Lauren Haney: Flesh of the God

Bak hesitated, his unwillingness to obey not a sham. “Drop the weapon, Nebwa, and back off. He’s won the game, I fear.”

The infantry officer’s face reflected indecision, dismay, and when he looked at Azzia, helplessness. He laid the spear on the rooftop and backed far enough away that he could not easily reach it.

“Good.” Paser’s gaze dropped from the roof to Bak. “Let’s go.”

“I’ll do all you say, but first I must stop the bleeding.” Bak was glad his voice was so rough, making it easier to pretend weakness. “Give me time to bind my arm. I can tear the cloth from Kames’s kilt.”

Paser studied him with narrowed eyes, nodded. “Go, but waste no time. And bring bandages back for me.”

Bak retreated into the reception room, his relief tempered by fear for Azzia. Kames and Imsiba had begun to tear strips of cloth from the bottom of the old man’s kilt. Bak grabbed the sheathed iron dagger and a piece of linen. Working as fast as he could, he tied the sheath upside down to his bloody wrist, inserted the dagger, and wrapped a loose bandage around wrist, dagger handle, and hand.

Imsiba offered him several additional lengths of fabric and squeezed his shoulder. “Good luck, my friend.”

Bak returned a tight smile and hastened to the courtyard. Arms spread wide, he pivoted to show Paser he carried no weapon. Azzia bit her lip, disappointed at how readily he had complied with her captor’s orders.

“Go to the stairwell,” Paser commanded. “I want you in front of me, not behind when we descend.”

Bak made a wide circle around the officer and his captive, praying all the while to the lord Amon that he would have a chance to strike before Azzia was hurt. Paser edged sideways in the same direction, hugging the wall, where necessary shoving the heavy pots out of the way with a foot. Bak yearned to signal Azzia that he had a weapon, but the risk was too great.

When Bak reached the exit, Paser shifted the blade to her neck. “Enter the stairwell. Slowly. Or I’ll bleed Azzia before your eyes.”

Bak backed one careful step at a time onto the dim, enclosed landing at the top of the stairs. The tall, heavy water jars were stacked along the wall like ghostly sentinels. “It’s blacker than night below. We’ll need the torch.”

“Go to the far wall and feel your way down.”

Bak bumped into the wall behind him. Paser pushed Azzia across the threshold. She jerked to her right, slamming his injured shoulder into the doorjamb. He grunted, the dagger twisted away from her neck, but still he clung to her waist. Taken by surprise, with no time to think, Bak caught the neck of a jar, tipped it onto its side, and shoved it hard. It rolled forward and struck Azzia’s legs and Paser’s, sending them staggering backward, and smashed into the jamb. The neck snapped off and water gushed across the landing. Paser lost his balance and fell backward into a potted acacia, pulling Azzia with him. The limbs of the tree, too spindly to support their weight, collapsed beneath them, spilling them onto the floor. Paser landed hard on his wounded right shoulder.

Bak jerked the iron dagger from its bandage and splashed across the puddle. Paser, grimacing with pain, managed to keep Azzia on top of him. Bak halted in mid-stride, as helpless to come to her aid as before. She gave him a quick, desperate look and, like a wild creature, began to twist and turn, to kick Paser’s legs. She tugged an arm free, clawed his thigh, the arm around her waist, his bleeding shoulder. His face contorted with rage. He loosened his grip on her waist, grabbed her flailing arm, and pinned it to the floor. He flung his other arm wide to drive the dagger into her side. She jerked away, exposing his chest. Bak threw the iron dagger, burying it to the hilt. Paser stared at the weapon, fashioned a smile of sorts, and tried to sit up. He coughed, gagged. Blood dribbled from his mouth. His dagger clattered to the floor and he crumpled lifeless alongside Azzia.

She lay as still as Paser, staring at him, horrified. Bak wiped the sweat from his face and strode toward her. She gave a strangled cry, rolled away from the dead man, and began to sob. Bak knelt, drew her into his arms. She clung to him, trembling, sobbing, laughing, half hysterical with relief. He lay his cheek on her head and murmured words of comfort.

Imsiba, Nebwa, and Kames streamed out of Nakht’s reception room, the excitement in their voices muted by death. Kasaya and Pashenuro came with them, the latter carrying a small rush basket. The golden ingots inside glittered in the torchlight.

Bak looked beyond Azzia’s head to Paser’s prostrate form. He did not regret the officer’s death, nor did he rejoice in his own victory. Paser must have known he was doomed the day he decided to take the flesh of the lord Re as his own, yet in the end he had fought like a demon to escape. Had he, Bak wondered, chosen the more valiant death over the harsh justice meted out by man?

Bak entered the commandant’s residence, hurried up the stairway, and burst into the courtyard, which was bathed in a clear morning sunlight so bright it made him blink. The change he found, the disarray, brought a lump to his throat, a sense of impending loss. A husky male servant he had never seen before trod back and forth, moving furniture and storage baskets to rooms the new commandant, Nakht’s successor, was taking as his own. Two rectangular baskets, their lids tied and sealed for travel, sat outside the door of Azzia’s sitting room. The rest of her belongings, he had seen Lupaki stow safely aboard the ship that would carry her away.

She had to go, he knew. Though she had been born and reared in a land whose customs were far different than those of Kemet, she had vowed to respect her husband’s beliefs and wishes. She would travel for many days down the river and place him in his tomb near Mennufer with all the pomp and ritual due a man of his rank. Bak had no quarrel with that. But what of later?

He had seen her every day since Paser’s death more than a month ago, usually early in the morning before her friends came to call. His love had deepened until the merest glimpse of her lovely face and graceful body took his breath away. Those few weeks, which had passed much too quickly, he had respected her recent widowhood. He had never touched her, nor had he uttered a word of what lay in his heart. He knew he must speak-and had come to do so-before she sailed out of his life forever. He could only pray she would understand that necessity drove him to act sooner than he should.

He walked to her sitting room, a barren space devoid of furniture and personal possessions. She sat on the floor, her eyes overflowing, draping a long string of blue and red beads around the young servant girl’s neck. The child sobbed as if her life were ending. The older female servant knelt nearby, letting tears travel down her wrinkled face while she folded a dress into a travel basket. She, too, wore a necklace, a parting gift. Only Lupaki would travel north with his mistress. The women would stay behind to care for the new commandant and the wife and children who had arrived on the ship that would carry Azzia away.

Azzia drew the child into her arms to comfort her. He retreated, giving them the time they needed. The aromas of fresh bread and roasting duck, the sound of a woman’s laughter, filtered into the courtyard from the rear of the house. A new mistress had taken charge of Azzia’s kitchen. The thought drove him on to Nakht’s reception room, empty except for memories.

Azzia found him there, sitting on a low bench he had borrowed from the husky manservant. “I hoped you’d come. To say good-bye at the quay…” She gave him a crooked smile, shook her head. “Better here where I can speak what’s in my heart.”