A chill that was not caused by the night breeze invaded Scylax. This deception was necessary. He needed access to the palace, and that required adopting a subterfuge that allowed him to maneuver openly. Foreigners weren't allowed this deep into Egypt without special permission. Only nobles and slaves were permitted, and since the prospect of impersonating a royal was beyond reprehensible to him, the dungeon was his only solution.
I am in control this time, he tried to reassure himself, but the months he spent in the black cells of this prison were enough to scar a rational man for life. It was fortunate for Scylax that during his time here, he had been far from rational.
Unwelcome memories flooded him. Of his time in the torture chambers and the wicked bronze tools designed for mummification his captors used instead on living informants. Of the initiate of Isis who was forced to heal him so he might last through the enhanced interrogations. If not for Dora, he would have lost himself to madness in this place. He would have ended his life on a suicidal mission to kill every petty king and royal bootlicker who betrayed him. But under her tender care, she showed him another way. Scylax discovered he was living to die and failing to embrace the possibility of something better.
A rat scurried down the corridor, its padded feet shying away from the circle of light thrown by his torch. It paused just outside the ring and rose on its hind legs, sniffing the space between them, curious. Scylax chuckled at its bold behavior. It was a good reminder of how ruthless scavengers thrived in the Two Lands. He would not survive unless he became just as ruthless.
The rat's ears twitched as footsteps rang out down the hall. Kenamon was returning. The rodent flattened itself to the floor and melted into the shadows. Scylax wished he could do the same. Having returned to Egypt, the land of whispers and double meaning, under the command of another royal, he was more confused than ever. He felt the mountain of stone pressing down on him, forcing him into the world he had long tried to escape.
The guard stepped around the corner and froze, staring at Scylax in disbelief. So lost in thought, it took Scylax several wasteful moments to realize this man was not Kenamon. When the guard's partner stepped beside him, Scylax finally sprang to action.
Scylax thrust his torch into the face of the first guard. The young man screamed in pain, backing up into the path of his partner. Scylax unsheathed his sword and crouched into a fighting stance.
You stupid fool. How could you be so careless? To mistake the footfalls of two guards for one? It was sloppy. Missing such details would get him killed.
The second guard untangled himself, leaping over his partner and into Scylax' reach. It was an arrogant move, one made by inexperience. Gauging by the smooth curve of his hairless cheeks, this guard was barely old enough to be called a man. Scylax envisioned the thrust that would put his enemy down, a single plunge through the heart, but when he shifted his weight to complete the move, he hesitated.
He's only a boy...
The Egyptian guard, however, did not hesitate, and his return stroke came dangerously close to Scylax' head. He blocked the blade by instinct, his counterstroke slicing cleanly through the man's throat. The guard fell to the floor, his mouth frothing with bloody saliva.
Scylax could not take his eyes off the dying soldier, the first man he had killed in five years. Some part of him registered that Kenamon had returned, his hireling snapping the other guard's neck as he groaned on the floor, but Scylax' sole focus was for the man at his feet. He knelt down beside him and watched the guard bleed out, a silent witness as the spark of life diminished in his fright-filled eyes.
A chill of remorse washed over Scylax. That boy was someone's son. Was there a wife who would never see her husband again, a child who would never know its father? He shook uncontrollably as a darkness began to take root inside of him.
You cannot think this way. He tried to collect himself. If you are unmade at the death of some Egyptian lackey, how will you manage to kill a prince?
Slowly, he rose to his feet. With a shuddering breath, he crushed those weak feelings into the void, letting the emptiness that remained fill him with quiet strength. But as his body drained of emotion, he could not help but feel it was wrong.
I don't want to be this person...
"We must go." Kenamon urged him, panic leaking into the guard's voice. "Before they find."
They mustn't find, not if Scylax expected his plan to work. He turned menacingly toward his uncertain ally, his voice laced with cool detachment. "Remove body first. Crocodile pit. Is near. You follow." He grabbed the arms of the man he killed and lifted him over his shoulder.
Kenamon moved to do the same, a suspicious look tensing his face. "How you know?"
Scylax didn't answer him. He knew. As all the prisoners of this dungeon knew. The masters insisted on feeding the royal crocs with live prey. Witnessing the deed was mandatory. The masters claimed it "good for morale".
After a few turns deeper into the darkness, the air became less oppressive. The stench of decay was mixed with bog water, and a small eddy of wind made the hall feel almost pleasant. Almost. An open window not much more than a rough break in the wall overlooked the interior of an adjacent tower. Some seventy-five feet below rested the muddy flat of the royal croc pen. Scylax lifted his kill over the edge, turning away before the body landed with a wet splash.
Kenamon mimicked his move, shuffling to keep ahead of Scylax as they returned to the main hall. The guard continued to glance over his shoulder at him, his nervous eyes asking what his cowardly tongue would not... who are you?
Scylax schooled his face to blankness, uncertain of that answer.
They passed several doors, some emitting soft groans and painful moans that indicated they were occupied, others as silent as the tomb. At one of the deeper levels, Kenamon finally stopped. Retrieving a ring of keys from his waistband, he set about unlocking a wooden door set into walls four feet thick.
The door groaned on rusty hinges as it swung open. Kenamon tried to wave Scylax through first, but after a severe shake of his head, the guardsman scrambled through the portal. Scylax followed, torch in hand.
It was a wide interior where the prisoners were kept. Each man was shackled to the wall, afforded just enough chain to lie flat. Though they were dressed in fine linens, like the palace pets Scylax assumed they must be, the truth of their bondage was in their eyes: those empty pools of hopelessness. Some hardly stirred, their will to live barely present. Others sat up, fearful of what new torture this visitation would bring.
Scylax lifted his torch higher, surveying the company of men. Greek men. His men. Prisoners of an ill-fated war, these wretched souls were unfortunate to have survived the treachery of the craven Libyan king who hired them. They were strong enough to survive five years in captivity, but not enough to have escaped, as Scylax had. Some he recognized, others he did not, but—as a commander of great renown—they all recognized him.
Shocked whispers rippled throughout the slaves. Cries of "He has come!" to "Free us, Commander!"
Kenamon grimaced, his lip curling back in disgust at the prisoners as they continued to beg. When one strayed too close to the Egyptian, he kicked the man away, spitting on his head. "Back off, you meshwesh filth."
Scylax' heart turned to ice. He leaned in close to Kenamon, his voice dropping dangerously. "Plan?"
The guard pointed to the huddled masses. "These belong to Crown Prince. You join. Take place. Overseer come each day. Collect you for work. I come back one week time."
There was a brilliance to the plan, infiltrating the palace through those the Crown sought to conquer, but knowing Egyptian bureaucracy the way Scylax did, there was one major flaw. No overseer worthy of the title would overlook a miscount of heads.
"Join?"
Kenamon nodded, and without a second's hesitation, he lifted the nearest prisoner, a middle-aged pikeman with slanted eyes common from the Siculi islands, and thrust his sword into the man's chest.
Breath escaped Scy
lax. The hopeful cries of the other prisoners silenced, and they quickly turned their heads, fearful of drawing attention. Kenamon hacked through the dead man's arms, freeing his shackles as though he were nothing more than a pig at the slaughter.
"Join." He pointed to the space the man occupied. "Take place."
Red clouded Scylax' vision. The hilt of his dagger had somehow found its way into his hand. It demanded to be feed. His pulse roaring in his ears, Scylax plunged the knife into Kenamon's neck.
The Egyptian made to scream, but Scylax twisted his blade, severing the man's tongue. As Kenamon spasmed in his hold, Scylax jammed his fist into the Egyptian's mouth, yanking free his foul tongue. When the guard kicked his last, he let the man fall to the floor with a thud.
Scylax took a deep, shuddering breath. His blood raced through his body, adrenaline coursing through his veins. Every nerve was taut, his senses hypersensitive. This was the feel of death he long remembered. His blood sang with it.
Beat by beat, his heart returned to a normal rate, and the world came back into focus. He looked down on the mangled corpse at his feet, surprised he did not feel the same remorse he had in the hall.
With a sharp laugh, he realized the difference. This was the sweet satisfaction of killing a man who deserved to die. The other slaves shirked away from him in fear, mistaking his amusement for something more maniacal. His mirth was aimed at himself, for ever doubting he was capable of completing this task.
Egypt would not claim him for a second time, and neither would the royals who sought to manipulate him. He would complete the queen's task, but on his terms.
He was ready now to meet the Trojan prince.
Chapter 13
The Court of the Sun
HELIOPOLIS, THE CITY of the sun. Helen's breath caught as she spied her first glimpse of the magnificent site. The Egyptian holy city was the origin of all life on Earth, or so the mystics claimed. Broad avenues lined with towering obelisks sparkled in the midday sun. The pyramid-tipped columns varied in color, and led in perfect symmetry to the distant acropolis above the flood plains of the Nile. Enormous buildings, of which Helen had never seen the like, populated the eastern bank, their plastered facades covered in dazzling reliefs like panels of history displayed for eternity.
She and Paris, along with a small retinue of Trojan guards, sailed up the river aboard Setnakhte's military barge. Her prince stood rigid, unable to relax for even a moment. He watched the still waters of the Nile like one expecting to be swallowed by them. The revelation of his royal status had afforded them a modicum of respect, but with it came obligations. Paris became distant, guarding his thoughts and feelings as was expected by a diplomat. For the first time since leaving Mycenae, she felt the layers of duty and propriety return, threatening to separate them.
She whispered a prayer to Aphrodite that this sojourn on foreign soil would be short, that they could visit the Temple and be swiftly back in route to Troy. But viewing the city from afar, Helen could tell there was nothing swift about this place. A timeless beauty permeated every sculpted stone. The air teemed with magic. Helen found herself as captivated by this strange land as she was frightened of it.
Can the priests really absolve a person of their past sins, as Paris claims?
That nagging thought would not leave her be. For ten years, Helen clung to hope that the Goddess would fulfill the prophecy She had made to her so many years ago. Paris was her great destiny, she was sure of it. Even marrying Menelaus, and all the horrors that followed, was a necessary step down the path that led her to him. If the Gods truly planned for them to be together, could this purification ritual be their path forward? A way to legitimize their union before Gods and Men?
She scolded herself for indulging those frivolous thoughts, but ever since she agreed to Paris' plan to present herself to the Trojan court, she had been desperate to find another way. If only she could talk to Paris, to see if her hopes were even possible... but there was no time to get him alone.
Helen sighed heavily and pulled her shawl around her head, blocking out the intense rays of the sun. She turned back to gaze upon the city. Its brilliant colors were an oasis of life against a backdrop of yellow sand. Along the banks of the Nile, where green patches of reed and palm grew, fishermen hoisted nets into the water. On the flood plains, teams of workers collected the harvest: cabbage, onions, and a variety of other vegetables that sprouted from the nutrient-rich black soil. Other men, naked to the waist with sun-bronzed skin, used hoe and shovel to reconstruct the irrigation canals leading off the river.
Everywhere Helen looked, Egyptians went about their daily lives, the industrious people a thriving hub of activity and purpose. A few workers looked up from their toils as the barge passed, but seeing the royal standard flying from the mast, they quickly averted their eyes. It was an odd experience for Helen who was often received warmly by her common folk.
"It is truly a marvelous city." Bay slid beside her quietly. "If you have the right connections." His narrow eyes alluded to where she might find some.
Helen shivered. The chancellor insisted on accompanying their delegation, apparently as eager as the general for an audience with the royal court. He had barely left her side for the duration of their short voyage from Heracleion. With the general watching over Paris like a hawk, she was forced to deal with the unpleasant man on her own, and she was tiring of finding excuses to avoid him.
"It is beautiful," she offered pleasantly through clenched teeth, knowing how unwise it would be to make an enemy of the man. Bay reminded her of Rhopalus, one of Agamemnon's toadies. The Mycenaean Master-of-Arms hoarded power and influence like a badger defending its den. Though his strength came from the company he kept, the man's head was swollen with self-importance. Any insult to his person was met triple-fold, and not in the manner his enemy expected. Rhopalus once had a man's wife stoned for adultery because the woman refused his advances. Any man who pulled himself from obscurity to advise the royal ears was either highly accomplished or uniquely ambitious. Bay did not strike her as the former.
"Beautiful." Bay's voice dripped with unspoken meaning. "How astute of you."
"My Lady?" Aethra stepped between them. Her dark eyes dropped to the deck, a seeming gesture of deference, though Helen didn't miss her flash of indignation. "I have your things prepared, if you'd like to see?" Bay instantly gave the woman space, his lip curling in disgust. He pulled his hands away as though proximity to a slave might contaminate him in some way.
"Yes, of course." Helen silently blessed her thoughtful matron. "Chancellor." She dipped her head as way of dismissal and followed Aethra to the bow as the ship pulled into port.
Once they disembarked at the city dock, Paris took the lead of their delegation with the general and chancellor. He had switched out his travel clothes for the fine spun tunic of ivory he wore when she first met him. Adding in his crimson cape, the fabric so vibrant it was easily the richest patch of color in their decorated surroundings, he was a regal sight.
Helen, in contrast, opted for something demure. Her chiton was ivory as well, but unadorned with no sign of embroidery or flourish. On her left shoulder, the fabric was pinned with a golden fibula in the shape of an eagle, a symbol of her homeland that filled her with pride. Aethra hoisted a standard over her head to provide shade and Helen immediately grabbed the woman's arm.
"You shouldn't."
"I should," her matron insisted. Aethra gestured to the packed avenues where the lowborn scurried out of foot from more elite passengers. Many of the nobles were carried in palanquins, and not a single upper class citizen lacked an entourage of servants. "It is what they deem proper."
Helen dropped her hand and nodded, letting Aethra do as she pleased. As they walked, she could not help but feel exposed. Pulling her shawl around her face, she blocked herself from view. She needn't have worried. Trailing behind a Trojan diplomat, she might as well have been invisible. A single woman was little more than an idle curiosity compared to
a foreign prince. Paris was the source of many heated whispers and excited gestures.
They made quick time to the acropolis, the raised mound sharing only the barest resemblance to the towering hills of Greece. Setnakhte led them to the palace, a complex so large it dwarfed any construction in the whole of the Hellas. A garden of sculpted plants opened up to a processional walkway, the narrow avenue lined on both sides with statues of kneeling bulls. The stone animals' elegant horns pointed to the mid-day sun.
And the palace itself! Towering pylons framed enormous portal doors, from a distance resembling the U-shaped throne of the kings of the Old World. On either side, massive stone statues guarded the entrance, the seated figures carved from a single block of polished, black basalt.
"Are they Gods?" Helen gazed up at the colossi in amazement. They towered some sixty feet above them.
"They are pharaohs," Paris answered, both he and Glaucus dropping back from their Egyptian entourage to join her while Setnakhte arranged for the gates to be opened. "But in Egypt, their king is a God." He shook his head, leaving his criticism of the Egyptian theocracy unspoken. "He is the living embodiment of Horus and gains immortality with death. Pharaoh is a supreme being. Remember that if they ask you to speak to him."
Helen grimaced. Honoring oneself above, or equal, to the Gods was blasphemy in Greece. It was an invitation for the Immortals to remind their human counterparts of the fragile nature of living flesh. Yet, Helen could not help but stare in awe. Surely some divine force favored this land to bless them with such abundance. Even in the far reaches of Sparta, she'd heard tales of Heliopolis.
"Helen," Paris hesitated, unsure how to explain the viper's den they were walking into. "Trust no one. No matter how sweet their smiles nor innocent their questions. Promise me."
She was taken aback by his intensity. Before she could answer, the massive gates began to stir. The ominous grind of stone on stone rang jarringly in her ears. The doors slid out, locking into deep grooves in the ground with a resounding boom. From the interior courtyard, General Setnakhte marched toward them with a contingent of royal guards.
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