by Brad Geagley
What kind of conspiracy did they plan, how far was its thrust, and against whom? The wine in his blood was no longer a hindrance to perception; instead it allowed his mind to freely assemble disparate facts and odd pieces of information into a suddenly coherent whole.
Semerket heard the distant prattling voice of the librarian Maadje in his mind, gossiping away to him in the House of Life. “When Pharaoh married her, it was with the promise that her sons would inherit…” But Pharaoh had reneged on his agreement, instead choosing his pale-skinned son of the foreign-born Queen Ese as his heir. Then he heard that same crown prince speaking: “The tainted blood of Twos-re and Amen-meses is still alive in Egypt, Semerket, make no mistake…”
Rising unbidden in his mind, he saw again the tiny portrait of Pharaoh Amen-meses in the tomb beneath the tomb. Semerket stared across the lagoon and saw in Prince Pentwere’s face, and in the softer lines of his mother’s, the same fiercely handsome features he had seen in the portrait… and Semerket visibly flinched.
Tiya was the most royal woman in Egypt; Semerket had heard that description of her all his life. He had never stopped to question it, nor wonder how she earned such a distinction. But what other reason had Ramses for marrying her in the first place? It was a time-honored tradition for pharaohs not born in the Golden House to marry the daughters and granddaughters of the previous line, to bolster their own claims. The criminal Twos-re was alive in Tiya—Semerket saw that clearly now—the ferocious woman who had slain her husband in the pursuit of power.
And there it was, the thing he had so unwittingly uncovered, from a clue found in the deliberately obscured past—the thing they were so afraid of his knowing. The accusation rose to his lips:
“You’re going to kill Pharaoh!”
Tiya gasped slightly, backing away from him. For a moment her eyes were full of panic. She spoke angrily to the men in the lagoon. “Didn’t I tell you he should be feared? But he was only a drunken sot, you insisted, incapable of finding his own backside, much less—”
“Don’t say anything more, Mother!” Pentwere pleaded suddenly from his boat.
From across the small lagoon he heard Nakht speak reassuringly to the prince. “Oh, this Semerket would never tell, Your Majesty,” he said in his clipped, aristocratic tones. “Our plan is safe.”
“Don’t be so sure, Nakht!” Semerket yelled.
Nakht replied as if he spoke to a trained baboon. “But if you told, Semerket, Naia would be put to death along with us. It’s the law. You let her know yourself, didn’t you?” A cordial smile broke out on his blandly handsome face. “And thank you—if you hadn’t warned her when you did, we’d never have guessed how much you knew.”
The priest Iroy could not contain himself any further, and spoke up impatiently from his boat. “Can’t we end this now? We all know the real reason he won’t tell—he’ll be dead. It’s why we’re all here, isn’t it, to see him die?”
“Iroy!” chastised Tiya. “Don’t be crude.”
The scribe Neferhotep’s thin, supplicating voice penetrated the glade. “Might I remind the august queen that we have very little time? Tonight the treasure must be moved north with the beggars, to the generals of the armies. I agree with the reverend high priest—kill him now.” His tone went from wheedling to bitter. “I’ve waited six months to see it happen.”
At Tiya’s signal, her maids lunged forward to hold Semerket fast in their grip. The queen’s eyes were blank and pitiless. “Turn him over,” she said curtly.
The women roughly tossed Semerket prone onto the deck, so that his head hung over the side of the boat. Though he struggled, they held him fast. He could see his own face perfectly in the smooth, green water below—black eyes wide, mouth open in fear. He raised his head to see if any of the men in the lagoon could be reasoned with. But the conspirators were leaning forward in their skiffs, staring avidly.
“Goodbye, Semerket,” smirked Nakht. “I’ll be sure to tell Naia how you begged for your life at the end.”
Scornful laughs broke out among the men. Tiya silenced them with a gesture. She knelt beside Semerket, speaking in grieved tones. “I shall inform Pharaoh of your terrible accident,” she said. “How you became so drunk you fell overboard. We did our best to save you, but what could we do? My maids and I are only feeble women.”
Then her voice was in his ear, words meant only for him. “You’ve resisted my magic until now, Semerket, but today you won’t escape its power.” Her lovely voice took on a mystical quality. “Look into the waters, Semerket. Stare deeply. See how at my command I make them roil and churn.”
Semerket stared. As she spoke the waters indeed began to heave below his face. His reflection shattered into pieces. A black mass took shape beneath the waters, coalescing, rising from the river bed, lunging upward—
“Now—” Tiya said, triumphant, “see how you die!”
The thing crashed through the surface of the water. Semerket felt it seize him, dragging him headfirst into the lagoon. The surprising coldness shocked the remaining wine fumes from him. He fought blindly, eyes closed, scratching and kicking at whatever pulled him down.
In the suddenly silent world, all he heard were his own terrified grunts and the explosions of bubbles around him. His back hit the spongy mud of the river bottom, and he forced his eyes open to see what held him in its grip. But the mud rose in dirty clouds around him, blocking his view. Semerket exhaled his last breath into the Nile. For a brief moment the water cleared—and he saw at last the thing that had pulled him in.
It was Assai.
All sleek black muscle, the prince’s favorite was smiling even under the water, his hatred for Semerket radiating as brightly as the golden dagger in his hand. Assai slashed out at him. With both hands Semerket seized Assai’s wrist, just stopping the knife’s descent into his throat.
Abruptly Assai twisted free, lunging at Semerket as he did. The water was filled with sudden red. Semerket’s forehead was slashed open, and the cold water stung the wound like hot coals. Assai slashed at him again; Semerket avoided the blow by kicking away, plunging downward into the slimy river mud. At the last moment, through the black clouds of silt, he saw the gold dagger streaking at him.
With a powerful kick, Semerket made for the open waters of a far lagoon, weaving through the clumps of reeds with Assai in pursuit. He broke the surface and gasped for breath. Glancing behind, he saw a line of bubbles heading straight for him. Gulping a lungful of air, he sank down and peered through the water. Beneath the surface, Assai was swiftly swimming toward him.
It was clear that Semerket could not outswim the stronger Assai. He cast about in his mind for a way to escape, desperation making his heart beat like a temple drum. As Assai bore down, Semerket exhaled so that he could sink rapidly to the bottom of the lagoon. Raking his fingers across the slimy river bottom, he churned up the silt. Flailing his arms about he distributed the mud into a screen that, he hoped, would hide him from the black warrior. Though now he could not see Assai himself, he shot off obliquely to the side of the lagoon, toward another thicket of reeds.
He permitted himself a moment to glance back, and saw Assai break through the cloud of black mud, heading in the direction where he had last seen Semerket. Assai stopped, hesitating, then swam to the surface of the lagoon.
Unable to stay down, hungry for air, Semerket rose swiftly upward to once again feel the sun upon his face. He noisily gasped the air into his lungs. As Semerket knew he would, Assai instantly spied his location. Assai lunged powerfully in his direction, his long arms pulling him swiftly forward in rapid strokes. Semerket sank into the water again, swimming frantically for a reed copse in front of him. He dug his fingers again into the river bottom and the ancient silt rose in thick clouds. Again Semerket veered, hidden by the wavering screen. He broke through the swirling mud into clear water, and saw a thick mass of rushes in front of him, not more than a few cubits away. Caught in their leaves, not far from the water’s surface, was a sunke
n yacht of great age, a rotting and splintered hulk. It would perhaps hide him from Assai, he thought. Though once again his lungs were aching for oxygen, he swam underwater toward the ghostly wreck.
His lungs were giving out. Desperately he skimmed the surface for air, then sank back down. Twisting his body, he saw the flash of Assai’s linen-clad form only a few cubits away, bearing fast upon him.
Panic seized him, and he kicked swiftly for the reeds. He felt his foot strike something solid, and realized that it was one of Assai’s arms. Assai seized his ankle in a strong grip, but he kicked out, freeing himself, and swam swiftly away.
A hole gaped in the side of the yacht’s hull. Semerket dove through it, hoping that he could hide within the black gloom of its interior and then escape through its rear hatch into the thick reeds beyond. Almost through the hole now, he felt Assai’s hands grasp his leg again. This time they held him firmly. No matter how he struggled and kicked, Assai’s grip remained merciless.
By this time flashes of light were sparking at the backs of Semerket’s eyes. He had to breathe, had to inhale. His lungs shrieked for air, but Assai held him fast. Twisting around, Semerket saw Assai’s grin in the dark water. Semerket’s lungs were afire. Unable to prevent himself, he opened his mouth to breathe.
The water scalded his lungs, and he choked, but only for a short time. He felt blackness overtaking him. Through the few cubits of water above him, a pinpoint of distant light danced overhead, the sun. Though his rebellious body still feebly struggled to save itself, a strange calmness began to overtake him. He felt a sublime sense of release transfusing his limbs, cascading through his body. Fighting the descending torpor, he forced himself to summon one last bit of strength, and pulled against the rotting wood of the wreck. The cedar broke jaggedly in his hands. He pulled again, and felt Assai’s grip loosen. One final kick—and he was through…
But by now the black was all around him, and within him too. He felt himself drifting upward. And the pinpoint of sunlight—the last thing he saw—burnt itself out.
HOUSE OF ETERNITY
WINDED FROM HIS CLIMB FROM THE RIVER, for he had run almost the entire distance, Nenry caught his breath at the southern gate of the tomb-makers’ village. He was momentarily astounded by the bright colors of the houses within its narrow main street. Ketty had never told him of the village’s odd beauty, or how it was in reality two buildings, each with their own huge roofs. Yet the strangest thing about the place was the silence that so profoundly enveloped it. It seemed a gathering place for phantoms.
Nenry stood at the gate, hesitating. “Hello…?” he called into the corridor. No one hailed him. Tentatively, he stepped inside. At the first door, he tapped lightly.
“Is anyone there? Can you help?”
Silence again met him.
“Please,” he pleaded, “I’m looking for my brother—Semerket. Is he here?”
Only quiet.
Knocking on a few of the other doors produced the same result. Nenry was beginning to feel undone by the place’s eerie stillness. But at that moment he heard the cries of many people. The voices did not come from within the village, but from outside.
He retraced his steps down the main street and out the gates. The shouts were louder here; they came from the western side of the village, and Nenry followed the noise.
Around the corner he found a horde of villagers gathered at a far clearing in front of a red cliff face, streaked and veined like a slab of meat. Nenry surmised that some celebration or local religious rite was occurring. Perhaps Semerket was among those assembled, he hoped, and he set off to see for himself. He reached the edge of the crowd within a few moments. So intent were the villagers on what was transpiring in the clearing, they did not turn to acknowledge him, nor even seem to notice that a stranger was among them.
Through their crowded forms, he glimpsed a contingent of grim-faced women shouting angry accusations at someone. Apparently the person had behaved shamelessly in some fashion and was undergoing some sort of trial. Despite his urgent need to find his brother, Nenry paused, fascinated. He pushed himself through the villagers, and saw that in the center of the clearing was a woman, hands bound behind her. Tall and oddly beautiful, she was not gagged, and Nenry was shocked to hear the words she hurled at her accusers. Never in his life had he heard a woman swear so lustily as she did. The woman was threatening them with all manner of punishments if they did not release her at once, and Nenry was surprised to hear her use the name of his brother, Semerket, as a form of threat.
“Wait until he gets back—you’ll see. He’s gone to the vizier himself, to get troops. You’ll be lucky if you’re not all thrown into Djamet prison.”
“Semerket—?” Nenry said aloud, pushing his way forward to the woman.
When the hundred or so villagers at last noticed Nenry standing before them, draped in the various insignia of his office, they drew back guiltily. Even the woman in the clearing ceased her invectives.
In the awkward silence, he made a gesture of greeting. “You speak of Semerket—he’s my brother. I’m looking for him.”
“Oh, thank the gods!” the bound woman exclaimed.
The rest of the villagers were uncertain about how to proceed. The woman shouted to Nenry, “You must help me! I’m to be stoned for what I know about them—about what they did. Your brother said he’d get me out of here if I told the authorities. Oh, please, my lord—you’ve got to do something, or else I’m a dead woman!”
Nenry swallowed, glancing nervously at the villagers. “I’m sure,” Nenry began, gesturing ineffectively, “I’m sure if Semerket said—”
A rotund, intimidating sort of woman suddenly broke free from the others and pushed her way to where Nenry stood.
“Your brother isn’t here,” said the fat woman forcefully. “And you’re not wanted, either.”
Nenry snapped his head in her direction. The woman reminded him so much of his wife with her rough, intemperate tongue that he was filled with sudden wrath. “How dare you speak to me in that fashion,” said Nenry. His tone was low and dangerous, for once, surprising even himself. The woman became flustered, looking around to the villagers for support, but they still hung back.
“You’re trespassing,” she said, still defiant, though her voice was not as certain as before. “This village is off-limits to all but—”
“You are addressing the chief scribe of Eastern Thebes,” Nenry interrupted. “What is your name, woman?”
“Her name’s Khepura!” the bound woman shouted from the clearing.
“Damn you, Hunro—!” the big woman sputtered.
“Quiet!” shouted Nenry. To his surprise the woman fell silent. He turned in the direction of the woman whose name was Hunro, saying, “Release that woman. Instantly. If my brother said he’d take you from here, then he had good reason. We’ll go together to find him.”
“Thank you, my lord… thank you!”
When none of the villagers moved he started forward to untie her himself, but Khepura, mad rage again claiming her, cast about in desperation. She bent suddenly to grasp a rock from the pathway. With a scream she hurled it at the woman in the clearing. The stone struck the side of Hunro’s head with a thud that resounded through the canyon. Hunro fell to the ground like a marionette whose strings had been unexpectedly cut, blood spurting from her scalp.
Nenry had been so near to her that his face and cloak were spattered. In a kind of daze he whirled around, meeting only the flat, expressionless faces of the villagers. Their eyes were hard and filled with a frenzied hatred. Nenry had been on the verge of chastising them, but his mouth clamped shut when he saw their insensate expressions. Instinctively he realized that his own life was now also at stake. He watched helplessly as the villagers bent to retrieve rocks from the ground.
Hunro staggered to her feet, and looked about at the villagers. She approached one of the men. “Aaphat?” she asked incredulously. “Will you really do this to me? After what we were to one anoth
er?”
The man looked awkwardly at the ground. It was his wife, suddenly enraged, who threw the next stone. It caught Hunro on the shoulder. “You can’t do this,” Hunro muttered; “it isn’t fair.”
Then the rocks began to rain down on her from all sides. The sickening thuds of stone smashing against bone and flesh filled the canyon. The tall woman fell and did not move again. Not until her body was an unrecognizable mush did the villagers cease throwing their stones. At the end, the woman lay half-buried in rock.
Nenry stared aghast, expecting the villagers now to turn upon him. But the feral light in their eyes had burnt out. Not even glancing at him, the villagers turned and trudged back to the northern gates of the village. They were oddly lethargic, as if they were dead to the world around them. Nenry stood in their midst, hysterical half-sobs emerging from him. He searched their faces, but it was as if he were invisible to them. Whatever threat from authorities he represented was simply ignored. When all of them had disappeared into the village, the gate was closed and Nenry heard the bolts slide into place.
It was this noise that freed him at last to move. He felt the bile rise in his throat. He had to get away from there. His entire world—indeed, all of Egypt—had been upended. What had happened, he thought, that everyone’s rage should suddenly break out, first with his own wife and now here in this distant village?
As Nenry ran, he never noticed that he was now in the center of the Great Place. He darted in and out of the protruding crags, following the serpentine path at the top of the cliffs. Nenry might have run into the western desert had it not been for the two black Medjays who intercepted him as he came hurtling around a boulder. Bracing themselves, they caught him in their arms as he flew past.
Seeing the insignia of the Eastern Mayor’s office around Nenry’s neck, the Medjays did not instantly arrest him as a trespasser in the Great Place, nor prod him in awkward places with the points of their spears. Instead they allowed Nenry to pour out his tale—how he had crossed from Eastern Thebes just an hour before, only to see a woman stoned to death at the tomb-makers’ village, when all he’d done was to ask after his brother, who was in terrible danger, Semerket was his name—