Lauren Haney - Flesh of the God

“A desperate man might find such courage,” Nebwa said.

“He showed no fear when he walked into the trap the tribesmen set,” Imsiba reminded them.

“He couldn’t even summon the nerve to win a contest he thought would give him Azzia!” Bak said bitterly.

Nebwa drew back, surprised at the outburst. His eyes narrowed and he seemed about to comment, but thought better of it. “When will we make Paser our prisoner?”

“We’ve no hard proof of his guilt.”

“A good beating should start his tongue wagging.”

Bak’s laugh held no humor whatsoever. “Have you forgotten his cousin Senenmut? The man who stands close to Maatkare Hatshepsut by day and probably shares her bed at night?”

Nebwa muttered a curse. Imsiba gave an uncomfortable grunt.

Bak surprised them with a wry, almost modest smile. “I feared many times through the past weeks that I would never learn the name of the man we sought. Now that I know it-at least I believe I do-cannot the three of us, working together as we did today, conceive a way of establishing his guilt beyond doubt?”

Bak watched Paser, a dozen paces ahead, walk into the passageway through the towered gate that would take him inside the walls of Buhen. For the first time in two days, much of the tension drained from him.

Although the discovery of the unmarked cones had not been made public, Paser must have ascertained that the statues were missing. He was astute enough to realize he might soon be accused of murder and theft. Bak had thought him too bold and self-confident to abandon the gold he had slain for, the gold he had undoubtedly hidden somewhere inside the city. He had worried anyway. Especially when the caravan neared the river, the only practical escape route through the barren, wasted land.

With Paser safe inside Buhen and a half-dozen Medjay policemen dispersing around the fortress to close off the exits, he could set in motion a chain of events that would demonstrate once and for all that Paser rather than Mery was guilty of theft and murder. He hoped also to satisfy Senenmut that his cousin had been stealing gold and had slain five men to protect his secret.

Nodding to the sentry on duty, he paused at the base of the tower and waited for the heavily guarded string of donkeys carrying the marked cones of gold to follow Paser through the gate. He looked back at the harbor and the three quays jutting into the river like long white fingers pointing toward the opposite shore and the desert through which he hoped never again to march. The naked masts of two broad-beamed cargo ships rose above more than a dozen small vessels bobbing against the quay, disgorging soldiers, captives, drovers, and donkeys. Nebwa’s commands, the men’s good-natured curses, and the braying of nervous animals were lost in the excited clamor of garrison troops and civilians flocking out of the city to watch the spectacle. Word had spread quickly that a large number of prisoners had been taken.

Bak knew he should be well-satisfied. He had planned and won a battle. His Medjays had been accepted by almost every man who had journeyed with the caravan. He had put an end to the thefts at the mine and identified the man responsible. And, with the help of the gods and a handful of mortals, he should be able to prove Paser’s guilt. Yet his sense of accomplishment was blunted by concern for Azzia.

Cursing Hori for failing to meet his boat at the quay, Bak plunged into the passage behind the last donkey. After so many days on the burning desert, the dim corridor felt cool and soothing to his roughened, weathered skin. He strode on to the bright, hot, dusty street beyond. The clean white buildings; the odors of fish, cooking fuel, smoke, and sweat; the sharp yips of scrapping dogs were a welcome relief after so many endless days and nights of heat and dust and thirst. It was good to be home. Home? he thought. Buhen? He dismissed the idea as a flight of fancy and turned his thoughts to the tasks ahead. He must learn Azzia’s fate, lure Paser into his net, and when that was done, hold a council of war with his allies.

As he followed the gold laden donkeys up the street to the treasury, a stream of people hurried in the opposite direction, eager to see the soldiers and their human trophies. He was about to stop a man to ask about Azzia when he saw Paser enter the treasury, the domain of the chief scribe Kames. Gold and all other objects of value were stored there until a ship arrived to carry them downriver to Kemet.

Kames would know where Azzia was. Bak hastened along the line of donkeys, reaching the treasury door as Paser returned to the street.

“What are you doing here?” Paser asked, slapping the lead animal’s gray flank, making it sidle around so he could get to the load it carried. “Should you not be preparing to march through the gate at the head of our victorious troops?”

Bak eyed the drover and guards, all close enough to hear. “Like you, I had another, more pressing task.”

“So Nebwa alone will lead the procession.” Paser expelled a contemptuous snort. “Does that not bother you?”

“Our archers and spearmen won the battle. I did nothing but point the way.”

Paser gave him a long, thoughtful look. “I’ve known few men so modest.” He burrowed deep inside a bundle tied to the donkey’s back. Withdrawing two gold-filled cones, he held them out to Bak. A smile played at the corners of his lips. “Do you not trust me, Bak? Do you fear I’ll keep a portion of this precious cargo for myself?”

He’s taunting me! Bak thought, and produced a smile of his own. “To take gold impressed with the royal seal would be foolhardy. You’re not a foolish man.”

“Why come to the treasury? Did you recover something of value during our journey that you mean to send on to the capital?”

Bak was amazed at the man’s nerve. “I’ve nothing for Kames.”

The two men stared at each other, Paser’s expression speculative, Bak’s as bland as bread without honey or oil or fruit to give it flavor.

“Paser!” Kames called. “Must I wait until day turns to night?”

The caravan officer jerked his eyes from Bak’s, spun around, and carried the cones inside. Bak drew in a long breath, let it out slow and easy. He was sure Paser understood that he did not intend to turn the unmarked cones into the treasury. Did he believe the lie? Did he think all men as dishonest as he?

Bak followed him as far as the threshold. The treasury antechamber was small, cluttered with writing paraphernalia, a scale and weights, and baskets heaped with scrolls. Kames, lean and gray, presided from a low stool. He accepted one cone at a time and weighed it, his face grave, his demeanor so formal he turned the simple task into a ritual. A solemn young man seated on the floor, legs folded in front of him, scribbled the information Kames dictated. A beefy guard stood straddle-legged before a rear door which led to the valuable objects stored beyond.

Bak held his tongue until Paser edged past to collect another pair of cones. “Can you tell me, Kames, if Commandant Nakht’s widow, mistress Azzia, is still within the walls of this city?”

Kames scowled. “You’re the policeman, aren’t you?”

Bak remembered the same tone of mild distaste the last time they had talked. “Will you tell me…”

“I’ll be happy to answer your questions later. Tomorrow.” Kames flicked his hand through the air as if brushing away a fly. “Leave us, sir. You’re blocking the doorway.”

Any other day, Bak would have laughed. Instead he muttered an oath beneath his breath, spun away, tapped Paser on the shoulder, and beckoned. “We must speak further. I’ve something in my possession that will be of interest to you.”