by Brad Geagley
“Semerket?” Medjay Qar interrupted, staring at the man whose face was indeed a parody of his friend’s, though it was fraught with frightened tics and twitches.
“I have to warn him!” the man pleaded.
“Why?”
Nenry blinked. Should he trust these men? Perhaps they were also involved in the plot that threatened Semerket’s life. Finally, simply because they were Medjays and black-skinned, he felt he could tell them the truth.
“He’s in danger from Queen Tiya,” he said, “something to do with what he’s discovered here. Today she plans his death. I have to warn him.”
Qar addressed the other Medjay. “Thoth, go back to headquarters and tell the captain to take some men into the Place of Truth. See what has happened. If they’ve taken matters into their own hands—”
“Too late,” muttered Nenry, “too late.”
“What about you, Qar?” asked Thoth.
“I’m going with this man to Djamet. If there’s a plot against Semerket for what he knows, we’ll all be next.”
Qar seized Nenry by the arm. As they walked swiftly down the limestone-strewn path in the direction of the temple, a sudden gust of fierce wind caught them. Qar sniffed the air, and turned with a worried glance to the west. A black ledge of clouds hung at the fringes of the Great Place.
A distant flash of silent pink lightning threw the crags behind them into sudden soft relief. Nowhere but in the deserts surrounding the Great Place was there to be seen lightning of such a hue, Qar explained to the numbed and silent Nenry.
“But it can kill you just as quickly as the other kind,” he added. The Medjay held the copper head of his spear to the ground.
They had reached the crest of the cliff and Nenry stared ahead to the ribbon of blue that was the distant Nile. The horror of what he had just seen was at last claiming him and he began to shiver uncontrollably.
A wall of wind caught them there at the crest. Wrapping their cloaks about themselves, accompanied by the acrid smell of the approaching storm, Qar and Nenry walked swiftly down the path that would take them to the Great Temple of Djamet.
HE VAULTED TO the surface of the lagoon. Vomiting water from his lungs, he sucked in the dank air. Though it stabbed like cold fire, he filled every part of his chest with it. Only then did Semerket open his eyes.
Panic was his first reaction. He lashed out blindly, feeling Assai’s hands still clutching him. But it was only a tangle of wet leaves that had wrapped itself about his arm. Assai was not there.
Semerket gulped more air into his lungs and sank again into the waters, searching, expecting Assai to loom from the green water at any moment. But the water revealed nothing. He was alone. Taking another gulp of air into his chest, he swam down the few cubits to the wreck caught in the underwater thicket. Assai was snagged by the neck of his linen habit, pinned by the jagged cedar planks of the yacht’s hull. Pentwere’s favorite twisted and turned frantically, hacking at the linen with his curved knife. In his hysteria, his movements were ineffective, and the water was fast becoming red with the wounds he inflicted on his own flesh. Still the wreck would not release him.
Assai shot Semerket a desperate, pleading look. Fighting down every instinct he had, Semerket watched in horror as the man slowly drowned before him. Assai’s movements became even more wild, his eyes bulging in his skull. Finally, Semerket heard a bubbling scream of the most profound rage as Assai exhaled for the last time. Unable to watch his death struggles any longer, Semerket kicked toward the surface.
There, hidden in the reeds, he waited until no more foam appeared from below. Shaken, he twisted in the water, trying to get a notion of where he was. Semerket sensed that the murderous plotters were very near. Sure enough, he spied the red flag atop Queen Tiya’s barque snapping above the reeds in a lagoon a short distance away.
Something human touched him. He spun, heedless of the splash he created and the short scream that erupted from his lips. But it was only Assai’s outstretched arm. Semerket’s eyes were drawn beneath the water to the body that hovered just below the surface. Once Assai had ceased his struggle, the sunken yacht had let him go. His would-be slayer’s mouth was open in an appalling grimace, filled with the silent echo of his final scream, and his eyes stared straight up at the sun, un-blinking.
Semerket knew he had to leave the reed thicket quickly. The blood seeping from Assai’s self-inflicted wounds and his own forehead would be sure to draw crocodiles, even though they preferred the open waters to these reed marshes. And, too, the conspirators in the lagoon were sure to come looking for their companion. As if conjured by his thoughts, Pentwere’s plaintive voice rose from behind a nearby screen of reeds. “Assai?” the prince called out. “Where are you?”
Semerket seized Assai’s body by the neck and dragged it to a distant clump of weeds, hoping that the corpse would blend in among the shadows and rotting vegetation. The longer the favorite’s body remained unfound, the more time Semerket would have to leave the reed copse and head for safety.
A sudden large splash roiled the lagoon, as if someone had jumped from a skiff. More splashes were coming toward him, and Semerket sank out of sight. Staying below the surface, he swam as far as he could through the clumps of reeds. Above him were the hulls of the cabal’s hunting boats, the largest of them being the queen’s. He surfaced silently at her boat’s stern, pressing himself below its overhanging deck. His black, glistening hair allowed him to blend in with the dark water.
He started when he heard a piercing wail: Pentwere had found Assai’s body. Watching through the tall grasses, Semerket saw that the prince had caught his friend in his arms and was holding him, pleading with him to live, to breathe again, begging the gods for mercy.
Semerket saw in the distorted reflections on the water that Tiya stood at the prow of her boat.
Paser’s nervous voice came from the other side of the lagoon. “Your Majesty! If Semerket is alive—”
“Shut up!” the queen hissed.
“But he will tell everything!”
Tiya turned on the fat mayor then, and the boat rocked with her steps. “Is this the kind of counsel I can expect when you’re vizier? You should be giving me advice, not pointing out the obvious!”
Semerket heard the oars of Iroy, Nakht, and Neferhotep as they pulled nearer in their boats. Pentwere’s demented shrieks still echoed in the far lagoon.
“If Semerket has tried to reach Pharaoh, Majesty—” Nakht began.
“Impossible!” snapped Tiya. “Ramses is clear on the other side of this misbegotten swamp. That clerk couldn’t get there so fast. Surely the crocodiles will take care of him—”
“Crocodiles avoid these reeds, Your Majesty,” Iroy pointed out.
“I don’t care! He’s not with Pharaoh, I tell you!”
“But it’s simply a matter of time, isn’t it?” Paser said. Semerket could imagine him, his fat face hanging in dispirited folds. No doubt he was seeing ahead to the terrible death he would suffer if he were captured. Since he was not royal, there would be no silken cord for him, no private suicide as was accorded to nobles. His execution would be a hideous public spectacle. “We must flee,” he said, his voice cracking, “and go into exile.”
“Yes,” agreed Nakht. “Syria. Or Libya. Later, when we can return—”
The queen’s laugh interrupted him. “Oh, what fine brave men I have around me,” said Tiya scornfully. “If we were to reach India itself, Pharaoh would still find us.”
“Are you saying we’ve lost?” It was Paser again, his voice moving up a notch.
“No,” said Tiya firmly. “Our only hope is to go forward with the plan—tonight.”
“But, Majesty—! We’re not ready!” Neferhotep’s distinctive whine filled the lagoon. “The treasure is still in its hiding place— the generals have not yet received their gifts of gold—”
Tiya did not speak at first. Below the deck of her boat, hiding, Semerket waited. “The treasure truly departs tonight?”
the queen finally asked.
“Yes, Divine Majesty.” Neferhotep accelerated his whine to an even keener pitch. “But it will take many days to reach Pi-Ramesse, and many days after that for the beggars to convey it to the generals.”
“Then the generals will simply have to wait for their rewards.”
“But who will protect us from our enemies?” asked Paser. “You can’t expect Pharaoh’s northern family to sit idle, particularly after the crown prince has been killed.”
In the water, Semerket winced. So the plot included even Prince Ramses! He should have guessed as much—how else could Pentwere rule if his chief rival for the throne were not eliminated?
Tiya considered. “We will make Djamet into a fortress and barricade ourselves in it, until our own armies reach us.”
The men in the lagoon fell silent. Though Semerket could not see them from where he was hidden, evidently they acquiesced, for Tiya quickly issued her instructions.
“Paser, you will return to Eastern Thebes and collect the men of Sekhmet’s temple garrison. Bring them to Djamet for our defense. Iroy, you will return with Paser. Prepare the works of sorcery. Distribute them to our enemies, so they may know they are bewitched. In particular, you must ensure that Pharaoh’s guards realize they are under my control.”
Paser and Iroy murmured agreement.
“Nakht, you and Neferhotep will go into the Great Place, to send the treasure north with the beggars.”
“And you, Majesty?” Nakht asked with a cough.
Semerket could hear the lioness’s fangs in the queen’s voice. “Why, I shall merely await Pharaoh’s pleasure in the harem, arrayed in Asian silks and bathed in perfume from the shores of Punt. What else is there for me to do?”
“But…” began Paser.
“Yes?” Her multi-stringed voice plucked a fierce note.
“It’s a wise plan, a perfect plan, Your Majesty. But what of the crown prince? Who will… that is to say… be honored with the task of… ?” Semerket heard the queen call to her son. Pentwere still moaned and sobbed beside Assai’s corpse. “Come away, my son,” she said to him. “We will build a mighty tomb for your hero—but later. There are more important things to think of now.”
Semerket sank beneath the water, silently swimming away through the adjoining pools and thickets, leaving the conspirators far behind. When he knew he was far enough from Pharaoh’s hunting fleet to remain unseen, he pulled himself from the Nile.
The winter winds were bitter against his wet skin. Looking to the south, across the inland sea of reeds, he saw that the sails of the hunting fleet were spread widely among the marshes. The hunt was still in progress. His head began to throb, and he raised a hand to his brow. When he brought it away, it was bathed in red. Until that moment he had forgotten that Assai had slashed it open.
What should he do…? He knew he should try to warn Pharaoh now, while the conspirators still caviled in the lagoon, but the king was too far away. Going around the marshes on foot would take hours; if he tried to swim to the fleet, he would no doubt become hopelessly lost in the thickets, or fall prey to a lurking crocodile. No, the best thing to do was try to warn the authorities in Djamet.
To the north, Semerket saw a massive bank of dark clouds at the edge of the deserts, with soft flashes of lightning illuminating them from behind. A rare Egyptian rainstorm was developing. He had no time to lose.
Semerket began his long run to the temple.
THE WINDS FROM the desert storms bore down upon Djamet Temple. Outside, in the makeshift bazaars, the vendors’ awnings were torn away from their stanchions. Merchants scrambled to lash down their wares before they went crashing. Unnoticed in all the furor, Semerket stood at the wall of blue faience tiles within the temple’s main building. Though others were shouting that such winds were surely omens of terrible catastrophe, Semerket silently thanked whatever god had sent them—for the longer they gusted, he knew, the longer Pharaoh would be detained in the marshes and away from danger.
Semerket had no way of knowing the extent of the conspiracy, so was unsure of whom to trust. He could not go to the army captains— Queen Tiya had declared the army to be under her control. Whether she spoke the truth was immaterial; Semerket could not risk exposing himself to anyone he once considered friendly, not until he knew the number and names of those plotting to assassinate Pharaoh.
He hid in the shadows of a column, pondering his dilemma. At that moment he happened to catch sight of Mayor Pawero, hurrying along the corridor. An army of servants followed him, and Pawero hurled quick orders to the chamberlains to lower the wooden lattices at the doors and windows where thin curtains billowed wildly.
“The holy fires must be snuffed out!” he heard Pawero command. “If a spark catches on these screens, the entire temple will be set ablaze.”
Semerket instantly made for Pawero’s offices. Since the Western Mayor was Queen Tiya’s brother, Semerket was certain that he was also a member of the conspiracy. He thought back to their encounter that morning. Pawero had seemed oddly furtive at being discovered in cheerful conversation with his rival Paser.
Then it came to him; the two mayors’ famed loathing for one another was a sham. Their enmity was nothing more than an attempt to deflect attention from their shared goal—to see Tiya’s son on Egypt’s throne. And if Paser had been promised the vizierate, Semerket now wondered, what was to be Pawero’s reward for his part in the conspiracy? As the blood uncle of Pentwere he certainly would be first among the advisors to the young king, ranked above any vizier. In addition, he would probably be elevated to the rank of Prince of the Blood. Semerket shuddered, considering what flowed in that blood—Pawero, too, was every bit the descendant of the accursed Amen-meses and Twos-re.
Semerket realized that Tiya and her brother had probably long planned to divide the rule of Egypt between themselves. Tiya’s son Pentwere, captivated by his favorites and the cheers of the mob, would be easily convinced to divest himself of the more onerous responsibilities of ruling, leaving his mother and uncle to administrate. Semerket saw ahead to the Egypt brother and sister would rule, with arrogance and hauteur the centerpiece of their governance. How they would relish it, he thought, when all the kingdom groveled before them, convinced as they would be that the rightful heirs of Egypt again held the scourge and crook in their blood-stained hands.
Pushing aside the curtain at Pawero’s door, Semerket entered the mayor’s office. The room was dark, the only light coming from a small opening in the high stone roof. Semerket stepped into the gloom, looking sharply for any lingering scribe or clerk. His luck held, for the room was empty; the rare storm had claimed everyone’s attention.
Rapidly he crossed the room to tables strewn with papyri. Glancing at them, he saw that the documents were all blandly innocent of treasonous plots, being transcriptions of court cases, lists of goods that had been delivered to Djamet as tribute, taxation records, and so on.
If incriminating documents did indeed exist, he pondered, where would the mayor hide them? The office was replete with rows of shelves, each stone cubicle in them containing several scrolls. He quickly scanned their leather identification tags—none purported to contain anything other than lists and schedules like those he had found on the table.
Semerket spied a door at the far end of the room, difficult to see in the dark. Pushing it open, he discovered a chapel of sorts. A variety of gods and goddesses crowded together, each in their own small niche. Devotional flames had been left burning before them, and the room was warm and bright from their glow. Pawero was famed, after all, for his religious fervor and his ostentatious display of piety.
Semerket remained unimpressed; Pawero was simply another criminal who cloaked his sins in pompous devotion. Semerket turned to leave, but as he stepped through the door, his foot kicked something across the room. The thing, whatever it was, bounced lightly off the wall. He looked down and saw that the floor was littered with at least five or six crumpled balls of papyrus.
Curious, he knelt to examine them.
“The land is in desolation,” he read, after smoothing out the paper. He recognized the handwriting. Pawero had written the words, and recently too, for a set of still-damp reed pens and a pot of ink were in the corner of the room. Blank rolls of paper were piled neatly beside them.
Many of the words on the papers were struck through with lines, and other words had been altered, as if Pawero had toiled to find just the right phrases to use. “Heaven has hardened its heart against Pharaoh, and the gods have extended their hand to another—”
Semerket exhaled. Here was evidence of treason indeed!
His heart beat rapidly as he unfolded the other pieces of paper, all drafts from some larger document. Though the phrases came to him in a random fashion, cadged from the pieces of papyrus, he was able to develop a sense of the document’s entire intent:
…gods have extended their hands to the great Prince Pentwere, passing over those ahead of him…
Semerket’s breath caught in his throat; Pawero was attempting to justify the overthrow of Pharaoh as a directive from the gods. How convenient it must be, Semerket thought bitterly, to so easily discern heaven’s mandate.
Now we must flex our arms in order to snatch Egypt from her violator. He and his minions will flee like tits and sparrows before the falcon. We shall take back the gold, silver, and bronze of Egypt, which he has heaped at the feet of his Asiatic harlot…
“Asiatic harlot.” Semerket whispered the words aloud, sensing the wintry influence of Queen Tiya in them. Pharaoh’s devotion to his northern wife, the Canaanite Queen Ese, was being singled out by her southern rival as justification for the rebellion. From this, Semerket inferred that the letter was probably intended for the heads of the southern families. He saw how carefully Pawero and Tiya played on old prejudices toward Egypt’s one-time colonies. And the hypocrisy! At the same time brother and sister accused Pharaoh of squandering the riches of Egypt on his foreign-born wife, they themselves rifled the tombs of Egypt’s royal dead, not even sparing their own ancestors.