the trail followed the rim in a westerly direction to the cliff’s highest point behind the two temples and continued on from there.

Why had Menna not moved? Was he waiting for the cliff to collapse above Djeser Djeseru? Was he trying to figure out whether he could safely come into the valley or whether he should retreat? What would Menna do when he saw him climbing the path to meet him?

Bak knew what he would do: he would turn around and run as fast as he could back up the trail. Of course, Menna could leave the path where he stood and plunge down the slope to the valley floor, but if he did so, Bak could summon the men toiling in the quarry, who would tear him limb from limb if they learned he was the malign spirit. No, if run he decided to do, he had no choice but to go back the way he had come.

Bak had no option but to follow. The trail split above Djeser Djeseru into two paths. Both ultimately joined another, more frequently used track at two widespread locations, one some distance to the southwest, the other crossing a high ridge to travel in a northwesterly direction. At the north end of the oft-traveled track lay the Great Place, the valley where Maatkare Hatshepsut’s father was laid to rest and she was even now having her own tomb dug. At the southern end lay the village where the tomb diggers dwelt.

He had no time to go all the way around to either location.

Nor could he send royal guards to both. By the time he or they reached their destination, Menna would have arrived and gone.

Trying to look casual, unhurried, he crossed a strip of sand to the foot of the trail and immediately began to climb.

Menna made no move to meet him halfway. A clear sign of guilt. As the last of his doubts fled, Bak smiled grimly at himself, at his failure to trust his instincts. After the initial short and fairly steep ascent, the path turned in an easterly direction away from Djeser Djeseru and traversed the hillside in a long, gradual rise to the place where Menna stood.

He strode up the trail, walking easily, as if he had no purpose or goal. Menna was wary, too cautious to descend the path to meet him, but was not yet frightened enough to run.

Bak wanted to get as close as possible before the guard officer guessed his purpose and the chase heated up. If he could stand before him face-to-face, so much the better. An unlikely event, he knew.

Halfway along the traverse, he raised his hand and waved, a friendly signal that would ordinarily have brought the recipient toward him. Menna held his ground and did not return the greeting. Bak walked on, using all the patience he could muster to keep himself from breaking into a faster pace.

Again the distance between them shrunk by half. Bak opened his mouth to call out. Abruptly, Menna turned and, taking long, quick strides, began to climb the steeper slope to the escarpment. The words died on Bak’s lips and he looked rearward, searching for a reason for the officer’s retreat. Kasaya, Amonked, Kaemwaset, and Pashed were standing on the terrace with the lieutenant in charge of the special unit of royal guards. Men wearing red armbands were hurrying toward them from all directions and forming a column, preparing to march. Bak muttered an oath. He had never known an officer to gather his men so quickly. Menna, trained a military man, had guessed their purpose.

Wasting no time on useless anger, pleased the officer had responded so fast, Bak charged up the trail. He was sorely tempted to cut diagonally across the slope, aiming for the spot where the path began its ascent of the escarpment, but experience on the incline above Djeser Djeseru kept him on the trail. Worn reasonably smooth by the passage of many feet, it would be just as fast and far less hazardous.

He soon reached the end of the traverse, the place Menna had remained for so long. As he headed up the much steeper incline, the officer ahead paused and looked back.

“You’ll never lay a hand on me!” he shouted.

“Better me than the workmen down there,” Bak yelled, pointing at Djeser Djeseru.

Menna’s laugh rang loud but hollow, and he swung away to climb on. He could have no illusions about his future should he be snared. If Bak or the royal guards caught him, he would stand before no less a man than the vizier, who would judge him guilty and order impalement or, more likely, burning. If the workmen at Djeser Djeseru caught him, he would be stoned or worse and his torn and broken body thrown to the crocodiles. Whether consumed by reptile or fire, his body would no longer exist and he would be doomed to permanent oblivion, with no hope of an afterlife.

Bak climbed upward at a good steady pace. The heat was intense beneath the cruel sun, quick to sap a man’s energy.

Sweat poured from him, making the cut on his back sting, as well as several fresh abrasions, souvenirs of the rock slide.

His mouth was dry, his stomach empty.

He eyed the man ahead, only a few steps below the point where the trail turned left to rise up the escarpment. For one who claimed to have spent much of his time shuffling scrolls and writing reports, Menna was proving to be both quick and strong. Thanks, Bak assumed, to his many nights in the cemeteries, seeking out old tombs and digging for riches.

Menna turned left and vanished from sight behind a clump of boulders. Bak climbed on, never altering his pace.

To wear himself out in one quick burst of energy might cost him the chase-or, maybe later, the battle, if it came to that.