Lauren Haney: Flesh of the God

Keeping a wary eye on his adversary, Bak examined the ingot he held. The weight, the color, the softness of the metal told him it was indeed gold. A faint, satisfied smile touched his lips. If Paser had taken it from his cache, he had led the Medjays who had been following him to all he had stolen through the year.

“This document, by itself, is worth nothing.” Paser rolled the scroll into a thin cylinder and tossed it toward the stairwell opening.

Dropping the golden bar beside the container of grain, Bak picked up the second scroll, which listed the amounts of ore recovered at the mines, and held it up with a wry smile. “If it has no value, I doubt you’ll want this one.”

Paser offered an ingot without a word. While he studied the document, Bak inspected his prize. His thoughts, however, were on the scroll so carelessly thrown aside. Though the action had appeared casual, it was as ominous as Paser’s easy admission of guilt.

“What of the scribe Roy?” he asked. “Was he also a childhood friend?”

“He was Heby’s friend, not mine, but I knew him well enough.” Paser’s laugh overflowed with scorn. “His greed was immense, but his fear of the desert knew no bounds. I knew he’d not run from the mine with what belonged to me.”

Bak did not choose to remind him that the gold belonged to the royal house, not mortal men. “I feared you’d slay him while I was away in the desert, hunting for game. Were you not afraid I’d get to him before you could silence him forever?”

“I’d guessed by then how close you were to the truth, and I knew that to take his life alone would be futile. Later, after I decided how best to slay you, I needed him to lure you into the mine.”

Bak’s blood chilled at the matter-of-fact way he spoke. Laying the ingot on the step, he picked up the third and final scroll. It took all the patience he could muster to stand there, doing nothing to protect himself, while he waited to hand over the document.

Paser rolled up the second papyrus. As before, he flung the cylinder toward the stairwell, not bothering to watch where it fell. Bak eyed the scroll teetering on the edge of the opening and the other document lying on the roof a half pace away. He could think of but one reason for so cavalier an action. Paser was freeing his hands, preparing to make his move. Since he had not once turned around, he must have a weapon concealed at his spine, something small, probably a dagger.

Paser held out the third golden bar, his expression open, sincere, trustworthy.

Bak ignored the offering. He had more to learn. “When you took the commandant’s life, did you mean for mistress Azzia to shoulder the blame? Or was that, like the Medjay spear you used on Heby, a quirk of fate?”

“I’ve no love for the foreign woman,” Paser admitted, tearing his eyes from the scroll. “She’s always been too much the grand lady for my taste. But at the time, I thought only to slay him, to save myself from disgrace and death. Later, when I learned she was found with blood on her hands, I thought to cast doubt on her honor.”

For that alone you deserve a slow, cruel death, Bak thought. “Nakht expected you that night?”

Paser’s mouth twisted with contempt. “I was to bring all the gold we’d collected through the year and a written admission of guilt, then fall on my dagger. If I failed to obey, he vowed to take me before the viceroy and make my shame public before I suffered an official death.”

“So you gave him no chance, no opportunity to defend himself.”

“I offered to share with him. He refused. He was so smug, so convinced I’d bow to his demands, he even provided me with the weapon I used, the iron dagger. It lay on the table by his elbow. I snatched it up and thrust it into his breast.”

Bak started to hand over the scroll, pulled it back. “What of my Medjay, Ruru? Did you have to take his life? Could you not have stolen up behind him and knocked him senseless?”

“With what?” Paser snorted. “I carried nothing but a dagger.”

Bak had heard enough. Letting his long-dormant anger bubble to the surface, he threw the scroll as hard as he could. It struck Paser on the cheek, startling him, sending him back a pace. Drawing his dagger, Bak prepared to lunge. His opponent dropped the ingot and reached back, grabbing the weapon Bak expected. They stood three paces apart, knees bent to spring, daggers poised to strike. Paser, Bak noticed, had smeared a dark substance on the deadly blade so the glint of bronze would not be seen by a sentry on the wall above.

“You spawn of a snake!” Paser snarled. “You never meant me to leave this roof alive.”

Bak sidled to his left, away from the zigzag shadow cast by the steps, and held his dagger higher so it could be seen from atop the wall. “You brought the hidden weapon, Paser. Why if not to slay me?”

“I knew you’d not be satisfied with three ingots. What was I to do? Let you bleed me dry, leaving me with nothing?”

As he spoke, he shifted to his right and a pace forward. His intention was clear. He meant to press Bak close to the rising stairway, gradually herding him backward into the corner, deep in the shadows where the sentries could not see.

“Surely the cousin of a man as lofty and influential as Senenmut has no need for gold.” Bak spoke with a biting sarcasm. “Or does the chief steward think too little of you to raise you to the position of wealth and power you feel you deserve?”

“Senenmut cares for no one but himself.” Paser edged closer, narrowing the distance another half-pace.

Bak held his ground. “You took the gold in a fit of pique?”

Paser expelled a sharp, bark-like laugh. “You said one time that you had the ear of Menkheperre Thutmose. You know better than I that one day his regiments will march on the great cities of Kemet and he’ll take the throne for himself alone. You said as much the day of the archery contest.”

Bak had forgotten the long ago lie, his claim of knowing the young king who stood in the shadow of his powerful co-ruler. He thanked the lord Amon that Paser had believed the tale. It had made him more cautious, had forced him to contrive ways of slaying Bak that would be accepted as the will of the gods. At least until now.

“My dear cousin will fall with our sovereign, and all those close to him will fall as well.” Paser took another tentative step, bringing him dangerously close. “Senenmut has had no thoughts to spare for me. I see no reason why I should share his fate. The gold will give me a new life of ease and luxury in a place far to the north of Kemet. Perhaps in the land of Mitanni, or Keftiu, or far-off…”

He stopped, listened. Bak heard it, too. The soft whisper of sand falling on the roof from somewhere above. Paser’s eyes darted upward. His face turned ugly, mean. Bak dared not look up, but he was sure the officer had spotted Imsiba in the deep shadow cast by the wall, slipping down the stairs from the battlements. Paser lunged. Bak ducked into the shadow, felt the blade shave his left arm. Paser’s momentum drove him on and he slammed into Bak, shoving him against the stairway, pinning his right arm and dagger between his body and the mudbrick.

The quick kew-kew-kew of a falcon carried across the rooftops, Imsiba warning the Medjays who had encircled the building after Paser’s return that the fish they had caught might soon attempt to break out of the net.

Bak tried to twist away, to release his dagger. Paser caught him by the throat, shoved his head hard against the stairway, and dug his fingers into the vulnerable flesh, stealing the breath from Bak’s lungs. As the caravan officer pulled back his weapon to strike, Bak grabbed his wrist with his free hand to stave off the thrust and at the same time rammed a knee upward, aiming for Paser’s crotch. Clamping Bak’s neck with the strength of a madman, Paser jerked aside, saving his private parts but giving Bak the room he needed to extricate the hand holding his dagger. Paser twisted his own weapon and raked the point across Bak’s left wrist, forcing him to relax his grip. Bak, his vision blurring from lack of air, shoved his dagger at his captor’s middle. Paser slashed his weapon downward to parry the blow. The dagger spun from Bak’s numbing fingers and clattered across the roof.