Shiri

by D. S.

  Tjuya’s eyes widened in sudden understanding. “No! No please anyone but her!” But already the Red Queen was gone, fifty and nine armoured beasts following in her wake. Only the beard stayed behind. He jerked his head towards the villa and Tjuya rose on shaky legs.

  She entered slowly, the Companion stayed outside. Meira stood at the window she turned and smiled as her mistress walked unsteadily forward. The old bowyer lounged on a couch in the corner, his leg flung over the armrest, his ancient dirty pest purring in his lap. But Tjuya had eyes only for one. Her husband’s slut was standing in the centre of the room staring right back at her. “You,” Tjuya said, finding sudden courage at the sight of her. “You wish to beat me or see me suffer under the flail before sending me to the block?” She spat, “I won’t let you,” she spun and made for the door.

  “I’ll not send you to the block nor gift you stripes. I’ve supped on blood long enough. I’ll not be the cause of more.”

  Tjuya turned back looking confused. “Then what…”

  Shiri stepped towards her, her eyes never leaving hers. She held a goblet of Memphite Red in hand. The shepherd girl took a little sip and sighed looking almost embarrassed. “Oh, but you see, my floors are so dirty.”

  Tjuya made a face. “They look clean enough to me.”

  “Really?” The Habiru shook her head looking bemused, “But do you not see the stain?” She pointed to the floor at her feet. “It’s right there.” Tjuya glanced where she indicated but could see nothing. She raised her eyes to the slave’s and it was then she saw her slowly tip the goblet. In horror she watched the wine splash against the tiles. The Habiru’s eyes never once left hers. “Do you see it now, Tjuya?” she said. She threw a washcloth at her feet.

  Tjuya took a breath. “You bitch! I’ll not do it!” She spun, Shiri made the slightest of noises between half parted lips. The Companion was instantly at the door. Tjuya paused. She looked to her bodyslave, glared quickly in Shiri’s direction then back again, “Meira, fetch your switch.”

  Her bodyslave tittered back at her. “No m’lady. I think not.”

  Tjuya gawped at her – one final desertion to add to the rest. She spun back to the woman that had stolen her husband’s heart. She glared at her, battled with the shepherd girl’s eyes, matched her will against hers. The Habiru met that stare with ease and defeated it without a second thought. Tjuya dropped her head. Slowly, she walked forward and little by little, almost as if going down in segments, she went to her knees and reached for the washcloth. And then, with head bowed low she did as commanded. She cleaned the floor at the slave’s feet.

  When she was done she stayed where she was, unable to raise her head or even make pretence of meeting the shepherd girl’s eye, “What … what will you have me do now?”

  Shiri stared down at her without expression. “Nothing,” she shrugged, “Just go. Leave Heliopolis forever. Leave with the clothes upon your back and know that you are never permitted to own a slave again.” The woman rose to do as commanded. Shiri stopped her with one last gesture. “And Tjuya, before you go, take this.” She tossed her the washcloth, “Perhaps it will help you remember that for one day, just one day, you were the slave and I was the master.”

  The End

  Coming Soon!

  “The Tears of Isis”

  By

  D.S Taylor

  The Tears of Isis

  Sing of Osiris and the body Seth tore.

  Sing of the goddess and the grief that she bore.

  Sing of her tears and the river they birth.

  Sing of the Nile and the flood of the earth.

  Prologue

  It is said by the priests of the temple, that there was once a time before time. An age wreathed in mist, when gods walked the earth and Osiris ruled all. If those priests tell it true, Osiris’s brother grew jealous. Seth murdered his king and mangled his corpse. When the Queen found his body, it is said that she cried. It is said that she cried and a river was born.

  For ages beyond counting those tears flowed undisturbed, until at last, out of the jungles came men. With scraps of hide on their backs and flint tipped spears in hand, these hunters tracked the wandering herds. Day after day, they pursued the wild beasts across grasses that stretched as far as their eyes could see.

  Beyond those plains lay the hot, forbidding wastelands of the Red God, Seth. Only the brave and the foolish dared venture there. Even then, Seth still came for them. Each night, exposed and vulnerable, the hunters huddled in darkness. Each night, they listened as Seth’s fury drew near. Each night, they screamed as the Storm Lord gorged on their fear.

  But there came a time when everything changed, there came a moment when the hunters found the Tears of Isis. They saw the wet, black earth thrown up by the waters and they took it, took it and poured it into makeshift moulds, trusting in the light of Ra, to bake it dry. And when it grew dry, it grew strong, strong enough for a man to build a shack, strong enough for a tribe to build fifty shacks. Now, when light fled and darkness ruled, the hunters faced the Storm Lord not with fear, but laughter. Safe behind their mudbrick walls, they mocked Seth’s impotent anger and the Red God raged at the arrogance of man.

  In fury, he made his wastelands expand; expand until naught but the goddess’s tears remained free of his grasp. No longer was there grass to feed the great herds, and so the beasts died, they died and the hunters grew hungry.

  From the halls of the dead Osiris saw his peoples’ need. His spirit travelled unto Hapi; guardian of the Tears. He commanded that each year she bring forth more rich black mud from the depths of the water. Mud so rich and bountiful, that the hunters need only throw seed upon it and watch, as good and plentiful crops burst forth to feed their children. Thus by the will of Osiris, the hunters became farmers.

  It was then that Thoth, master of time and father of knowledge, gave them his wisdom. He taught them to mix straw from their crops into the mud of their bricks. The straw would make the bricks strong, strong enough to last a lifetime. And a lifetime was all they needed to last. A man’s son could build his own house.

  And so the people were content. But Thoth was not. He showed them more. He showed them how to build with skill. He showed them that if their houses were well tended, if the walls were thick and the foundations strong, they could sometimes last even longer, two, three, even four lifetimes. And more than that, Thoth showed them how to record his words on the papyrus reeds that grew at the water’s edge. Now, the sons would never forget what the fathers had learned.

  And it came to pass, that the people built grander houses. They claimed the land about their homes for their sons, trusting in the Tears to keep their heirs and their heirs’ heirs content. Together with their neighbours, their camps grew into villages and the villages to towns and eventually the towns blossomed into cities. Cities like Naquada of Seth, Abydos of Osiris, and Hermopolis of Thoth. The cities became rich and overflowed with people. No longer could all claim a farm, and so some sought other trades; carpenters, priests, and soldiers.

  And the carpenters made ploughs, the priests made scriptures and the soldiers made war. And as the soldiers fought so the cities fought. Naquada vanquished Hermopolis and Memphis defeated Naquada, and thus was the Lower Kingdom born. Further up the sacred river, Abydos conquered Akhmin and Thebes routed Abydos and the Upper Kingdom too was united.

  Then, the Two Lands struggled in long and bloody conflict. For centuries beyond reckoning they fought, until at last the great King of Thebes conquered all and the Two Lands were brought together under one ruler, one Pharaoh. And Pharaoh named his country, Kemmit, the Black Lands, for black was the colour of the mud, the colour of life, and white, the colour a man turned when that life left him, the colour of death.

  Yet, still they built with mud. Only in the rarest cases where stone was abundant and easy to quarry would giant monuments of granite and marble begin to rise. And even then, such structures would be the domain of the rich, the mighty tombs of Pharaohs, or the
beautiful temples of the gods. Often even the Kings themselves lived in palaces of mud. A palace after all, still needed to last for naught but a lifetime. Only the buildings of the dead and the divine had to be of stone.

  They simply had to be, for only death and gods are eternal.

  I

  Sometimes even heroes cry. The whip bit deep, but still, he made no sound. His master’s voice echoed in his ears. “It matters not if you hold your tongue, Joshua. It matters not if you scream. All that matters is you bleed.”

  The boy knew his terrible crime. Knew what such foolishness would earn him. But he’d done it all the same. He’d met his master’s eye and held his gaze, met his eye and refused to kneel.

  Beyond the whip, beyond even the voice, Joshua could hear them singing, the ibis of the river. He tried to go to them, tried to fly from the pain. A moment he was with them, soaring in the skies. And then it struck again. In silence he fought the writhing snake in his master’s hand. But that terrible pain, that poisoned kiss – too much. Sometimes even heroes cry.

  He remembered Old Reuben’s words. Go, Joshua. Run to your hidden place, the pain can’t find you there. And so Joshua ran, ran to seek the refuge of his mind, ran to seek his memories.

  When he was eight he’d run for real; the pleasure of his master’s whip his only reward. When he was nine he ran again and was caught again, this time he was beaten to the brink of death. Six moons later he ran a final time.

  That was the day his master learned how to break him. A mother’s tears sting worse than any flail. Joshua had been forced to watch as she took the beating in his stead. The slave master stripped her naked, thrashed her soft body until it bled, lashed her to the forked stick of punishment and left her roasting in the sun. Joshua remembered the flies feasting on her broken flesh, remembered her gentle sobs. As he nursed her back to health he swore his days of running were at an end.

  It was then he’d realised the truth of it. Death is the only freedom for the slave. His father knew such freedom well. Joshua couldn’t remember how he’d died. She never spoke of it. Even as he kissed her cheeks and dried her tears she never spoke of it. Even as he cleaned her bloody stripes and answered her quiet sobs with his own, she wouldn’t speak of it – couldn’t speak of it.

  Old Reuben had said a little at least, “He died a man and that’s all you need to know.” Others said more. About the campfires he’d heard the whispers. He died not just a man, but a hero, his last words for his son. Joshua couldn’t recall those words, but he knew they were something epic, something heroic, something defiant. By night he imagined he heard them still. Better to die on your feet than live on your knees. Better to fight than kneel. Better to fall than yield.

  But sometimes Joshua dreamed of different words. Sometimes he could almost grasp them. Sometimes he saw cracked and bloody lips struggle and wheeze. Sometimes he saw tears in a hero’s eyes. He saw Old Reuben – not so old then. He held a wide eyed child before a dying man. He heard that man say a name, a wife’s name, a mother’s name. ‘Keep her safe, Joshua, forget all else and keep her safe. No hero’s death for you. Swallow pride and dream no more of freedom … swallow pride and hold her hand, stay always by her side and keep her safe. Keep her safe, Joshua … keep my princess safe.’

  His master’s scourge struck again and he was back, back to that fearsome, awful hurt. Old Reuben had lied. There was no place to hide; no inner sanctum from the pain. Sometimes even heroes cry.

  Those tears came in silence, a silence met by laughter. His master was skilled with tongue as well as whip. “You were born a slave, Joshua, and now you cry like one, will you beg as well? Beg as your father did before you?”

  Through his tears a foolish hero broke his silence, “He … he did not beg … never begged.”

  He heard his master take a breath, heard the leather groan in his hand, sensed him tighten his grip. Joshua gritted his teeth against the blow. “You will live as a slave, Joshua, forever a slave.” The leather ripped the air before slashing his shoulders. “You were born a slave and you will die a slave.”

  Three more times Joshua felt the lash before his master paused to mop his brow and study his work. Kontar fancied himself an artist and today the youngling’s flesh was his canvas. “That’s how it was for your father, Joshua.” He shrugged before turning his full weight into the next strike. “That’s how it was for your father’s father.” The boy met the blow with a gasp, an involuntary intake of breath. His master’s lip curled with some small satisfaction. “And that’s how it will be for you.”

  The slavemaster dug his feet into the dry earth. He let the whip hang idle at his side for the briefest moment and then let fly, one final blow, harder than all the rest. He ever ended thusly when dealing in justice. The strike sent forth a spray of blood. Kontar leaned in to inspect the slave’s sundered flesh, before with a grunt he turned and tossed the flail to his Nubian ghaffir. He paced away without a backward glance.

  The Nubian loosed his bonds and Joshua fell to all fours. He stayed there a while, fists clenching the earth, teeth clamped tight against the pain. Then, slowly, he rose. He’d taken worse beatings before. He heard a soft footfall behind him, felt her hand touch him gently, heard anger in her voice. “Why do you do this, Joshua?”

  He looked past her, stared after him. She kissed his forehead, a mother’s kiss, yet more. Her lips lingered there an age and then her tears came anew. He was taller than her now, almost a man to look at him. She nestled her head against his shoulder. “Don’t give him the excuse, Joshua.”

  He dragged his eyes from his master and she looked up to meet his gaze. She was young in years but old in sorrow, beautiful once, happy once. But such things had been stolen from her, happiness a half remembered dream in the cold light of dawn. An ugly brand in the shape of a serpent marred one pale cheek and Joshua knew that beneath her robes, her back and shoulders were striped and scarred. Her life was one big wound, a winding path of tears and sorrow. “Old Reuben says heroes stand and fight, Mama. Heroes do not bow. Father did not bow.”

  He saw a flash of anger in her eyes. “Listen not to that old fool, he speaks of the glories of courage but never the costs. What did courage gift your father? A shallow grave, a futile death? You would have the same as he?”

  “But Reuben says he died a man … a hero … you would have me die a slave, a coward, kneeling for my master’s pleasure?”

  “I would have you LIVE, Joshua!” She glanced about her, angry eyes seeking the old man before abruptly she let it pass and took a breath. “A hero’s death hurts only those the hero loves.” She took his cheeks between her palms. “Joshua you … you seek to hurt me?”

  He shook his head a little irritably. She knows how to work me, knows how to twist her words to keep me forever on my knees. “I …I’m sorry, Mama.”

  “I love you, Joshua, love you as I’ve never loved another, not even your…” She swallowed the words and looked briefly away. She took a cloth in hand and squeezed a little water from it. Gently she dabbed at his wounds. He grimaced ever so slightly and she met his eyes. “Each wound to you is a wound to me. Bow when he passes, Joshua. Bow and remember that we still have each other and what else do we need? We still have each other and always will, as long as you remember you were born a slave and a slave must kneel.”

  Joshua nodded, “I was born a slave.” His eyes again looked past her and he firmed his jaw. But I will not die as one.

  Acknowledgements

  I’ve got a lot of people to thank.

  First and foremost, my inspiration and the one person without whom I’m sure this book would never have seen the light of day, Rachael. You’re my Red Queen.

  My mother, of course, I don’t know how you put up with my endless ramblings about it!

  Richard, Drew, Maria, Lisa, Ciara, Tom, Conor, Claire and Colin (you’re a cracking artist) you guys are great.

  And then there’s Nora, I started with your name and here I am ending with it too. It’s a sham
e you never got to see the final version, but your words and encouragement really helped make Shiri a reality.

  Glossary of Terms

  Amun/Amen–Chief god of New Kingdom Egypt, often represented as ram.

  Ammit – A crocodile god believed to devour the heart of the wicked.

  Anu – Very ancient Sumerian sky god.

  Anubis – Jackal headed god of Mummification.

  Apeth – A being of pure evil, serpent of the underworld also known as Apothis. The closest thing to ‘the Devil’ in the Egyptian pantheon.

  Arghul – Musical instrument, effectively a double reed pipe.

  Aton – The ‘One God’ of the Amarna heresy.

  Ba’al – Represented as a bull or calf chief god of the Canaanites often associated with Seth by the Egyptians

  Deben – Copper or bronze rings of standard weights

  Deshret Crown – The desert crown – a red crown worn by the ruler of Lower Egypt.

  Duat – The underworld often depicted as a lake of fire where the wicked would be punished for their sins.

  Faience – A non-clay based ceramic, the surface of which has been heated to the point of melting, giving it a glass like appearance.

  Feast of Opet – A festival in which the statues of the three gods of the Theban Triad, Amun, Khonsu and Mut are carried between Karnack and Luxor.

  Ghaffir – A guard.

  Hapi – Spirit of the Nile.

  Hathor – Goddess of fertility and motherhood.

  Hellebore root – Toxic plant, sometimes used to induce a miscarriage.

  Henna – Plant extract used for various purposes most commonly as a dye or make up.