broke and fell away.
The officer twisted, grabbed a rock, struck Bak across the side of the head. A glancing blow that made his head ring but failed to knock him senseless. A warning blow, he took it. He let go of his opponent’s legs, rolled away, and scrambled to his feet.
Menna stood up more slowly, rock in hand, a calculating look on his face. Bak backed farther away, as respectful of the rock as he would have been of a spear. He glanced around, trying to find the baton he had so thoughtlessly flung aside. He spotted it six or seven paces from where he stood, too far. Taking advantage of Bak’s distraction, Menna jumped toward him, rock raised high, poised to smash his head. Bak leaped aside, spun around and made a fist, and hit the officer as hard as he could in the lower back. Menna’s spine arched and he groaned, but he stayed on his feet. Retreating a few paces, he dropped the rock and tore his dagger from its sheath. Legs spread wide, eyes glinting dangerously, he practically dared Bak to come and get him.
Bak slipped his own dagger free. They faced each other about four paces apart, breathing hard, sweat pouring down their grimy faces and bodies. Bak could tell his opponent was as tired as he was, but Menna was desperate.
Hearing the sound of running feet, Bak’s eyes flitted back along the trail. The lieutenant and Kasaya, with the leashed dog running alongside, led a long, straggly line of guards up the path two hundred or so paces away.
Menna glanced toward the rapidly approaching men, then leaped at his opponent and struck out with the dagger. Bak ducked, felt the blade graze his arm and the warmth of blood oozing out. Menna stepped closer, pressing his advantage, backing his opponent toward the rim of the cliff. Bak eased himself sideways, hoping to change the direction of their struggle and work his way to the baton. He disliked fighting with the dagger, the closeness of it, the treacherous blade that could bleed a man to exhaustion or lay waste to an inner organ. And he feared mightily a fall over the edge of the cliff.
The guard officer bared his teeth in a mean grin and moved in for what he clearly expected to be a kill.
Bak leaped at his opponent, striking the hand in which Menna held his dagger, knocking it out of the way, and smashed his left fist hard against the officer’s chin. Stumbling back, shaking his head to clear it, Menna lowered his shoulders and charged like an angered bull. Bak jumped aside and retreated. His eyes darted toward the baton, no more than a couple paces away. The rim of the cliff equally close. Menna stepped forward and sidled around, trying to get between him and the weapon. Trying to force him over the edge.
Bak threw his dagger. The blade flashed through the air and buried itself deep in Menna’s right shoulder.
The officer stopped, raised his free hand to the weapon, felt the moisture leaking out around the haft. He looked down, stared with disbelieving eyes at the dagger, the blood seeping between his fingers, and finally at Bak. His weapon fell from his hand. He dropped to his knees, drew in air, coughed. A trace of red trickled from the corner of his mouth.
Bak walked to him. Kasaya, Tracker, and the lieutenant came running up. A sergeant and a few men were close behind, followed by those strung out along the trail. Menna stared at the men collecting around him. Bak later imagined him looking not at them but at the fate that awaited the malign spirit.
Menna struggled to his feet. Without warning, taking them all by surprise, he pushed Bak roughly aside and lurched toward the rim of the cliff. Before anyone realized his intent, he pitched himself over the edge.
Stunned by the act, Bak hurried to the rim and looked down the face of the cliff. Menna lay about two-thirds of the way down on the steep slope of a tower-like formation that rose above the rear corner of the temple. His body lay twisted and torn, his arms and legs flung wide.
Kasaya and the lieutenant came up beside him and they, too, looked down. The officer’s stunned expression changed to one close to relief. “No man could have fallen so far and lived.”
Bak nodded. “He knew he was trapped, a man already dead.”
A sound of cheering carried on the breeze, softened by distance. Cheering?
“Look at the men, sir.” Kasaya pointed downward.
What looked like every man who toiled at Djeser Djeseru stood on the terrace among the statues and column parts, cheering the demise of the man who had, over the past few years, brought into their lives so much injury and death.
Chapter Nineteen
“I don’t understand how they could get away with it for so long.” Ptahhotep, standing near the paddock wall, shook his head in amazement. “Are the cemetery guards so blind?”
“Menna was their officer,” Bak said, looking over the neck of Defender, whose long mane he was combing. “As far as I could tell, they didn’t once suspect him. As one of them said: How could they think him guilty of the very crime he was supposed to prevent?”
“They could’ve at least kept their eyes open.” Amonked, standing beside Bak’s father, scowled his disapproval.
“Their failure to uphold the laws of the land, to satisfy the demands of the lady Maat, is unforgivable.”
His porters and carrying chair sat in the dwindling evening light beneath the sycamore tree, awaiting their master’s departure. Even with darkness fast approaching, he seemed in no hurry to go on his way.
Bak thought of the men he had talked with before leaving Djeser Djeseru, hunkered around him in the shadow of their hut, crushed by their failure to do their duty and afraid of the consequences. “They must be punished, to be sure, but I’d not be too hard on them, sir. Other than Pashed, who had no time to oversee them properly, they had no one to look to for guidance.”
“I suppose far more sepulchers are robbed than we’ll ever know-many with the help of a guard or two,” Ptahhotep said thoughtfully. “Just think of the temptation. Walking day after day among the tombs, imagining the wealth lying beneath their feet.”
Bak caught a handful of mane and began to comb out a knot. Defender whinnied, though his master was sure he was not hurting him. “Not even priests are exempt from temptation. Kaemwaset told me a tale so appalling it would curl our sovereign’s ceremonial beard.”
Ptahhotep shifted his stance, the better to watch Kasaya spread a thin poultice on Victory’s singed rear legs. “Did Pairi and Humay reveal all before. .?” He let his voice tail off and looked expectantly at his son and Amonked, who had not yet told him exactly what had happened.
“Before they swallowed the poison?” Bak shook his head.
“No, but they said enough to verify what we’d guessed.”
“I’d not take my own life like that,” Kasaya said, looking up from his task. “I’d try to escape and take an arrow in the back rather than give myself a deadly potion.”
Hori, seated on the wall, measured a length of linen against his arm. Using a sharp knife, he cut it off and handed it to the Medjay. “How could they escape?” he asked scornfully. “They were surrounded by royal guards.”
Kasaya glared at his friend. “If Menna knew those desert trails, the fishermen did, too. Remember, they played together as children, hunted together as youths.”
“
“They snared the two atop the cliff before they could do more damage,” Kasaya said, defending the guards more for the sake of argument than because he cared, Bak felt sure.
“How were they to know the worst of the lot was running toward them?”
Bak wondered how he would be able to tolerate the pair’s squabbling for another month or so, until Commandant Thuty and the others arrived from Buhen and they would all travel on together to Mennufer. He had not been gone long, but he missed them already: Nebwa, Imsiba, Nofery, his Medjays-everyone. “I know you must return to the city,”
he said to Amonked, “but before you go, will you share a jar of wine to celebrate the end of the malign spirit?”
As the three men walked to the house, Ptahhotep asked,
