Lauren Haney - Flesh of the God

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.

“Where did you find the cones?” he asked Imsiba.

“Deep inside two baked clay images covered with written words to protect the men from serpents and scorpions, sickness, and dangerous wounds. The statues were hollow. The cones fit snug inside. A layer of dried clay smeared over the holes hid their contents.”

“There must be a dozen or more of those things scattered through the caravan.” Nebwa eyed the Medjay with a new respect. “I take them for granted, as do all the men. Never would I have thought to look inside.”

“Nor would I,” Imsiba admitted. “If Bak hadn’t told us to look hardest at objects the goldsmith Heby could’ve molded or altered, I doubt we’d have found them.”

Wheeling toward Bak, Nebwa swung a thumb in the general direction of the target. “Tell me. What did you learn from that?”

Bak looked for men close enough to eavesdrop. He found none. At least half the contestants and onlookers, including Mery and Paser, had gathered around the target. A bowman held it up so all could see and inspect the damage. From the heated words erupting from the group, Bak guessed they were settling a dispute over a wager. The remaining onlookers were standing as before, awaiting a new match.

“I believe Paser to be the man we’ve been seeking,” Bak replied.

Nebwa stared at the men grouped around the target, his expression uncertain. “What did he do or say that I missed?”

“You watched both him and Mery, as I did. Of the two, who showed the greater strength of will? Who allowed nothing to move him from the task he had set himself?”

Imsiba nodded his understanding. “Lieutenant Mery is like a dry twig, easily broken. He might’ve slain Commandant Nakht and the goldsmith in fits of desperation, but he’d not have returned a second time to Heby’s house. To find you there once would’ve torn the heart from him.”

“I doubt he’d have hidden in the commandant’s residence, laying in wait for Ruru,” Bak said grimly. “Nor would he have climbed to the summit above the mine, where he could’ve been seen at any time. Or slipped away to fire arrows at me with half the men in the caravan looking on.”