Dense crowds filled the court, awaiting the greatest of the gods and his earthly daughter and son. Those who had come too late for a prime spot from which to view the procession that would, within a short time, depart from the southern mansion were milling around the booths, seeking a better vantage point. Bak could not see the processional route be yond the court to the west, but he assumed the throng was equally large all the way to the river. There another assem blage would be massed at the water’s edge, along which were moored the royal barge, the golden barge of the lord
Amon, and the boats that would tow the two vessels and carry royalty and priests downriver to Ipet-isut. A flotilla of other vessels would be marking time on the river, waiting to accompany the procession downstream.
Pahure rounded the corner of the court, with Bak about thirty paces back. Ignoring the booths that had been erected north of the court, the men and women and children who wandered around them, more intent on a good time than adoring their god and sovereigns, the two men, one after the other, pounded across the northbound processional way along which the lord Amon had been carried from Ipet-isut eleven days earlier.
Trumpets blared, announcing to the world that the pro cession was leaving Ipet-resyt. A murmur of excitement surged through the crowded court as a dozen standard 276
Lauren Haney bearers came through the pylon gateway in the massive wall in front of the god’s mansion. Bak could see nothing over the spectators’ heads except the sun-struck golden figures mounted on top of the standards, the long red pennants swaying gently atop the flagpoles clamped to the pylon, and a cloud of incense rising in front of the gate.
Pahure swung south around the corner of the court and raced toward the crowd standing along the westbound pro cessional way along which the deity would be carried to the river. Surely, Bak thought, he would not be so stupid as to run into the crowd, attracting the attention of the many sol diers lining the raised thoroughfare. No sooner had the thought come and gone than Pahure turned westward to run up a broad strip of grass between the spectators and several blocks of interconnected houses, enclosed within an unbro ken wall of white.
As Bak made the turn, he glanced back. He saw no sign of
Psuro or the Medjays or Sitepehu. They must have tried to cut through the court and had gotten caught up in the crowd.
The grass was wet, often ankle-deep in water left by the ebbing flood. The new greenery risen out of the saturated earth was thick and luxuriant, too tempting to be ignored by residents of nearby housing blocks. A dozen or so donkeys were tied to widely spaced stakes in the ground, and an old man and a dog sat beneath an acacia, watching the crowd while tending a large flock of goats and sheep brought out to graze on the lush new foliage.
Pahure pulled up his long kilt, freeing his legs for speed, and ran toward the flock, spread out across the grass. Bak raced after him. Water erupted from beneath their pounding feet, splashing their legs. The dog began to bark, exciting the animals in the flock. A few spectators turned to look, but most were so intent on the soon to approach procession that they could not be distracted. Bak heard a second blare of trumpets and the swell of voices as the people amassed in the court greeted their sovereigns, emerging from Ipet-resyt after a week of rituals celebrating their divine birth and the renewal of their spiritual power.
A splendid white ram, the wool on his belly clumped with mud, began to trot toward the river, making the clapper tied to his neck ring, enticing his flock away from what he took to be danger. The animals bunched up to follow, forc ing Pahure close to the spectators, who stood ten-deep or more all along the processional way. The dog’s barking grew more frantic and it ran out into the grass. The old man stood and, shaking a fist, began to yell. The sheep and goats at the rear of the flock broke into a faster trot, pushing the others forward. People turned to look, but another blast of trumpets drew their gaze back to the court, where the lord
Amon was leaving his southern mansion and the standard bearers had turned west to lead the procession toward the river.
Bak prayed Pahure would remain on the grass, staying well clear of the processional way, and that he would not turn back toward the temple. He did not wish to become en tangled by priests and dancers and musicians and, above all,
Maatkare Hatshepsut, Menkheperre Thutmose, and their ret inue. The very least that would happen would be the stew ard’s escape.
The dog raced toward the flock. The old man yelled more desperately, trying to call it back. Untrained, Bak guessed, and excited by the chase, it ran on, barking wildly. As it raced in among the stragglers, making them bleat in terror, the flock broke apart, with sheep and goats trotting in all di rections, several threatening to run Pahure down. Forced into the crowd, he shoved men and women out of his way, raising a chorus of angry objections. Bak, also caught up in the melee, stayed behind the spectators, ducking around one animal after another, fearful of losing sight of his quarry.
The ram turned and, head down, charged the dog. With a sharp yelp and its tail between its legs, it raced away through the flock. Frightened and confused, the sheep and goats pushed in among the spectators, bumping bare legs and stepping with sharp little hooves on sandaled feet. The people began to scatter, the approaching procession no longer able to hold their attention. Men yelled and cursed and tried to beat back the animals, while children laughed with glee, thoroughly enjoying the commotion. The soldiers along the near side of the processional way broke their line to help.
The thoroughfare, a wide expanse of sparkling white limestone chips, empty of humanity all the way to the river’s edge, was too inviting to resist. Pahure burst out from among the spectators to run west along this easier course.
Bak shouldered his way through the crowd, unwittingly opening a path for the ram. He glanced to the east, glimpsed the standard-bearers leading the procession toward him.
With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, he set off af ter Pahure, who was dashing along the thoroughfare, kilt held well above his knees. The waterfront lay not fifty paces ahead of him.
The line of soldiers along the south side of the pro cessional way broke apart and the men ran onto the lime stone path. Bak thought at first they meant to chase Pahure, then realized half the flock had followed the ram through the crowd and the animals were spreading out across the thor oughfare in front of the approaching procession.
Openly horrified by the potential for catastrophe, the ser geant in charge yelled to his men, “Get those wretched crea tures out of here.” Practically tearing out his hair, he added,
“The ram. Somebody catch him. Lead him away. Cut his throat if you have to.”
The soldiers, many of them innocent in the ways of ani mals, tried to press them back in among the spectators; in stead, they set them to flight. The men and women lining the thoroughfare surely recognized the seriousness of the situa tion, but, following their children’s example, they began to laugh. Even Bak, racing on, had to smile, though he suspected he would be the man held to account. Especially if he didn’t lay hands on Pahure.
Forcing himself to greater effort, Bak gradually closed the distance between himself and his quarry. Ahead, the royal barge was moored against the riverbank at the end of the processional way. Behind the highly polished wooden craft and tethered to it by thick ropes, the golden barge of the lord
Amon rocked gently on the swells. In front of the royal ves sel, tied to temporary mooring posts embedded in the mud bank, were the ten boats that would tow the barges downstream, guiding them along the water’s edge to Ipet isut. Each boat, bound to the vessel behind it by a long, stout rope, had been freshly oiled and painted. Colorful pennants fluttered from masts and stays.