by Brad Geagley
“Witch!” he yelled. “Sorceress!” He almost began to weep, but stopped himself, firmly banishing his tears. “Seize her,” he told his servants. “Bind her tightly. Then take her into the cellar.”
Merytra was too shocked to speak. Not until the servants laid their hands upon her, tying her hands together, did curses and hot oaths begin to pour from her. But her husband and servants were deaf to her threats and promises of punishments. Merytra had to take what satisfaction she could from seeing how they shrank from touching her, as if she were a thing of scales and horns.
In the cellar, Nenry waited, refusing to look at her while they tied her hands and feet to a chair facing a workbench on which the evidence of her black magic was neatly laid out. Seeing her husband and servants so aloof and judgmental, Merytra began to struggle against her bonds, raging that they must unloose her at once—that she would tell her uncle—that Nenry would lose his position—that she would sell the servants to a brothel!
They allowed her to scream and rage until she was spent. It was their impassivity that finally stopped her. She became quiet, and no longer pulled at her ties.
“How could you do this to me?” Nenry asked. “Didn’t I provide for you? Didn’t I give you all that you cherished?” He stared at the terrible wax doll he held in his hand, skewered with a golden needle. Then his eyes fell upon the baby’s corpse. Seeing the pitiful child, its belly ripped open and stuffed with the awful charms, he moaned softly.
“Let me go, you fool,” Merytra blustered. “When my great-uncle hears how you ruined the spell—”
With a cry Nenry lunged at her, striking her so viciously across the mouth that blood trickled down her chin.
“You’ve ruined me,” Nenry said savagely. “I am destroyed.”
“Trust you to get it wrong.” Her voice was suddenly pleading. “Don’t you see I worked the magic to protect you?”
Nenry merely shook his head, gesturing toward the baby’s desiccated, red-painted corpse. “This child—is it ours?”
She rolled her eyes at his stupidity. “Of course not. How could I hide a pregnancy even from you? I bought the child from a prostitute at the city gate. She was going to leave it there anyway. I held my hand over its mouth, until it—”
She was cut short by her husband’s muffled wail. Nenry raised his hand; only the purest self-restraint kept him from striking her again. He held out the waxen figure to her instead, saying, “And this—it’s me, isn’t it? You’ve cursed me to my death.”
“Calm down, Nenry. I swear it isn’t you.”
“Who then?”
“It’s your brother, of course. That’s his hair in the wax. Who else could it be?”
“Semerket?”
She spoke in an offended manner. “I had to do something. He was involving you in things he shouldn’t—and you know it. When I tell you whose idea the curses were, you’ll thank me for what I’ve done. The very highest in this land want your brother dead, and all his friends. Do you think I’d let that happen to you? I’ve worked too hard to lose everything because of your gullibility.”
“But who could possibly want him dead?” Nenry asked scornfully.
“The seeress of Sekhmet, that’s who. And her magic is the most powerful in all Egypt.”
“Who—?” He had never heard of such a person before.
“Don’t tell me you don’t know who she is! You, who even labored in Sekhmet’s temple once. Well, that doesn’t surprise me, you’ve always had your head buried in the sand—”
“Who?” He raised his hand again.
Her words were rapid. “She is the king’s great wife—Queen Tiya!”
Nenry had sense enough to believe her. In a kind of daze he told his valet to get his cloak and walking stick ready. He was going across to Western Thebes, he told them. “He must be warned,” he muttered, more to himself than to anyone else.
But his wife laughed jeeringly when he said this. “Better to stay at home, you fool. There’s nothing you can do for him. It’s too late. Great-uncle told me himself. The lioness goes abroad today. Today your precious brother dies!”
From the shelf where the knives were kept for the slaughter of fowl and the filleting of fish, he took a long carving knife, and handed it to Keeya.
“Keep sharp watch on her,” he said. “If she tries to escape, or begins to rave, or utters a curse—slit her throat.”
Keeya did not flinch. Then, strangely, she embraced him. “The gods go with you, my lord. Now go save your brother, for you are both good men.” She kissed his cheek.
The last thing he saw as he left the cellar was Keeya standing before his wife, the long, bronze knife gleaming in her hand. Once outside his house, Nenry ran. All the way to the docks he kept repeating his brother’s name like a talisman, calling on all the gods he knew.
“Semerket—!” He said the name aloud, and in it was every prayer he could muster.
THE FLEET OF pleasure barques had departed Djamet at midmorning, sailing down the temple canal to the Nile. At the river the boats turned south, and the sailors hoisted small square sails to catch the winds blowing sharply from the desert. The rowers stowed their oars then, allowing the brightly painted craft to sail before the breezes.
Semerket sat with Tiya beneath the wooden canopy of her barque, clad as always in his fringed kilt and gray woolen cloak. He had never owned the traditional hunting clothes of white, pleated linen that the courtiers wore. When he had gone fowl hunting it had not been for sport, but to bag an evening’s meal.
His thoughts were interrupted by a shout from another craft. Prince Pentwere’s boat was rapidly gaining on them. Semerket noticed that the prince’s inevitable comrade, the black-skinned Assai, reclined with him beneath the canopy.
“Mother!” Pentwere shouted across the water to her. “Fine day for a kill, what?”
Semerket looked at the sky, saw the gray rain clouds on the edge of the desert, and wondered what the Prince could mean. At any moment it seemed that a storm might engulf them. But at her son’s words, Tiya emitted a laugh of silver, tinkling bells.
“A splendid day!” she said. “You couldn’t have chosen better. The gods are with you, Pentwere.”
Pentwere turned his bright-eyed gaze upon Semerket. “Look, Assai—it’s our friend the clerk! Do you suppose he’s found more wigs in the desert to show us?”
Assai sniggered at the gibe. But his eyes were cold, and he pointedly refused to look directly into Semerket’s face.
“No wigs, Highness,” Semerket replied.
“How goes the investigation? Have you found the priestess’s murderer yet?”
“Not yet.”
Pentwere and Assai looked at one another and broke into raucous laughter. With a look of disgust, Semerket turned away. He had little patience for spoiled princelings and their humorless jokes. He studied instead the boats that made up the hunting party. There were at least thirty or forty vessels, he surmised, each trimmed in flowers and streamers, the morning sun glinting on their gilded wooden canopies.
The sun’s flash off a gilded stern suddenly smote his eyes. Pharaoh’s gold-trimmed yacht was pulling next to them. Pentwere and Assai genuflected, and Tiya, too, inclined her head. Semerket saw on her face a look of… what? Irritation? Panic? To Semerket’s dismay, the king’s sailors furled the yacht’s sail so that his boat paced the queen’s.
A raspy voice called over the water. “What an unpleasant surprise, madam, to find you here. Pentwere, you know I wanted no females along.”
It was Pharaoh himself who spoke. Glancing over at the prince’s skiff, from his kneeling position, Semerket saw that Pentwere had gone ashen beneath his chestnut skin.
“Father—”
“Don’t blame the boy, Ramses,” Tiya interrupted her son smoothly, stretching lazily on her seat beneath the canopy. “I invited myself along. I thought a picnic among the reeds would suit me.”
“Picnic, madam? This is a hunt. Haven’t I created gardens and lakes enough for your picnic
s? And who is that with you—your lover?”
It was a moment before Semerket realized that Pharaoh was pointing his stick directly at him. Semerket hid his face, cringing. The last thing he needed at that particular moment was to be accused of being the great wife’s paramour.
“Don’t be absurd, Ramses,” Tiya answered irritably. “Do you think I’d take a peasant as my lover? Marrying into your family was low enough for me.”
Pharaoh’s pale eyes glittered. “Who knows how low you would go, madam.”
“He’s Semerket,” Tiya went on in a languid tone, ignoring Ramses. “You remember, surely—he’s the investigator of the priestess’s murder. Toh appointed him.”
“You there—” Pharaoh spoke directly to Semerket. “Raise your head so I can see you.”
Semerket hauled himself to his knees.
“Hmmph,” said Pharaoh doubtfully. “Toh calls you the terrible truth-teller. Is it true you called my wife’s brother Pawero an idiot?”
“No, Your Majesty.”
Pharaoh frowned. “That’s what Toh said you called him. Who’s the liar here? Speak up.”
Semerket sighed dismally. “I didn’t call him an idiot, Sire. I called him a pea-brained old pettifogger.”
Pharaoh’s short staccato laugh rang out across the river. “Ha! Perfectly true!”
Instantly the entire river around them was filled with hoots as courtiers aped Pharaoh’s harsh laughter. Semerket glanced at the queen from beneath lowered lashes. She had flushed dark crimson, and Pentwere and Assai were again staring at Semerket with loathing.
“Toh was right about you, I see!” Pharaoh said, smiling gleefully. “After the hunt you shall sail back to the palace on my yacht, Semerket. Do me good to hear someone talk sense for once.”
“Why?” Tiya spoke up. “You never heed it.”
“That, I suppose, madam, is your subtle reference to our disagreement concerning the succession.”
“It is my subtle reference about honoring the promise you made at our marriage.”
“I do what’s best for Egypt, madam—not your family.”
Tiya’s eyes shone, and she looked about the small fleet as if seeking a face. “Where is the crown prince? Pentwere specifically invited him along on the hunt. Is he ill?” Her lips drew into a delicate sneer. “Again?”
“He attends to Egypt’s business, madam—which is none of yours.”
Before any more could be said between his parents, Pentwere interrupted from his own boat. “I could help you attend to Egypt’s business, Father. Test me! Set me a task. Name anything and I’ll do it.” Though he was a man of almost twenty-five years, his voice at that moment sounded thin and bleating. “If you’d only give me a chance…”
“What?” said Ramses with a slight frown. “And deprive the Thebans of your circus tricks at festival time? I couldn’t be that cruel. Stick to amusing the crowds, my son; it’s what you do best.” Pharaoh turned to his coxswain and pointed ahead. “On!” he commanded. Instantly his sailors let out the sail. It billowed tightly in the winds, and Pharaoh’s yacht sped forward. With many shouts, the courtiers again let their boats free. Queen Tiya’s vessel, being crewed by her ladies, was slow to catch up.
The hunting fleet separated in the papyrus marshes. The queen chose a small lagoon far away from the hunt in which to moor her vessel. She had been silent after Pharaoh left them on the Nile, fuming to herself, but when her boat reached the reeds her mood improved and she became talkative, almost gay. With her own hands she raided the wine stowed at the stern, and pried the clay seal from a jar. From a gem-encrusted goblet of pure gold, Tiya treated herself to a long swig.
“Oh,” she sighed in contentment, “but that’s good. It’s from my family’s estate. They say our grapes are as fine as those in Osiris’s own vineyards. Will you take some?” She poured another splash into the goblet.
Semerket had tasted only beer the entire time he had been at the tomb-makers’ village, and the thought of wine was a torment on his tongue. The queen saw him hesitate, and she withdrew the cup.
“Ah,” she said, and her face was gentle, her many-textured voice filled with pity, “but didn’t my steward Nakht tell me once—what was it? Yes, I remember now—that you have a problem with wine. He told me how you’d hammer on his door at all hours of the night, drunken and angry, wanting to take his wife away from him, in fact.”
“He told you that?” Semerket’s voice was low.
She withdrew the cup. “I don’t think I shall offer you wine after all. I don’t want to tempt you to bad behavior.”
At the mention of Naia, Semerket’s mood had intractably darkened. He reached for the goblet. “Nakht has misinformed you,” he said shortly.
She appeared to hesitate, but her lips quivered as though she suppressed a smile. Tiya let him take the golden cup.
Semerket drank. The deep crimson flowed over his tongue. Tiya had been correct—the grapes that had produced this vintage indeed must have been grown in the heavenly fields of Iaru. He rejoiced in the wine. It was both tranquil and exultant at the same time, a reminder to him that Egypt had once been a place of order and respect…. As he drank further he found wisdom in the wine, too. He held out his goblet to taste of wisdom again, and again the queen poured.
Her ladies came from the stern then. They sat beside him and placed a wreath of flowers about his head. They drizzled roasted barleycorns over him, and one of them took up a harp and sang softly. He laughed. “What?” he asked. “Are you going to sacrifice me?”
But the maids only smiled and bade him hush, so as not to disturb the hunters. The morning passed in the hum of dragonflies, the distant shouts of the courtiers, and the cries of wild birds. Again he held out the golden goblet and again it was filled.
As through a mist, Semerket saw one of Tiya’s maids run a red signal flag up the mast. A few moments later, very close by, he heard the sound of oars. He struggled to peer over the boat’s gunwales. The time for Tiya’s picnic had arrived, for Ra’s solar barque was almost at its zenith. He heard the queen call out, “Pentwere! Is everything ready?”
The prince entered the lagoon alone, paddling the skiff himself. Semerket was dimly surprised to see that the glowering Assai was not with him. “Everything is just as you want it, Mother,” the prince called out. “They’re coming now.”
“Wonderful,” she exclaimed. Tiya moved to cling to one of the gilded lotus columns that bore the boat’s canopy. She called out across the lagoon, “Nakht, steward of all the king’s palaces! Welcome!”
A distant voice barked out to her. “Hail, Tiya! Queen of kings!” Semerket, raising his head, saw Nakht entering the lagoon. Semerket snorted at the sight of him, immaculate in his starched, white hunting habit, the picture-perfect nobleman. Semerket thanked the gods for the excellent wine he had consumed; even the presence of Naia’s idiot husband could not disturb him.
“Hail, Paser, vizier of Egypt! Welcome!”
Semerket blinked, overtaken in befuddled surprise to see the fat mayor of the Eastern City, Paser, enter the thicket of reeds. What was he doing so far from his bailiwick? He noticed how the mayor’s skiff listed to one side under his weight, and Semerket chuckled immoderately.
“Iroy, high priest of Egypt!” Another boat entered the lagoon. Semerket had seen the man before, and he tried to remember where. In the warmth of the marsh his thoughts oozed about in his mind like thick clay. He closed his eyes to concentrate. The answer came to him slowly—the man was Nenry’s father-in-law, or uncle… something… And he was the high priest of Sekhmet, not—what had Tiya called him? “High priest of Egypt.”
Semerket sat up, removing the garland of flowers from his brow. The maids tried to pull him back to lie upon the deck again, but he brushed away their hands, trying to make his mind work. A grain of fear crept into his soul. The titles the queen called out to the men were not correct; it was as though they had been secretly promoted during the night… as though all their superiors were sud
denly dead and out of their way…
“Hail, Tiya, queen of kings!” Another boat had entered the lagoon. Semerket recognized the whining voice of Neferhotep even before he saw him. The fear, which had been a trickle, now surged through Semerket’s veins.
But why, he asked himself, why should he be so filled with terror? He knew the explanation was tantalizingly near, just within reach, and he closed his eyes to concentrate—but with the wine pounding in his skull, the white, harsh sunlight searing his eyes…
“Is it coming together for you, Semerket?”
His eyes flashed open. Tiya stood over him, the dazzling sun flaring behind her head like the coronet of a goddess. He blinked, and in a trick of sunlight Semerket saw the red fangs in her dimpled smile. In that moment of absolute clarity he realized that his nightmares had become reality—that the lioness had at last caught him in her grip.
Tiya bent down to him and he winced, closing his eyes, expecting her to slash his throat with her fangs just as she had tried to do a hundred times in his dreams. But her face was kindly and her voice was as beautiful as ever.
“Why?” he whispered up to her.
“You found us out, Semerket,” she murmured.
I didn’t find you out! he wanted to shout at her. The killer of Hetephras still is free! But he knew now that they were far from concerned with whoever had killed the old priestess. It was something else. What had he stumbled across to make the most powerful personages in Egypt converge in a marsh, with him the cynosure of their attentions?
Concentrate, he told himself fiercely.
There could be only one answer: the stolen treasure in the tomb. What else could it be? Yet this too made no sense. What need had these persons in the lagoon for more riches? With the exception of Neferhotep, they were among the wealthiest people in the nation. So that was the wrong question. He must ask himself, instead, what was worth more to them than gold?
He exhaled, suddenly knowing the answer. There could be only one: power.
Semerket stared across the lagoon, and saw his suspicions confirmed in their faces. Nakht, Paser, Iroy, Pentwere, even the queen herself— they were using the stolen treasure to finance their own schemes. Only days before, Semerket had told his brother that he sensed conspiracy afoot.