Dancer of the Nile
Copyright 2013 by Jean D. Walker
This book is a work of fiction. The names, places, characters and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Cover Art by Frauke of CROCO Designs
DEDICATION
To my daughters Valerie and Elizabeth
ACKNOWLEDGMENT
The E-Book Formatting Fairies!
Chapter One
The chariot jounced over deep, hard ruts, and Nima had to grip the railing tight with her bound hands to avoid falling. As the ride smoothed out again, she tossed her head to keep stray tendrils of hair out of her eyes and squinted, glancing behind at her fellow Egyptian prisoner. About an hour ago, a small unit had joined the bigger column that held Nima, dragging this man with them. The Hyksos had stripped him of his uniform and weapons, leaving him clad only in his loincloth and sandals as they forced him to march behind the chariot.
He was in a much worse state than she, beaten, staggering, arms bound cruelly tight behind his back. A black eye, cuts and spectacular bruises marred his tall, muscular frame, but he held his head high, cursing their captors as they prodded him to walk faster. The jaunty young officer strutted with pride as he discussed his successful capture of this soldier with the senior officer in charge of the entire column.
Taking note of the strength the Egyptian soldier showed as he strode along, she counted his old injuries and scars. A handsome face, under the bruises. How had they managed to capture such a seasoned warrior?
Nima flexed her hands, trying to ease the irritation from the ropes restraining her wrists. Angry red welts burned and itched where the hemp had chafed over the five long days of her captivity. At least I’m allowed to ride in the captain’s chariot, not trudging along in the dust and heat like the new prisoner. Raising her head, she contemplated the blazing sun. I’d have died the first day.
The column halted, the soldiers and horses resting and sharing water. Her portion was brought to her in a small mug as she sat on the edge of the chariot. The soldier who handed her the water took his chance to fondle her breast for a moment through the thin, dusty, blue fabric of her dress before striding away with a laugh.
“Son of a jackal,” she cursed as he cast another leering glance over his shoulder. Nima lifted the cup to her lips awkwardly then stopped, gazing over the edge of the unglazed mug to where the other prisoner knelt in the sand, head down, shoulders slumped. They don’t offer him water?
How far can I push my status as Amarkash’s personal prisoner? Inwardly quaking, Nima stood and took a few tentative steps in the direction of her fellow countryman. Most of the enemy soldiers were ignoring her in their own efforts to relax or drink water. The few who were facing in her direction didn’t seem to care what she did, and the captain was at the end of the column, conferring with the younger officer stationed there. Hurrying the last few paces to the prisoner, Nima tried not to spill any precious water.
“Here,” she whispered, holding the mug out to him. “Drink quickly.”
When he raised his head, she recoiled from the intensity in his eyes, an unusual hazel with glints of green. However defeated he may appear, this man isn’t giving up. Unsmiling, the warrior glanced at her bound wrists then at her face, saying nothing.
Why doesn’t he trust me? Can’t he see I’m a prisoner here, too? Nima placed the mug against his swollen, split lips and tipped it up. Swallowing in greedy gulps, he kept his eyes on her face.
She took the mug before he had drained all the water and drank the last few drops herself. A change in his expression gave her a split second of warning before Captain Amarkash grabbed her by the shoulder, yanking the cup from her hand and hurling it away. He slapped her face, cursing at her in his native tongue. Trying to soothe the sting, Nima put her hand to her cheek as Amarkash dragged her toward the chariot. Dimly, she was aware of the captive warrior struggling to his feet in an instinctive attempt to help her. She heard the soldiers beating him as she was hustled to the chariot and thrown into the vehicle.
“You do nothing without my permission, you understand?” Amarkash gave her another rough shake as he got into the chariot next to her. Shaking his finger under her nose, he said, “Stay away from the other prisoner.”
Nima nodded. Amarkash had made it clear he was the only barrier standing between her and the soldiers, so the need to keep him placated outweighed sympathy for her countryman. “I understand. I thought he should have water–“
“This is not your concern. If I wish him to have water, I’ll order it.” Amarkash’s command of Egyptian was amazingly good, his accent nearly flawless. Nima was constantly surprised how fluent he was. She’d learned a few words and phrases of Hyksos in the last five days, but he habitually spoke to her in her own language. He glared at her for another long minute, hand half raised as if to strike her again, but then he turned to snap the reins, and gave the column the order to proceed.
Clutching the chariot rail tightly, she risked one more glance over her shoulder. The prisoner was on his feet, marching along, fresh cuts on his face bleeding sluggishly where he’d been struck after trying to help her.
His presence complicates everything. Nima narrowed her eyes, glaring at the soldier.
Marching in the middle of the column, flanked by foot soldiers, Kamin watched the other prisoner out of the corner of his eye. At first he’d assumed she was with the Hyksos willingly, until he saw the ropes on her wrists. Yet they gave her quite a bit of latitude, even letting her share her water with him. At least until the officer intervened, plainly not wanting the two captives to interact.
She’s brave. And kind. Battered and bruised Kamin might be, but he wasn’t in the Afterlife yet. He’d noticed how attractive she was, even in her current condition. Slender, graceful. A beautiful face, under the dust and fading bruises. Staring at her took his mind off his aching muscles and precarious situation.
Set’s teeth, but her presence complicates things. If the Hyksos gave him the slightest chance, he knew he could escape. He’d lay odds they weren’t used to dealing with one of Pharaoh’s Own Regiment. Let them think him a poor, terrified soldier, lower their guard. But now he had to consider the girl’s welfare, too — no Egyptian woman could be abandoned to the depraved cruelties of the Hyksos. Her presence meant any plot to escape must now also be a rescue mission.
Sweat trickled down his spine. Will she be able to help me work out some scheme for our escape? Will she be willing to try? She wasn’t particularly afraid of their captors, as far as he could see. Depending on how many more days of travel they had before reaching the main Hyksos' encampment, maybe he’d have another chance to communicate with her.
The ropes bit into his arms and shoulders, which had gone numb hours ago. Kamin tried to flex his muscles a little, to get some relief, but the knots were too tight. Trudging along like this was awkward, but he could keep going as long as the Hyksos could. Longer! Remembering how sweet the water had been, he licked his dry lips. Better think about something else, anything else. He observed the territory they were passing through, creating a mental map, so he could return to his own lines once he’d escaped. I will escape, gods willing.
Despite his determination, Kamin was nearly exhausted by the time the column halted for the day. The Hyksos had ta
ken another water break, but the girl made no effort to come near him. A jeering guard had poured a few drops of water over Kamin’s head, enough to torture his thirst but not quench it.
As the chariots were drawn into a circle and the soldiers made camp, Kamin was led off to the side. Laughing, a guard kicked his legs out from under him, so he collapsed to the sand. The Hyksos bound his legs before freeing his arms, which were completely numb and useless. Biting his lips till he drew blood against hot needles of pain, Kamin waited out the agony of feeling returning to his arms. His captors redid the bonds so he could feed himself with difficulty but not escape, yoking him by the neck to a chariot wheel before walking away.
Watching the activity in the camp, he assessed the odds against him. A tent was assembled for the captain, who promptly disappeared inside, leaving the junior officer in charge. The girl was taken to the cooking fire and her hands untied. Using supplies and fresh game the Hyksos brought over, she prepared a hot meal. The rich meaty aroma of whatever she was cooking made Kamin’s stomach rumble, but he kept his face impassive, not wanting to give his captors any satisfaction, no hint he was suffering in any way, not even from hunger.
First the girl took portions to the two officers, then the soldiers formed a line, and she spooned stew into bowls as the men walked by, helping themselves to bread in a basket and passing wineskins through the ranks. Kamin heard snatches of ribald remarks, which she studiously ignored.
Following the flurry of activity, she finally took notice of him, resting her hands in her lap. Rising after a moment, she strolled into the tent.
Well, no food for me tonight. I’m not begging them to feed me. Kamin locked his hunger away with his other aches and pains. The churning acid in his gut couldn’t interfere with his attempts to plan for any chance to escape. He’d gone without food before.
The tent flap fluttered a moment or two later, drawing his attention. The girl. Feeling hollow, stomach growling at him like a starving beast, he watched her movements.
Walking straight to the kettle, she ladled out a generous bowl full of stew, grabbed a chunk of bread and crossed the camp to him.
Kamin straightened against his restraints as she approached.
“Captain Amarkash said you could eat but not drink,” she whispered when she got close, holding out the bowl and the bread. A dubious frown crossed her face as she focused on the ropes binding his wrists. “Can you manage?”
He extended his bound arms, hands cupped to take the steaming bowl. “Thank you, my lady. The gods bless you.”
“If they truly blessed me, I wouldn’t be here.” She stuck the bread in the stew and placed the meal in his waiting hands. “Eat fast. He’s just as likely to change his mind.”
No sooner had she offered this advice than a harsh yell erupted from across the camp. “Nima!”
Closing her eyes, she turned. The Hyksos captain scowled at them, standing in front of his tent, hands on hips, eyes narrowed. He beckoned to her, and without another glance at Kamin she walked away.
At least I know her name now. Kamin kept his eyes on the interaction between her and the captain outside the tent as he awkwardly wolfed the dinner she’d provided. I hope she isn’t going to get in trouble for giving me food. With each bite of the savory, lightly spiced, meaty stew, strength flowed to his muscles.
Nima was resisting some request or command from the officer. Finally the man pulled a long knife. Kamin tensed, testing the strength of the ropes, although there was nothing he could do to defend her. Am I to watch her die because of kindness to me? But she said he’d given permission.
After slitting the ropes on the woman’s wrists, the captain seized her dress, yanked the already ragged garment over her head and threw it on the ground at her feet. She stood there calmly, her body now concealed only by a semi-sheer linen breast band and knee-length shift. He reached out to tug at the torn blue ribbon holding her long, messy braid, releasing her silky black hair to cascade onto her shoulders. The soldiers whistled, making crude comments in Hyksos. Setting the bowl carefully off to the side, Kamin stared, surprised to see the men settling in a big circle next to the fire.
Head high, Nima walked into the center of the circle, lifting her arms to the sky in a graceful arc. She nodded, and a soldier with a small flute launched into a discordant tune while the man next to him pounded a steady drumbeat on an overturned kettle. On tiptoe, Nima pirouetted into the first steps of a dance.
Kamin watched in disbelief at first. Is she a kidnapped priestess, doing some sacred dance? Clearly, she was well trained, her movements rhythmic despite the wretched music. As the dance progressed, he sensed she was cutting some movements short, editing others out completely, trying not to arouse her volatile audience too much. I don’t know about them, but she’s certainly having an effect on me. This woman is as good as the best dancers in Thebes. A vision of how her slender body would appear, bare-breasted, clad only in the short fringed skirt of a Theban dancer, flashed in his mind’s eye.
Angrily, he shook his head, the rope cutting into his neck. I should be trying to escape while they’re all distracted, not mooning over some dancer like a cadet. Surreptitiously, he reached out to catch the lip of the bowl, drawing it closer. He smashed it on a rock next to him, keeping the biggest jagged fragment and hastily sweeping sand over the others. Moving slowly, so as not to draw attention, he sawed at the tether holding him by the neck to the chariot wheel.
Finishing with a series of acrobatic moves, Nima practically landed in the lap of the junior officer. He shoved her to her feet, goggling anxiously at Amarkash, who was stalking toward them, snatching her dress from the ground as he came. She moved to meet the captain, accepting her garment and shrugging awkwardly into the garment.
Sorry the dance had ended, although puzzled at the awkward finale she’d done after the skill of the performance, Kamin narrowed his eyes, leaning against the wheel to ease the strain on the rope at his neck. The woven hemp was proving frustratingly impervious to his jagged shard. Is she trying to conceal something?
No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than Amarkash was yanking at her arm, the younger officer shouting and the soldiers scattering as she brandished a knife she’d evidently stolen from the man she had jostled.
Nearly breaking her slender wrist, Amarkash wrenched the blade free. He flipped the knife to the other officer with a curse, then dragged Nima into the tent, closing the panel behind them. A single scream from the tent, followed by silence, left Kamin cursing, bile rising in his throat.
Next morning, the girl was sullen, fresh bruises on her face when she walked out of the tent behind Amarkash and was assisted into the chariot by a soldier. Wrists tightly bound behind her, she stayed in the chariot or next to it during the hours of marching and the few stops made for resting the horses and men. Nima never glanced at Kamin. After a quick assessment at the start of the day to reassure himself she was more or less unharmed, Kamin deliberately averted his gaze. Something about her, not only the undeniable beauty, but also her bravery in this situation, touched him. Her attitude made him all the more determined to rescue her as well as extricating himself from the current predicament.
If only they didn’t guard me so closely on the march. He glanced at the four soldiers marching in formation around him, spears and knives ready to take him down if he made any move to escape. His planning centered around a break after dark. They’re much less alert once they’ve made camp and had dinner.
During the rest breaks, Amarkash personally gave Nima water to drink and allowed no opportunity for her to share. Soldiers provided Kamin with small sips of water every other rest stop, with much jeering and insults. He didn’t care. Let them enjoy themselves as long as they gave him the precious water. Maintaining his strength was essential in this heat, not his dignity.
The column stopped before sunset, camping in a small oasis.
Curious about what would happen this evening, his attention was drawn to Nima, in tense discussi
on with the Hyksos captain. As he watched, the ropes on her arms were slashed, and she was given a small basket. Escorted by a soldier, she harvested plants of some sort from the overgrown gardens left by the former residents of the tiny oasis.
Going to the fire where her big stewpot glowed red hot, Nima busied herself with serious cooking. Pleased by her grace, her beauty, her stubborn refusal to give in to the terror of her situation, Kamin found some relief from his own aches and pains in observing her activities.
Him, they could only torture and kill. They could inflict much worse on her. Plainly, the Hyksos soldiers harbored some lingering hope of being allowed to assault her, touching her lasciviously whenever the captain’s attention was elsewhere. But the captain has staked his claim, and they all fear him enough to restrain themselves until he tires of her, which I suppose is a mercy. Nima slapped one man’s hands away with a curse. She’s strong. Kamin looked again. Or in shock.
Tonight’s meal smelled even better than the stew the night before. Sundown breezes brought a whiff his way, causing painful cramps in his gut, which grumbled.
Finally, after the officers and the soldiers had been fed, she scooped a bowl full of stew from the kettle and sauntered in his direction, her walk unhurried. Kamin enjoyed the view, realizing with a little jolt of dismay how eagerly he was anticipating even the most fleeting contact with her.
She set the bowl in his outstretched palms and looked him straight in the eyes, her own gaze intense. “Don’t eat it,” she said in a barely audible whisper, before walking away without a backward glance.
The guards watched him so he made a show of fumbling with the bowl, as if trying to get a better grip. He allowed the bowl to slip from his fingers, struggling against the ropes in a convincing show of desperation, attempting to catch it as it rolled off his fingertips. The bowl shattered on a rock, splattering him with stew. The guards standing nearby howled at his predicament. Kamin glared at them before bringing his greasy fingers to his lips, as if to lick some nourishment at least. Tempting as the aroma was, he didn’t actually touch his tongue to the drippings.
Dancer of the Nile (Gods of Egypt) Page 1