Torches lit up the court in front of the sacred precinct of Ipet resyt and the nearby stretch of the processional way, illumi nating the booths erected on the opening day of the Beautiful
Feast of Opet. The crowd, colorful and ever-changing, was gathering for a night of entertainment, food, and drink. Men and women sauntered from booth to booth, from athletic to acrobatic performance, from tricksters in the magic arts to scribes writing letters to the dead, asking for good health or love or to place a curse on an enemy. Children and animals ran free. Laughter and shouting, music and singing, the bray ing of donkeys and barking of dogs filled the air with gaiety.
Bak worked his way through the multitude, stopping briefly to watch one performance and another, looking at rich and exotic products few men could afford and the more common items made by and for the poor. He spotted several of his Medjays but stayed well clear, not wanting to inhibit their play.
Reluctantly he left the crowd to walk north along the pro 162
Lauren Haney cessional way, heading toward his men’s quarters. While he strode through ever deepening darkness, he mulled over his day. He had learned nothing from Pentu’s servants except that they had disliked Hattusa, had felt imprisoned within the massive stone walls that surrounded the city. As for the governor and his staff, no man looked more guilty than an other. If one had told him a falsehood, he had been unable to detect the lie.
Why would any of them-why would any resident of the land of Kemet, for that matter-wish to cause trouble in
Hatti? To unseat the king seemed likely. But why? What would be the goal? Personal gain? Political gain? He was mystified.
He regretted the need to return to Pentu’s dwelling, to speak with mistresses Taharet and Meret, but experience had taught him that he must not overlook the women of the household.
He turned into the dark, narrow lane that would take him to his Medjays’ quarters. A nightbird whistled behind him.
Ahead, three men staggered out of an intersecting lane, carrying a torch to light their way, singing loud, their voices raucous. Men besotted. As they drew near, he glanced to ei ther side, seeking a doorway so he could step out of their way. He wanted no confrontation with men too befuddled to think clearly.
A stone rattled behind him. He glanced around, saw two men running toward him in the dark, each carrying a short, thick staff. He looked forward, muttered a curse. The three ahead had grown silent, their staggering gait had been thrown aside. They, too, carried weapons. One held a staff; his two mates carried scimitars.
He remembered the nightbird, heard in a place where no trees grew. The sound had been a signal, letting the men in front know he was coming.
The pack must have followed him from Ipet-resyt-or from Pentu’s dwelling. When he had entered the residential area, with its cramped lanes and building blocks that looked all alike, two had raced on ahead to block his way.
He had walked into their trap.
Chapter Eleven
Snapping out a curse, Bak pivoted and raced back along the lane toward the two men who had come up behind him. The pair paused, confused by his sudden approach. His eyes darted along the windowless, doorless wall to his right, searching for a narrow passage he vaguely remembered see ing as he passed it by, a slice of black opening onto the gray black lane. An escape route, he prayed. He carried his baton of office and his dagger hung from his belt, but in the hands of a single individual, they would be no match against five armed men.
There! he thought, spotting the cleft a half-dozen paces ahead, midway between him and the pair. He leaped toward it.
“Stop him!” yelled one, lunging forward.
Bak felt the man’s groping hands just as he ducked into the passage. Blackness closed around him, with not a speck of light above-or at the far end.
What had he gotten himself into?
A quick glance back revealed a man at the mouth of the passage, peering inside. A rude reminder that retreat was im possible. Whatever lay ahead, he must face.
“It’s blacker than night in there,” the man said.
“Go in and get him, you louts.” A second voice, gravelly, irritable.
Bak took several cautious steps deeper into the passage. It was as wide as his shoulders with no room to spare, its walls rough and uneven-bare mudbrick, he realized. The hard packed earthen floor was slick, and he smelled manure.
Shuddering at the very thought of what he might be walking through-and into-he pressed forward.
The men outside had begun to argue about who would en ter the passage first. The gravel-voiced leader barked out a name. A man cursed and shifted his feet, sending a pebble skittering across the lane. Bak glanced back, saw someone standing in the mouth of the passage, blocking what little light there was.
“I can’t see a thing.”
“Then neither can he!” the man in charge snapped. “Go on.”
“But, sir!”
“Get a torch, one of you,” the leader commanded.
“Where?” another man whined. “The houses are all dark.”
“Go find a sentry.”
“But…”
“If you come up behind him, he’ll never know who or what hit him.” The gravel voice paused, growled, “Now hurry up. We can’t let that accursed lieutenant get away.” He spat out the words, as venomous as a horned viper.
Bak’s blood ran cold. If they had set their trap, meaning to snare a man at random, the first to come along, they would not have known his rank. They had planned to catch him and, if their weapons were any indication of intent, they meant to slay him.
He walked on, trying not to rush, placing his feet with care. The last thing he wanted was to slip and fall. He moved through the darkness, his hands against the walls, thinking to find a gap, a door. He could not be sure, but he thought the lane was curving gradually to his right, which might explain his failure to see light ahead. He prayed such was the case, that he would soon find a way out.
Something skittered across the floor. It ran over his foot, its tiny claws sending chills down his spine, and raced away toward the mouth of the passage. A rat, he thought. A yell sounded behind him, the thud of a man falling. Angry curses from gravel voice, nervous laughter from the others. As dire as his situation was, Bak could not help but smile.
His foot bumped into something hairy. If the faint smell of decaying flesh was any indication, an animal had some time ago crawled into the passage to die. Carefully he stepped over it. His foot came down on something wet and soft that squished between his toes. He closed his thoughts to the possibilities.
“He did it!” Bak heard behind him, the shout muted by the rough walls between him and the lane. “Look! He got the torch.”
Bak had no idea how far he had come, probably not a great distance. One thing he knew for a fact: the light would give his pursuers a distinct advantage.
Would this vile passage never end?
He moved forward, two paces, four, eight. Far ahead, the walls had taken on a kind of texture, as if he could distin guish one mudbrick from another. He squeezed his eyes shut, opened them. Was the world around him growing lighter? Or was his heart so filled with hopeful thinking that he imagined an end to this nightmare journey? Flinging caution aside, he hurried on into a darkness that seemed not quite so black.
Without warning he bumped into a low barrier, and at the same time the wall to his right came to an end. The barrier was a gate, he discovered, made of the thin branches of a tree. He scrambled over, and the space around him opened up. In the lesser darkness, he saw sheaves of hay stacked along a wall and a water trough built against a second wall.
A pile of straw lay nearby. He was in an animal shelter. Four paces farther and he stood in a courtyard lit by the moon and a sky sprinkled with stars. Seven or eight donkeys lay on a bed of straw strewn around an acacia. One made a blowing sound, the rest were content to stare.