by D. S.
He rose more slowly now. And then he came at the ghaffir a third time. Smenkaure parried the blow dismissively. Josef stumbled past him and the Companion’s blade grazed his back. More blood flowed and again Josef stumbled and went to ground. Shiri heard Tjuya shout something. It sounded a little like, “No leave him be!” But Smenkaure paid no heed. He sent a booted foot into his side and the priest was put on his back. Smenkaure was standing over him now. He’d barely even broken a sweat. But Josef was breathing and bleeding hard.
Smenkaure smirked down at him, “If you value your life best stay down this time,” he glanced in Shiri’s direction, “Away,” he said before turning for the archway. Narmer began to drag her after his brother. But then she heard her Shepherd Prince stutter her name. She saw him struggle to all fours, watched a trembling, bloody hand fumble for his sword.
He found his feet and on shaky legs surged forward all blood and anger. He came at Smenkaure from behind and for a moment Shiri almost dared to hope. But Smenkaure was ready for him. He caught the blade on his and shoved Josef back. And it was then that Shiri realised those first few clashes had been but play. The first Companion of Pharaoh flew at him, his sword a blur. Two, three, four gashes spurted blood about Josef’s face and chest, he was forced to one knee. Smenkaure’s voice echoed across the court. “I’ll not tell you again, priest, stay down. The slave’s life is forfeit.”
Josef looked to Shiri and firmed his jaw. Somehow, he gathered his legs under him, his blade still in hand. He swung it weakly, almost drunkenly. Smenkaure dodged the clumsy blow with ease and raised Montu for the final strike. And then it happened. Shiri half felt half saw something streak past, mere inches from her face.
Smenkaure grunted as the arrow took him in the shoulder. He reeled backwards, tripped and fell. In an instant Josef was on top of him. Smenkaure struggled to raise Montu to protect himself but Josef met it with all his weight and the blade crashed from the Companion’s hands. Blood spurted about the Companion’s head as the priest’s kophesh drove home cleaving the side of his face. Smenkaure loosed a roar of pain. He tried to reach for Montu but Josef kicked the blade away. The Companion grimaced again and met the priest’s eye neither asking for, nor expecting mercy. A moment, Josef hesitated. Smenkaure spat blood on the priest’s leg, gritting his teeth against the final strike. “Finish it, traitor … finish it or prove you lack a man’s courage.”
Josef took a breath and lifted his sword to end it. Shiri felt Narmer’s grip loosen, felt herself being flung to the ground as the man surged forward. Josef’s back was turned. She started in horror. It’s all happening again! She saw Amenhotep on the ground, the Shepherd King on top, driving his sword down for the final blow, saw Narmer lunging at him, her Lady in his hand. “Josef!” she screamed! “Look out!”
In slow motion she saw him turn at her shout, saw him realise the new threat. And then, rivers of blood as he ducked under and thrust forward his blade taking Narmer in the chest. A moment, Narmer stood transfixed. Shiri saw Lady fall at their feet and watched as Narmer followed her down, dead before he hit the ground.
She saw Josef meet her eye, saw the beginnings of that grin, saw an eruption of blood at his lips. Shiri mouthed a silent scream as he fell to his knees. The cursed blade buried deep in his gut. She saw Smenkaure rise as Josef went down.
The Companion pulled Lady free and stumbled back. The arrow in his shoulder was weeping blood, his face, a mess of sundered flesh and bone. In blood drained daze he let the sword fall jerking his head back and forth, searching for the hidden archer but seeing nothing. He glanced quickly to his brother’s corpse and back to the priest groaning at his feet, “Lie here and bleed,” He said slowly before turning and hobbling quickly away. For a moment, Tjuya stared at her husband’s trembling, bloody form before taking a step backwards. She spun around and hurried away.
Shiri rushed to Josef’s side and fell to her knees beside him, cradling his head in her hands. He opened his eyes and stared up at her. He made to speak but only blood passed his lips, he wheezed and gulped for air, found her eyes and tried again, “Shiri … I … I’m … sorry.”
She shook her head, her tears falling like rain. She passed her eyes over him, his body a blurry vision of mutilated horror. Gods no … oh gods no! Her hands were shaking violently she found them desperately fumbling about the gore of his ruined chest and stomach, vainly trying to stop the flow of dark, almost black blood, “It’s alright,” she said again and again, “Solon’s coming … Solon’s coming. It’s going to be alright.” She meshed her bloody fingers with his and felt him squeezing back. She raised her head. “Solon! Solon hurry!!” She looked towards his villa but could see no sign.
“I … I’m sorry, Shiri,” he said again, he seemed to choke on the words, “I’m sorry … for losing you.”
“Josef, no, no, don’t say that oh, Josef,” her words were sobs now, desperate, animal sobs. “You … you never lost me … never.”
Red bubbles were at his lips. His eyes seemed ever more unfocused. He gagged and choked on blood, she felt his grip weaken. His eyes closed. She held his head to her breast rocking him back and forth, crying, just crying. She heard someone running towards them and then Old Solon was standing above her, bow in hand, breathing hard. He had a second arrow already notched and waiting, “Solon!” she screeched, “Solon save him!”
The old man stood above her, pain and sadness etched in his face. He shook his head slowly, “I … I can’t Shiri. I can’t.”
Shiri barely heard him, all she could see was her love, her heart, wrecked and broken in her hands. “Don’t leave me…” she willed his eyes to open and for a moment saw them flicker, briefly felt his fingers squeezed hers anew. Weak so weak, but she felt it all the same. “Shiri,” he said, “Shiri,” it was quieter than a flake of snow, “Promise … me … promise … don’t die … don’t die a slave … don’t die in this land, go home, Shiri … go home.”
She closed her eyes and squeezed his fingers, closed her eyes and shook her head. “I can’t … I can’t promise that … please … please … don’t go,” Again she felt him squeeze, but this time those sky blue eyes did not open. His other hand moved an inch, two inches, three; the effort of the movement seemingly beyond all measure, as his fingers quested feebly inside his robes. Her eyes followed them, looked to where he’d parted his robes just a little, saw the crumbled piece of rag paper. His head lolled to the side, his hand flopped down, “Promise me,” he said, “promise.”
“I promise, Josef … I promise.”
His lips trembled with the faintest outward puff of breath and he was gone, his fingers limp in hers, “Josef?” she whispered, “Josef?” She shook him ever so gently, “Josef?” She looked to the old bowyer in desperation, “Solon! Do something! Save him!” She shook her prince harder now, almost roughly, his head rocked about with the movement, his eyes stayed closed. She shook him even more violently, “Josef! Josef wake up! Josef, Josef … don’t leave me … please don’t leave me.”
Solon stood still as a statue, pale as a ghost. He placed a soft hand on her shoulder. “We … we have to go,” he said quietly, “Your daughter … and the babe, little Tuthmosis … they’ll not suffer any son of Tiye to live. We have to get there before them.”
Her answer was loud heaving sobs. Horrible guttural noises that barely sounded human. She raised her head, her face a salty mess of her tears and his blood, “Solon … Save him … Save him,” she hugged her Prince of Shepherds, kissed his mouth and refused to let him go. She buried her head into his chest, “Josef … Josef … I love you ... come back to me please … please Josef … I love you … I love you.”
XVIII
The fog was thick upon the river, wet and cold as her tears. In the distance the red god was rising. He turned the whole eastern horizon the colour of her one and only’s blood. Above her head three faint stars still lingered in the pale dawn sky. The Shepherd of Anu – he is with him now. Nothing seemed to make sense. Where are we? H
ow long had it been? Hours and days were lost and merged in one long nightmare, one cold and endless pain. She closed her eyes and hoped to dream.
At least in dreams she could find him. At least in sleep she could see that smile, perhaps in death I could touch his lips. The twice cursed blade could do the job. She could feel it in her fingers still. She made to take it to her breast again but then she realised it was not there, her fingers clung to naught but air. The old man stopped me. “Tiye,” he’d said, “Tiye. We must save her. We must save the boy. Save them for him, Shiri. Save them for Josef.”
The twice cursed blade was gone. She’d drowned her in the river. The old man had led her somewhere then. She couldn’t remember where, but now they were on that river. A city was at their backs, a great and massive city, walls and towers still wreathed in snakes of fog. They showed no lights as they stole past it, made no sound but the faintest splash of oar. The craft was small, not twice the size of her mistress’s bed. Of rope and papyrus made, a fishing felucca not meant for such a journey, but it had made it all the same. “Is this the place?” she heard him say, “Shiri, is this the place?”
She looked at him, her eyes not really seeing. “He loved me, Solon.”
She felt his hand on hers. “Shiri please, we have no time, Smenkaure’s vessel docked late last night.”
She turned her head toward the shore – thick with reeds and little else, “No, I … don’t think so … they must be further.”
Solon cursed and made to raise the sail anew. “Wait,” she said. She rubbed her eyes. She felt so numb, she could not think, could not see. But I must. She leaned forward, squinted, pointed to a bend in the river. The reeds had been parted there. Through clinging mists a low marble wall emerged from shadows, and then a statue, a canal, the first of many sculpted pools, “The Water Gardens,” she said slowly, “she’ll be there at first light to bathe.”
Solon angled them in to shore. “We must hurry.”
Tiye shrugged out of her thin turquoise sheath and dipped a toe into the water. She shivered. It was cold. She offered Amaris a disappointed expression, “They must have forgotten to light the fires.”
Her bodyslave carried a woven papyrus basket, a precious bundle inside. The Habiru smiled, “I’ll have them set the braziers of Horus aflame and see that they open the sluice gates.”
“Don’t trouble yourself, Amaris, sometimes the cold is…” The slave had already turned.
“Oh, at least leave Tuthmosis here, then. I’ll not have you carrying him everywhere.”
The slave nodded and placed the basket carefully by her mistress’s side. Tiye raised her voice as she departed, “Oh and Amaris, perhaps once the gates are opened you might join me?”
Amaris grinned over her shoulder. “Well, perhaps just to test if the waters are warm enough, m’lady.” Tiye laughed, half suspecting that’s what she’d had in mind all along, the Habiru had long since fallen in love with the heated pools and hidden track ways of the vast royal playground.
Tiye sat back by the water’s edge, alone with her son and her thoughts. She heard the sluice gates open and saw the first ripples as hot, almost steaming waters ran down a winding canal and into her pool. She dipped her toes back into the water and smiled; they were already beginning to grow warmer.
She glanced idly towards the far distant western bank of the sacred river. A fishing boat was mid-stream but seemed to be turning towards the shore. She furrowed her brow as she watched it drawing ever nearer. They should know none are allowed to venture this close to the gardens. Even so, it continued struggling closer. Perhaps it’s lost. The boat was tiny and made hard work of fighting the current. She could make out two dim figures aboard now; the aged fisherman himself, and his daughter or young wife. Tiye took the basket in hand and pointed towards the boat. Tuthmosis giggled and kicked his legs in excited fashion.
Amaris came running. She sent a startled Ibis flapping wildly into the air. The bird disappeared high in the morning mists, its shrill complaints carrying far. “M’lady you are summoned to the palace at once!” The slave looked panicked. She glanced over her shoulder and then to the baby. “Something’s … something’s wrong…”
“Tell my husband I’ll be along after I’ve bathed.”
Amaris came closer, taking her by the arm. She shook her head. “No m’lady you … don’t understand! Smenkaure … he’s coming … and his face!” She bent over holding her hands in front of her mouth as if struggling to control her breathing, “M’lady … his face … it’s … it’s gone!”
Tiye couldn’t help but laugh. “What? Amaris I think you need to lay off the Shedeh, it’s headier stuff than our Memphite brew.”
The slave looked up. “He’s coming for you! He’s coming for your baby. They … they mean to put him to the sword!”
The Queen’s smile faded. “Amaris this isn’t funny.” She moved towards the slave a little angrily now, “Amaris?” The Habiru was no longer looking at her. Tiye spun. The fishing boat had drawn up on the shingles before her pool. She paled as Old Solon jumped onto the shore, Shiri close behind.
The Habiru met her eyes with a look Tiye had never seen before. She seemed so pale, so frail, so empty. Her former bodyslave extended her arms wide and all at once was running to her. Tiye’s legs trembled at that embrace and before she ever heard her speak she knew. The whole world span as her mother sobbed just two words into her shoulder. Again and again she sobbed them, “He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead.”
Smenkaure found the Red Queen by the water’s edge. She seemed lost to dreams, unaware of his approach. Her pretty slave was at her side. The Habiru turned at the sound of his approach. He saw the revulsion in her eyes. I’ll get that for ever more. Half his face was one gigantic wound. From forehead to chin the traitor’s blade had cleaved deep. His right ear was lost, but that could not be seen for the bandages. At least both eyes were spared, a miracle if ever he’d known one. He marched stiffly forward and made a gesture with his left arm. The other was in a sling thanks to a mystery bowman. “Woman,” he said slowly and watched her turn, “I come at good King Amenophis’s bidding. You are prisoner of the Crown. Your bastard’s life is forfeit.”
Her eyes were red and puffy. Had she been crying? He could not be sure. She smiled at him, didn’t seem to notice his disfigurement. “There are no bastards here,” she said simply. “My boy is trueborn.”
“Your lies are at an end, Habiru.” He moved past her. Two more Companions made their presence felt. The first, very young and surly, the other was older and huge, almost a giant, with a great black beard. He had an apologetic look in his eyes. The young one grabbed Amaris and threw her to the ground. The beard politely requested that Tiye take his hand. She took it. Smenkaure looked up and down, left and right but saw no sign. “Where is he then? Where do you hide him?”
Tiye looked to the rising sun and her smile broadened. “The god of my father has delivered him from your hands,” she glanced to the Companion on her arm, placed a gentle hand atop his. “Take me to my husband. I have lies to expose,” she turned to Smenkaure with incredible coldness, “And men to break.”
Smenkaure grunted. “Keep her there,” he moved closer. “Where’s the bastard?”
The Queen met his gaze without flinching. “I told you, I know of no bastards.”
“Do patient men have faces like this? Your son, Tuthmosis, where is he?”
Involuntarily her eyes flicked to the side. It was all he needed. He surged out into river. “There!” he shouted, “There! She tries to float him downriver in his carry basket!” He looked quickly about as if it may be some further deception but the Queen herself confirmed he’d found her runt. Her iron visage broke. She ran at him, “No!” she screamed, “No leave him be!” Her fists flew at him. With one arm he could barely fend her off. His vision blanked with excruciating pain as her nails raked his face. He stumbled and she made to press the attack. The beard grabbed her with firm gentleness and pulled her back.
“Take her to the Godking.” Smenkaure said through gritted teeth. She’d opened up the wounds and he was bleeding again. He turned to the other Companion. The man was attempting to pull Amaris’s skirts up about her waist and seemed to have little interest in the rest of the proceedings. Smenkaure glared at him, “Damn it, Natkhmin, leave the whore be. We’ve enough Habiru bastards to deal with already.” He jerked his head. “Now, with me!”
The young Companion sighed a little reluctantly before nodding and wading out into the waters. Smenkaure followed in his wake. The basket had only gotten a hundred paces before becoming entangled in the reeds. It would not take them more than a few minutes to reach it.
Tiye stood there a while gazing after them. She felt the giant touch her shoulder gingerly, “Begging your pardon, m’lady,” he could not meet her eye, “I … I’m sorry but … I must take you.”
XIX
She entered the hall with head held high, swift confident steps driving her forward. Her husband sat on his ebony throne, head in his hands, the Uraeus Crown lying discarded and impotent at his side. He was surrounded by the acolytes of Amun, the high priest of the order and first vizier to the throne at their head. They resembled a pack of determined hyenas circling a wounded lion.
She drew up before the throne and did not curtsy, kneel or bow. She looked at her husband with disdain, “A man who sits with his head in his hands while others slander his wife and seek to slay his son is no man at all.”
Amenophis raised red eyes. “You ... lied to me.”
Papis turned to her, a triumphant smile contorting his face. “I thought,” said he, observing the discrete amethyst pendant around her neck, “That Habiru were forbidden from wearing jewellery.”