Lauren Haney: Flesh of the God

Imsiba’s laugh eased the tension between them.

“Come,” Bak said.

He scooped up the gold and the scroll and carried them into his bedchamber. The sergeant, looking puzzled, hauled himself off the stool and followed. Bak shoved his sleeping pallet aside. “Look at the floor near the base of the wall. What do you see?”

Imsiba studied the hard-packed earth in the swath of light falling through the doorway. “Nothing.”

With a satisfied nod, Bak pulled his dagger, a plain bronze weapon of army issue, from the sheath attached to his belt. He dropped to his knees, brushed away the dust until a crack appeared, inserted the blade, and pried a carefully molded section out of the floor. Below was a hole more than half a cubit square.

“I found this by chance when we moved into this house,” he said. “It smells of date wine. A previous occupant must’ve kept a secret supply here, I suspect to drink through the day while he performed his duties.”

“It looks safe enough,” Imsiba admitted, “but to keep the gold…it’s beyond my understanding.”

“Maiherperi said before we left Waset, ‘If, through poor judgment, an innocent man is made to look guilty, it’s as great an affront to the lady Maat as was the criminal act itself.’ Since I’m not certain Azzia took her husband’s life or knew before his death of this gold, I must search deeper for the truth.”

Imsiba expelled a long frustrated sigh. “By all accounts, the commandant was an honorable man. If someone else-a lover, perhaps-gave the gold to her for safekeeping and Nakht found it in her possession, he would’ve had no choice but to take her before the viceroy. Men have been slain for lesser reasons.”

“And she passed it on to me to make herself look innocent,” Bak said irritably. “I know. We’ve been through all that before.” He rammed the dagger into the sheath. “You admitted you were no more able to guess her thoughts than I was. Why do you believe she’s guilty?”

“I’m not sure she is,” Imsiba said with obvious reluctance.

“Hear me out.” Bak paused, gathered his thoughts. “Azzia could’ve slain Nakht during a simple lover’s quarrel, but I think it more likely his life was taken to keep him from airing his knowledge of this gold.” He stared at the glittering slab, and a grim smile touched his lips. “If I give this to Tetynefer, word will spread through Buhen like dust on the wind. The man who stole it will brush away his footprints and we’ll never find him. If I keep it and Azzia tells him I have it, he’ll sooner or later conclude I’m as dishonest as he and will come for it.”

“If no one comes?”

“I’ll report it to Tetynefer.”

Imsiba pursed his lips, his brow furrowed. “What if the woman is innocent? Won’t she tell the steward you have it if she thinks you’ve kept it for yourself?”

“Yes, but by that time…” Bak shrugged off the doubt which threatened to swallow his confidence. “With luck, and if the lord Amon chooses to smile on us, this scroll will point to the guilty man, might even name him.”

Worry clouded Imsiba’s face. “You’re gambling with the gods, my friend.”

Bak twisted the rolled papyrus in his fingers, studying the blank surface, longing to look inside. No, he had dallied too long already. Tetynefer was expecting him. He dropped it in the hole, laid the ingot beside it, and replaced the block. Within moments, the hiding place was as invisible as it had been before, and his pallet covered it.

He stood up, smiled to reassure the sergeant. “They say the path gold takes from the mines to the royal treasury is so carefully controlled no man can lay his hands on as much as a single grain. Yet someone took that slab. When I learn how it was done, I pray my own offense will be forgiven and forgotten and Maatkare Hatshepsut herself will free me from bondage in this wretched fortress.”

Hurt and disappointment settled on Imsiba’s face.

A pang of conscience touched Bak’s heart and he clasped the Medjay’s shoulders. “You mustn’t worry, Imsiba. Maiherperi will send another officer to take my place, one who’ll know better than I how to convince the people of this city that you’re as loyal to Kemet as they are.”

The words sounded hollow in his ears. Oh, yes, he thought, Maiherperi will send the best man available, but will he be an officer who distances himself from his men? Will he make Imsiba and the other Medjays feel utterly alone in this remote outpost where they’re not wanted?

Bak hurried along a street so broad six men could walk abreast. The lord Khepre, the rising sun, had yet to climb above the eastern horizon, but traffic abounded in spite of the early hour. Yawning sentries streamed off the battlements after the changing of the guard. A column of spearmen, half-awake, grumbling, marched toward the desert gate on their way to the practice field outside the walls. Local farmers led braying donkeys laden with produce bound for the market.

Ahead, two massive towers rose into the pale dawn sky, the gate between them open and manned. Bak could not see the river beyond, but a fresh breeze smelling faintly of fish wafted through the portal and blew puffs of dust along the thoroughfare. Tired after a long night with no sleep, sticky with the previous day’s sweat, he longed for a swim and his sleeping pallet. Soon, he promised himself, and headed with little enthusiasm into a narrow, less-traveled lane to his right.

Another turn, a quiet, empty lane took him to one of the larger homes in Buhen. A servant escorted him into a modest reception hall. The ceiling, supported by a central pillar, was higher than those of the adjacent rooms, allowing the faint early morning light and breeze to filter through high windows. The space was cluttered with a loom, a grindstone, pottery water jars, and a few toys. A doorway covered with a rush mat led to what Bak assumed were family rooms. Through an open portal to the right, he saw in the fluttery light of several oil lamps a heavy middle-aged man sorting through a basket filled with rolls of papyrus. He was as bald as a melon and his belly protruded like rising bread dough over the belt of his ankle-length kilt.

This was Tetynefer, the chief steward responsible for receiving and disbursing garrison supplies, collecting tolls on trade goods passing through, and recording copper and gold from the mines and tribute collected from local chieftains for the royal coffers. Thus he was the highest-ranking bureaucrat in Buhen and the man in charge until a new commandant could be appointed.

He looked up as Bak entered. “Ah, there you are, Officer Bak. Come in. Come in.”

Waving his visitor onto a stool, he scooped up a scroll lying on the floor, seated himself cross-legged on a thick linen pad, and spread the papyrus across the fabric stretched tight over his thighs. Beside him lay a narrow wooden pallet in which had been cut a slot to contain reed pens and round wells that held moistened red and black ink.

“This is a serious matter, young man, very serious.” With an officious scowl, Tetynefer pulled a pen from the pallet and dipped it into the black ink. “The viceroy will expect a detailed report. We must tell him exactly what happened.” He glanced at Bak. “I know you’re an educated man, but in a delicate situation like this, I prefer to send a document written in my own hand and impressed with my personal seal.”

Tetynefer, Bak realized, could hardly wait to assume his temporary authority and gain the viceroy’s personal attention. If he chose to start by taking upon himself the laborious task of writing out the official report, so much the better.

Bak told all he had seen and done, condensing the tale to a manageable length as the steward’s stubby fingers sped across the columns. When he reached the point where Azzia had given him the gold, he hesitated, reluctant to make the final irrevocable commitment. His conscience nagged him to mention the precious slab, as did his sense of self-preservation.