Warlock: A Novel of Ancient Egypt (Novels of Ancient Egypt)

by Wilbur Smith

  Eight princesses and six princes of the House of Tamose had died. Of all Pharaoh’s children, only two girls and Prince Nefer Memnon had survived. It was as though the gods had set out deliberately to clear the path to the throne of Egypt for Lord Naja.

  There were those who vowed that Nefer and his sisters would have died also, had not the ancient Magus Taita wrought his magic to save them. The three children still bore the tiny scars on their left upper arms where he had cut them and placed in their blood his magical charm against the Yellow Flowers.

  Naja frowned. Even in this moment of his triumph he could still give thought to the strange powers possessed by the Magus. No man could deny that he had found the secret of life. He had already lived so long that no one knew his age; some said a hundred years and others two hundred. Yet he still walked and ran and drove a chariot like a man in his prime. No man could better him in debate, none could surpass him in learning. Surely the gods loved him, and had bestowed upon him the secret of life eternal.

  Once he was Pharaoh, that would be the only thing that Naja lacked. Could he wring the secret out of Taita the Warlock? First, he must be captured and brought in along with Prince Nefer, but he must not be harmed. He was far too valuable. The chariots Naja had sent to scour the eastern deserts would bring him back a throne in the form of Prince Nefer, and life eternal in the human guise of the eunuch, Taita.

  Asmor interrupted his thoughts: “We of the loyal Phat Guard are the only troops south of Abnub. The rest of the army is deployed against the Hyksos in the north. Thebes is defended by a handful of boys, cripples and old men. Nothing stands in your way, Regent.”

  Any fears that the legion under arms would be denied entrance to the city proved baseless. The main gates were thrown open as soon as the sentries recognized the blue standard, and the citizens ran out to meet them. They carried palm fronds and garlands of water-lilies, for a rumor had swept through the city that Lord Naja brought tidings of a mighty victory over Apepi of the Hyksos.

  But the welcoming cries and laughter soon gave way to wild ululations of mourning when they saw the swaddled royal corpse on the floorboards of the second chariot and heard the cries of the leading charioteers: “Pharaoh is dead! He has been slain by the Hyksos. May he live forever.”

  The wailing crowds followed the chariot that carried the royal corpse to the funerary temple, clogging the streets, and in the confusion no one seemed to notice that divisions of Asmor’s men had taken over from the guards at the main gates, and had swiftly set up pickets at every corner and in every square.

  The chariot bearing Tamose’s corpse had drawn the crowds along with it. The rest of the usually swarming city was almost deserted, and Naja galloped his chariot team swiftly through the narrow crooked streets to the river palace. He knew that every member of the council would hurry to the assembly chamber as soon as they heard the dreadful news. They left the chariots at the entrance to the gardens, and Asmor and fifty men of the bodyguard formed up around Naja. They marched in close order through the inner courtyard, past the ponds of the water garden filled with hyacinth and fish from the river, which shone like jewels below the surface of the limpid pools.

  The arrival of such a band of armed men took the council unawares. The doors to the chamber were unguarded, and only four members were already assembled. Naja paused in the doorway and looked them over swiftly. Menset and Talla were old and past their once-formidable powers; Cinka had always been weak and vacillating. There was only one man of force in the chamber with whom he had to reckon.

  Kratas was older than any of them, but in the way that a volcano is old. His robes were in disarray—clearly he had come directly from his pallet, but not from sleep. They said that he was still able to keep his two young wives and all of his five concubines in play, which Naja did not doubt, for the tales of his feats with arms and amours were legion. The fresh, damp stains on his white linen kilt and the sweet natural perfume of female concupiscence that enveloped him were apparent even from where Naja stood. The scars on his arms and bare chest were testimony to a hundred battles fought and won over the years. The old man no longer deigned to wear the numerous chains of the Gold of Valor and the Gold of Praise to which he was entitled—in any case, such a mass of the precious metal would have weighed down an ox.

  “Noble lords!” Naja greeted the members of the council. “I come to bring you dire tidings.” He strode down into the chamber and Menset and Talla shrank away, staring at him like two rabbits watching the sinuous approach of the cobra. “Pharaoh is dead. He was cut down by a Hyksosian arrow while storming the enemy stronghold above El Wadun.”

  The council members gawked at him in silence, all except Kratas. He was the first to recover from the shock of that news. His sorrow was matched only by his anger. He rose ponderously to his feet, and glowered at Naja and his bodyguard, like an old bull buffalo surprised in his wallow by a pride of half-grown lion cubs. “By what excess of treasonable impudence do you wear the hawk seal upon your arm? Naja, son of Timlat out of the belly of a Hyksosian slut, you are not fit to grovel in the dirt under the feet of the man from whom you looted that talisman. That sword at your waist has been wielded by hands more noble by far than your soft paws.” The dome of Kratas’ bald head turned purple and his craggy features quivered with outrage.

  For a moment Naja was taken aback. How did the old monster know that his mother had been of Hyksosian blood? That was a close secret. He was forcefully reminded that this was the only man, besides Taita, who might have the strength and the power to wrest the double crown from his grasp.

  Despite himself he took a step backward. “I am the Regent of the royal Prince Nefer. I wear the blue hawk seal by right,” he answered.

  “No!” Kratas thundered. “You do not have the right. Only great and noble men have the right to wear the hawk seal. Pharaoh Tamose had the right, Tanus, Lord Harrab had the right, and a line of mighty kings before them. You, you slinking cur, have no such right.”

  “I was acclaimed by my legions in the field. I am the Regent of Prince Nefer.”

  Kratas strode toward him across the chamber floor. “You are no soldier. You were thrashed at Lastra and Siva by your Hyksos jackal kin. You are no statesman, no philosopher. You have gained some small distinction only by Pharaoh’s lapse in judgment. I warned him against you a hundred times.”

  “Back, you old fool!” Naja warned him. “I stand in the place of Pharaoh. If you handle me, you give offense to the crown and dignity of Egypt.”

  “I am going to strip the seal and that sword off you.” Kratas did not check his step. “And afterward I might give myself the pleasure of whipping your buttocks.”

  At Naja’s right hand Asmor whispered, “The penalty for lèse-majesté is death.”

  Instantly Naja realized his opportunity. He lifted his chin and looked into the old man’s still bright eyes. “You are an ancient bag of wind and dung,” he challenged. “Your day has passed, Kratas, you doddering old idiot. You dare not lay a finger on the Regent of Egypt.”

  As he had intended, the insult was too great for Kratas to bear. He let out a bellow and rushed the last few paces. He was surprisingly quick for a man of his age and bulk, and he seized Naja, lifted him off his feet and tried to rip the hawk seal from his arm.

  “You are not fit—”

  Without looking round, Naja spoke to Asmor, who stood only a pace behind his shoulder with his drawn sickle sword in his right hand.

  “Strike!” said Naja softly. “And strike deep!”

  Asmor stepped to the side, opening Kratas’ flank above the waistband of the kilt for the thrust low in the back, into the kidneys. In his trained hand the blow was true and powerful. The bronze blade slipped in silently, easily as a needle into a sheet of silk, right in to the hilt, then Asmor twisted it in the flesh to enlarge the wound channel.

  Kratas’ whole body stiffened and his eyes opened wide. He loosed his grip and let Naja drop back to his feet. Asmor pulled out the blade.
It came away reluctantly against the suck of clinging flesh. The bright bronze was smeared with dark blood, and a sluggish trickle ran down to soak into Kratas’ white linen kilt. Asmor stabbed again, this time higher, angling the blade upward under the lowest rib. Kratas frowned and shook his great leonine head, as though annoyed at some childish nonsense. He turned away and began to walk toward the door of the chamber. Asmor ran after him and stabbed him again in the back. Kratas kept walking.

  “My lord, help me kill the dog,” Asmor panted, and Naja drew the blue sword and ran to join him. The blade bit deeper than any bronze as Naja hacked and stabbed. Kratas reeled out through the doors of the chamber into the courtyard, blood spurting and pulsing from a dozen wounds. Behind him the other members of the council shouted, “Murder! Spare the noble Kratas.”

  Asmor shouted just as loudly, “Traitor! He has laid hands on the Regent of Egypt!” And he thrust again, aiming for the heart, but Kratas staggered against the surrounding wall of the fish pond, and tried to steady himself. However, his hands were red and slick with his own blood and found no grip on the polished marble. He collapsed over the low coping and, with a heavy splash, disappeared under the surface.

  The two swordsmen paused, hanging over the wall to catch their breath as the waters were stained pink by the old man’s blood. Suddenly his bald head thrust out of the pool and Kratas drew a noisy breath.

  “In the name of all the gods, will not the old bastard die?” Asmor’s voice was filled with astonishment and frustration.

  Naja vaulted over the wall into the pond and stood waist-deep over the huge, floundering body. He placed one foot on Kratas’ throat and forced his head beneath the surface. Kratas struggled and heaved beneath him, and the waters were stained with blood and churned river mud. Naja trod down with all his weight and kept him under. “ ’Tis like riding a hippopotamus.” He laughed breathlessly, and immediately Asmor and the soldiers joined in with him, crowding the edge of the pool. They roared with laughter and jeered, “Have your last drink, Kratas, you old sot.”

  “You will go to Seth bathed and sweet-smelling as a babe. Even the god will not recognize you.”

  The old man’s struggles grew weaker, until a vast exhalation of breath bubbled to the surface and at last he was still. Naja waded to the side of the pool and stepped out. Kratas’ body rose slowly to the surface and floated there face down.

  “Fish him out!” Naja ordered. “Do not have him embalmed, but hack him into pieces and bury him with the other bandits, rapists and traitors in the Valley of the Jackal. Do not mark his grave.” Kratas was thus denied the chance to reach Paradise. He would be doomed eternally to wander in darkness.

  Dripping wet to the waist, Naja strode back into the council chamber. By this time all the other members of the council had arrived. They had been witness to Kratas’ fate and huddled, pale and shaken, on their benches. They stared at Naja aghast as he stood before them with the reeking blue blade in his hand. “My noble lords, death has always been the penalty for treason. Is there any man among you who would question the justice of this execution?” He looked at each in turn and they dropped their eyes: the Phat Guards stood shoulder to shoulder around the wall of the chamber and, with Kratas gone, there was no man to give them direction.

  “My lord Menset,” Naja singled out the president of the council, “do you endorse my action in executing the traitor Kratas?”

  For a long moment it seemed that Menset might defy him, but then he sighed and looked at his hands in his lap. “The punishment was just,” he whispered. “The council endorses the actions of the Lord Naja.”

  “Does the council also ratify the appointment of Lord Naja as the Regent of Egypt?” Naja asked softly, but his voice carried clearly in the fraught and silent chamber.

  Menset raised his eyes and looked around at his fellow members, but not one would catch his eye. “The President and all the councillors of this assembly acknowledge the new Regent of Egypt.” At last Menset looked directly at Naja, but such a dark, scornful expression blighted his usually jovial features that before the full of this moon he would be found dead in his bed. For the time being, Naja merely nodded.

  “I accept the duty and heavy responsibility you have placed upon me.” He sheathed his sword and mounted the dais to the throne. “As my first official pronouncement in my capacity of Regent in Council I wish to describe to you the gallant death of the divine Pharaoh Tamose.” He paused significantly, then for the next hour he related in detail his version of the fatal campaign and the attack on the heights of El Wadun. “Thus died one of Egypt’s most gallant kings. His last words to me as I carried him down the hill were, ‘Care for my only remaining son. Guard my son Nefer until he is man enough to wear the double crown. Take my two small daughters under your wings, and see that no harm befalls them.’ ”

  Lord Naja made little attempt to hide his terrible grief and it took him some moments to bring his emotions under control. Then he went on firmly, “I will not fail the god who was my friend and my pharaoh. Already I have sent my chariots into the wilderness to search for Prince Nefer and bring him back to Thebes. As soon as he arrives we will set him on the throne, and place the scourge and the scepter in his hands.”

  There was the first murmur of approval among the councillors, and Naja continued, “Now send for the princesses. Have them brought to the chamber immediately.”

  When they came hesitantly through the main doors, Heseret, the elder, was leading her little sister, Merykara, by the hand. Merykara had been playing pitch and toss with her friends. She was flushed from her exertions and her slim body was dewed with sweat. She was still several years from womanhood, so her legs were long and coltish and her bare chest was as flat as a boy’s. She wore her long black hair in a side-lock that hung over her left shoulder, and her linen breech clout was so diminutive that it left the lower half of her little round buttocks exposed. She smiled shyly around this formidable gathering of famous men, and clung harder to her elder sister’s hand.

  Heseret had seen her first red moon and was dressed in the linen skirts and wig of a marriageable woman. Even the old men looked at her avidly, for she had inherited in full measure her grandmother Queen Lostris’ celebrated beauty. Her skin was milky. Her limbs were smooth and shapely, and her naked breasts were like celestial moons. Her expression was serene, but the corners of her mouth lifted in a secret, mischievous smile, and there were intriguing lights in her huge dark green eyes.

  “Come forward, my pretty darlings,” Naja called to them, and only then they recognized the man who was the close and beloved friend of their father. They smiled and came toward him trustingly. He rose from the throne, went down to meet them and placed his hands on their shoulders. His voice and his expression were tragic. “You must be brave now, and remember that you are princesses of the royal house, because I have bitter news for you. Pharaoh your father is dead.” For a minute they did not seem to understand, then Heseret let out the high keening wail of mourning, followed immediately by Merykara.

  Gently Naja put his arms around them, and led them to sit at the foot of the throne, where they sank to their knees and clung to each other, weeping inconsolably.

  “The distress of the royal princesses is plain for all the world to see,” Naja told the assembly. “The trust and the duty that Pharaoh placed upon me is equally plain. As I have taken Prince Nefer Memnon into my care, so now I take the two princesses, Heseret and Merykara, under my protection.”

  “Now he has all the royal brood in his hands. But no matter where he is in the wilderness, and how hale and strong the Prince Nefer may seem,” Talla whispered to his neighbor, “methinks he is already sickening unto death. The new Regent of Egypt has made abundantly clear his style of government.”

  Nefer sat in the shadow of the cliff that towered above Gebel Nagara. He had not moved since the sun had first shown its upper rim above the mountains across the valley. At first the effort of remaining still had burned along his nerve en
dings and made his skin itch as though poisonous insects were crawling upon it. But he knew that Taita was watching him, so he had forced his wayward body slowly to his will and risen above its petty dictates. Now at last he sat in a state of exalted awareness, his every sense tuned to the wilderness about him.

  He could smell the water that rose from its secret spring in the cleft in the cliff. It came up a slow drop at a time and dripped into the basin in the rock that was not much larger than the cup of his two hands, then overflowed and dribbled down into the next basin, green-lined with slippery algae. From there it ran down to disappear forever into the ruddy sands of the valley bottom. Yet much life was supported by this trickle of water: butterfly and beetle, serpent and lizard, the graceful little gazelle that danced like whiffs of saffron dust on the heat-quivering plains, the speckled pigeons with their ruffs of wine-colored feathers that nested on high ledges all drank here. It was because of these precious pools that Taita had brought him to this place to wait for his godbird.

  They had begun to make the net on the day of their arrival at Gebel Nagara. Taita had bought the silk from a merchant in Thebes. The hank of thread had cost the price of a fine stallion, for it had been brought from a land far to the east of the Indus River on a journey that had taken years to complete. Taita had shown Nefer how to weave the net out of the fine threads. The mesh was stronger than thick strands of linen or thongs of leather but almost invisible to the eye.

  When the net was ready Taita had insisted that the boy catch the decoys himself. “It is your godbird. You must take it yourself,” he had explained. “That way your claim will be more secure in the sight of the great god Horus.”

  So, in the baking daylight out on the valley floor, Nefer and Taita had studied the route up the cliff. When darkness fell Taita had sat beside the small fire at the base of the cliff and softly chanted his incantations, at intervals throwing a handful of herbs onto the fire. When the crescent moon rose to illuminate the darkness of midnight Nefer had started the precarious climb to the ledge where the pigeons roosted. He had seized two of the big, fluttering birds while they were still disorientated and confused by the darkness and the spell that Taita had cast over them. He brought them down in the leather saddlebag slung on his back.