They lowered their bows. None were responding to his voice, he knew. It was his sheer, projected willpower that they could not disobey.
“Who is your commander?” he asked.
A tall figure stepped to the bow of the lead boat. Petosiris recognized him. He’d served under Heru in the last battles of the Sea People conflict, mopping up the last clusters of enemy soldiers hiding in the desert’s dunes. His face, unlike his young charges, was scarred—a jagged line cut down his face, overlapping the white, lidless orb that had once been his right eye.
Heru wasn’t a priest. He had risen through the army’s rank through political channels, giving lip service to the church only when necessary or expedient. On the battlefield, he’d been just as efficient. Once, after a fierce battle, as the commanders knelt and prayed for the souls of the fallen—both friend and foe—he’d seen Heru smile. No prayers escaped his lips.
“DECLARE YOUR INTENT,” Petosiris yelled.
Heru opened his shirt. On his skin, a crest had been inked: two jackals standing on their hind legs, back-to-back, surrounded by nine captives. It was a new symbol, one that Petosiris understood represented a new order of official guards. “My duty is to Heqamaatre-setpenamun, Ramesses IV, our Pharaoh.”
“You’re duty is to Re,” he corrected the commander.
Heru laughed. His men followed his lead, forcing a volley of laughter. He allowed them to fall quiet before responding. “My duty is my concern, priest. I will be rewarded or condemned as the Pharaoh deems. He has tasked me with retrieving you to his father’s temple at Karnak.”
Glancing down at Chione, he motioned for her to stay down. Her eyes were full of fear. Turning back to Heru, he called, “I’ve just last night returned from Re’s Shadow. Tonight I begin the ritual cleansing. It is impossible for me to go.”
Heru’s eyes dropped to Chione. “I’m sure the pharaoh has the means to attend to your rituals at the temple. You should not attempt to deceive me. You wish to stay with your woman. I understand this, but a solution is easily found: the pharaoh’s harem is capable to attending to that cleansing, too.”
Petosiris gripped the oar. “I cannot go.”
“We have horses on the shore,” Heru said. “You may have your pick of which to ride to Karnak. Or, if you refuse, we can drag you behind the one with the weakest bladder.”
“I refuse.”
Heru stepped back from the bow and nodded, saying, “Then I will remove the cause of your refusal.”
An archer raised his bow and took aim.
Petosiris pointed to the archer and began a prayer.
The archer’s bow released the arrow a second before the soldier’s body flew backward, crashing through the others on his boat, and toppling over the side into the Nile.
Petosiris dove over Chione, covering her with his body and cradling her head with his hands. The arrow burst through his wrist. He screamed.
Chione gasped.
Looking down, he saw a stream of blood as dark as wine flow across her face. The arrow had passed through his wrist and into her, its downward trajectory punching through the soft flesh under her jaw, and remained lodged in both lovers. She coughed, spraying blood. His skin against hers, her terror passed into him unfiltered. He felt excruciating pain and the terribly certainty inside her that she was dying. And another horror: her trust in him faded away like a flower wilting from dehydration. She stared at him, large tears bubbling in her eyes, and moved her lips. No sound came out, but he knew what she said, would have known even if she hadn’t been able to move at all: I don’t want to die.
“We won’t die,” he told her. “We are eternal.”
She didn’t believe him. All of her faith had been in him, he knew, not in the gods.
A second arrow landed on the boat’s side, startling him. His body jerked. An overwhelming burst of fresh pain vibrated up from Chione. Staring down, he saw the blood flow had increased. Only the arrow’s tip itself kept her veins from emptying in one great geyser. To move was to kill her.
She understood this. Please, save me.
He knew he couldn’t. Tears bursting from his own eyes, he whispered, “I cannot.”
She began to shake. Then end the pain quickly.
Petosiris screamed again, this time not out of pain but anger. He turned his head toward Heru, hiding behind a row of archers, a thin sliver of his face visible, and promised, “I will avenge you so that by the grace of Re we should be together forever.”
Have mercy, it hurts too much, my love … kill me.
Closing his eyes, he drew his lips together and summoned up his courage. He commanded his emotions to leave him and they fled. His body went numb. You are last to know my mercy.
He ripped his arm away and the arrow tore out her throat. Wet heat splashed across his face. Leaping to his feet, he opened his eyes and faced Chione’s murderers. Rivulets of her blood ran over his eyes, tinting his view of the Nile red, a portent, he knew, of the near future.
The archers readied their bows.
Petosiris broke the arrow embedded in his wrist, slid the shaft through his wound, and tossed both parts overboard. His eyes fixed on Heru, half-hidden behind his soldiers, and his lips began moving, chanting a prayer-song to Sobek.
The sound of splashing crackled like a bonfire. Dozens of crocodiles emerged from the River’s reedy banks and entered the water. They cut through the water at full speed toward Heru’s boats.
With a final sputtering cough, Chione died at his feet.
Petosiris extended his wounded arm, fingers curled into a fist, his blood dripping into the water, carrying his will to the harbingers of Sobek’s wrath. He ended his prayer with a short yell and opened his fingers.
The boats under Heru’s men burst apart at their seams. The archers released their bow strings as their footing failed. A volley of whistling arrows flew in every direction, some impaling nearby soldiers, most arching harmlessly over the river and striking the shores. A single shot hit Petosiris’s boat near the curled mast.
Screaming, Heru’s men spilled into the river. They spread out, swimming frantically for the closest shore. Petosiris watched the bowman who had shot the arrow that killed Chione bolt through the water. He disappeared in a sudden spray of foam and wave as a crocodile burst through the surface, closed its jaws around his midsection, and rolled. Shrieking, the bowman kicked and punched at the beast’s gray scales as it pulled him under.
The scene repeated itself, over and over, as the crocodiles erupted from the water and snatched the soldiers, dragging them into the depths. The sound of snapping bones mixed with the crashes of thrashing waves. The Nile darkened. Severed limbs and heads floated to the surface.
Heru thrust himself onto the riverbank and clawed at the roots of a fallen palm. Staggering as he pulled himself to his feet in the sinking mud, he turned to Petosiris and yelled, “My orders dashed, you’ll be dead—”
Two crocodiles jolted from under the palm root and barreled into Heru, latching onto his arms and propelling him back into the river. He flailed, attempting to stay afloat, but the reptiles were stronger than his fight. He vanished under the red water. A moment later, he rocketed back up, both arms missing, screaming, before the water around him sprayed up in a consuming funnel. The half dozen crocodiles inside the torrent tore him to pieces before the water could subside, each snapping away to get its share of flesh.
The feeding frenzy finally subsided and the waters calmed.
A moment later, birdsong returned to the treetops flanking the river. Petosiris stared out at his army of crocodiles, submerged except for the ridges of their eyes, and they stared back at him. One by one they sunk under the surface of the reddened water. A moment more and the tide drained away the remains of the boats and the floating limbs. Perfect calm returned.
“Please,” a voice cried.
Petosiris glanced down and saw a single soldiersoldier clinging to the arrow protruding from his boat’s hull. He stepped to the boat’s edge.
The boy might have been twelve years old, but he doubted a sunrise more. The crocodiles had torn open his thigh, leaving a jagged crater, flesh tendrils wiggling downstream like fish bait.
“Please help me,” the boy said. “He would have killed me if I disobeyed his orders …”
Reaching down, Petosiris ran a hand over the boy’s close-cropped hair. He felt the child’s terror, his fears, the tragedies of his life. And deeper, he knew that the boy had been honest: he’d often felt remorse for carrying out Heru’s orders. None of it mattered. “You are Heru’s final victim.”
He seized the boy’s head and twisted until he heard the neck crack, then jerked it sideways until he felt the spinal column break away from the skull. He released the body into the Nile, where it floated down river.
Petosiris had felt the rush of emotions as the realization had spun through the boy’s mind that he would die. He felt the death process itself, the dimming of light, the numbing of pain—and then nothing, like the end of vibration as a ringing bell became still.
He needed others to feel it, the dying ritual, but more than that, he needed to feel it again. And again and again. Death would keep his grief at arm’s length. He would travel to Karnak, as Heru claimed Pharaoh had ordered, but he would go not out of subservience, but to determine who was responsible for Chione’s murder. They would suffer, and he would bathe in their misery for as long as he pleased. Anyone in his way would fall.
This was a time for revenge.
Chapter 9
“You’ll feel vibrations like that pass through the decks every so often,” Bennie Leland said as he led them across the Limpkin’s top deck. His voice had the drag and strum of the New York public school system. “The SS in her name stands for ‘Steam Ship,’ if you didn’t know. Basically, we’re standing on a giant furnace and the coal inside its belly sometimes’ll explode like popcorn. Nothing to worry yourself over but I thought yous should be aware.”
Under Priscilla’s feet, the sensation continued and she imagined it would have felt the same to stand on a giant purring cat. “I don’t suppose knowing’ll help with seasickness any.”
Bennie snorted. “Doubt it will, Miss, but the seasickness isn’t the main concern these days. On the way over we spotted three German U-boats. Makes you wonder how many we didn’t catch sight of.”
“We aren’t at war with Germany,” she stated.
“As of yet, no,” Bennie said. “But they’ve taken an interest in ships like ours. Seems that they must think America is sending military supplies to England on the back end. You know, pretending it’s just regular cargo. Like the cargo we dropped off on the pier yesterday …”
A gust of wind kicked up, drowning out the rest of his words. The wind subsided just after Bennie fell quiet. He made no attempt to repeat himself.
Perhaps he’s so used to the conditions aboard that he doesn’t realize we couldn’t hear, she thought, or maybe he’s just the sort of man that doesn’t repeat himself, ever. Like her father.
“How many men are aboard?” Mason asked.
“Four above, six below.” The seaman grinned. “It’s a sour joke, I know. Gallows humor is the only joking on a ship like this. But in this case, it’s true: we got myself, Captain Hilliard, Felix, and Eli. Eli runs the kitchen, so you’ll want to make friends with him. Felix is the mechanic. He keeps us floating.”
“And you’re First Mate?” Priscilla asked.
“I’m everything else,” he said as they slid through a pair of doors and descended a short flight of stairs. “Watch your step, the lighting’s not so good down here, even in the day. Don’t want to waste the electricity. In a few days you’ll know every inch of her well enough to dance around in the dark.”
“You said there are six men below,” Brigham said. He steadied Dara on his shoulder as they came down last. In her freshly-bandaged splint and sling, the girl appeared free from pain. Wonder had filled her eyes the moment they had boarded the ship. “What’re their names?”
Bennie stopped and turned, shaking his head. “I don’t know their names. And I won’t ever ask. Look, before we go any further, this you should know: when a man signs on for a career hauling boxes across the ocean for a little food and less pay, it usually means they’re running away from something—maybe a woman, but more often than not, the law. Part of our deal is that we don’t ask personal questions and we don’t offer personal answers. It’s better that way.”
“Sound enough,” Mason said.
“It’s such a big boat for ten men,” Priscilla added as they resumed walking. The hallway came to an end at a heavy door with a thin coat of peeling paint. As Bennie opened it, a rush of warm air flowed past them, ruffling her hair.
“Most times ten feels like too many,” Bennie said as he led them inside a long, cluttered room. “We tend to keep to ourselves, mostly, down in our cabins, except when we have work that needs doing.”
The heat, she realized, wasn’t a luxury against the cold outside. Turning a corner, Bennie led them down another short flight of stairs. The temperature climbed. The closer they came to the steam engine, she recognized, the warmer it would be. She wondered how hot it was down in the steam engine room, somewhere deep in the bowels of the ship, where the six unnamed men worked.
Passing through another doorway, they hurried through a long thin passageway. It felt like a cavern, only instead of ancient hieroglyphs the walls were covered with crude graffiti. Glancing at one of many attempts at a female form in a compromised position, she asked, “Am I going to be safe aboard with these men?”
“I sometimes wonder exactly that about myself.” Bennie turned and tossed open a creaking metal door. Disappearing beyond the threshold, his voice gained a hollow ring. Entering the room behind him, she saw that the wood paneling ended here, leaving only metal walls for his voice to echo off. “Your museum has hired a man to protect the cargo in our hold. I suppose he’s charged with your safety, too. His name is—”
“Buddy Martin,” Priscilla said. He sat at the head of a long dining table with his muscular arms crossed. He was exactly as she remembered him—a few inches too tall, a curly head of hair hanging a little too long, a pair of icy eyes just a little too blue.
He smiled and she remembered why she so easily forgave him those inches of height and hair. The eyes, however, were unforgivable. They melted her. “Priscilla.”
Mason entered the dining hall behind her. His head snapped back and forth between them. “You two are acquainted, I see.”
“Very acquainted,” Buddy said in a low, strong voice, letting the words take on greater meaning. His eyes never left Priscilla’s.
She blushed. “Mr. Martin is the head of security at the Smithsonian. And before that he worked for my father whenever he packed up the family to go on a dig somewhere.”
“I’ve been watching over Prissy since the days when she carried a high school biology book under her arm.” Buddy’s eyes dropped down the length of her body. “Of course, she’s not a ponytailed schoolgirl anymore.”
As Brigham and Dara ducked into the room, Mason sunk back against the far wall and let them move in front of him. Priscilla thought she could see a hint of jealous anger flare up in the Irishman’s eyes. “Mr. Martin and I don’t get out of the castle very often anymore, though. We both work behind desks, mostly.”
“The difference,” Buddy clarified with a smirk, “is that her desk is usually covered with shipping invoices. Mine has a shotgun mounted underneath.”
He came to Priscilla and hugged her.
Bennie knocked on a door near the corner. A large black man slid it open from the other side with the heel of one raised foot. Both hands were occupied with pot handles over an oven in the close quarters of a tiny kitchen.
“This is Eli Towns, the cook. He doesn’t have much to work with, so it’s best not to make any special requests. The menu is thin on choices, but he’s the best greasy spoon ship chef you could hope for.”
“Y’all won’t sta
rve,” Eli said with a thick Creole accent. “I can pinch in a little spice here and there; you might even find something to make your tongues dance.”
The aroma of cooking pork and spices reached Priscilla’s nose and set off her salivary glands. As if voicing agreement, her stomach audibly growled.
“Sorry,” she said, rubbing her stomach. “We haven’t had more than a cup of tea since yesterday afternoon.”
Eli cocked his head and laughed. “Well now, I suppose I should turn up the heat by twice. Should be able to get some of this stew into a bowl for you in twenty minutes or so.”
“That’s fine. It’ll give us enough time to complete our little tour of the facilities.” Turning to Buddy, he asked, “Join us?”
Buddy’s stare flickered over to Mason. “No, I don’t think I will. There are a few things I need to look after if we’re to set sail before sunset. I’ll catch up with you later on.”
At the end of the hall, they traveled down another short flight of metal stairs. As she’d guessed, the temperature rose again. As they passed by a series of cabin doors, Bennie pushed them open. “There are fifty-odd cabins. We don’t have assigned quarters. Sleep wherever you please as long as it’s not already occupied.” Turning, he winked. “Or, if you choose, even if it is.”
A forth stairwell led down to a darker—and hotter—hallway, lit by bulbs dangling from bare wire. The echo here was as loud as Bennie’s voice and came nearly simultaneously with the original sound, a disorienting effect that reminded Priscilla of the sub-vaudeville boardwalk ventriloquist acts she’d seen as a child. Before disappearing through a rusted door frame, he said, “This is the metal shop.”
Inside, the harsh bare-bulb lighting cast bizarre shadows across the workshop, the dark shapes of hand tools and uneven lengths of pipe stretched across the walls and flooring, twisting through a field of metal scrap debris. In the center of the mess, half obscured by a large motor resting on sawhorses, sat a man streaked in grease. It looked like war paint. Seeing them enter, he wiped his thick safety goggles on his shirt and stared up at them with an impatient glare.
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