Not sure he could be heard over the shouting spectators, Bak whistled the long, loud signal meant to alert Pahared's sailors. Still carrying his own shield, ignoring the drag of its weight on his sore shoulder, he scooped up Psuro's spear and shield, shoved them at him, and leaped onto the board to race across. As he knelt to retrieve the spear he had thrown, he noticed again his torn and blood-smeared bandage. The cut merely stung, indicating a surface wound, with no harm to the rib. He offered a silent prayer of thanks to the lord Amon.
Psuro leaped off the bridge and Kasaya dashed past. Bak glanced at the woman lying amid a circle of family and neighbors. Confident she would be cared for-if still she lived-he raced with Psuro after Kasaya and the fleeing man. He heard thudding feet behind, a small party of men who knew the fallen woman, seeking vengeance.
Nenu set a straight course for the stairway, making clear his knowledge of the area. He paused on the top step to look down at the wrestlers and their audience, whose shouts had gained in volume and enthusiasm as the match began. A quick glance back at the men in pursuit and he plunged down the stairs. Kasaya raced after him a dozen paces behind. Bak whistled another signal. The yells of the spectators never faltered.
Like Nenu before him, Bak paused atop the stairway to look down. Sailors, soldiers, traders, townsmen, five or six women at most, stood in the fluttery light of four flaming torches mounted high on buildings around the open square. Their attention was focused on two well-oiled and sweating wrestlers locked together in combat; the raised voices goaded them on. A judge hovered close, keeping the pair honest. The spectators formed a loose circle, staying well back and out of the way, filling much of the squarish expanse of sand enclosed by housing blocks whose walls were unbroken by windows or doors. Somewhere down there were Pahared's crewmen. Families who lived within the surrounding dwellings looked down from the rooftops.
Nenu was shouldering his way through a clamorous crowd indifferent to everything but the match, with Kasaya a few strides behind. Stepping aside so Psuro could go on ahead, Bak whistled again. One man looked up, saw the short, stocky Medjay racing down and the officer from Kemet above. He grabbed the shoulder of another man, who shook off the offending hand, made a horn of his own hands, and yelled at the wrestlers, demanding greater effort.
Bak muttered a curse. From where he stood, he could see the mouths of six or eight dark, narrow lanes, any of which Nenu could enter. If the guard knew the rest of Swenet as well as he did this area, he would lose his pursuers with ease. They needed help, men who knew their way around, even in the dark. How could he attract the attention of Pahared's crewmen?
Feeling the weight of the weapon in his hand, he had an idea. He had first hurled a spear as a small boy and, given sufficient time and care, was reasonably skilled in its use. He studied the scene, chose as his target a clear patch of sand near the combatants, and launched the weapon. The blade buried itself deep in the earth. The long shaft stood tall and rigid, vibrating from the force of the thrust.
Silence descended over the crowd. The wrestlers grappled and grunted and groaned, unaware. The judge stepped back, gave the spear a startled look, hissed a warning. The pair continued to fight.
Bak whistled again, the — sound loud and clear, impossible to ignore. To a man, the spectators looked upward, as did Nenu and Kasaya. Psuro leaped off the bottom step, too intent on his goal to be distracted. Six or seven men, Pahared's sailors, headed toward the stairs from several different directions.
"There!" Bak yelled, pointing emphatically at Nenu, who was elbowing his way through the crowd, angering the people he passed and drawing attention to himself. As the seamen altered course, Bak called out to the rest, "Get on with the match!" and raced down the steps.
The wrestlers paused, looked around, saw their audience's attention turned elsewhere. Bewildered, they broke their hold and drew apart. The judge repeated Bak's order. Like everyone else in the makeshift arena, the pair ignored the command and watched with rapt attention the fleeing man and his pursuers.
Nenu burst free of the crowd and slipped into the nearest lane, its mouth dark and forbidding. Kasaya darted into the blackness a few paces behind him. Bak flung his shield aside for better mobility and leaped off the steps. He glimpsed Psuro and Pahared's crewmen shouldering paths through the spectators, trying to catch the younger Medjay and his quarry.
Questions broke the hush of the crowd: What's happening? Who're these men? Why are they chasing the man in the lead?
Bak's identity and word of his quest spread through the crowd. Suddenly the mood changed. Excitement crackled in the air. The spectators turned their backs on the match and, with voices raised in a frenzy of purpose, moved as a single unit in the direction Nenu and Kasaya had gone, lured by the promise of livelier entertainment.
Entangled in the flow of men, helpless to stop them, and thoroughly disgusted by this unforeseen turn of events, Bak clamped his hands together, forming a battering ram, and' thrust his body forward. Those he struck ducked aside, muttering curses and glaring resentment. He caught up with Psuro, who was pushing forward behind spear and shield, opening a path for the few crewmen who had caught up with him. Ahead lay the lane that had swallowed Nenu and Kasaya.
The narrow thoroughfare was as black as a nobleman's tomb closed and sealed for eternity. An invitation to an ambush. The more timid onlookers dropped back, unwilling to face whatever terrors the dark might hold, but most surged forward, caught up in excitement and the flow of humanity. Bak prayed Kasaya was close on Nenu's heels, prayed he would not allow himself to be waylaid in the dark, prayed he would lay hands on the guard before this mob, in its very zeal to witness Nenu's downfall, provided a setting in which the guard could escape.
He pointed toward a torch protruding from the neck of a large pottery jar on the roof of the corner dwelling. "We need that light," he shouted to Psuro.
Sailors in tow, they veered toward the building and forced their way to the wall. With no prompting, Pahared's burly pilot locked his hands together, forming a step, and lifted Bak high. Bak pulled the torch free and dropped back to earth. Several more sailors trickled out of the crowd, the remainder of Pahared's crew taking advantage of the detour to catch up.
Moments later, they merged with the stream of men crowding into the lane, jostling for space, shoulders brushing shoulders, elbows digging ribs, toes prodding heels, voices pulsing with the thrill of the chase. Cursing the crowd beneath his breath, Bak held the torch high and pressed forward through what looked in the flickering light like a river of heads flowing along a curving streambed. Bronze spearpoints glinted among them, carried by soldiers from the garrison who had come across the river to watch the match. Faces looked down from the rooftops, men, women, and children drawn by the tumult.
They gained on the leaders slowly, too slowly. When first Bak had heard of the wrestling match, he had thought it a gift of the gods, a place where Pahared's men could merge into the crowd and remain unseen. It had been a gift alright, a gift handed out by the demons of the night.
A sharp, piercing whistle sounded over the din. Kasaya's signal. Ahead and to the right. Relief flooded through Bak that the young Medjay had not fallen in a shower of arrows. "They're heading upriver," he said unnecessarily.
The men ahead, as quick to interpret the signal, swerved into a narrow side lane that meandered toward the river. Dust rose beneath stumbling feet; the smell of donkey manure was strong. Determined to reach Nenu first, Bak lowered the flame to just above head level and, using man's fear of fire, drove a wedge into the crowd before him. Psuro plowed forward behind his shield, widening the path.