Lauren Haney - Flesh of the God

Lupaki grabbed Hori and hugged him. The female servants fell on their knees and wept with joy.

“I thank your gods and mine,” Azzia said. “And I thank you more than all of them.” Her final words were muffled by tears, making a lie of the smile she tried to show him.

He did not know what to do or say. He longed to hold her close, to console her with his love, as he had done with many other women through the years. She would not welcome his embrace. She was too recent a widow, too fine a woman. He could not take advantage of the gift of life he hoped soon to give her.

The buzz of voices drew his eyes to the rooftops paralleling the street. Soldiers and civilians, men, women, and children were jostling for the best positions from which to watch the triumphant army and their prisoners enter the city. Paser, he saw, was removing the gold from the next to last donkey.

“You’d better go, sir.” Hori was practically dancing with excitement. “After all the vile things that have been said about our Medjays, I can’t wait to see you and Imsiba and all the others march at the head of the prisoners you took.”

“I thought to let Nebwa…”

“You can’t!” Hori exclaimed. “You won the battle. They say he wasn’t even there!”

“You must enter this city with your men, Officer Bak.” Azzia cleared the tears from her throat, brushed a hand across a wet cheek. “They’ve earned the right to walk tall and proud, all together, behind the man who led them to victory.”

One of the soldiers who had been listening piped up, “I’ve followed Lieutenant Nebwa into the desert a dozen times. We’ve brought back prisoners-though not so many,” he added ruefully. “Half the fun was marching behind him through that gate when we had something to show for our trouble.”

Bak remembered the grueling practice sessions with the regiment of Amon and the joy he had shared with his men whether they won or lost. How could he have forgotten? To march past the residence, knowing Azzia was standing on the roof, watching, smiling at him, would increase that pleasure tenfold.

He grinned. “I’ll return the instant the donkeys are inside their paddocks. We must talk.”

He headed back toward the quay and his men. As he approached the donkeys in front of the treasury, he thought of Paser and the fearless way he had walked into the tribesmen’s trap. He, too, had earned the right to march at the head of the procession, to have his brief moment of glory before being brought to his knees.

Bak checked, not for the first time, the dagger at his waist. The weapon slid easily into its sheath. His belt and kilt were too snug for it to catch on a stray bit of fabric should he need it quickly. Realizing he was fidgeting, he forced himself to sit still. He wanted to appear wary, not eager to do battle or fearful.

He sat midway on the open flight of stairs which rose from the commandant’s residence to the walkway atop the battlements. He was clearly visible in the moonlight to the patrolling sentries-and would soon be to Paser, lurking somewhere in the building below.

For almost an hour, he had heard the infrequent signals his Medjays had given while they stalked the car-avan officer: the call of a nightbird, the whine of a lost puppy, the harsh yowl of a tomcat prowling for a mate. The sounds had begun not long after their quarry had slipped out of his quarters. They had signaled his ascent to the battlements, where he had stood for a long time, studying the rooftops and lanes within the citadel. They had marked his descent and followed his slow progress as he made a careful and painstaking examination of the dark, deserted buildings in the vicinity of the commandant’s residence. The shriek of a female cat mounted by a tom had warned Bak that the man he awaited had entered the antechamber below. Since then, time had dragged.

Bak scanned the roof-flat, ghostly white, empty. His eyes probed the dark rectangular opening where the stairway descended past Nakht’s reception room to the ground floor. He studied the larger, dimly lit square of the courtyard. Paser could be watching him from the stairwell or hiding among the potted trees and shrubs, one shadow among many. Bak pictured Azzia and her servants, lying awake and fearful, listening to the stealthy footsteps of the man who had taken the life most dear to them. He had wanted to move them elsewhere, but their absence would have aroused Paser’s suspicions. In fact, Azzia, brave beyond all other women, had insisted he let her stay.

He surveyed the rooftops of the nearby blocks of buildings. He saw no movement, heard only the usual chorus of barking dogs. The bird, the puppy, the tomcat were silent. His hand inched toward his dagger. He jerked it away and wiped the sweat from his face, cool sweat in a chilly night. Will Paser never convince himself I’m here alone? he wondered.

A soft thud, the sound of baked clay bumping mudbrick. He started, almost laughed aloud. Paser was coming, climbing the stairs. He had caught his toe on the string Bak had stretched along a step, setting in motion a stemmed bowl.

Paser’s head and shoulders burst out of the black stairwell. With barely a glance at Bak, he pivoted, making a fast but thorough inspection of the rooftop. Satisfied they were alone, he ascended to the open trapdoor and stepped onto the roof. He carried a spear. A sheathed dagger hung from his waist. Bak rose to his feet to give himself greater mobility.

Paser looked up at his adversary, safely out of reach of a quick thrust. “You’re a careful man, Bak.”

“I’ve underestimated you before. I know better now.”

Paser eyed him with open curiosity. “Why did you have me march with you and Nebwa when the victorious troops entered these walls?” He tilted the spearpoint toward Bak, drawing attention to the sharp, deadly weapon. “Did you believe so generous an act would lower my defenses?”

“I doubt much of anything could weaken your instincts to survive, Paser.” Bak kept a cautious eye on the spear. “You didn’t hesitate to slay your accomplices Heby and Roy even though, without them, you no longer had any way of laying your hands on the precious ore from the mine. It’s clear you value your life above all things.”

Paser’s laugh was as brittle as poorly made glass. “You understand me better than I thought.”

“A man who hunts a dangerous beast must learn its habits.”

“Is that meant to be a compliment?”

It depends on the beast, Bak thought, but the glittering spear point warned him not to press his luck. “If I thought you like the lowly jackal, a creature that slinks among the tombs, waiting to tear the flesh from the un-resisting dead, would I have taken such care to protect myself?”

Paser opened his mouth to respond, but Bak hurried on, “The night is growing short. I think it time we discuss the scrolls mistress Azzia gave me.”

“I can make no bargains until I see them.” Paser held out his free hand. “Since you refuse to trust me, I suggest you throw them to me.”

“I didn’t bring them.”

Paser tensed; he hefted his spear as if making ready to throw it.

Bak’s hand flew to his dagger. “Think, Paser! Would I offer up the very objects that serve me as a shield?”

“You’re despicable!”

“Fine words from one who’s slain five men.”

Bak slid his weapon from its sheath and raised it slowly, letting his opponent know he would use it if he must. Both men knew who held the advantage. A man could throw a lightweight dagger faster and truer from a hilltop than hurl a heavy spear from the valley below with the force and accuracy necessary to take a life.

“Set your spear at ease, Paser.”

The caravan officer muttered an oath beneath his breath, swung the spear point high, and rammed the butt of the shaft on the rooftop with a solid thud. “What do you want from me?”