Day of the False King

by Brad Geagley

  Mother Mylitta’s expression did not change and she said nothing.

  He sighed. “You’re not going to tell me?”

  Mylitta gave a haughty shake of her head. “I cannot. Our bylaws prohibit us from divulging the names of our members. Not even a woman’s husband may claim her once she enters the gagu.”

  “And if I should tell the king that I suspect his sister is behind these walls…?”

  An amused smile of indulgence creased the old woman’s face. “Do it, Semerket, and see what happens. There’s not a prince in Mesopotamia who doesn’t owe his throne to the gold we lend them, including Kutir.”

  “Then if you’ll answer none of my questions, why did you let me in here? You could have chased me away, or simply ignored me.”

  She did not answer him at once, but continued to gaze at him with the same hard, unforgiving expression. Then, as if she had come to some sort of inner decision, she turned suddenly, squinting into the tube of bronze. Mother Mylitta aimed the tube almost to the level of the horizon line, scanning the skies intently. Then she stopped and beckoned him to approach.

  “I brought you up here for one reason, to show you this. Look into the scope,” she commanded.

  Careful not to get too near the edge of the tower, he edged forward to put his eye to the tube, not knowing what he would see. The tube, it turned out, was simply that—a hollow piece of cast metal that allowed the user to follow a single star exclusively among all the others.

  “Well?” he said.

  “It’s the star of Egypt—the Seshat star, you Egyptians call it.”

  Semerket looked through the tube again. The Seshat star seemed very much like all the rest of the anonymous lights in the sky, though perhaps a trifle redder. Then he remembered what the villagers had told him.

  “Blood in the sky,” he murmured.

  “Yes,” Mother Mylitta said, not surprised by his words. “The reason I cannot help you.”

  Mother Mylitta pointed a knobby finger at the Seshat star. “Never before has Egypt’s star been seen in our part of the sky, nor blazing with such ominous color. Worse, we’ve discovered it reverses its orbit. The omen cannot be clearer. A great evil has come out of Egypt to threaten us. It is the gods themselves who have decreed that we can give no Egyptian our help.”

  “But I am not this evil.”

  “Until a clearer message is sent us, all Egyptians are suspect. Even you, Semerket. Or perhaps I should say—especially you.”

  He would have attempted to reason with the woman, but before he had a chance to say anything more, Mother Mylitta made a gesture to the two female guards. They came forward and seized him by the arms, removing him from the observatory. The one beneficial outcome of that evening was that Mother Mylitta had so confused him with her talk of malevolent stars that he made his descent in a kind of daze and was not quite so aware of the tower’s giddy height. It was small consolation for losing Pinikir’s trail again, however.

  Semerket retraced his steps to the hostel. There was no one on the streets, and the profound quiet disturbed him; it reminded him too much of the previous night, when the assassins had leapt upon him from the dark. He wondered vaguely if his two Dark Head spies, Galzu and Kuri, were watching over him as they had promised. Semerket doubted it, for the Elamite patrols were too diligent to allow many Dark Heads on the streets. He was somewhat heartened to realize that if the Elamites made it difficult for his bodyguards to be abroad, they did as much for any assassins. With that thought, he stopped to risk a drink from a nearby well.

  “Lord Semerket!” a strangely familiar voice whispered to him.

  He jumped, dropping the drinking gourd in the well, his heart racing. But it was only the man from the Sick Square.

  “I apologize for frightening you,” said the man. “But there is a message—”

  “Another one?”

  “You are warned to avoid the harbor this evening, my lord. Particularly that area where the Elamite fleet is moored.”

  So now the Isins were planning an assault on Kutir’s navy. Even Semerket, who was no military strategist, could recognize it for the bold move it was; simply put, the Isins would cut off the Elamites’ only means of escape. The war for the hand of Babylon would be played to the death.

  “Who sends me this warning?” Semerket asked the man, knowing what his answer would be.

  “Alas, my lord, I don’t know myself.”

  SEMERKET REACHED THE HOSTEL at the same time as Shepak. Upstairs in Semerket’s rooms they whispered together. Semerket confessed his inability to extract any information from Mother Mylitta, other than her insistence that the princess was not at the gagu.

  “Do you believe her?” Shepak asked.

  Semerket nodded glumly. “Yes, I do—though I don’t think she’d hesitate to lie to me, if she felt she needed to.”

  He did not tell Shepak what Mother Mylitta had told him of the great evil supposedly arising from Egypt. Nor did he tell Shepak about the impending Isin attack in the harbor. The civil strife in Babylon was none of his affair, he kept telling himself, and the warning was for him alone. Of course, he would do all he could to prevent Shepak from going in the direction of the harbors that night.

  Shepak, on the other hand, had been more successful in his quest. “The boy is still alive,” he said resolutely.

  “Thank the gods!” Semerket exclaimed. “Tell me!”

  “I went to the oasis and found that the boy was left with a local farmer who lived a few leagues up the road. I got to the place just before dark. Apparently this Rami was so seriously hurt that the caravan merchants didn’t want to take him on their journey, fearing a death would curse their enterprise. That’s when Rami wrote his message to you, giving it to the caravan masters.”

  Semerket immediately threw his cape over his shoulders. “Take me to him! We’ll have trouble getting out of the city, but maybe Kutir’s pass will be enough—”

  “Hold on,” interrupted Shepak, a warning glint in his eye. “Rami’s no longer there. Not a week ago, a band of Isins swooped down on the place and took him hostage. The last the farmer saw of the boy, he’d been flung across a saddle and taken north.”

  It was all too much for Semerket. He let out a torrent of profanity that impressed even Shepak.

  Semerket at last collected himself. For a while, all he could do was pant, leaning his head against the wall in dejection. “What in hell do we do now?” he asked, turning to Shepak.

  Shepak pulled a cushion from the bed, throwing it on the floor. “We sleep on it,” he answered shortly.

  THAT NIGHT THE ISINS attacked the Elamite fleet, burning the ships on the river. As the Elamite troops converged on the harbor, the Isins again evaporated as if by magic, only to reappear at the city granaries. While the Elamites fought to save their ships, the Isins emptied their silos. As a result, now the Elamites were starving, too.

  The last place the marauders attacked that night was a small, out-of-the-way building not far from where Semerket and Shepak slumbered. The raiders forced open the gates of the Egyptian temple, going into its shrines with brands and torches, where the greasy soot of candles and incense instantly caught fire. The temple’s three inhabitants—an elderly couple and a young, beautiful woman with slanted green eyes—were hacked to pieces as they called upon their gods to save them.

  Book Three

  Descent

  into the

  Underworld

  SEMERKET WANDERED, BEWILDERED AND speechless, through the ruined Egyptian temple. The roof had collapsed from the heat of the flames, and he had to crawl over heaps of brick and plaster. The colored mural pieces littering the floor caught his eye—the smile of a goddess, the green hand of Osiris clutching his scourge, wavy blue lines that had depicted the Nile…

  The Babylonian civil police and their servants—all whose duty it was to make the ashes and blood go away—spoke to him as he passed. Their words sounded like the singsong clacking of alien birds. Semerket simply c
ould not comprehend another Babylonian word at that moment. At the officials’ questions, he merely averted his eyes and kept walking through the ruins, deaf to everything but the scream in his head.

  Fortunately, Shepak was there. The workers deferred to him, for they knew Shepak was a highly ranked Elamite officer. He barked questions at the witnesses, asking all the things that Semerket was too tired and heartsore to ask.

  Leaving Shepak to deal with them, Semerket at last came to the little temple’s granite altar. Wildflowers were still standing upright in its vases, and its surface was slick with the black blood of sacrifice. But it was not a heifer or ewe that had been slaughtered on it. Three unmoving figures lay at the altar’s granite base, draped in shrouds: Senmut, Wia, and Aneku.

  Who had been the first to die? Semerket wondered.

  The wind suddenly gusted, lifting the shroud a little. A shaft of light happened to fall upon a frail, withered hand—Senmut’s hand, the old priest who had been too proud to beg for alms on the street. Semerket saw the deep cuts that ran across its palm, telling him that the priest had tried to fend off his assassin’s blade.

  He pulled the thin cloth over the hand again, accidentally brushing his fingers against the priest’s flesh. Its coldness was a shock; even the fierce Babylonian sun could do nothing to kindle warmth in it.

  When the wind once again lifted the shroud, Semerket turned away. He did not wish to see their bodies, did not want to remember his friends so torn and bloodied. He cursed himself for having forgotten to warn Aneku that such an attack might occur. Though such a warning would have done his friends little good, still he blamed himself.

  Semerket was standing beside the bodies when Shepak found him. “I’ve questioned everyone who saw or heard the attack,” he announced. “It was a force of Isins who did it, about ten strong.”

  Semerket raised his brows in surprise. “Isins again?” he remarked coldly. “And did they suddenly appear from nowhere to attack this little Egyptian temple, and did they vanish again just as quickly?”

  Shepak ignored his bitter jest. “They came on foot, around midnight, yelling and cursing. They woke up the whole quarter, it seems. Plenty of witnesses saw them—not just the Egyptians from around the neighborhood, but Dark Heads, too.”

  “Or thought they saw them,” Semerket murmured. He stood up, turning soberly to Shepak. “A favor…?”

  “Of course. Anything.”

  Semerket took some gold and silver rings from his belt and gave them to Shepak. “See that my friends’ bodies are taken to the House of Purification. The locals will know where one is. Give the priests this cash, and say that you want them to receive the best possible embalming.”

  Shepak looked squeamish but he nodded, knowing how important such things were to Egyptians.

  “While you’re there I want you to do something else.” Semerket swallowed, dropping his eyes.

  Shepak’s expression now became apprehensive. “What?”

  “Ask them to check their records for last winter. Find out if they embalmed a woman named Naia.”

  Shepak, appalled, protested. “Don’t you think you’re the one to do that?” he said. “You can describe her for them. I can’t.”

  “She was beautiful, tell them, just twenty-three years old. Her skin was the color of ash, and her eyes like the Nile at flood season.”

  Because he could no longer speak, Semerket turned abruptly, heading down the stairs that led to the secret tunnel beneath the temple.

  “Where are you going?” Shepak called after him.

  There was no answer, for Semerket was already gone.

  “I MUST SEE HER,” Semerket said, pushing against the gate.

  The Syrian pushed back. “My lord, be reasonable. I told you Nidaba isn’t awake—”

  Semerket suddenly threw all his strength against the gate. It flew back, striking the wall loudly. He stalked through the portal, into the gardens. The concierge ran up the outer stairs to the villa’s second floor, flinging terrified glances over his shoulder, as though Semerket were some barbarian intent on ravishing his mistress.

  From the gardens, Semerket went into the courtyard and waited in the veranda. In the harsh sunlight, the flowering vines were scraggly. The silken cushions on the divans seemed faded and wine-stained. Without the dark and the soft glow of oil lamps, the villa resembled a dead wizard’s palace in some ancient folk tale, its magic withered away.

  A short while later, Semerket heard a noise above him. A young man stood on the balustrade grimacing into the bright light and rubbing his eyes. The concierge held a fluttering tunic for the young man, which he donned while descending the stairs.

  “Semerket?” he asked. “What are you doing here?”

  Semerket went to meet him in the courtyard. The youth was very pale and his chin was dusted blue-black with morning beard.

  “I came to see Nidaba,” Semerket said firmly. “It’s important. Take me to her.”

  The young man was momentarily shocked. With a stricken glance at the concierge, he brought his hands up to his face to hide his smirk. “Oh, dear,” he said, “I’d forgotten how Egyptians can be so naive about such things.”

  Then Semerket saw the young man’s nails, lacquered in gold dust, while tiny lines at the corner of his eyes still held smudges of antimony. The dawn broke at last in Semerket’s frail mind.

  “You’re Nidaba?” Semerket asked faintly.

  The young man nodded, laughing softly. His low and sultry tenor convinced Semerket of the truth. No wonder Nidaba’s voice was so forceful, Semerket thought—a man’s lungs powered it.

  “Surely you know,” Nidaba explained with a touch of defiance, “that Ishtar is male and female both—the god of war and the goddess of love together. I’ve dedicated my life to serving both their holy guises.”

  Semerket nodded, a man of the world, though he was thinking, Sweet Osiris, is anything in Babylon truly what it seems to be?

  “So,” Nidaba said, “since I’ve told you my secret, you must tell me the reason you’ve come to see me.”

  “Some friends of mine were murdered last night.”

  “Were they at the harbor?”

  Semerket looked at Nidaba squarely. “How do you know about the harbor?”

  Nidaba picked at an imaginary thread. “I heard something about it this morning. My concierge told me.”

  “My friends were killed in the Egyptian temple,” Semerket said. “They’re saying that Isins were behind it.”

  Nidaba eyes glittered. “I’m very sorry, but what can I do?”

  “The same thing I asked you to do before: take me to the Heir of Isin. I want to question him myself about the attack.”

  “Impossible. I told you before. I don’t even know him.”

  “I think you do.” Semerket said nothing more, letting his black eyes bore into Nidaba’s.

  “Haven’t you forgotten, Semerket? I’m forbidden to help any Egyptian.”

  “No, I haven’t forgotten. And I know that it was Mother Mylitta who forbade it. I also know that she was here the other night—just as I know what was in those donkey sacks.”

  Nidaba gave a start. Gone were the graceful movements and languid smiles.

  “Now,” said Semerket evenly, leaning forward to speak in a low tone, “what would happen, do you think, if Kutir knew that the women of the gagu were sending the Isin rebels their gold, coated in melted bitumen?”

  Nidaba gasped. “How did you find out they were sending it to them?”

  “I saw the gold for myself. As for who it was being sent to, that was a guess—one you just confirmed.”

  Nidaba had succumbed to the oldest trick in an investigator’s arsenal, and glared at Semerket. “The stars were right,” Nidaba said. “You really are a bastard.”

  “HOW ARE WE GOING to get past the Elamite blockades?” Nidaba whispered to him.

  “Just bat your lashes at them; that should do it.”

  “I’m serious.”

 
Semerket explained that he possessed a pass from the king that should see them easily through any checkpoint.

  “Well, aren’t we the fortunate ones,” sniffed Nidaba scathingly, no longer bothering to hide her loathing of the Elamites from him.

  They walked down a narrow, crooked side street in the old part of the city. Nidaba, clad in all her finery, strolled with her usual grace—due, perhaps, to the jeweled clogs she had insisted on wearing. Freshly barbered and painted, she explained to him when he complained at how long her toilette took, that if she were going to be murdered, she certainly did not intend to die a frump.

  The little street they traveled on ended abruptly at the grated entrance to a large cistern. When Semerket looked questioningly at her, Nidaba merely walked over to lean casually against the grate, idly scanning the rooftops and doorways. Semerket realized she looked to see if anyone watched them. Satisfied that no eyes were turned in their direction, Nidaba abruptly reached her hand through the grate’s bars. He heard a latch open.