The Blood of Egypt
By Christian Klaver
Introduction
This much is true:
Approximately 1357 B.C., during the 18th Dynasty of ancient Egypt, a young Pharaoh named Amenophis the IV abolished worship of the old gods, including Set, Anubis, Osiris, Thoth, Bast, Isis, Hastor, Horus and even Ra. The priesthood and was abolished, in favor of the single deity, the Aten, or sun-disk.
Pharaoh changed his name to Akhenaten, after the Aten. He then moved Egypt’s capitol from Memphis to the virgin ground of what is now modern Armana, naming this new city Akhetaten, or Seat of the Aten. Aten would only reach the people through Pharaoh, making Akhenaten the only source of divine power, and abolishing the priesthood. Akhenaten ruled for another 12 years, making many innovative changes in art, architecture, religion and politics.
While no one knows precisely how far Pharaoh’s ban spread, we do know that the Egyptians, an intensely religious and superstitious people, were not ready to do without a worship that had existed virtually unchanged for over fifteen hundred years. After Akhenaten’s death, young Tutankhamun, under the guidance of his many advisors, immediately restored the old ways. The priesthoods of the old religions came back to power. The religion of the Aten never surfaced heard of again.
There is much we do not know, as the precise details of this shift in power are gone, for the new city of Akhetaten was abandoned, the graves there all defiled, and the land there shunned by the common folk for untold decades. Akhenaten’s name was omitted from all future king lists.
Since no ever recovered Akhenaten’s body, the exact nature of his death will remain a mystery.
Act I: The Ka
Chapter One: Murder at the Festival of the Dead
There are many parts of the Egyptian soul. The first and foremost of these is the ka. Each ka is unique and embodies the specific personality of the individual. The ka comes into being at birth, grows and develops as the child does, and is the portion of the soul that is weighed against ma'at, the feather of truth. Kas that did not pass this test were torn apart by the fearsome beast that guarded the Gate of the Western Lands. Kas that balanced with the ma'at, passing the test, made the journey through the Gates of the Western Lands and Joined Great Osiris in the land of the Dead, where they could look down from the imperishable stars and watch what became of their descendants.
Druset’s Story
I stared at the dead flesh baking in the sun. On the first day of the festival of the dead, I should have been browsing among the merchants or peddling my own humble wares. Instead, I stood over an abandoned corpse.
The brilliant rays of the sun lit up the dead woman’s hand like an alabaster sculpture, thrust up from the sand as if it sought escape. Alas, too late. It was hard to tell much more about her, as the sand covered her features and most of her body, leaving only the delicate scorched hand and a cascade of black hair that swirled in the wind.
The heat that poured from the sand was nearly as bad as the direct sun light and I mopped the sweat from my forehead wearily, feeling very old. There was no wind, and no voices, no sound at all. Only the oppressive heat. When Usis shifted uncomfortably, the small trickling of a stone falling down into the pit sounded like the only noise in the world.
We peered down at the dead woman, Usis and I. He looked young and scared, but neither of us moved for a long time.
We were on a high ridge in Pharaoh’s quarry, a forbidden place for commoners. Perching on the edge of one of the excavation pits, I looked for a way down. We had no excuse to be in this place, at least none that Pharaoh’s guards would listen to. Fortunately for my errand, the quarry was forbidden. Forbidden, but unguarded.
A solemn air lay over the place. A few years ago, I might have said that you could hear the gods in such a place, but no one said that out loud anymore. I glared briefly up at the sun disk in the sky, Pharaoh’s Aten. The only god felt now in this place. The sun shone into the pit, lighting a space filled with rubble and mountainous stone fragments large enough to shade elephants. The entire valley was bordered by small cliffs on all sides formed by the constant mining. The narrow defile that we’d climbed over to get in was the only break in the unforgiving landscape. The entire place was filled with raw stones, often great jagged and pale hunks that thrust white fingers up into the white sun.
“We shouldn’t be here, Master. What could you possibly..” Usis started, but he stopped when I spun and transfixed the young boy with a gnarled finger.
“I am not so young that I have to answer to you,” I snapped. “And not so old that I have forgotten. You are a good boy. Now remain so in my eyes and keep your mouth shut. Especially when this day is over. Yes?”
Usis nodded seriously. He was the most trustworthy and tractable of my apprentices. And he was too young to know the dangers I courted. For that, I had chosen him over the others. I regretted taking anyone, but Usis would obey without question, so he would be the safest. Questions would be dangerous.
Dreams. This entire last year I’d been plagued with them, and they’d gotten so strong in the last few months that the images tumbled before me every time I closed my eyes. An all pervading disk of fire, like the sun beating down on my shoulders, but harsher yet, so that each ray was like a knife piercing the layers of flesh like a fiery blade that set all it touched to flame. Each night, I could feel the burn of it, and woke feverish and febrile.
I thought back to this morning, after I’d woken from the dream yet again. Even awake, if I closed my eyes, I could see and feel my flesh burn. I could barely remember the waking days for all the dream memories crowding in my head.
Eager to brush the cindery cobwebs from my eyes, I’d taken up paper and pen to work on the morning’s translations, impatiently scribbling the symbols onto a thick papyrus sheet. I scowled at the text, running my finger down the column. I couldn’t move fast enough to suit my impatience, and the gaunt, awkward hieratic characters created in haste only served to irritate me further. Usually, the reed pen’s strokes over papyrus would soothe me, a gentle whispering as rhythmic as Ra’s bright rise and fall, as reliable as the Nile. Now my aged hand shook as I wrote, and I rubbed my knuckles in my eyes and bent to the task again, though flame still danced in my vision.
Like an impending flood, a rising babble of voices trickled into my study, though mighty Ra had barely begun his journey. Then I remembered that I wasn’t supposed to speak of Ra anymore. Perhaps that was why the Sun Disk plagued my dreams so. My finger traced the characters carefully drawn on the ancient cryptic sheets that I struggled so hard to translate. The figures of a hook billed bird, a regal cat, a lion-headed figure. These things carried the weight of blasphemy. Their meanings forbidden.
"But it used to be different,” a voice whispered, and I started and jerked awkwardly to my feet. I was alone.
My eye fell on the gold rendering on the West wall, dutifully hung in my inner chambers. The Disk of the Aten blazed over all, reaching loving hands down to Pharaoh and the royal family, his living presence in this world. A row of huddled shapes carrying farm implements milled at the very bottom. Only through Pharaoh would the Sun-Disk’s blessing be spread to the people of Egypt.
I sighed and looked down at the now unfamiliar characters scribbled on the old sheets. Voices and bad dreams in my old age.
I sighed and put my reeds and ink away. Then I carefully placed the ancient sheets of the old language into a chest along with my translation notes. Clearing my table and pushing back my troubled thoughts, I arranged the new sheet carefully in the center of the table. Only then did I reread what I had translated:
The First Day of Thunder. The Festival of the Dead.
The world of the dying comes upon us all.
It comes to the mightiest of kings and to the scavengers and poor.
It comes to the artisan, the prophet, the farmer and the herdsman.
It comes to the scribe and the warrior.
The lioness shakes her head.
She shakes the blood from her mouth.
The blood and decay from her mouth covers all of Egypt.
From her jowls the mighty Nile runs red.
The world of the dying comes upon all of Egypt.
Egypt drowns in the flood of blood and death.
The Desert is in turmoil.
The Desert crashes with the First Day of Thunder, the Festival of the Dead.
The Name is to be Restored, and the Dead bear the knowledge back to the Living.
Fathers come from the West, whispering to sons. They know the names.
Mothers come from the West, whispering to daughters. They know the names.
The Nameless come whispering to the mightiest of kings.
The Nameless come whispering to the scavengers and poor.
The Nameless come whispering to the artisans and the prophets
The Nameless come whispering to the farmers and the herdsmen.
The Nameless come whispering to the scribes and the warriors.
All of Egypt hears them.
The Gods must walk again.
The inscription seemed strangely appropriate, and laden with a sense of urgency, though I couldn’t say exactly why.
“It used to be different, and it can be great again, the way it once was.” This time I knew the voice was not coming from outside of my building, but from inside my room. I looked around, but I was alone.
My heart thundered in its cage of bones, alien to me. I had trouble drawing a full breath. I felt myself go weak, and I had to lay my head on the table momentarily to clear it.
My head swam, and for a moment I thought I was dying. Then I knew the Western Gate would have to wait, if only for a little while.
Read the words,” the voice said now, and it seemed an elderly voice to me, much like my own, but strange and very sad.
I looked down at what I had written. The Nameless come whispering.
No. Not there. I looked in the margin and saw a scribbled note. It wasn’t part of the intended translation, but it was in my own writing.
It was the sigil for Khumenakt, the lion-headed son of Horus, grandson of Ra. And a forbidden word now, according to Pharaoh’s decree. I began shaking again, knowing that to be caught writing this would mean my death.
“Gather the word,” the voice said, and a strange presence came upon me, bringing with it a sudden resolve. I saw for a moment an indistinct shape perched on my desk, the iridescent silhouette of a bird. “When they broke us, they pulled down our temples and broke our names. You must find the fragments, you must gather the word.” It shone brightly and blew into little fragments like down scattered in the wind, then it was gone.
Moments passed. The bird and my resolve both passed with them.
I sat there a long time before I carefully tore off the piece of papyrus with the forbidden name and folded it into my belt. I placed the rest of the inscription in the incense burner to incinerate it.
And now I stood in the forbidden quarry, Pharaoh’s quarry, risking death for a bad dream. But I hadn’t planned on finding a body here. Any inquiry into this would very possibly make my absence in town likely to be questioned.
And now I could feel it still, the hot sun reaching down to burn me, burn all that was under it. Nothing could shelter me. Just as nothing sheltered the dead woman below us.
I paused. “Would you rather remain with the mule?” I asked Usis gently. We’d left the mule tethered near Pharaoh’s great marking stones, ten minute’s walk back, when the terrain had gotten difficult. “I will not be long.”
“If it would please you, Master Druset,” he said in a quiet voice. “I would stay with you.” I didn’t want him to share in the risk, but I needed another pair of eyes. I nodded my consent.
“Very well,” I agreed, trying not to let my relief show. “But stay up here. I shall not be more than a moment.”
Usis peered over the edge at the dead woman again. “Is that…” He bit his lip.
“Yes,” I said. “I didn’t know about this part. But what I need is also down there, unless I miss my guess.” I hoped I was right. When they pulled down the old ways of worship, my guess was that the worked stone would be too valuable to discard. And so I’d come to the quarry.
I picked my way slowly and carefully down the exposed path that led down into the small valley formed between the piles of debris. As I got near the bottom, I realized that my errant guess was turning out to be a good one, for among the raw and pale stones glittering in the sun, I saw that much of the rubble near the bottom showed me worked edges, pieces of corners and even a glitter of gold from some broken sculpture. About a man’s height from the bottom, I stepped back suddenly when a large slab of limestone shifted surprisingly under my weight. I clutched at the quarry wall as a section of the rock under my feet slid away from the wall with a great grinding of stone like the growling roar of some subterranean beast. The rubble cascaded down over the body, covering it completely. After the initial cascade, a small amount of rubble trickled and was done.
“Master?” I heard Usis calling, but the top of the wall was angled so that I couldn’t see him. “Master Druset!” There was a tone of panic in his voice, not surprisingly. I didn’t want to leave him two bodies.
I had to spit rock chips and dust out of my mouth before I could answer. “I am unharmed, I think,” I called out finally. “Though perhaps a little, no…” I warily found purchase with my hanging feet so I could climb the few feet down to an unsteady perch on the new pile of rubble. “No, I’m all right. Stay there.” I was worried that the upset had covered the area of worked stone I meant to search. In fact, the slide had uncovered more worked stone that had been previously hidden. A concave space had opened up in the rock
Usis waited patiently while I reached into the small niche and brushed away the rubble. My fingers carefully traced the square edges of what lay beneath, a chest of some sort, stout Lebanese wood, treated with oil on the outside to help protect against the sand and grit. I had to shift position to get a better grip, and pull it out in small stages. I could have used Usis’ clever fingers, much surer than my own, but I somehow felt that it would be better for him not to see.
I worried about some kind of clasp or lock, but the grooved lid lifted up easily on oiled hinges. Amid a pile of the purest snow white linen lay a dark slate rectangle etched with gold lettering, broken but still assembled as if some one had dropped a potter's plate into the box, breaking it, but not enough to lose the distinctive outer shape. I felt the fine edge of the linen. A priest’s garb. Only that would be so fine. I pushed the pieces of broken slate together with shaking fingers. They fit together precisely, the carved symbols were still clear. Khumenakt, a name banished by Pharaoh, but not forgotten.
“Khumenakt will rise, the Lost Guardian of Gethos.” A hollow voice spilled from my mouth, sad and ancient. A dust floated in my eyes, as if from cities long gone. “Now, during the festival of the dead. It is the time for lost things to return.”
A wave of dizziness pounded into me like the ocean’s crash. I twisted away from the wall and fell to my knees with the sudden weight of it. For the briefest of moments, I could see footprints suddenly imprint themselves in the sand directly in front of me, then the wind picked up and they were gone.
I sat for a bit in the hot sun, wondering what it all meant. The dreams, strange footprints near a dead body. I knew what the symbol meant, at least. It meant death if I were discovered, for the name of Khumenakt, lion-headed guardian of the small village of Gethos was labeled as heresy by Pharaoh. I quickly closed the chest and clutched it heavily. The old gods. And someone wanted them back.
I called for Usis to lower me a rope. I didn’t feel up for trying to haul even the small chest up the side of the pit. I wasn’t very certain about getting up from my knees.
I let Usis haul up the chest first, then lower the rope again to help steady my climb. I managed with his help to pull myself out of the pit, though it seemed near impossible to push myself to move. Grip the rope, shift my footing, shift my grip on the rope higher, pull, shift footing, concentrate… Each move seemed like crawling out of the depths of the Underworld.
“Master,” Usis said as he helped me up. His voice was tinged with worry, but I stopped him by holding up my shaking hand.
“Come,” I said after a moment. “Help me get this to the mule.” He gripped the chest in his two small hands, staggering slightly under the weight, and nodded. I led the way out.
Part way out of the narrow defile, I stopped, listening. I heard footsteps.
I spun and pushed at Usis. “Get away!” I hissed. “If the guards…”
Before Usis could move, or before I could even finish, a long ragged shadow fell over us. I squinted up at the silhouette of a man on a outcropping above us, his tall form shrouded by the halo of the sun behind him. He half fell down the slope, causing an avalanche of stones to clatter around him and causing a huge cloud of dust that drifted lazily in the hot air. Usis stood transfixed, frozen by the bizarre sight, until the man collided directly into him and Usis and the man both went sprawling. The forbidden chest clattered to the ground. The impact jarred the lid open, revealing the priestly white clothing, but the man ignored it. Instead, he clawed his way to his feet and stumbled over to me. I shied away, but he clutched my arm in a tight grip, wrenching me half from my seat to pull my face close to his own.
The man looked barely human. He hunched vulturously over me, lean and tall. His eyes were dark, sunken pools, his skin gray and scarred, barely covered by the rags that he wore. His feet were bare, and his legs bore great clumps of sand, salt and grime. His long, unkempt hair was mottled with the same. He stank of too many days in the sun without oil or a wash. He was more cadaver than man.
He opened his mouth then closed it, staring. I stared wildly as he opened his mouth again, and closed it. He wiped futilely at the tracks of moisture and grime on his face and ducked his head many times as he backed away. He spun and ran with a peculiar bobbing and shuffling gait toward town. I lost sight of him quickly among the quarry stones.
“Are you all right, Master?” Usis pulled himself to his feet, then carefully pressed the cloth back inside before closing the lid again.
I heard his words, but was too distracted to respond until he repeated himself two more times. Surely the man was not from Pharaoh’s city. Only the wealthy lived in the Seat of the Aten; the slaves and workers there dressed better than the wealthy of Gethos. He had come from the desert, like us, but I didn’t recognize him from Gethos, and no one lived in the desert. I shook myself and removed my gaze from the path the man had taken. The heat from the desert had driven men mad many times before this, but today I considered this a portent of bad things. A Day of First Thunderstorms.
“Master?” Usis used the flat, soft tone an animal handler uses on his skittish charges. I followed his gaze up the mound of quarry stones.
“Well, what have we now?” I murmured to myself. A child stood on the apex, staring after the path the madman had taken. She took no notice of us. Small and gaunt, she was a perfect fledgling to the man before her. Her dark hair was long, tangled and cut unevenly, a job left unfinished. Her eyes were dark, her expression unfathomable against the backdrop of the morning sun.
“Bring her here, Usis.” I said, also keeping my voice low.
The girl started, though I am not sure that she understood our words. But when Usis started up the slope her eyes snapped back to his motion with an atavistic jerk, and she went taut, her entire attention focused upon us. Usis looked questioningly over to me and then smiled soothingly at the girl.
“It’s all right,” he said. She looked ready to bolt at any moment.
“There aren’t many people living around here,” I murmured. “And no water.” I pulled a flask out of the satchel Usis had dropped when the man spilled him. Her mouth looked dry, and her eyes flashed from Usis to me when I poured a small portion into my hand to show her what I had. But she snapped her gaze back when Usis took a few small steps towards her. She looked longingly at the water once with dark, yearning eyes then disappeared to the other side of the hill.
“Midday’s Ashes,” Usis swore, and hurried up the hill after her. He looked down the quarry stones with disgust. “She’s gone already. Should I look for her, Master?”
“No,” I said. “There are as many places to hide in this quarry as bends in the Nile. You’ll not find her so easily, I think. Damnation. For a place that’s forbidden, it seems to have far too many people here. Dead or otherwise.”
We made our way back, but we were not to be rid of our last fellow trespasser so easily. Usis spotted her twice as we wound through the great mounds of granite and desert stones, though we heard no sound except the gentle hot shifting of the desert air soughing around us, slow and oppressive. The sun was high, shrinking the shadows of the morning like a priest’s benediction. No one was in sight.
“It’s like being trailed by a wild animal,” Usis said. He kept darting his gaze from side to side, with some bravado. He had adopted a small boy’s imitation of the walk he had seen on some of the Pharaoh’s fighting men as if the smaller girl posed some sort of threat. He had voiced already his fervent wish that he owned a sling, though from what I had seen of his lessons with Mulhoep it would have done us little good.
“With all the same motivations of a wild animal, I’m sure.” We neared the quarry’s edge and I found a concave surface on one of the smaller stones. I brushed away the sand and dirt as best I could and carefully poured a small measure of our water into the hollow there. “Not much of a drinking vessel, I suppose, but better than nothing.”
We edged our way up the outer ridge, Usis helping me. We had been several hours in the quarry, and I was anxious to be home. When we reached the top, I looked around, then made my way to where we’d tethered the mule. There was no sign of guards, the man in the quarry or the girl.
The mule brayed gently when it saw us, and Usis spent a few minutes scratching its ears. The mule was a loan from a friend, Ay, and a risk, but one I was glad we’d taken as we loaded the chest onto its back and made ready for the long trip back to town. Then I briefly checked the cloth bags strung over the mule’s back. Two clay jars of water weighted the bottom of either side. I also found a sack of figs and some sweet honey cakes that had been packed. I frowned, wondering who had packed them. Did Ay lie to his wife? Surely she would not have sent this many cakes just for him. The fool took more chances than he should. It could not be helped, and besides, she was probably more trustworthy than he was, even if she couldn’t make a proper hat.
“At least the rest of the land back is flat,” Usis said with innocent gravity. “We shall be able to see better around us.”
The desert has many holes, as many places underneath the horizon as crocodile nests in the Nile. To the eyes of the foreigner, no one could hide in such a place. The denizens of this arid wilderness preyed on such people. The Pharaoh’s men could move like serpents in the shifting winds out here. So could others. But I said nothing of this. There was no sense worrying the boy.
We took turns on the mule, but mine were by necessity much longer. Usis walked easily alongside. The road away from Gethos was empty. Pharaoh turned a blind eye to the Festival, so long as it did not defy him, but very few from Pharaoh’s home traveled to Gethos now.
The heat of the sun beat down upon as we skirted between the narrowing boundaries of the Nile on our left and the cliff’s face on our right. A few minutes from the quarry we came upon the stelae, the Pharaoh’s message stones. The great limestone etchings towered over both of us as we passed. We were close enough for heat to coil off the stone and drift by our faces. The Pharaoh’s proclamations frightened me, like thieving under a watchful eye. This close to Pharaoh’s city, the road was unsafe. Usis gazed for a long time at the stelae, The Pharaoh and his family bathed in the rays of the Aten, depicted in cunning lines by the Pharaoh’s artisans. Hieroglyphs proclaimed the Pharaoh as “Upholding the name of Aten”.
The trip back to the road was brutal. Usis’ energy flagged after ten minutes into the desert, and he walked the rest of the way with slogging steps, beaten down by the afternoon sun. We were too afraid to rest. Fear of the Pharaoh drove us, fear of thieves, but most of all, fear of the desert and the great sun that leached at us with fire. We reached the road several hours later, and saw no one on the way. I did not allow myself to glance at the Pharaoh’s stelae. Aten was for him alone, though he would have us believe that the Aten was all there was.
We saw no one on the way back to town, and the way was easier. But it was not until we reached the outskirts of Gethos and left the desert behind that I felt a small sense of relief settle on me. But it was like a small patch of sunlight in a darkened room. The scrolls words still clamored in my head. A day of thunder. I made Usis drink and ride more as we got further from the seat of the Aten. An hour later we passed within a mile of the enormous row of Tomb constructions. Even this far away we could hear the calls of distant voices, the bustle of architects, artisans and slaves.
As we neared our home town of Gethos, the way was guarded by another stelae, even more impressive than the outer one. There was no mistaking the Pharaoh’s presence.
By the time we reached Gethos, the weather was particularly hot, with searing winds coming north off the desert, the sulfurous breath of the hugest of predators. Even the few birds that lingered on the waters of the Nile seemed mournful and hot. I thought I could feel ominous things stirring beneath my senses, lurking in the corners where I wasn’t looking. Like crocodiles underneath the placid Nile waters.
We didn’t head immediately for my quarters on the edge of town. Instead, I steered Usis north, to the outskirts of town. I needed to return the mule.
“Say nothing unless you are addressed,” I admonished him as we neared Ay’s farm. Ay leaned idly against small tree near the Nile’s banks. He seemed intent on worrying a stalk of wheat in his large hands, picking tendrils off one by one. He was a big man, grayish and lumpy, almost a perfect match for the mule. He wore only the barest of loincloths displaying his beefy thighs and stomach. A farmer as successful as Ay liked to advertise the signs of his wealth. He wore a ridiculously undersized cloth hat that his wife had made for him. It barely sheltered his wide, flat nose, and the rest of him was burnished Nubian bronze. He wore a grieved look. I’d heard from the boys that his wife’s child had been stillborn the day before last. I hated to bother him, but there weren’t that many that I could trust, and there would be worse than just one stillborn child before these dark days were gone.
When he spotted me, he gave me a quick nod, then turned away as if he had not seen me. I made a point of stopping not too close, in case anyone was watching. Usis tethered the mule nearly a stone’s throw away and unpacked the chest. I didn’t want any trouble I caused to fall on Ay for loaning me the animal.
We unloaded the chest and kept going.
I looked back briefly as Ay untethered the mule and pulled it after him as he went in great unhurried steps to survey the regular irrigation ditches. I watched his huge bare back as he walked slowly into the field of straight lines and huge flooded squares. It was well that Ay did not have any sandals for water came up past his ankles, and sandals would only have rotted from his feet.
I stopped briefly to view the village below us. The people were barely visible, scurrying like insects among the artfully crafted toy houses of royal children.
The festival of the dead was here. I wondered if anyone in the city was ready.
We were dusty and tired by the time we reached the spot we shared with a crafter of inks. Mulhoep was absent and only the smaller boys lounged under the camel hair awning. The two youngest, Pini and Syris looked lost amid the bodies passing them from all sides. I saw several people looking at a few of the samples placed in the front, then look at the two children and shrug, moving on.
“Where is Mulhoep?” I asked. “He should know better than to leave the two of you alone.”
“He is negotiating on ledgers with an alchemist from upriver,” Syris said quickly, “But that’s not why he left. The merchant said he had important news, about Lord Hurin.” His words tumbled over each other in their haste.
“Could he be coming here for the Festival?” Pini asked.
“Don’t be stupid,” Usis said. “To Gethos? Why would he leave the Seat of the Aten? He wouldn’t come here. Would he?”
“Doubtful,” I said. “The festival of the dead is only a local event. Hardly enough to attract the prince of Uchisis. He usually spends his summers in the Pharaoh’s court.” I didn’t like to think about what his arrival here might mean.
“Still...,” Pini persisted.
“Forget about that for now,” I said. “Is this how you take care of my inks? The sun has moved and these sheets will soon be ruined if you don’t keep them in the shade. And I believe some of you have still to finish the work Yuk-Chek commissioned. If the Prince did come here the first thing that he would do is chastise you for not finishing his High Priest’s assignments.”
They busied themselves while I looked over the samples. I didn’t want the best work out in the open sun, but I wanted to display our art. I could sell pieces to plenty of folks who couldn’t read, but would proudly display our work in their best rooms as a sign of their wealth, knowledge or favor.
“Master Druset,” Usis pulled at my sleeve and then pointed into the crowd. “Mulhoep’s back”
The tall boy was weaving his way through the crowd. His chin was held high and his mouth set in a firm line. Whatever information he had been looking for, he must have felt it to be worth the price of any punishment I might see fit to assign.
My gaze slid from the boy to a tall, sun scorched Nubian with ebon curled hair and beard playing a reed flute. Several performers had crafted a sort of stage right in the middle of all the bustle and a dark bearded Syrian was sonorously beleaguering the crowd with his stories. Two others added rhythms of a drum and some kind of stringed instrument that I didn’t recognize. They wore strange loose garments of a dark stained fabric, perhaps cotton, that I’d never seen before. Probably very expensive and not as light in the sun as most Egyptian garb. They had other marks of wealth. A carnelian and silver earring dangled from the tall flute player’s ear. Expensive kohl garnished their eyes, heavier than even the sun called for, making them ghostly, masked shapes in the sunlight. They were well groomed with oils slicking back their hair and their instruments looked well cared for without any of the patches and repairs that were usually in evidence for traveling performers.
I pulled my gaze away to regard Mulhoep critically. “Well?”
“Lord Hurin is traveling here,” he blurted out. “He was seen close by several days ago. He may be here soon. Maybe tomorrow.”
“Lord Hurin, no good will come of that,” I murmured.
“Master,” Usis interrupted, grabbing my arm and pointing.
The storyteller had gathered quite a crowd. His dark hair gleamed in the sunlight. “And did this mighty warlord bow to his captive’s demands. No! Himself being chaste, and his tormentor using her charms to attempt to weaken him...” I could not make out the rest. I noticed someone familiar in the crowd.
“It seems that we were followed after all,” I said. Among the audience a dark tangle of hair bobbed at waist level. She stopped in the lee of a building and stood looking at the Nubian with the flute. His skin was black as the Nile bottom, and smooth. He played with a rhythmic sway to his shoulders and his charcoal bearded face locked in a permanent half-smile that I found strangely reptilian. The snake and snake charmer all in one person. The Syrian moved to intercede.
“Ah...” he intoned to the crowd, “A small innocent to enter into our tale, which is fortunate, for such a child has a place here.” He quickly pulled the young girl from the quarry close. “The lady had in her confidence just such a child as this. When the warlord...” he snatched his hand back with a yelp. “Mother of Set, is it child or jackal?” Redness oozed from underneath his fingers as he nursed his wounded hand. His tone was jocular, but he glared nastily at the girl. The Nubian played a low ominous warble on his flute that drew laughter from the crowd. They gathered closely, blocking my view.
I bustled around the stall, trying to get to the center of the crowd, but they formed a tight circle. The storyteller’s voice boomed above the merriment. “Not so fast jackal-child, I have not finished my story yet!” The girl must have been trying to force her way out, but the crowd was too entertained to let her escape so easily. Some probably thought her part of the troupe. Most didn’t care if her fear was real or feigned. I pushed myself close enough to see a burly merchant pushing her back to the storyteller. The musicians played another dirge-like melody.
“Pardon,” I said, trying to wedge myself into the circle. The merchant looked briefly behind him, then turned back to the gaiety. Trying to wedge past him was impossible. I heard a shriek, then more laughter. I rifled through my pockets, coming up with one of the quills that I had brought from home. I gripped it firmly and jabbed the merchant fiercely in his right buttock.
His bellow brought the attention of the crowd. He jumped forward enough for me to worm into the open center.
“My apologies if my apprentice is bothering you,” I said humbly, facing the troupe leader.
“Apprentice?” the man laughed. “Come now, this is no child. You have become so desperate for assistance that you have clothed and adopted a wild beast from the desert and pressed it into service!”
Now that I was closer, the group of them seemed sinister to me, with their slick oils and their dark clothing conforming each of them, sluicing their individualism away. Even the differences in some of them, the woman’s longer hair and the Nubian’s darkness served only to accentuate their sameness; each of them were different pieces of a whole, like clergymen or soldiers.
“Your wit delights,” I murmured. I dipped and left some coin in the copper bowl set in front of them. “For your trouble.”
“Lord scribe is most gracious,” the storyteller said, though he glanced at the young girl as the serpent watches a retreating meal. He abruptly smiled. “Most gracious.”
The crowd parted, allowing me to herd the child through. I was careful not to touch her. She preceded me at my gesture, pausing only a moment to spit at the storytellers feet. I followed hastily.
“Now what am I to do with you?” I wondered aloud.
The girl looked up at me briefly, squinting into the sun. “Father?” she said in a whisper.
“No child,” I said gently.
“Master?” Mulhoep came running to meet us. He looked back over his shoulder where several soldiers waited. His face looked worried. “They say they found a body,” he said breathlessly.
The soldiers had spotted me as I cleared the crowd. They started forward.
“The body was found out near the quarry,” Mulhoep said. “You’re wanted for questioning.”
Chapter Two: Pitch Dogs in the Night
Though the Egyptians often pictured dogs as working for men, they were always shown hunting or guarding, never as an animal to be petted. Dogs were regarded as sacred to Anubis and buried with their masters to continue their duties in the afterlife. The desert dogs, while also sacred to Anubis, also dwelled in the the desert, the domain of Set, the warrior god of storms.
Set, also depicted as having a canine head, was one of ancient Egypt's earliest gods, a god of chaos, confusion, storms, wind, the desert and foreign lands. He was treacherous and murdured his brother Osiris, but was also a companion to the fatherly sun god Ra and slayer of the Serpent Apep.
Sivku’s Story
At first I thought that being a slave in under Senior Prophet Bolis was the worst thing that could happen to me after my capture. Then I found out that being a young woman in Bolis’ care was even worse. Until now, I'd been able to avoid that kind of attention, but I was becoming more woman than girl.
I dipped my foot in the slow running water. It would do. Hurin and the rest of his stinking desert pigs could wait for me. May the desert dogs piss on his grave. I shucked my clothing and took the first few steps into the river, watching for crocodiles. It was slow here, and shallow enough to be safe. The water was warm. My back hurt, and my feet were sore. The worst was the backs of my legs where Bolis had beaten me. The pig. It was the closest to me he would get. I wasn’t even a woman to him, just the only slave stupid enough to resist him.
I avoided looking at my reflection. I didn’t like how I looked. Scared. Small. My hair was too fine, my skin a shade too dark. The desert dwellers had more red in theirs, like the ochre of the rusting sands. My own face looked foreign. My nose was flat and small, my Hyksos eyes strange. Set’s eyes, some said. They looked strange to me, tainted. I’d been here too long.
And I wasn’t going anywhere. Probably die here, surrounded by stinking desert pigs. My face looked gaunt to me, all traces of childhood truly gone. No child left in me anymore. Not now. I felt older than the desert itself, though I wasn’t more than sixteen summers. Maybe only fifteen. The last few years all blurred together.
I went back to the riverbank and rifled through my clothes. My treasure bag was tangled with the bit of rope I used for a belt. When I had my clothes on I wore the bag underneath my clothes tied so that it hung between my legs. One more reason to keep Bolis away from there. It was a little awkward, but the small bundle was often my only comfort during the days. Knowing that I had something of my own, if not myself.
I spread the contents out. The small obsidian knife, my first theft. The most important and my only comfort at night. The scrap of cloth from my old clothes, worn with age. My last little bundle was a recent acquisition. I pulled the small slice of scented soap from its wrappings. I had sliced off a piece last month when I had a few moments alone in Lord Hurin’s tent. It was the size of my smallest finger then. Now it was smaller. I had been rationing it. It might last me another month if I was careful, and if I didn’t spare some to try and clean my lice ridden clothes.
I washed my hair first. Running my fingers through the dark mess to try and unmat it some. I lathered the rest of me, most careful with the welts on the backs of my legs. The rest of me had shed girlhood as well. My stature was still small, but thinner now, lean. I was dainty but my hips and chest, though small, had filled out enough to be a nuisance. I had been better off without them. Life had been simpler as girl. Women slaves did far poorer in Lord Hurin’s entourage.
“Dreaming about adult things, are we?”
I jumped, making a small yelping noise that I cursed myself for. Stupid, now he knew how much he scared me. If he didn’t before. Stupid, stupid.
Senior Prophet Bolis smiled at me as if he knew all of my thoughts and began to remove his vest. “If you scream, then I shall have to wade in there and drown you before Hurin’s guards arrive, saying that you slipped and fell and that I was brought here by your scream.” He dropped his vest on the riverbank and noticed the dagger among my clothes. “Naughty,” he said. “What would Lord Hurin say? It is punishable by death for a slave to own such things.”
I backed deeper into the water. The current was stronger out here. It tugged forcefully at my thighs. “There are worse things than dying.”
“Only the young say such things,” Bolis said. He discarded the iron dagger that was his mark of station. The cunningly wrought gold pommel, the sun disk of Aten, rays reaching down, glinted mercilessly in the morning sunlight. His kilt followed He was a huge man, barrel-chested and muscular despite his slightly advanced years. I could see that he was getting aroused. One of the other slaves had told me that he had been a warrior in the Pharaoh’s army before he entered the priesthood. Both his physique and his casual brutality made me believe it.
He dipped his foot in the water. “It seems warm enough. It would be easier if you came to me, though.”
“I’m Lord Hurin’s property,” I stammered. “He’ll kill you if you damage me.”
He shrugged and entered the water. “Hardly. He cares more for the stakes in his tent than he does you. He doesn’t even remember your name. You are merely the disobedient Hyksos girl to him. I report your infractions to his steward every time I’m forced to whip you.” He was drawing closer to me, wading easily through the water that threatened to overwhelm me. I wished that he would get deep enough to cover his loins, so that I wouldn’t have to see them.
“Come now, Sivku.” Bolis said quietly. “You’ve been with us for almost two years now, and you’re no little girl any longer. It is time to face facts. And I can be very generous to those that please me. Ask Shriea.”
“I did. She says that your breath stinks and that your lusts do almost as much damage to her as your beatings used to. She’s always sore for days after.”
His face darkened and I regretted my words slightly. I knew that Shriea would pay dearly for telling me that. “You’ve got no choice,” he said grimly. “Little Hyksos, we’ll see who’s sore soon enough.” He was close enough to reach me now. My footing was awkward as I braced myself against the Nile’s current. I slipped briefly and came up a few feet away. I spit water and pushed my hair back.
Bolis seized my wrist and pulled at me, easily yanking me off of my feet, though I continued to thrash in the water. “You’ll drown this far out,” his voice was soothing again. He always frightened me more that way. “We’ll both be taken by crocodiles. Come to the riverbank with me.”
“Some things are worse than crocodiles,” I sputtered. I slipped my wrist from his grasp. I probably couldn’t have done it without the slickness of the water and the surging strength of the current pulling at me.
The Nile yanked me brutally down. I hit something, the bottom I think, and bobbed briefly. I couldn’t see anything but silt clouds in the current. Water filled my mouth and nose as the Nile enveloped me. It took me with the same casual brutality that I felt in all of this land, and it was not gentle.
I was so scared when I bobbed to the surface that I might have answered Bolis’ cries. He was far away. I had been under longer than I thought, or the river was faster. I could barely see him. I thought about calling to him. Maybe the guards would hear me and come too, but I hadn’t the breath.
The Nile pushed me under. I clawed upwards, but I was nothing to the water’s giant tugs. I went where the Nile pushed me. I bumped against the bottom hard enough to force the wind from me. I tried to pull a breath and my mouth was filled with silty waters. I had told myself that I would rather die in the river than give in to what awaited me on the shore, but I still flailed about me for the surface. All I could hear was the constant rush of the river. I saw muddy brown everywhere. I would die without even knowing which way was up.
I bumped bottom again, raising a great cloud of silt in the water around me. But now I knew which way was up and I was still close enough to the bottom to get some leverage from kicking off. I floated up into a stillness, and just when I thought that the Nile would kill me was when my head broke water. The water was slow enough for me to cling to a muddy bank and pull myself dripping out of the water.
I lay sobbing, clenching the mud with my fists. My naked body was covered with it. So much for the bath. I wiped at my arms and chest. I tried to wring the worst from my dripping hair, but my hands shook too badly to grip it firmly so I just pushed it back.
I thought briefly of escape. I was some distance from Lord Hurin’s guards and from Bolis. Unwillingly I walked to the water’s edge.
A young woman, naked in the desert. Hurin was only a boy, but he was a good friend to the son of Pharaoh. This close to Pharaoh’s city, I had no chance to elude the Pharaoh’s reach. I knew nothing of the terrain or dwellings that might be nearby. Anyone I would meet would guess me a slave by my dark skin; it was the way most foreigners visited the desert. The lash marks on the backs of my thighs were hardly needed. I wished desperately for some clothes.
Brushing tears from my eyes, I started trudging in the direction that I thought Lord Hurin’s camp might be. I had no sandals, my feet were somewhat used to it from the trip. I walked with my arms covering my breasts, hunched over and trying to shield my face. My wet hair clung irritatingly to my back. There was no time when I was dry. I went from wet to sweaty in minutes. Sand clung and itched in all the worst places.
Night slid into the desert and I still hadn’t reached camp. I stopped often, and several times headed back the way I came, but I always turned back. If I were caught by someone other than Hurin’s troops, it would be the same as death. I stopped once to look for crocodiles, thinking that they would give me a quicker death than any other, but their sudden appearance had me running for safety. I cursed myself when I was done, but I didn’t turn around.
When night settled in, I dug a hole in the sand to try to keep warm. It itched nightmarishly, but my body heat would keep me alive. I’d had to test it before when Hurin’s men couldn’t be bothered to pitch enough tents.
It was very late in the night when the pitch dogs began howling. I only knew what they were because I’d heard Hurin’s men talking in low whispers about them. I shrank further into my shallow sand hole. It had been so long since I prayed that I wasn’t sure who to pray to. I had forgotten the names that my mother used to whisper and even the ones my father had used under his breath. I wanted no attachment to the cruel desert dweller’s religion, but I found myself mimicking the things that some of the other slaves said. But whispering to Pharaoh in the cold sand didn’t make me feel any better.
When I heard the first scream, I wasn’t sure that I had heard right over my rasping breath and the blood pounding in my ears. It was followed by two more screams, far away, and more howling. I wriggled out of my sand lair. I brushed sand from my eyes and blinked and rubbed them. The cold air bit into me. The slice of moon, bright and silver, sent its sheen everywhere, coloring the dunes so that they looked like smooth amethysts ground to a powder. They still smelled of dust.
I clambered up three more dunes before I could hear anything better. The noises were coming from farther off than I had thought. I couldn’t see from here. I began rushing through the heavy sand, trying not to think about the wisdom of it.
It took me forever to get there, but I finally crested one of the larger dunes and I could see the blood and dying. The screaming never stopped. I recognized the rich cloth squares of Hurin’s tent. The light of torches flickered madly so it was hard for me to make out the battling figures in the partial darkness.
The top of my dune was close to Hurin’s tent. It was burning on all sides, a huge bonfire that hurled cascades of heat over me. I squinted into the fiery blaze.
No one had noticed me. The guards were too busy with the fire and the dogs to worry about me now anyway. As for the dogs, they’d probably pay me more attention. One of them loped into the firelight casually. It looked more like a bull than any dog. It was huge, with sleek blackened fur, a long jackal-like snout and high domed ears. I crawled slowly backwards. A mistake. The movement snapped the monstrous head around. I wanted to run, to whimper. To do anything. But I didn’t. I couldn’t move.
It had eyes like black beads, glistening in the firelight of the burning camp. Not at all like a person’s eyes. Lifeless and cold, mounting that enormous muzzle of barbed fangs. The pitch dogs I had seen didn’t seem to have fear or anger or any motivation I understood. It would kill me, I was certain. Without personal malice, but I would still be dead.
Then the beast snarled and turned away. With its rear to me I could see what had gotten its attention. An arrow quivered in its rear. The beast didn’t yelp, though, like a wild dog would have done. It snarled and limped over to kill the man that had been stupid enough to shoot it. I heard the man’s wild scream as I cringed on the opposite side of the dune. I couldn’t help it, I had to look. If the dog remembered me after dealing with the guard I wanted to see it coming.
I scrambled around camp. I thought I might have recognized the guard that died. I had hated him minutes before, but now I didn’t have the stomach for it.
I bellied up to the top of a new sand dune. I tried not to think about how fast one of those dogs would catch me. My only chance was to go unnoticed. Crawl nice and slow. No sudden movements.
I turned as I topped the dune. I had meant to look once and be gone. No amount of distance would make me feel safe. But I was transfixed. None of the slavers from camp would be coming after me. No one. There was a small knot of guards huddled around the tent, but the camp was swarming with pitch dogs. They were everywhere, sniffing and tearing and worrying at the food rations and dead bodies on the ground. They wanted meat and weren’t choosy. Some of them were feasting on the still living. It didn’t seem to matter. The morning sun began tinting the sky, so that I saw everything clearly.
There was a brief moment of stillness, where time slowed as I watched the pitch dogs consume the entrails of the dead. As the nearest snuffled I could see a sudden flutter of luminescent wings burst from the body cavity. More glowing forms burst from the bodies scattered around the camp, though none of the dogs reacted to their appearance. I remembered a story I’d once heard about the Egyptian souls flying around as birds, though where they flew to I didn’t know.
I suddenly realized that one of the shimmering forms wasn’t in the camp, but right beside me. It wasn’t a bird, but a man, elderly and grim looking. His eyes were profoundly inhuman, with swirls in them like a great desert storm. I could see ancient kings, glorious armies and the grandeur of wide arid cities swirling in those eyes. It came to me that the ghost had been standing there for some time, with his hand on my shoulder and only now did I know. When it spoke, the voice was gruff and kind at the same time.
“Run, my child, lest you become like the other one,” it said, and then it disappeared. I looked briefly back at the camp, and saw only the feasting dogs. All the ghostly shapes were gone.
I was shocked out of my spying as a searing shadow fell over me, bright, but unlike either sun or moon. Blotting out the moon’s light with a flickering penumbra the way a huge bonfire seen from the right angle might obscure a cloudy sun. I twisted as something from above me swept past, burning my eyes and face. Something enormous. I threw myself to the ground, rolling down the side of the dune toward camp. The stench of a bonfire passed over me, grazing me enough to singe the hair on the back of my head. Abruptly, the heat and sudden light passed and disappeared.
I clenched my jaw to keep quiet as I skittered on my back down the dune. I landed hard enough to knock the breath out of me. The cold of the desert gusted around me and I raised myself on quivering arms.
I’d fallen right into the middle of things, though no one paid me any attention. The ring of guards still battled frantically now. I heard calls for Hurin. I didn’t see the boy, but I could see Bolis among the guards. He was brandishing his weapon at one of the dogs. The pitch dog he yelled at was much bigger than the rest. Frighteningly so. The pack leader. And it wasn’t roaming the camp for food like the others, but sat there, looking at the guards. Its hugely muscled body shook slightly as it sat. My stomach lurched suddenly as I picked up a low sound. It was difficult to hear over the flames. But laced with the sound of fire and dying men, a rough edged bass guttural noise swelled. It wasn’t until I had watched the shaking pitch dog that I realized that it was laughing.
Abruptly it rose on its hind legs and gave a short bark, loud enough to sound like a tree splintering. It looked less wolf like that, almost bear. It twisted its head to survey the camp once, casually. And I saw its eyes. I had thought the other pitch dogs’ unknowing eyes to be frightening, but I had never seen a pitch dog the size of a large horse, with a laughing blood slicked muzzle and a murderer’s eyes. Human looking eyes.
It fell back to all fours and loped over one of the sand dunes on the other side of camp. The other pitch dogs followed instantly. One paused to worry another bit of flesh from one of its victims then it too was gone. In seconds they all vanished into the desert.
I ran.
I found a road later in the morning, well maintained with regular markers. Almost certainly leading to Pharaoh’s city. I didn’t like the idea of heading into the lion’s den, but the city teemed with people. It would be easier to hide there. And I couldn’t wander the desert for very long. I’d pondered going back to raid the dead for clothes and food, but wasn’t sure that all of Lord Hurin’s guards were dead, or how far the pitch dogs had gone.
I followed along the path, keeping behind dunes as best I could without losing sight of the road. The sun seared my skin, warmth settling on me like a smoldering net. The strange burns on my neck and face that I had picked up near the pitch dogs last night throbbed painfully.
I feared any travelers on the road, but I needed them too. I would be found quickly without some kind of clothes. A slave or other cast off without some kind of master would attract attention. So I watched the road with a predatory watchfulness, hoping for merchants or wealthy families. Anyone. Weaving a path along the road without climbing any of the dunes and exposing myself was agonizingly slow, but my patience was rewarded only an hour later.
I overtook an old man and woman trudging with bundles on their backs, crawling towards Pharaoh’s city at half my speed. The man hobbled ahead, while the woman followed, sometimes many paces behind, leading a scrawny but ornery mule. The mule carried two small cloth sacks slung over its back. I risked a quick trip to the apex of one of the dunes to look around. I couldn’t see anyone for a quarter’s day walk. Just me and them, but I couldn’t bring myself to just run over and pummel them to steal their valuables. I slid from dune to dune for almost another quarter mile, gritting my teeth, knowing that I had to do something before the opportunity was lost. The sun burned at my back, a painful reminder as to my desperation.
Then the man tripped in the road. The woman abandoned the mule, running to the old man’s pitiful wailing. Neither of them heard me glide gently over the sand dune. The woman turned when I got closer and cried out. I yanked the bundle, ignoring an angry snarl from the mule, and ran from the road with the woman screaming after me. I ignored her pitiful wails. I needed it more than she did. I jogged easily, quickly outdistancing her cries. When it became clear they couldn’t follow, I sat down in the sand and opened the bundles, examining the loot from my crime.
The best part was a ragged covering that might serve to keep the sun off my back. I slipped my head through the hole in the middle, delighting in the rough fabric. It wasn’t fine linen, but it was mine now. And it would help a little in the city. For the rest, there was a small bundle of fire steels, some barley and three shriveled figs. I ate the sticky fruit gratefully, while I unwrapped the last bundle. Fifteen or so tiny carvings. Little wood figurines of children and animals, each face carefully scraped just so and wrapped carefully in its own separate cloth. I tried not to think of the old woman’s fingers, gnarled knots tediously notching. Maybe the old man’s fingers, carried by the woman so she could protect them in her clothes.
The old woman’s pack had me shivering with guilty delight. I fingered the new items greedily, and then started to worry about someone taking them. Did that make me vulnerable? Did that make the old woman less vulnerable now that I had taken all she had? That thought only made it worse.
I repacked the bundles and slung them over my shoulder. Then I angled towards Pharaoh’s city, veering back towards the road after awhile.
By the time I reached the city, I felt a little better. I tried not to think too much about the old couple. The road turned into a huge thoroughfare, wide enough for several chariots abreast. It ran parallel to the Nile with a complex of buildings running on either side. The road overflowed with bustling activity.
My eye roved over fine linen clothes, gold jewelry and expensive horses. And then the crowd of merchants, artisans and servants parted and I saw what real wealth looked like.
A large parade of the Pharaoh’s men pierced the chaos, and all stepped aside for them. People gathered on all sides to watch them, and I was nearly crushed.
“Look at the size of them!” One old woman crowed. She pointed at the captives’ loins and several people around her laughed. The center column of naked slaves from Nubia walked with their hands lashed together, staring at the gathered throng with fearful and hostile eyes. Large men and young women. Tribute offered to the Pharaoh. The Pharaoh’s royal guard, resplendent in their war chariots, flanked them on either side. The younger guards smiled and waved to any young women in the crowd, who invariably waved back. After the slaves, another group of soldiers on foot drove a trio of leashed and snarling cheetahs, guiding them with long quirts to keep them in line.
Everyone was busy watching the spectacle that they provided, but I felt I had better find someplace to go. The large number of soldiers made me nervous, even if they were busy.
I followed the procession. Soldiers thronged everywhere, but no one would care about one extra straggler in the crowd. The boisterous crowd traveled along the road for almost a mile before we entered into an enormous series of wide columned buildings. They were raised on slabs of stone, with graceful wide steps beckoning into a reception area and hinting of the sumptuous luxuries to be found within. Huge buildings lurked behind the porches, several stories high and elevated even more by huge foundations.
Guards and court officials lurked everywhere. By mid afternoon, I’d circled the city seven times, trying to look purposeful enough to avoid attracting any attention, while scouting out someplace to spend the night. My idea of hiding in the crowds in Pharaoh’s city was starting to look absurd. I traded the little figurines to a wizened vendor for a miniscule skewer of beef and a cup of beer.
I sipped the beer slowly while the vender looked over the small carvings, knowing that he overcharged me ridiculously, but I couldn’t afford to linger and haggle. The vendor watched to make sure I didn’t steal either the cup or dip a second cupful from the barrel. One was enough to make me feel light headed and when I finished I wandered away, nibbling greedily on the still sizzling meat. I drifted to the edge of town where I could scoop water from an irrigation channel and drink from my cupped hands. I needed the water more than beer.
I couldn’t survive another night in the desert without more food, and certainly not another day without something to carry water in. Either way, wandering around the desert or the city looked grim. I couldn’t even pass through the open thoroughfares of the wealthy districts again without attracting dark looks from the guards there. Foreigners didn’t live in Pharaoh’s city except as servants. The priests around Pharaoh’s private chapel were even worse.
I thought of trying to hide in the one of the active construction sites near the quarry. I saw hundreds of people scurrying around, carving, hauling, pushing and arguing, but once I got identified as one of the worksite slaves, I’d be just as trapped there. And Pharaoh’s guards lounged there, too.
I hadn’t come up with much of a plan by nightfall, though I’d learned the layout of the city pretty well. The best idea seemed to be the crowded common districts. Though the Pharaoh’s roads divided the city into orderly pieces, within those the commoners had crammed house upon house in monstrous wedge-shaped groups, each penning out a miniscule piece of land. Shared walls and two-story buildings poked irregular fingers at the sky and created long, crooked shadows in the setting sun. Crowded like rabbit warrens. People thronged everywhere. No one wanted to be too far from the water.
Then one of the women, pulling her bread from an outside oven, screamed and dropped her bread in the dust, pointing in my direction. Piss from above, what had I done?
Then I twisted and saw the long squirming mass of rats behind me. A great swarm, thirty or so, followed in my wake.
“Rats,” she shouted with disgust. I looked around and kicked at several large rats less than a foot away. Their eyes glittered menacingly at me, not at all bothered. Two or three at a time sat up and chittered at me.
I turned and ran and the rats followed. More people were shouting behind me. I didn’t care.
I rounded one of the wedge shaped buildings, running full tilt into a huge Nubian with deeply shadowed eyes. He didn’t move much, but I bounced and went sprawling in the dust. He smiled and bent, way, way over to regard me fondly.
“Hello, my sweet,” he said with an amused air. “At last. So many people from Hurin’s entourage have been looking for you. It seems someone there is very attached to you. But we have found you first.”
I struggled, but he twisted my wrist in a powerful grip, turning me onto my stomach. I lost my wind when he drove his knee brutally into my back.
“What a lovely gift you will make for our dear friend, Lord Hurin.” When I twisted around, I could see his smile glitter above me in the shadows. A jewel the color of blood hung from one ear. A strange robe fluttered around him, strangely eerie in this land of naked flesh.
“Very good, my pets,” he said then, but not to me. He gestured a dismissal with his free hand and the rats behind me scattered.
The rats left, but other men and women, all draped in similar clothing and masked with deeply kohled eyes, stepped quickly from the crowded buildings to surround me.
“You, my dear,” spoke another of them, a dark Syrian with a beard and a deep, sonorous voice. “Have a pressing engagement. A starring role, in fact, for Lord Hurin’s performance.”
The others fell on me, and they had no trouble dragging me kicking from the street.
Chapter Three: Drawn into the Undertow
The Egyptians mummified their bodies because their physical form was an integral part to their afterlife. The heart and other spiritual organs were all required to survive successfully in the land of the dead. Other rituals point to the importance of the physical body after death - the Opening of the Mouth ceremony allowed the body to breath, while other rituals were performed on the corpse to allow the deceased to see and hear in the Land of the West.
Druset’s Story
I was taken by a procession of chariots to Aten’s Temple. We thundered through the dusty roads, scattering the foot traffic with Yuk-Chek’s typical disregard. Some of the pedestrians might have shouted out, but all I could hear was the pounding of hooves and wheels on the road. I felt as if each jolt from stone or rut might rattle me apart, but the charioteers rode with an easy grace and a sly grin for my discomfort.
The temple in Gethos didn’t compare to Pharaoh’s city or Thebes, but it was easily the largest building in town, a huge stone monolith of pillars and arcades mounted on a great foundation with dozens of stone stairways descending at different angles down to the ground. It was built on one of the higher points of land and visible from nearly an hour’s walk away. The gods always commanded more space than people.
The chariot wheels thundered to a halt at the steps and the posted guards snapped quickly to attention and hurried down the stairs to meet me. They escorted me quickly up the stairs and through sun dappled arcades in the interior, each with a rough hands on my elbow lest I slow or stumble on my way to see the Senior Priest of Gethos.
Yuk-Chek received me in a wide hall filled with enormously tall doorways that reached to the three story ceiling, large enough to have driven the chariot right in. Sunlight and acolytes slipped in and out between the latticework of doorways, forming eddies of movement around our stillness.
Yuk-Chek appeared to be watching the sun climb higher in the sky, as if waiting patiently for some sign from his superior. He stood with his back to them even as the guards dragged me over, placing me none too gently on my knees on the stone behind him.
“I don’t want an official investigation from Pharaoh to have to come here,” Yuk-Chek said, without any preamble. “It doesn’t look good.” He turned only slightly to face me, fingering the gold sun-disk amulet around his neck so that it glinted in the sunlight. It bobbed as Yuk-Chek’s fat and pampered fingers twisted distractedly. It seemed so much like all things of the Sun Disk’s: brilliant and beautiful, cold and impersonal.
I was sure the setting was sparse compared to his own home, but it did not seem so to me. The walls and floor were clean and elegant, with decorative stones from the desert, purple amethysts and dark crimson garnets, glittering in the walls. The air was cool and smelled of the oils from the Blessed One’s hair and beard.
“Do you hear what I am saying to you?” Yuk-Chek said sharply.
“Yes,” I murmured, prostrating myself further. “Of course, Blessed One. I am an open vessel.” I see it all, even what you try to keep hidden.
“It’s a very bad business, this...” He sighed and eyed me critically. Yuk-Chek had discerning eyes, sharp and hungry despite all their seeming smallness in his bloated face. I had to remind myself not to underestimate his cunning.
“You've never seen that child before this, then?” he asked. “Or the man?”
“No, Blessed One.”
He sighed again, but those eyes kept probing, watching. “We had best view the body before the burial preparations then.”
He gestured to two guards nearby so that they allowed me to rise. Then they flanked him as he stepped into the open. The sunlight glistened on his sweaty flesh. Servants bearing large reed fans flocked behind the Blessed One to shade his brow. We were also joined by two more guards, a scribe and another servant besides the fanners.
Another brought the young girl I had found in the desert. She quivered in their gentle grip and clung to me when they let her go.
“Did you see the woman?” he asked the girl bluntly.
She twisted away and hid her face in my side. She was still trembling but I stroked her hair gently and she began to breathe more easily. I wasn’t sure how to handle her. None of my apprentices had been prone to dependence. And they had all been boys. I wasn’t sure if young girls would have been different. Tradition called for boys.
“Well?” Yuk-Chek snarled. He glared at me and I kept my face bland.
“I am sorry, Blessed One,” I said. “She was found in the desert. It’s uncertain how long she’s fended for herself, but she still hasn’t spoken a word. I don’t know if she can.”
She quieted under my awkward embrace as four more servants were summoned to bear the Blessed One in his litter. We were the tail end of a procession that marched through arid streets to the burial grounds.
The burial grounds held a series of low buildings sprawled by the desert. They weren’t used all that much. Anyone important would be taken to Pharaoh’s city.
Burial artisans meandered through the complex. They wore placid expressions with only the slightest trace of condescension. I smoothed my hand over my face to remind myself to keep my distaste hidden.
After a brief conference with the attending priests in charge, Yuk-Chek and the parade of us were escorted through the small maze of buildings. The smells of salt and limestone hung on everything.
“A woman was found in the desert,” Yuk-Chek said casually as we walked and I tried to keep my face impassive. He spoke in a conspiratorial tone, as though we were alone. None of the priests, guards or attendants paid any attention. Our procession wound its way around buildings and down shallow steps as the land dipped slightly into the nitrate pits. “She was found just inside the city’s boundaries. Inside the markers. A fisherman mentioned someone passing his fishing spot in that direction. His description matched yours, and no one knew where you had kept yourself this afternoon. Only that you were absent.” He paused outside one of the tents nestled in the pits. “Do you know anything of this?”
“I was with Ay, a farmer near that side of town, Lord. I know nothing of the rest.” I hated involving Ay further, but I needed some kind of story.
Yuk-Chek nodded as if this satisfied him and stepped into the tent.
“I will not be long,” I said to the girl. There was no need for her to see this. She paid no attention to my words until I knelt and thrust her at arms length. Her eyes followed every motion I made, with an intensity that startled me. I had to repeat myself three more times before she nodded in understanding and finally allowed me to hand her to one of the guards. I wasn’t sure how well I trusted them, but I knew how well I trusted the priests.
I followed. The tent was only large enough for the two of us, with the rest of the space taken by the piles of nitrate and the slab that held the body. She was arranged for submersion in the salt, though how much else would be done to prepare her for the Western lands would depend on who she turned out to be.
“A rich man’s wife or daughter, skin so fair.” Yuk-Chek said casually. “Beautiful, too, once.” He prodded one of the dead woman’s breasts with a fleshy finger. “Shame.”
She had been young. Yuk-Chek smoothed the lustrous hair to one side to uncover her face. The cascade pooled on her left shoulder like the glamorous mane of some wild and dark beast. A black swollen patch circled her left eye. Her lips were rouged. The spot of red looked so small in the white face. She was dressed in fine linens dyed pale gold with red brocade, but the clothes were torn and covered with dust. Other bruises showed through tears in the clothing on her arms and back. Her feet were bare, and caked with dried blood and dirt. Her fingers and toes wore golden rings, and she had a brooch around her neck. The brooch was faience, clay dyed the color of a clear sky and shaped into the form of a crocodile, but without any detail. It looked like it might have been more detailed once. Many such theistic pieces of jewelry had been defaced so, at Pharaoh’s orders. So this was not unusual.
“Do you know her?”
I shook my head. I had never seen living. I wasn’t certain it was the body I’d found in the desert, but it seemed likely.
Yuk-Chek’s squinty eyes bored into me. “You are sure?”
“I should remember, I would think.”
“Yes,” he conceded. “I suppose so. It will not be long before someone like this will be missed. Someone will want to know how this could happen. Someone with money, and I will have to have something to tell them. Perhaps it will be a friend of Pharaoh’s. You know nothing of this?”
“No.”
He pursed his lips. “And the young girl with you? I do not remember seeing her before.”
I had been waiting for that. Best to keep as close to the truth as possible. I would take a risk, but I needed to give something to him, someone to look for besides me.
“I found her near the desert, Lord. As you can see, she has spent too much time in the sun. She may have been in the company of the wild beggar that nearly accosted me. Perhaps he is related to your crime, somehow.”
“Wild beggar? Hmm. Connected to the girl? Father? Should I consider her as involved in this murder?”
“How much involvement do you suppose such a child could have?” I said with disgust. “Is this the criminal that will appease your rich supplicants? I think not.”
“And you?” Yuk-Chek said in a low voice.
“Equally unlikely.” I growled. “I am too old for sneaking out to the desert to meet young girls. And if you think that you can stake me in the desert without some proof, I will show you that I am not without friends that would speak for me. You could do it, of course, but at what cost? And why? You don’t really believe it anyway.”
“Just the same, stay where I can summon you.” He turned his back on me to contemplate the woman’s body again. “I have no further need of you for now.”
“And the girl, Blessed One?” I gritted my teeth, fearing that I was pressing my good fortunes too far, but Yuk-Chek merely waved his hand.
“Just make sure she does not wander off. I will send for the two of you if I have need. I do not need to have any ragged orphans underfoot.” His shoulders and back formed a wide barrier, barring his attention and the dead woman’s plight from me.
I made my obeisance and backed out of the room before the Blessed One had time to reflect on my boldness and have a change of heart.
The night was awkward. The girl would not leave my side during our common meal. Usis had told his story to the others and they had a multitude of questions. I shooed them off to fetch our meal. Mulhoep set my customary cup of wine in front of me. Usis ducked in the back door with a warm stack of flatbread from the fire pit.
“What is going to happen to her, Master Druset?” He asked. He carefully set a plate in front of her. She watched his hand warily.
“I’m not sure.”
Usis talked around a mouthful of bread. “Whaff do fwe call ‘er?”
“Pharaoh’s eyes!” Syris said as his hand slipped and he dropped the jug of water with a crash. The girl didn’t seem to notice as the boys pulled the bread out of harm’s way. Pini fetched a bundle of rushes to sweep the water to the floor. A trickle of water fell onto the girl’s arm and she jumped, reacting to the accident for the first time.
“Ah...” I murmured. I tried clapping my hands over her head while she moved out of the trickle’s way. She did not react.
“She’s deaf,” Mulhoep said, amazed.
“Yes,” I said, “but she’s answered me before this. I wonder...” I touched her gently on the arm, catching her attention. Her eyes regarded me seriously.
“I would like the bread,” I said slowly. She turned and reached for the platter as I spoke again, loudly. “No. I’ve changed my mind. I don’t need the bread.” She respectfully placed the bread in front of me.
“I don’t understand...” Mulhoep stammered.
“She reads lips, I think,” I said. Would someone have taught her that? Could she have learned it on her own? Her speech, when she chose to speak, was clear, unlike those deaf from birth.
“Where did she come from, Master?” Usis said aloud. The girl was facing me, so she had no idea that he was speaking. Perhaps it was just as well. “I mean before the desert?”
“I have no idea,” I admitted.
I spent some time with the girl before settling her into bed.
She would not let me leave her. When I went to fetch some things from my office, she pattered along behind me. Her eyes were solemn and trusting as she watched all of my actions, but she did not show any interest in any of the things that I showed her: paper and quills and inks. I tried to show her how to hold a quill several times before I gave up.
She could not read or write. She bore no signs of jewelry or any indentations in her skin of any rings, sandals or any other accouterments of the wealthy. She had numerous bruises and cuts all over, but none of the more obvious markings that a slave would have acquired, one way or the other. Her hands bore no signs of work either.
When I tried to prepare her a place to sleep next to the boys, she watched my arrangements intently, but would not be left there. In the end, it was simpler to allow her to sleep next to me. She curled up quietly and fell immediately into slumber.
So she wasn’t the daughter of a rich man. She might be connected to the dead woman. She might not. I couldn’t find any evidence to support either idea. Neither was she a slave. She was not the daughter of a fisherman, or miner or any of the other craftsman or worker trades that I could think of outright. At least, she bore no signs of being exposed to any kind of work that would leave its mark.
She was used to the outdoors, however. Her skin was the dark color of the Nile river bottom and her feet were callused, unaccustomed to shoes. I fell asleep still pondering.
I was startled from my near slumber by the crashing of pottery. In the quiet of the night I could clearly hear the shards clatter briefly across one of the tables before the silence returned. The center rooms should have been empty this late.
I fumbled with the ivory box behind my bed. I cursed the second childhood of old age that made my withered hands unsure, but I managed to pull the stone dagger out of its sheath. I couldn’t remember the last time I had touched a weapon. The sheath was crusted with sand and grime, making it difficult to unsheathe the blade. The rasp sang across the night as I jerked it out. At least that was something.
I tried to adopt the gliding movement of the warrior, and tried to pretend my hands were more used to weapons. I came close, moving with relative silence through the short hallway connecting the bedrooms to the interior of the common room. Darkness mantled the room, clumping in the corners and curtaining the walls. I hugged the darkest wall and circled around the spot where I thought the sounds must have come from.
“Master?” Mulhoep’s voice called from the other room. It was blurred with sleep. “Master Druset?” He was heading for the common room.
I poised near the wall and tried to quiet my breathing. I could feel the other’s presence. Mulhoep stepped into the room, feet shuffling in the dirt.
Pottery shards crunched on the floor a half instant before I swung the blade in a huge half circle. I prayed for Horus to grant me direction. I encountered some resistance, and my efforts were rewarded with a pained grunt. I swung again and something hammered my arm to the side. I lost my grip on the knife and it went flying. I heard it crash into one of the shelves of scribe’s palates. Another blow sent me crashing to the dirt floor.
I lost consciousness. It felt like a short time, but I was uncertain. Mulhoep tried to help me to my feet, but I cried out when he pulled on my left arm. Using my right arm, I levered myself to my knees and he was able to help my onto a mat from there.
“Where?” I managed to choke out.
“He is gone, Master,” Mulhoep said in a shaken voice. He was carefully lighting a taper and having a bad time of it. His hands shook like wind blown leaves.
“No,” I said. “The girl, where is the girl?” I tried to speak more, then paused to spit blood and dirt onto the floor. “I do not think this was just a robbery. Was anything taken?” I asked. I didn’t think it likely, but I didn’t want Mulhoep to suspect anything other than a common theft. It seemed like the least frightening of the possible reasons for the attack, and the least likely in my mind.
“The girl is with Usis,” he said. I put them together in the back room. “I do not know what was taken, if anything, Master,” Mulhoep said. “I will check the shelves in a moment.”
“It can wait until morning,” I said. I was gingerly testing my left arm. I didn’t think the bones were broken, but it hurt to move. It certainly wouldn’t lift anything heavy for days. The air in the closed room seemed foul to me. “Bring one of the dogs into the house tonight. It seems that we have need for them.”
“Yes, Master Druset.” Mulhoep could not hide the relief in his voice.
“Bandits indeed!” Ofu moaned. “It’s shameful. And so close to Pharaoh. Now the Festival will be swarming with Pharaoh’s men. He won’t tolerate the insult. And when they are caught we’ll have to smell their staked out bodies for days.” The old man gestured forcefully with a sloshing jug of beer with each sentence. Usis pulled the papyrus near him out of the way with a protective glare at the old fishmonger.
“If he catches them,” I said.
“If?” Ofu sputtered. “If? If Pharaoh wants them, he shall have them. Who would deny him?”
“Who indeed,” I said dryly.
Ofu went on as if I had not spoken. “And he shall want them very badly, I should think, after Lord Hurin was attacked so close to his own home. And then we shall have the smell. Ugh!” He tipped the last of his beer back.
“An important part of keeping the peace,” a deep voice said smoothly. Senior Prophet Bolis, Lord Hurin’s instructor approached, his display of pure white linen and gold unmistakable in the bright sun. Ofu turned and then shrank like a beaten dog. I felt a sickening sensation in my stomach, and the fragments of memory tugged at me. So much lost.
“It is fitting that all should see Pharaoh’s justice, his power. It keeps even the slowest of us from making any similar mistakes. It maintains faith.” Bolis said, striding forward. He was a large man. He didn’t look as if he needed the guards with him. The golden sun-disk on his dagger hilt glinted painfully in the sun, marking his station. He wore a long blade that lay dully against the bright cloth of his kilt. It looked as if it had seen a lot of use, not ceremonial at all. The dagger made him enemy enough for me, but I was sure there was more, if only I could remember.
“Aten’s hands,” Usis whispered behind me, awestruck, and I remembered. Cloudy images of broken stones, broken names, broken people. I fingered the stone pieces I had retrieved from the Pharaoh’s quarry and remembered.
“Yes, yes, of course,” Ofu whimpered. His feet shuffled in the dust as he backed away. The guards shifted lazily in the midday sun.
Bolis smiled forgivingly as Ofu nearly ran from the stand, then turned his attention onto me. “And how is the new profession? Does it bore you to spend time with letters?”
“I have been a scribe for many years now, and some words are more important than others,” I said with a neutral tone. “It suffices.”
Bolis barely heard my response; he wasn’t listening. “There is a performance later this evening, in Lord Hurin’s honor,” he went on. “Yuk-Chek said that you would have no pressing engagements that he knew of, and Lord Hurin was asking about you. He thought it might be enlightening for your sequestered apprentices, as well.”
Even the hot sun could not warm my chills. “We would be honored,” I murmured, lowering my face.
“Of course.” Bolis looked as if he might say something else, then twisted around sharply. I followed his gaze into the crowd, wondering who might have attracted his attention. The square was thronged with people: sellers, nobles, warriors and naked peasants at a glance.
“At sunset,” Bolis finished over his shoulder. “At Yuk-Chek’s home.” Gesturing for the guards to follow him, he strode off so briskly that the guards had to stumble after him to fall into step.
I contained my relief at his departure. There was much going on here that didn’t make sense, jumbled though my memories might be. I winced as I steadied myself against the booth. My left arm was still sore from last night.
“Master?” Usis said behind me, but I waved him silent as I passed around to the front of the stand and then wandered in the direction that Bolis’ gaze had gone. There had been so many people near here, but I could not contain my curiosity. Perhaps some trace of something…yes. I knelt in the sand and put my finger to the small red drops of moisture gathered there. Blood. Whatever had attracted Bolis’ attention, it had left this, I was sure. Usis’s voice droned on, but I paid no attention as I rubbed the small drops of ruby wetness between my finger and thumb.
Yuk-Chek’s home was finer than anything I or the boys had seen, the finest in Gethos. The absurdly huge home consisted of several square rooms circling around a central pillar, painted and gilded by Pharaoh’s artisans, and large enough three men could not encircle it with their linked arms. This formed the back wall in an enormous reception whose far corner contained an open terrace that faced to the West so that the last rays of the setting sun danced and glittered on the pillar. I craned my neck to examine for a moment the scene crafted there in golden gilding. Pharaoh strode at the head of a victorious army of chariots and foot soldiers, barbarous Hyksos portrayed cringing underneath his glorious sandals amidst a burning village. I’d seen the upstairs during our approach, with Yuk-Chek’s private quarters, including another terrace visible from a great distance. Also, I knew one of the corners stretched into a hallway, leading to another wing of the house and also letting out into the courtyard, bordering on three sides by the two wings and connecting passage.
Dark Lebanese wood timbers graced the outside walls and ceilings in long, graceful arches, ostensibly supporting the wall of cut stone blocks. Rugs and woven clothes, dark hued in shades of black and burgundy served to pad the floor, or in some cases were draped over the dark wood furniture set out for Hurin and Yuk-Chek’s entourages in the center. Reed mats were placed on the already cushioned floor to show the rest of us, selected wealthy merchants and favorite personages, our places fanning out to either side of the royal party.
Hundreds of cut flowers covered the floor so that different subtle scents drifted lazily in the light breeze. Paintings covered the wall to the right of the terrace, framed by the timbers. They represented properly loyal renditions of the sun-disk reaching down, blessing the Pharaoh, and only through him, crowds of nobles and further below, supplicating workers and peasants. The slight rush of the Nile could be heard from outside. Rumor had it that Yuk-Chek’s house also boasted an expansive cellar.
The boys twisted anxiously on their mats, craning to see Lord Hurin’s glory. The desert girl sat closest to me in the finest clothes I could find for her, a short kilt too small for Usis to wear anymore. I had feared to bring her, but feared even more to leave her alone. She looked at everything with impassive eyes, without any of the boy’s excitement or any of my uneasiness. They were the only children here.
Unless you counted Lord Hurin, but he had long ceased to be boy. I could see the creases that his station had worn near the eyes and mouth. They strengthened when he frowned in impatience, I noticed. His small brown fingers twisted an axe of bronze and copper in his lap as he waited for the performance to begin. A pair of guards flanked him, dwarfing him like two great pillars. Another two guarded the entrance.
The performers drifted in from the terrace space just as the last rays of the sun dwindled behind them. In the flickering of the torchlight, they were little more than silhouettes. I still recognized the dark-bearded Syrian from the market place as he prostrated himself smoothly before Lord Hurin’s chair. He waited motionless, as did everyone, awaiting Hurin’s pleasure. Even the breeze stilled as we waited long moments before the young nobleman said: “You may begin.”
“Gracious Lord,” the Syrian said. “Know then, that there was once a great envoy sent by the mighty Pharaoh to collect incense, ebony, elephant tusks and panther skins from the southern lands of Nubia. Now this man was greatly distressed, for he had a much smaller load for his Pharaoh than he had anticipated. Upon seeing his sorrow, one of sailors of his craft exhorted him to look on the bright side, as they were now on the safe side of the first cataract and had suffered no loss of life on this adventure so far.”
“’Now on my last trip’ the sailor told him. ‘We were in the Red Sea returning to Egypt and we felt proud and confident for our ship was large and mighty and the sailors had an uncanny skill. But the gods must have been angered by our hubris and they sent a mighty wave to dash against us and break our boat into a thousand splinters.’”
While the Syrian spoke, the others had risen. The desert girl whimpered with the softest of sounds and gripped my hand fiercely. She couldn’t hear the dialogue, but the scene must still have been terrifying for her. In my own fear, I had near forgotten her last encounter with this troupe.
They looked much the same as before, sheathed in dark robes that made them all but invisible in the uncertain light. Even in the dark, they had kohled their eyes to deep pools. There was only the glint of jewelry in the Nubian’s ear and on the fingers and toes of the rest. The Syrian raised his voice and moved into the light. The others pantomimed behind him to match his story like self-aware shadow puppets. Hands flashed in a chaotic turmoil while one of them, the boy that had played the drums before, flailed about as if lost at sea, pantomiming the part of the shipwrecked sailor. They were silent in their motions and the only sounds were the lowest of notes from the Nubian’s flute and the Syrian’s deep voice as he continued his narrative.
“Most of the crew was drowned, but a handful of us were battered and washed up on the most beautiful of islands. For three days we hid amidst the wreckage. On the third day I said to them: ‘We will starve if we do not explore this island in search of food’. They all agreed to this and so we set out in pairs to fulfill my plan. We found all the food that our hearts could desire: ripe figs, grapes, cucumbers all grew in magnificent patches within easy reach. An abundance of fish and wild fowl were present for our hunting. Having eaten to excess, we built a fire as an offering to the gods for our good fortune.” The Syrian moved slightly to the side to allow the boy playing the sailor to slide in front. Someone lit a torch directly behind him so that his form seemed wreathed in flame as he stood facing Lord Hurin and then stumbled backwards in mock horror.
“Imagine our surprise when our fire drew out the most magnificent of legendary beasts!” Torches next to Hurin’s chair, previously unlit, flared to life. Hurin’s expression when it was revealed was slightly surprised at being included in the drama. The Syrian spoke quickly, facing Hurin and the rest of the audience as he addressed the young nobleman as if he were the unseen beast.
“It towered over us, a mighty serpent of the purest gold, bearded like the gods and speaking in the human tongue. It demanded an explanation as to our presence here. So we told our story and begged it to accept a gift from us to pay for its great hospitality. There was among us a slave girl, a Hyksos. The serpent claimed her as the price for our passage and we had no choice but to accept its terms.”
They dragged a woman from the terrace. One of the actors made a motion to cling to her, like a protective husband, and the Nubian clubbed him down with a stage blow and dragged the girl into the full light. A Hyksos girl, as the narrative called for. She was young, savage and beautiful, with long black hair and a near feral desperation to her. The Nubian forced her roughly to her knees at Lord Hurin’s feet, ripping open her ragged clothes. Whether to prepare her for a rape or a murder, I wasn’t sure.
“It’s just pretend Master Druset, isn’t it?” Mulhoep whispered.
I nodded, not trusting my voice at first. At last I managed to speak. “Of course it is.” The desert girl clung to me even more.
The Hyksos woman’s dark face was defiant as the Nubian yanked her hair roughly back. The twisting posture caused her to look towards me, and she met my horrified gaze.
“You..” She mouthed, though no sound came out. I felt a sudden rush in my chest, a swelling of thoughts in my head, as if another had stepped inside of me. My vision clouded over, though I could see