by D. S.
Shiri’s eyes widened as a chariot gilded in a strange yellow metal that seemed to shine like the sun pulled up before them. Gold … the chariot is covered in gold. The vehicle was harnessed to twin chestnut mares, faces and chests protected under armour of thick bronze scales.
Astride the chariot like some hero of old stood a warrior trimmed in gold. From head to feet, everywhere was that glint of gold. Gold rings, gold bracelets, a great golden torc about his neck and chest … and there were other metals too, strange metals that sparkled blue and green in the morning light. It seemed impossible that he could stand under the weight of it all. Princes wear crowns and rings and bracelets of gold ... this ... this is a prince.
A moment the Prince gazed at her parents in eerie silence and then she heard it; an impossible sound frothing from his lips, soft at first and then louder. It took her a moment to realise what it was … Laughter. He was laughing at their pain, a cold, cynical laughter that seemed to suck the warmth from the world. Her breath came in shallow, wheezing pants. This was no hero; no prince come to save the day, this was a demon, a monster wreathed in cold unfeeling gold. In horror Shiri tugged her shawl tighter, fear coursing through her veins.
The monster said something to her mother and laughed all the harder at Amita’s sobbed response. Gingerly he stepped from his chariot, seemingly wary of staining his sandals with the blood of peasants. He strutted towards her leisurely, as if enjoying prolonging the terror of the moment. All the time he played with those jewel encrusted bracelets and even from her hiding place Shiri could sense callous eyes appraising her mother’s soft and vulnerable flesh.
With no warning save a sideways glance the monster booted her father in the chest and drew his sword to strike the final blow. Amita was suddenly on her feet, Lady in her hand. Shiri saw her lunge at the golden demon, saw her fall, heard her scream.
This can’t be happening. It’s all a horrible nightmare, some sick and twisted dream. Shiri pressed her hands to her ears, her face a mess of tears. Wake up! Wake up! Wake up! She slammed her forehead against the unyielding rocks. Wake up! Wake up! Again and again she crushed her head against them until her tears took on a crimson hew. Even then she could not block out those screams, so loud that she began to wonder if they were not her mother’s but her own.
One last time Shiri glimpsed her. She was curled in a ball, a trembling, whimpering ball, one arm outstretched; her fingers vainly questing towards her husband’s, her sobs were quieter now, barely a whisper and yet they seemed to fill the world. She used to laugh, she used to laugh.
And then the monster was on her again. He grabbed her by the hair, dragging her unresisting form towards their shack. It was too much. In a daze Shiri half crawled, half slithered behind her rock. She pulled her knees tight against her chest, rocked slowly back and forth and waited; waited for the monster to come for her.
III
Prince Amenhotep entered the royal marquee with a bounce in his step. That wench had provided excellent sport. He couldn’t help but smile as he though on it. Aye, she’d looked well … for a shepherd’s whore.
His smile faded as he drew closer to Pharaoh. Throughout the Two Lands his father went by a hundred different names, each one more glorious than the last. In the streets of Thebes men called him, ‘Tuthmosis the Great,’ in Memphis they named him, ‘Godking,’ in the halls of Karnack the priests of Amun proclaimed him, ‘Sword of the Hidden One’ and ‘Defender of the Faith.’
Amenhotep named him, bastard.
Ever did the Godking refuse to offer him the Co-Regency, ever did he look on him with scorn. The Prince had seen near thirty summers, yet still his father refused to give him the Red Crown. Amenhotep sensed the disdain in Pharaoh’s eyes as the Godking raised his head from the papyrus maps sprawled over the cedar bench before him. Even before Amenhotep could open his mouth, his father interrupted him, “They tell me you managed to lose a chariot taking this village of piss and shit.”
Amenhotep stumbled to a halt. He looked to left and right, hoping that perhaps General Thauney, First Lord of the armies of Amun, might take his part. But when he met the general’s eye Thauney found reason to lower his gaze and inspect his sandals.
Amenhotep felt the thrill of victory wane. Slowly it was replaced by that gnawing ache in his stomach, that knowledge of his own inadequacy he always felt in his father’s presence. Nervously he fidgeted with his golden bracelets, his mouth feeling suddenly dry, his tongue an awkward leathery protuberance behind his lips. He struggled to meet Pharaoh’s eye. “And … did they tell you how I downed a great warrior at the height of the battle?”
Tuthmosis grunted. “You couldn’t down a one armed Habiru eunuch.” Pharaoh’s nostrils flared at the flowery scent of jasmine and honeysuckle that wafted about his son. Amenhotep could feel him glaring pointedly at the thin lines of black kohl that decorated his soft skin. “Is it your pleasure to present yourself as a wench now?” Tuthmosis said, “Is such the fashion of your perfumed friends in the cushioned halls of Memphis?”
Amenhotep felt the colour rising in his cheeks. His father was ever on campaign, born with a sword in his hand, war was his daily bread. For three decades he’d vanquished all before him, expanding the empire’s borders at every turn and through it all he wore no gold but that of his crown, no perfume but that of blood and sweat.
The Prince shifted from foot to foot, struggling to find some sign of strength, some word of defiance, in the end he simply nodded his head and lowered his gaze. Why can I never stand up to him? Why can I never show him my worth?
Pharaoh shrugged as if he’d expected as much of his son and returned his attention to his maps. He glanced briefly at Thauney and even under the great Blue Crown the Godking’s displeasure was plain to see. “A week you say? The Pass of Gilboa is it? Seth’s tits, Thauney, you’d have me march seven days at the bed of a valley with twice a thousand rebel archers above my head? Is there no other route?”
Thauney shook his head, powerful fingers resting on the hilt of his blade. “My scouts have reported none worth mentioning, Divinity.”
Tuthmosis made an irritated gesture. “Your scouts aren’t worth the price of a sixty year old whore. What word from Aratama of Mitanni?”
Thauney spoke to the Godking’s feet. “Our envoys to King Aratama are missing or dead. I’ll endeavour to discover what…”
Tuthmosis grunted. “You’re a man who’d best serve any endeavour by being absent from it.” He waved the general away. “I stand before a council of fools.” He peered towards the entrance and his eyes met Old Solon. Alone of all the men in the marquee, the old bowyer was common born. Tuthmosis grinned at him. “With naught but my sweet daughter and this dung beetle-” he jerked his thumb at Thauney, “-to give me counsel, I may have need to raise you to the privileged ranks.”
Amenhotep scowled at his father’s words. He has more love for that old fool than he has for me. He was ever threatening to raise the lowborn filth to high position. The Prince glanced over his shoulder. The scrawny, white haired ancient held an unusually shaped weapon in hand. It was covered with ornately carved blessings from the god of Thebes. Father’s new bow. Solon caught Amenhotep’s gaze, grinned, and blew the Prince a kiss.
Pharaoh’s old bow had warped when Amenhotep had forgotten to unstring it after a hunt in the Memphite Desert. Amenhotep could still remember how Solon had berated him for his stupidity before all the nobles of Memphis, proclaiming, “I did not spend six moons toiling over the piece for some fool boy to treat it like the dirt under his feet.” Amenhotep had demanded the old man’s head for his impudence. How dare a whore-born peasant speak to his betters thusly? Pharaoh, of course, had taken the part of the bowyer and added a few choice words of his own to complete the Prince’s humiliation.
Amenhotep turned back to his father and steeled himself. Show him your worth, prove you deserve the Red Crown. He stepped a little closer and at last dared to hold the Godking’s eye. “The … the villagers, I questione
d a score of them with sword and flail they…”
His father rolled his eyes. “Preach your woman’s sermon elsewhere.” He beckoned Solon closer. Amenhotep was forced to hold a scented linen cloth to his nose; Solon stank of the disgusting fish glues he used to strengthen his bows. The Prince took a step back as the ancient went to bended knee and presented the weapon to his king. “The bow of Amun,” Solon said. “I’ve completed five hundred of similar design already, one for every chariot.”
Tuthmosis nodded appreciatively. “How far will they fire?”
“Further than any bows before them.” Solon said proudly.
Amenhotep sneered at the old man through his scented cloth. “A hollow boast, word is your bows are good for naught but scratching your arse.”
Solon glanced at the Prince as he would at a piece of dog leavings he’d just trod in. “And talk is your blade is good for naught but fighting peasant women.”
Amenhotep felt a rush of anger. “Be careful with your words, wise friend Solon, or mayhap that blade will find your throat.”
“Old men and grieving widows,” Solon bowed. “Ever does his majesty’s sword find opponents to fit his ability.” Amenhotep reddened but a quick glance at his father counselled him to be silent. Solon returned his gaze to Pharaoh. “Aye, Divinity, further than any bow before it.” His eyes flitted to the Prince again, a goading smile on his lips. “Twice as far as those from the batch Herben of Thebes botched together.”
Amenhotep glared at the old man, “Why … Why I myself proclaimed Herben’s bows to be things of beauty! Your weapons are poor things in comparison.”
Solon shrugged. “You’d declare the contents of Pharaoh’s chamber pot to be things of beauty if you thought it would gain you favour.”
Amenhotep turned first crimson then purple. He opened his mouth to reply, but his father’s thunderous laugh was enough to convince the Prince to bite his tongue. Time enough to deal with the old fool when I come into my crown. Instead he simply shoved passed the bowyer, determined now that his father would hear what he’d discovered. “You must hear me, Father, the peasants, I had them dragged behind the horses, took my sword to their throats, roasted their younglings over the campfires and they…”
“I care not for the methods only the results.” Tuthmosis appeared to be only half listening, his attention still on the bow as he tested its draw weight.
Amenhotep nodded quickly. “There is a hidden path, Father, the Aruna Pass they call it. Between their screams the lowborn muck of this village spilled all and betrayed their usurper king.” He cast Old Solon a brief and eloquent glance. “Such is ever the way with those of poor breeding.”
He sensed his father raise an eyebrow and quickly brought his finger to the map. “They say it is deserted, not even a lookout. This shepherd who calls himself King thinks it impassable. His chariots are heavier than ours, too bulky to be carried by hand. His host cannot travel in the high mountains and he thinks us no different.”
Pharaoh grew silent. For what seemed like an age, he studied the map before finally, he spoke, and spoke softly. “Taking this route would force us to be strung out, horse after horse and man after man. Chariots would need to be dismantled and carried by hand, wagons and supplies left behind. If the rebels have men in the mountains above Aruna, all will be lost.” He looked to Solon, “Brave or foolish to risk all on the word of a man with a sword at his throat?”
The old bowyer shrugged. “Men will call it brave if it works, Sire.” His eyes flicked to the Prince, “Foolish if not.” He glanced at the map, “If we take this pass we will be dead in a day, or celebrating victory beneath the walls of Megiddo in two.”
Tuthmosis, the third and greatest of his name, smiled ever so faintly. He turned to his son and for once Amenhotep imagined there was something other than disdain in that look. “That’s the way I like it.”
IV
In sleep she heard the beat of hooves on stone, heard sobs and moans, pleas for mercy met by laughter. I’ll wake up soon and find myself in bed, the smell of fresh baked bread warm about me. She felt a fearsome stinging in her forehead, a bitter wind whipping around her. She tried to roll and wrap the blankets tighter. She couldn’t find them. Her bed was hard and cold as stone.
That throbbing in her forehead got worse and worse. She whimpered at the pain. In her dreams she pawed at it. It felt sticky, lumpy. Groggily she opened her eyes and looked at her hand. She shook her head, confused; it was red, red as the reddest wine. She heard those distant sobbing cries again. They seemed louder now.
Everything was louder, the cries, the wind, the pain. Her bed was gone and slowly realisation came. She remembered where she was, remembered the boulder, the mountains. She remembered Ethan. Ethan … he’s at the well fetching water. He’ll be back any moment, wide-eyed and grinning, insisting he follow close behind me as we climb. Then she remembered more. She remembered blood. She remembered screams. Horror clawed at her chest. No! It was a dream! It was a dream!
In panic she scrambled to her feet. Everything was hazy. Everything was pain. The sun was high above her now, but still those chill winds blew. It was never warm this high above the village. She looked at her hand again. Blood, it’s blood. A burst of trumpets struck her like a blow. She jumped like a startled deer, shook her head and knew, knew it was no dream. She clutched at her boulder, rubbed her stinging eyes and dared to stare at the village far below, dared to hope she’d see her father chopping wood, her mother at the spinning wheel.
Instead she saw not a village, but a city, a city of tents and carts and Gyptos.
Yaham was jammed with men and horse, countless hundreds, thousands, more. How could there be so many? She glanced to the north, up towards the distant Pass of Gilboa. But that well worn road was empty. She held her hand to her pulsing forehead. All her senses seemed warped and blurry. Did someone strike me without me knowing? She looked again, why is the pass so empty? It made no sense. Where else could they be going?
She looked to the thronging crowds again and saw a man. Astride a silver chariot he seemed to tower above them all. Giant black stallions, the largest horses she’d ever seen, snorted at the reins. The thousands parted before him. Her eyes found his great blue crown. It reminded her of something she’d seen before. A dummy of wood and straw. A solder had given Ethan a stick sword, encouraged him to hit it. She heard the Gyptos chanting a name and she realised who he was. He was Pharaoh and he’d come, come and offered Yaham the point of his sword. Just like Ethan’s ‘prince’ had said.
She watched as Pharaoh tore through the fleshless bones of her village. Dust and pebbles flying high in his wake, hundreds more chariots following close behind. She saw them pass her house and gasped. The roof was gone, the walls crumpled and scorched, thin wisps of smoke still rising from its corpse. A moment she remembered. The monster, the monster wreathed in gold. She looked for him, but could see no sign. She watched as Pharaoh paused at the great well. Saw him gazing towards the Pass of Gilboa. That road was wide for these parts, wide and smooth.
There was another path too. Well, not really a path, just a rutted sheep trail that twisted and turned high into the unforgiving mountains. Shiri remembered travelling it once, two years past with her father and Old Dathan. The one and only time she had left the village for more than a day. They’d been taking a dozen of their finest stock to the markets of Megiddo. Or Armegiddo, as Dathan liked to call it. He was ever fond of the ancient tongue. Her father had brought Lady and by night had talked much of the past, more than before or since.
She remembered making a campfire to keep off the chill night winds, remembered listening as he pointed to the stars, telling her stories about the biggest and brightest of them. He’d shown her three stars in a row. “There dwells the Shepherd of Anu.” He’d said, explaining how if she looked closely she could see head, legs, sword and bow. “More soldier than shepherd,” he’d whispered almost to himself. She looked where he pointed but could see little of such things. She’
d cuddled in close to him then, he was warm and held her tight and she claimed she could see them all the same.
Shiri sniffed back a tear. It had been a hard trek over rock and stone, but it had been worth it. Her father’s money pouch had remained heavy throughout the next two seasons. She looked towards Pharaoh again, but … but he was not where she expected.
The Pass of Gilboa was still empty. She glanced towards the sheep trail. It was jammed and blocked with traffic. A Gypto soldier was struggling with a stubborn horse, and behind and before him men were cursing and stumbling forward. One man had a chariot wheel strapped to his back; another was whipping a donkey vigorously. Pharaoh’s chariot had stopped and was being dismantled. Even the Godking was proceeding on foot now. Realisation hit her like a bolt of lightning. They mean to take the pass of Aruna, they … they mean to surprise the Shepherd King.
Shiri looked into the distance. I know these hills better than any Gypto. She gathered her reeling emotions into a solid block of anger, an anger driven by hate and pain. She felt her fists clench. She knew what she must do. I must warn the King. I must or all will be lost. All will be Yaham.
Quiet as a ghost, she took up her water satchel and picked her way carefully forward. It was broad daylight, but if she was to get to Megiddo before them she had to move now. She would shadow the army and then under cover of darkness race ahead. One last time she paused, stared back at the village of her birth, the smoking ruins of her house. Somewhere there her parents lay. She closed her eyes and prayed, prayed that at least they slept together.
She dried those eyes and turned again. She took a breath and firmed her jaw, no more tears for you. Yaham was dead and the high passes lay ahead. She could see the soaring mountain-tops wreathed in cloud, below them sheer cliffs, rocky, impassable to all save those of mountain birth, and below the cliffs the dusty rutted trail, the never ending snake of Gypto soldiers. She took a breath and steeled her nerves. Somehow I will find the Shepherd King. Somehow I will warn him.