by Donald Tyson
“Sashi, do you notice any change in me?” I murmured.
There is a difference, my love, but I am not sure what it means.
“Still talking to your djinn?” the girl asked, her words distorted by the effort to speak with her teeth clenched on the tallow shaft.
“It is a private conversation,” I said to the soles of her shoes.
“Where are my manners? Continue to pretend to talk to your imaginary djinn, and I will pretend that I do not hear.”
Her short temper puzzled me. She had expected nothing from the tomb, so why was she disappointed?
We let ourselves drop from the mouth of the tomb to the floor of the canyon and gathered in the mules. They had not strayed far, as there was neither grass nor water to attract them. I poured a cooling stream from my water skin into the mouth of each beast in turn. They turned their heads and lapped at it, rolling their brown eyes with silent gratitude. When they were refreshed, we mounted and started back toward Memphis, the girl riding in front as before.
I cast my eyes at the hills on either side of the almost invisible trail, wondering if Farri or his hired men were waiting to ambush us. As we rode further, and I saw no movement in the hills, I relaxed. It was evident that we had not been followed to the tomb. It would remain a secret place, and if at some future time I saw fit to return, I could expect the mummy of Nectanebus to be waiting.
We rejoined the well-traveled road that led eastward to Memphis. As we rounded a ridge of rock, the girl abruptly pulled back on the reins of her mule, causing the beast to bray and kick in protest. Four men sat on stones to one side of the road, out of sight of any rider who approached the city until the rider was upon them. Their saddled horses pawed the dust at their backs. My heart grew cold as I recognized the bearded beggar at the well plaza. He had put off his rag turban and torn shirt and donned a fur-trimmed cap, wool surwal, short linen tunic, and an open coat belted at the waist, of the sort favored by soldiers and mercenaries. The other three were unfamiliar but similarly garbed. All were armed with swords and knives hanging at their belts. They smiled at us as though we were the object of some jest.
“Greetings, Martala,” the beggar said. “Farri apologizes for not being here, but he sends his love.”
Chapter 19
The beggar spoke in Coptic, but I realized that I understood his words perfectly, even though I had never studied the language, or heard it spoken before coming to the Nile. This was not an opportune moment to consider my sudden gift for tongues. The four men walked toward us in a careless way with broad smiles on their faces, their arms swinging at their hips, to form a crescent with the purpose of surrounding our mules. Once they grabbed the reins, there would be no escape.
“Follow me,” I said to the girl.
Digging my heels into its flanks, I wheeled the startled mule around and galloped toward the rocky hills from which we had just descended. I heard the hooves of Martala’s mount behind me, pounding over an exposed bed of stone. The men who intended to waylay us began to curse. Casting a glance back, I saw them run toward their horses. They would be after us in seconds, and a horse is considerably faster than a mule.
I made no attempt to follow the trail to the tomb, which was in a blind canyon where we would become trapped. Instead, I set out across the hills toward the distant open desert that I glimpsed between their peaks. We had not gone far when the steel shoes of the horses clattered on the hard stone shelf. One of the men laughed. No doubt he thought us easy prey, and so we would have been had we fled along the road. A horse can outrun a mule, but a mule can outclimb a horse. I deliberately chose a steep and difficult path over the hill we ascended, and was gratified by curses of dismay behind us as the horses balked at the incline of the smooth rock. They were forced to lead their horses along an easier but less direct path up the hill, and this slowed them enough that they fell behind.
So it continued through the afternoon, with me driving the exhausted beast between my knees up slopes and along narrow ledges, the girl always close behind, and the four assassins now drawing near, and now falling more distant, depending on what path they were able to find. They could not pursue us directly, as they discovered to their sorrow. In an attempt to cross a steep and angled slab of rock, the horse of the old beggar slipped and fell, throwing him to the stones some distance below. His curses told me that he had not been killed, but I felt reason to hope he had been injured. After that, the four were more cautious, and took their time picking their way over the slopes.
The sun glared in my eyes, a huge red ball on the western horizon, when at last we descended from the heights into the desert expanse. We had gained enough ground on our pursuers that they were not in sight, but I knew they would never give up the chase. They were being paid to kill us, and would have to show some proof that they had accomplished their purpose, and that meant taking a trophy from our bodies. They had probably questioned the owner of the stables where we hired the mules, and he had told them we only possessed enough water for two days, assuming we rode at a walking pace. They would believe it suicide for us to stray far from the Nile. The tracks leading to our corpses would be easy to follow in the sand.
“What do you intend?” Martala asked.
Her face was flushed and her lips dry. She had tried to drink from her water skin, but I had snatched it away from her.
“We will ride into the desert until nightfall.”
I sensed fear in her voice. She tried to keep it hidden behind her eyes when she looked at me, but it was obvious the desert terrified her. She had learned to deal with all the dangers that faced a young girl in a city of men, but the indifference of the dunes and the emptiness of the horizon were immune to her flatteries and deceits. The desert did not care whether she lived or died, or even that she existed.
My heart felt strangely light. I was returning home, and embraced the desert as a child hugs its mother. It would have been sensible to worry about the four assassins who followed our tracks, but I experienced only a deep joy and a sense of peace.
My mule stumbled and nearly fell. Its breaths came in gasps and snorts, and a white foam of sweat lathered its flanks. Martala’s mount appeared stronger, but was equally exhausted. The beasts had been tired at the beginning of the chase, whereas the horses of the men who followed were rested and well-watered. We could not spare any more of our water for the mules. I slowed to a walking pace to conserve their strength. Every time we topped the crest of a dune, I turned in my saddle and cast a lingering glance behind us at the diminishing line of hills. As the sun flattened itself against the edge of the sky, I looked back and saw the dust of galloping horses.
Dismounting, I led my mule between two dunes. Martala also stepped down from her saddle and began to follow. I shook my head at her.
“Wait here.”
Once hidden from the sight of the other beast, I drew my dagger and with a smooth stroke cut the mule’s throat. It cried out in surprise and staggered, then fell to its knees. I pressed my lips to the scarlet fountain that spurted from its severed blood vessel and swallowed as much as I could before the beast fell over onto its side. Its legs twitched several times, and its brown eye rolled with a lack of comprehension. I cut the eyeballs from its skull, wiped my dagger on its hairy hide, and sheathed the blade.
The mule behind the girl snorted and tossed its head at the scent of blood on my face and robes. Drawing my dagger, I sliced the eyeballs open and handed them to the girl.
“Drink.”
She looked at the bloody eyes of the mule with disgust, then at me. To her credit, she shuddered and raised the first eye to her pursed lips, sucking its contents into her mouth. With a grimace she squeezed shut her eyes and swallowed the liquid of the second, then cast the empty eyeballs from her in loathing. I took off my water skin, no more than a third full due to the water I had given to the beasts earlier, and slung it over he
r shoulder, retaining her nearly empty skin for myself. The dust of the four riders was much closer in the failing light. They were too distant to make out their individual forms, but that would change in the space of minutes. I indicated with a gesture for the girl to remount her mule, and threw my leg over its rump to sit behind her saddle. The mule brayed and stumbled in a half circle on stiff legs to show its displeasure. Reaching around the girl, I took the reins and rode due west at as fast a walk as the beast could manage burdened with the two of us.
“What have you gained, Alhazred?” she asked without turning. “We are slower than before.”
“The mule I killed was at the end of its strength. So is this one, almost. The men who follow us know these beasts cannot be ridden back to Memphis until they are rested and watered, and they know we dare not give them our water. They think we flee from them in panic to our deaths in the desert.”
“Are they right?”
“Perhaps,” I conceded. “We will see.”
The light fell rapidly, and the stars began to appear in the heavens. I saw what I had been looking for, a long ridge of bare rock that pierced the sands like the inverted keel of a great ship.
“Listen carefully,” I told the girl. “Continue to ride west over the sand. Mark your course by the stars. Over the sand, not on the rocks.”
I gave her the rest of my instructions and she nodded.
“I understand.”
As we passed the ridge, I lifted my body on my hands against the rump of the mule and vaulted across to the rock. The girl held the animal under control and continued to ride west. I watched her until she passed from view behind a sand dune. Taking care to leave no recognizable footprints, I worked my way across the boulders and drifted sand until I found a small hill that I could hide behind.
It was not long to wait. In less than the quarter part of an hour, the four horsemen came at a walking pace along our trail, their heads bent over the necks of their mounts as they scanned the sand for marks. As I had anticipated, the failing light forced them to go slowly, or they risked losing sight of the tracks of the mule. The horses were lathered with sweat but did not appear at the limit of their endurance. At the saddle of each hung two heavy water skins. The assassins had come better prepared for the desert than I, who should have known better.
After they passed, I followed them with great caution, taking care to stay well behind and to one side of the lines of tracks made by their horses in case they lost the mule’s prints and needed to retrace their path. It was an easy matter to follow with my ear-holes alone, since they talked and laughed loudly, but I kept them within sight. They were sure of their quarry. As I had hoped, the dead mule removed any worry in their minds that we might somehow escape. The bearded beggar said little, and appeared to sit his saddle with discomfort. I noticed a patch of blood drying on his tunic over his knee. I was not surprised to see his left foot unbandaged and showing no trace of its former twist. The largest of the other men, a giant with a huge belly, drank from a flask what must have been wine. His words slurred when he talked. He began to sing in a toneless voice that set my teeth on edge, and I was grateful when his companions cursed him to silence.
We came to a stony hill. The track of the mule led past it, but instead of running in a straight line due west, it began to wander from side to side, gradually curving southward.
“The beast has run mad from lack of water,” I heard the beggar say in Coptic.
The night continued to deepen. Since the moon was just past full, it would soon rise, but until then riding would be increasingly difficult. At last the four reined their horses into a circle and began to debate. The giant wanted to continue, saying that he could follow the track of the mule by starlight, and anyway, it was plain that it was about to collapse. The beggar opposed him with the comment that they might lose the trail in the darkness, now that it wandered from side to side, and in any case the horses needed to be rested and watered. He said it was better to camp for the night, and continue to follow at the first light of dawn. The other two were inclined to side with the big man, putting forth the argument that a wind might arise and cover the tracks, but the beggar was their leader, and his pain made him stubborn. He cursed them and they fell silent.
They dismounted and hobbled the horses, then removed their saddles and bridles and gave the beasts water. After rubbing the weary creatures down with blankets, the men sat together on stones and shared two flasks of wine between them. I waited patiently for the wine to have its effect. One by one, they lay down on blankets they spread across the sand and went to sleep. They had not bothered setting a guard since they assumed by their reading of the boot prints around the dead mule that I had mounted behind the girl on the other beast. The rising moon bathed the hillside in silver.
Removing my boots, I crept toward the hill without a sound, dagger in my hand. The scent of dried blood on my thawb drifted to the horses, and one of them whinnied softly. It was a still night. I stopped and waited, breath held, but none of the men raised his head. The big man snored sonorously. His snores had better pitch and timber than his singing. Judging him to be the most dangerous, I rounded the sleepers and approached him from behind. He lay on his side, curled into a great ball. Pressing my left hand over his mouth and nose, I slid the blade of my knife into his back between his ribs, and through his heart.
His violent convulsion threw me away and forced me to jerk out the dagger or lose my grip on its bone hilt. Air from his collapsing lung made a wet sound as it escaped through the slit, and a loud moan issued from his lips. The horses scented his hot blood and shrilled in terror as they fought their fetters and clattered over the loose stones on the slope. It is needless to add that all three of the remaining men awoke and sat up.
Inwardly cursing my clumsiness, I ran behind the nearest and grabbed his head in my arm, then cut his throat with a sweeping stroke. The beggar and the other hired man were on their feet, their swords drawn. One glance in the moonlight showed me that the old man knew how to use a long blade. I snatched the sword of the man I had killed from its scabbard and danced to my bare feet, the moon behind me. Along with crown prince Yanni and the other noble youths who lived at the palace in Sana’a, I had received instruction in the use of the sword from a master swordsman. This was the first time I had ever found a need for it. I wondered how much of my lessons I remembered.
The two spread themselves apart and came at me in silence. This game might be new to me, but they were well practiced. I caught the down stroke of the beggar near the hilt of my weapon and deflected it with a circular motion, as I had been taught, then jumped to the side to avoid the thrust of the other man. Neither paused, but continued to hack and thrust at me, forcing me back over the treacherous rolling stones. The foot of the younger man slipped from under him and he struggled to keep his balance. I saw my chance and cut down diagonally across his breast with my point, slicing open his coat, tunic and chest alike. Blood gushed black in the moonlight.
Too late I saw the gleam of the beggar’s sword descend toward my head. There was only a moment to cast myself backward. I lost my balance on the loose stones. An enormous impact knocked my sword from my numbed fingers, and I fell onto my back. He lunged forward without hesitation, and would have thrust his point through my heart, but the direction of my fall put the moonlight across my face. The wiry old man staggered and cried out in horror, his eyes twin circles of dark and light. He hung for an instant above me, frozen at the sight of my mutilations. When he recovered his senses and drew back his sword for a killing thrust, it was too late. My dagger was already in his belly. I twisted the blade and tore it viciously to the side to open his bowels. His thrust went wide and the point of his sword scraped the stones over my shoulder as he collapsed across my body, pouring out his life blood on my chest.
The shadow of the other man loomed above me. I struggled to free myself from the weight of the beg
gar, who clutched at me with his bare hands in his agony. The remaining assassin was less easily moved by appearances than the beggar. He stared down at my face without flinching, and prepared his sword to strike off my head.
An expression of surprise possessed his bearded features. He stood unmoving with his sword raised. It fell from his fingers and clattered at his feet as his mouth gaped to emit a black stream of blood, and he collapsed to his knees. I saw Martala standing behind him, tiny dagger in her hand, its blade stained with wetness that glistened under the moon. She kicked the dying man aside with the toe of her shoe and knelt to pull the beggar off my chest.
“You were supposed to jump off the back of the mule and hide in the hills.”
She shrugged.
“I got tired of waiting.”
We turned the beggar onto his back. His face was so pale it looked ghostlike, and I knew he was bleeding his life away inside his own body.
“Did Farri hire you to kill us?” I asked in Coptic.
He tried to look down at his open belly but did not have the strength to raise his head. Instead, he lifted his blood-soaked hands to his face and stared at them. His fingers shook. Impatiently, I pulled his hands aside and repeated my question.
His eyes met mine. The fight had drained from him even faster than his blood. There was no malice or deception, only fear. He nodded.
“Is he in Memphis?”
The old man shook his head.
“When will he arrive?” the girl asked.
He spoke but his voice was weak. I had to bend forward while he repeated his words.
“Three days.”