The ground crunches softly behind me as the spy makes his way down to the water. He scoops his hands into the river and greedily takes a drink.
“Careful.” I eye him warily, wondering if I should wake the boys. “The river can make you sick.” Walking over to the trees, I pick up the waterskin resting beside Paser’s slumbering form. Taking my chances, I decide to let him and Reb sleep, and I carry the skin back down to the riverbank. I hand it to Pepi, who nods his thanks and drinks thirstily. Having been held in the pits for the last week with little to eat or drink, his body needs it more than ours.
Pepi lowers the skin, looking at me. “You are very kind.”
I look down, uncomfortable with his compliment. “My mother taught me to be so.”
He hands me back the waterskin. “Even to an enemy?”
“We are allies, for now,” I say before taking a sip.
“For now,” he agrees as I offer him another drink. “So, tell me, who is this friend we chase after? She must mean something to you all, to risk your lives.”
“It is the princess,” I say, gauging his reaction. The hand bringing the waterskin to his mouth stops in mid-air. “Princess Merat?”
“She was given by Pharaoh and the queen to one of your chieftains against her will,” I say as he takes a drink. He passes the waterskin back to me.
“How are the princess’s marriage arrangements the concern of three young scribes?”
I blink. “How do you know we are scribes?”
He nods at my fingers, calloused from my frantic transcription of the scroll. “Your hands.” He glances at Paser. “Your companion confirmed it himself when he spoke of writing stories on walls and having adventures.”
The spy misses little. “Princess Merat is our treasured friend,” I say simply.
“What will you do when you find her?”
“I do not know,” I admit, putting the stopper back in the waterskin. “Perhaps the Hyksos can be persuaded to release her?” I am careful not to mention our plan to flee with her to Avaris if they do not.
If only we had something of value to offer in her stead. The scroll would come in handy now. The information it contains is extremely powerful; it saved my brother’s life and can save countless others. My fingers clench, remembering the feel of the reed as I completed my father’s transcription. Despite my strong attachment to the document, I would give it up in an instant for Merat. But the papyrus lies with the queen now. She snatched my father’s and my copy of the surgical manual out of my hands, back at the tomb. Pharaoh still holds the original, the one I found for him, written over a thousand years ago by Imhotep, Egypt’s great physician and brilliant architect of the first pyramids. Dealing with trauma often seen in battle, particularly to the head and the spine, it would be critical for the success of any military campaign, where lives are at stake. Which, according to Pharaoh and his Grand Vizier, Wujat, may be something the Hyksos are considering, betrothed princess aside.
“Say you find the princess,” Pepi says again, interrupting my thoughts. “Would you not go back to Thebes?”
I hesitate. I told Ahmes to tell my brother I would be back for him, yet I cannot think how to accomplish this without risking death.
“We cannot return for some time,” I say, then swallow. “According to the queen, we are a threat to Ma’at” — universal balance — “to her, and the kingdom. Even now, her soldiers will be after us.”
“How did you betray her?” Pepi’s voice is curious, soft.
“Only by learning the truth.” Feeling restless at the thought of pursuit, I stand and walk closer to the water’s edge, plucking a few green shoots to gnaw on. I think about the fact that she prefers to secrete her family’s riches away, rather than use them to help her people. That science — a threat to the priests and her family’s status as gods — and magic are merely different facets of the same jewel. “Having freed you does not help our situation.” I look out at the water, imagining a boat full of Queen Anat’s soldiers, Crooked Nose at its helm. “It is complicated.”
“Things often are,” Pepi says, coming to stand beside me. “And yet, sometimes they are in fact quite simple. In betraying your queen, were you acting on your own good conscience?”
“Yes.” Queen Anat considers the act of preserving the scroll to be a form of disobedience because it threatens her family’s omniscient power. To her, parcelling out her precious heirlooms, whether to the Hyksos as grudging tribute or to the Nubians in exchange for supplies, is unthinkable. What did she say? “Famines come and go — it is an unfortunate, yet handy, way to rid the land of … excess. My family will be just fine.” Maybe I did not think much about it before my time on the streets, but people should not starve simply because of the circumstances of their birth. Nor because of anything that befalls them along their way. Tragedy can strike anyone, at any time. Ky and I met others like us, doing whatever they needed to survive.
“I know what it is like, how acting on your conscience can bring you into conflict with higher powers,” Pepi says. I am about to inquire further, but he comes back to the matter at hand. “So, we are off to find the princess,” he muses, without any sign of judgment.
Yet the more we speak of it, the more laughable it seems that three young scribes, as Pepi so accurately put it, can extract the pharaoh’s daughter from a fierce warrior tribe. Our course of action was not carefully planned; it was forced on us by the queen and circumstance. There was no time to fully consider it, or the consequences. And so here we are.
“Yes.” I clear my throat. “We think Merat might like some company.”
He laughs, startling me. His face changes, making him look much younger. Almost my age. “You are loyal friends.”
“We are.” Paser stands a few paces behind us, body taut. Reb still sits under the palm, yawning and stretching. “Can we be assured of your loyalty, friend?”
“I gave you my word.” Pepi’s voice is as cool as the wind that has picked up. He looks out at the sky; it grows a dusky blue. “It will not be long before the stars are out. And the creatures who hunt along the Nile will wake for their dinners.” He nods at the boat. “We should be on our way.”
Paser looks over his shoulder. Maybe thinking of aggressive hippos. My own eyes go to the thick reeds, looking for any telltale swish.
“Let us leave, then,” says Reb, who walks over to us. His stomach growls like a lion. “But first I must eat.” I pick up the satchel and pass him his share of squashed raisins. “Sesha, you are funny. Where is the rest?”
“That is all we have left.”
His stomach lets out another grumble of protest at my admission. It occurs to me that although Reb has had to deal with many things, being nephew to Nebifu, he has never had to deal with hunger. There is always food in the temple, the priests and their families often sampling the offerings. And while junior scribes do not eat so well as the higher officials, they do not go without, either. It is surely an unfamiliar feeling for Paser as well.
The Hyksos is already on the boat, picking up a papyrus net. “Perhaps you can catch us some fish for our dinner?” He spreads the net wide, hands apart, the two ends pinched in his fingers.
We walk into the water to get into the boat, the Nile lapping at our legs. Reb grumbling along with his stomach, Paser behind me with the satchel, the pair passing the waterskin back and forth. Something tells me my friends will soon become closely acquainted with the sensation of hunger — real hunger. Though not a comfortable feeling, it is good motivation for survival.
10
IT IS NIGHT — NOT A SAFE TIME to be travelling along a river, when the chances of crashing into another boat are highest. But the light of the heavens above is dazzling, providing a few cubits of visible distance ahead. I pray there is no one else as desperate or as foolish as us, also moving at night, whether up ahead or close behind.
The Hyksos nods at the stars, digging his oar deep into the water. “We will follow them.”
“Fol
low them where?” Reb says. “Can we not just take the river?”
Pepi looks over his shoulder at us. “I thought you wished to find the princess.”
“We do,” I say. “We believe the chieftain has taken her north.”
“Tell me, what did this chieftain look like?” Pepi says.
I picture the enormous man storming from the festival, outraged at Merat’s rejection of him in front of the court. “He was as large as the rhino whose horn he wore around his neck, with fierce weapons at his belt. His dark hair was thick and unruly, and he had a most impressive beard.” Something not seen on average Thebans, who are fastidious about removing unwanted body hair.
“As I thought,” Pepi says, satisfaction in his voice. “We will not go much farther by river. We are too visible, and she will not take us where we want to go.”
“And where is that, exactly?” Paser asks.
“Into the desert.”
“I think there is still water in my ears.” Reb shakes his head vigorously and smacks his ear with an open palm. “I thought you said ‘the desert.’”
“I did,” Pepi says, calmly paddling.
“Why in the name of Osiris would we do that?” Reb asks, scowling. He has not been successful in netting any fish; the growls erupting from his stomach are likely scaring them away. He becomes more irritable with each stroke.
“That is where the main Hyksos camp lies. The chieftain you speak of is its leader.”
“In the desert?” Paser looks over at Pepi beside him. It sounds like he, too, thinks there is water in his ears.
“There is a hidden oasis there,” Pepi says, tilting his head up to examine the stars. “That is where your friend is.”
“How do you know this?” Paser demands.
The spy gives him a pointed look. “It is my business to know these things.”
“Have you been to this oasis before?” Reb asks.
“Yes.” Pepi does not elaborate.
I look up at the lights in the sky. They stretch as far as I can see, their shapes and patterns familiar, and though I know them well, I did not study them as closely as those who specialize in reading the heavens. My focus has been on the things below: the scripts or the patient in front of me.
“If this oasis is hidden, how will we find it?” I ask Pepi, uncertain. And once we find Merat, how will we escape it again?
“They will guide us.” He nods toward the sky. “And my spirit knows the way.”
“Does it also know we are sinking?” Reb inquires, looking at the bottom of the boat. It is rapidly taking on water.
I look around for something to scoop up the water with, but there is nothing. I grab the waterskin. “Hurry, drink as much as you can.” I take a healthy swig myself and pass it around to the others. We finish it in seconds, and I kneel on the bladder, squeezing the air out, then release the pressure to let it suck up the water pooling at our feet. It does not work as well as we need it to.
Paser, Reb, and Pepi begin to row furiously for land. We are in a wide section of the river, the bank a way off. I do not feel like another swim today. Especially one in the dark, where it will be difficult to see where we are going.
The waterskin idea is as useless as an ox without legs.
“Find the leak, Sesha!” Paser shouts.
I drop the skin and swish my hands around the bottom of the boat. The water is getting deeper.
“I cannot!” I shout back in frustration.
“Harder,” Pepi urges Reb and Paser to row, while I frantically search for the source of the inflow.
The water is now up past our ankles and shows no signs of slowing. Where is it coming from? And so quickly, from nothing?
“One of the bindings below must have snapped,” Pepi shouts, paddling without looking back at us.
“Hurry,” I say, eyes seeking out the shoreline, hands scraping along the bottom of the boat, trying to find the leak. It feels like we are going nowhere.
“There!” I shout and point at the shadow of a large patch of reeds ahead. In an instant, something gives way below and water starts bubbling up, like someone releasing wind into the bath basin.
“Faster!” Pepi shouts.
They paddle hard. The reeds do not seem to be getting any closer. The boat is now listing to one side, unsteady and wobbly. The edge is only a cubit above the river.
“Jump!” Paser shouts.
“Watch your head,” Pepi warns Reb before jumping.
Reb shoots him a dark look, though he glances around carefully before he dives in.
The waterskin floats past Paser in the boat. He grabs it and jumps. Kneeling, I frantically search for the stowed satchel. My hand clamps over the strap. Standing, I throw it over my shoulder. Then I jump after the others, swimming in the direction of the reeds.
“This feels familiar,” Reb calls, just up the river to my left.
I turn to swim on my back, watching our little craft sink under the dark water. We can add destruction of property to our list of sins. For scribes trained to record and uphold the laws of the kingdom, we seem quite good at breaking them.
As the reeds draw nearer, I long to put my feet on solid ground. The satchel is heavy and cumbersome. It weighs me down and I cannot swim as freely as I’d like.
“Almost there,” Paser shouts over his shoulder. He is the strongest swimmer and has pulled ahead of Reb and Pepi, the waterskin bobbing on the surface behind him. The three of them reach the first of the reeds, and then I am also there. The reeds are spaced out in clumps at first but soon grow thicker. We stop before we become too entangled, treading water.
“Here.” Paser hands Reb the waterskin, then lets out a huge breath and sinks down, arms up over his head as he tries to touch bottom. The patch of reeds is enormous. Paser breaks the surface and shakes his head. No bottom.
“We need to go around,” Pepi says.
“Which way?” Reb asks, head swivelling in the almost dark.
“This way,” Pepi says decisively, swimming to his right.
“Land is closer if we go directly through,” Reb argues.
“So are the crocodiles,” Pepi says.
“The most dangerous ones swim in the middle of the Nile,” Reb says, treading water, looping the strap of the waterskin around his arm. “The smaller ones who prefer the reeds are not as bothersome.”
Pepi does not look convinced. Pharaohs often keep the smaller crocodiles as pets, and they do seem mostly harmless despite being representatives of Sobek, the mighty crocodile god.
“I am going through,” Reb decides. He begins making his way to the thick of the reeds. Paser follows Reb and I swim after them. I must go with my friends.
Pepi sighs and shakes his head, but follows us as we move slowly through the reeds, pushing them aside in an attempt to make our way to land. It is darker in the patch and we do not move with agility. There is a big splash, far off to the left.
“Go,” Paser says, voice low. But it is impossible to move quickly through the tangled mass of grasses.
“This way,” Reb calls, nodding toward a small opening directly to the right that allows for more freedom of movement. The reeds seem to be thinning.
“Bottom,” Reb cries, just as my own foot strikes rocks.
There is a shout. I turn to see the top of a croc’s domed head sticking up from the water, the only part visible besides its yellow eyes. It is about three arm lengths away from Pepi.
Paser, Reb, and I scramble up onto the bank.
“Swim!” I shout at Pepi. I pray to Sobek that the animal is only investigating the creatures swimming though its territory and is not hungry — crocodiles can go ten full moons without eating.
The croc trails behind Pepi, who’s almost reached us. It opens its mouth and yawns, showing lethal teeth. We scurry farther up the bank, screaming at Pepi to swim. While faster in the water, a crocodile loses its advantage on land. If only Pepi can make it to shore. He is almost to us. Suddenly, the creature disappears under the wa
ter. Pepi reaches ground, finds his footing, and turns, bringing his arms high over his head. The crocodile sticks its snout out of the water and Pepi’s fists come together, slamming down on the croc’s nose while our jaws hang open, wider than any crocodile’s.
11
PEPI RACES THE REST OF THE WAY out of the water, and the stunned croc swims away as if offended by the assault; it had only been trying to investigate the disturbance in its domain. We sink to the ground, breathing hard.
“Are you all right?” I ask Pepi, barely believing what just happened. It’s a good thing the crocodile was only curious.
“I am fine.” But when he holds up one of his hands I see a deep gash bleeding profusely. “Just a small cut,” he says.
“Come,” I say, digging around in the soggy satchel at my side. “This is an ailment that I will treat.”
I pull a thread from one of the linen scraps and wet one end with my mouth, then insert it through the eye of the needle, the approaching dawn aiding my vision.
“You may want to look away,” I advise Pepi, but he does not. He watches without flinching as I stitch up the cut.
“Where did you learn to sew such a fine line?” Pepi does not take his eyes off the needle. “From the mother who taught you to be kind to your enemies, perhaps?”
“No. From my father.” I allow myself a brief smile. “He was royal physician to the pharaoh and his family, the best healer in the land,” I say proudly, knotting the last stitch. I bite the thread to sever it.
Pepi inhales sharply and I look up at him. “Are you well?”
“Just a little pinch,” he says, looking a bit pale. Odd — the stitching hadn’t bothered him.
Taking the jar of honey I found in Ahmes’s chambers, I remove the wax seal and spread the sweet substance over the wound while murmuring a brief incantation. Using another of the wet linen scraps, I bind Pepi’s hand. My patient taken care of, I fish around in the satchel for the tweezers to address the splinters in my own hand, courtesy of the bottom of the boat.
The Desert Prince Page 4