The Blood Star

by Nicholas Guild

  “You see what children we are,” he said, slowly closing his eyes and then opening them again, like someone waking from a dream. “Even I, thought a clever man, have never learned discretion. The Egyptians will be the end of Egypt. We are like sheep who imagine there are no wolves in the world.”

  Suddenly, even against my will, I remembered Esarhaddon, now king in the Land of Ashur, once my brother, who had dreamed all his life of conquering Egypt. I wondered what he would have made of the Lord Senefru. Would he have guessed, as I had, that such men, even when they are defeated, will not be held long in subjection? Sacred Pharaoh did not wear a cobra upon his crown for nothing.

  Another three hours on the river and we entered a marshland of wide, seemingly bottomless pools, shaded by huge stands of papyrus reeds. Crocodiles sunned themselves on the narrow mud banks, not even troubling to slip away at our approach. There appeared to be no current to stir the water, and the air was steamy and rank. I would not have cared to live my life in such a place.

  “The hippopotamus dig these bathing holes out for themselves,” Senefru told me. “They can sink to the bottom like lead weights and stay there for a quarter of an hour at a time—they can even sleep there. Have you ever seen one?”

  I shook my head.

  “Then you are in for a shock,” he went on, laughing as if he had had his little joke on me already. “The gods never made an uglier brute.”

  This turned out to be not far from the truth, for a few minutes later a gigantic object, gray as mud, bobbed to the surface and began snorting ferociously, spewing plumes of water in every direction. It was much larger than I had expected, being at least twice the size of any horse I had ever seen, and looked like a monstrously bloated pig with a huge square head and the jaws of a crocodile. I will not attempt to describe it further, since I never saw one out of the water and, in any case, I have no hope of being believed.

  The beast was perhaps fifty cubits distant from the closest of our boats and remained quite calm, wiggling his short ears back and forth and regarding us with what seemed more like curiosity than fear—indeed, what should he have found fearful in us, who were such paltry creatures beside him?

  One hunts the hippopotamus with spears not unlike the harpoons I have seen the Greeks use against dolphins. The lance point is attached to a hemp rope and, once the barb finds its mark, the shaft of the spear comes away so that the hunter has a line well anchored in the beast’s flesh.

  These creatures have hides as thick as a man’s thumb is wide and tough enough to be much prized by the Egyptians as shield covers, and beneath that is a layer of heavy fat. Against such protection—united with the fact of their great size—a spear has little chance of inflicting a fatal wound. The heart is simply out of reach and, although a lucky thrust may sever one of the great veins, an animal of such vast bulk will take many hours to bleed to death.

  Pain, however, and the pull of the line, fills the brute with terror and it dives to the bottom of its pool in hopes of escape. Yet in the end it must come up for air, and then the hunt has the chance of planting another dart. Finally, worn down by its exertions, by panic and by loss of blood, it can no longer resist. It rises to the surface one last time, too spent to struggle further. A rope is tied around its neck, it is dragged to the shore, where its head is cut off with an ax.

  This, at least, is the hunter’s plan. In fact, a hippopotamus is as likely to attack as to flee, and if it swamps the boat, a thing it can manage with very little difficulty, and its tormenters find themselves in the water, then what chance does a man have against a beast twenty or thirty times his size, with jaws like a pair of grindstones? And such work as the hippopotamus leaves undone, the crocodiles will finish. It is dangerous sport for an idle afternoon.

  I sat in the reed boat, my spear balanced between my knees, sick fear weighing heavy in my belly. I could remember no quarrel I had with this placid creature, huge as an island, that rocked back and forth in the quiet pool, noisily blowing water out of its nostrils as it inspected us with trusting, cowlike eyes. It seemed to me that we had come on a foolish errand.

  “As my guest, you have the honor of the first throw,” Senefru murmured behind me. “When we approach he will begin to turn from us. Aim for the roll of flesh just behind the ear, and strike deep.”

  I stood up. I could feel the boat rocking beneath my feet. I wished myself somewhere else—anywhere else.

  The paddlers, soundless on their oars, pushed us slowly forward, shortening the distance to five and forty, then forty cubits. The hippopotamus twitched its ears violently, as if warning us off, and then, precisely as Senefru had foretold, began to turn away.

  The line was laid out in wide loops on the bow in front of me, one end tied to my lance point and the other to the prow of the boat. I had only to remember not to step on it—or to let a loose coil catch me around the ankle, for thus, when the beast dives, a man can be dragged to his death—and to think of nothing else except my mark. I brought the spear up to my shoulder, took a breath, held it an instant, and let fly.

  “Well thrown!” Senefru shouted. The point lodged deep in the thick neck, the shaft came away, and with a bellow of indignant surprise the beast threw up a wide sheet of water and dropped behind it into the dark pool.

  The line sang as it was pulled under. There was blood on the water and a great churning, as if the whole pond were being turned over from the bottom. At last the line pulled tight, dragging us forward, the boat’s prow so low that we had to sit far back to keep it from going under.

  “Not long now and he will come up again. Then I will have my chance!”

  I turned around to glance at Senefru, and his face was lit up with excitement. He was afraid too, but it was the kind of fear men delight in. The hunt seemed to have brought him to life.

  At last the boat began to slow. Then it stopped. Then the line went slack. The water was black and empty below us. We waited.

  The paddlers watched the surface of the pool, now clouded with mud, anxiety contracting their faces.

  “How long can he stay down there?” I heard myself asking.

  Senefru, as if in answer, was already readying his spear and laying down the coils of line.

  “It is an odd thing,” he said, glancing in my direction but hardly seeming to see me, “how the only true peace of mind seems to come hand in hand with hazard and the threat of death. I have never been a soldier, but this is how I imagine I would feel before a great battle. You would know, My Lord—is it the same thing in your heart?”

  “Yes. A strong desire to run away.”

  He laughed, perhaps imagining I had made a joke.

  He is mad, I thought, to speak of death and peace of mind in the same breath. Or is life so bitter for him that he finds escape from its pain only in the grip of fear? And is this not a measure of how much he must hate me?

  At last the hippopotamus rose again to the surface, snorting loudly, blood streaming from its neck. The beast was clearly tiring and rocked from side to side in the water as it struggled to pump air into its lungs. We could watch its back swell and then sag with the effort of breathing. For the moment, at least, it was too preoccupied with its own physical distress even to notice us.

  We were about five and twenty cubits off, and our quarry had its back to us. Senefru made his throw—a shade too quickly, I thought—and his point buried itself in the animal’s shoulder blade.

  “Blast!” he muttered. “I should have. . .”

  But the rest was lost as the hippopotamus swung around in the water and gave voice to the most appalling scream. I have heard horses wounded in battle scream just that way, but this was many times worse. It seemed to shatter the air.

  And then it went under again, throwing up great waves. At first the thick smear of blood that leaked to the surface marked the progress of its dive, but this finally dissipated in the foul, muddy water.

  Senefru raised his arm to signal one of the other boats to draw near. He seemed annoyed
.

  “We shall have to give over these two lines,” he said. “We must be ready when it rises again, although the gods alone know what will happen then. I pulled my throw, I think. My point must have struck bone and gone shallow—probably the beast will scrape it loose on the reeds and be little the worse for it, except in a rage now.”

  A perfect stillness settled over the pond. Even the water birds were quiet, as if waiting. . .

  It happened with such suddenness that I did not at once grasp the extremity of the danger. At first I was only aware of the shock, for there seemed to be no sound. This impression lasted only an instant. Then I turned and saw what was taking place—the hippopotamus had come up directly under the boat, which was breaking in half as it was lifted out of the water.

  The paddlers screamed in terror—I think we all must have been screaming, but I only remember the high-pitched, panicked cries of those two poor wretches. We seemed to be high above the water, balanced on the creature’s great square head. Then the boat snapped like a rotten twig and we fell, back into the wild, swirling water.

  The thing appeared poised above us. It was bellowing with rage, like an ox with a voice of bronze. The huge jaws opened—I could have reached out and touched its eyes; it seemed to be looking straight at me—and then it crashed down, shattering the surface of the pond as a hammer might a clay pot. I thought my ears would burst with the sound. I thought. . .

  I know not what I thought, for it seemed the monster had killed me. I was sure I was dead.

  The rest is empty turmoil—I have no memory, not even the memory of a dream. Nothing.

  I woke up, and I was lying on the muddy bank. My arms and chest were covered in blood.

  So it has killed me, I thought. My body ached, as if every bone had been separately broken. I closed my eyes again, despairing of life, almost indifferent to it. I felt sure I would never open them again.

  “Your gods must love you, my friend,” came Senefru’s voice. “I do not know how otherwise you are alive.”

  I looked in the direction of the sound and there he was, sitting beside me, streaming with water. Almost at our feet lay the corpse of one of the paddlers, looking half buried in the muddy pond—his whole chest was torn open, and the expression on his face, what I could see of it, suggested a death of unspeakable agony.

  “Where is the other?” I asked.

  “Dead. The crocodiles got him—just as well, for it kept them too occupied to trouble about us. You were unconscious.”

  “Did you pull me out?”

  “Yes,” he said, grinning like a demon.

  Fool, fool, fool that I was! Could I not see? Could I not guess? What was my life to him?

  I could not even ask. Something kept me silent, yet I knew not what. The question formed on my lips, but I could not bring myself to ask it.

  Why?

  XII

  I do not think that I am naturally stupid, so perhaps it was merely the self-absorption of youth that caused me so to misunderstand the Lord Senefru—perhaps I can excuse myself as easily as that. I was perhaps not blind, but I saw no more than I wished to see. And he was not my only mistake.

  There was a banquet in my house, a birthday celebration in honor of Prince Nekau, which Kephalos had decided would be a politic excuse for the distribution of certain expensive presents—if Pharaoh had not been so far away in Tanis, doubtless Kephalos would have found a means of bribing him as well, for Kephalos bought rulers the way another man might buy a cloak, as a protection against the weather.

  In any case, to me it was merely another banquet, another crowd of wealthy parasites who had to be fed and entertained and provided with suitable pretexts for their various indiscretions. The Lady Nodjmanefer was absent, having departed the city three days before to accompany her husband on a trip to Saïs, so even this last prospect of pleasure was denied to me.

  Yet I performed my duties as host. I listened to gossip that did not interest me and laughed at jests that were not amusing and smiled at foolish women and spoke with their husbands about the merits of various well-known courtesans and whether slave girls were not, in the long run, a better bargain.

  By the second hour after midnight, with my eyeballs as glazed as a pottery water jug, I decided to retreat to my own quarters for a moment and wash my face in cold water until it would unclench enough to allow me to stop grinning. I would be safe for twenty minutes or so. No one would notice my absence or, if they did, would regard it as any breach of manners. They would merely assume I was busy consolidating a triumph over some one or other of the ladies, such being considered among the principal purposes of these gatherings.

  On my way back, my shoulders squared and the creases pressed out of my face, it occurred to me to say something to my steward Semerkhet about the wine, which I noticed had grown weaker as the evening wore on—guests who are never allowed to grow properly drunk, I wished to point out to him, only piss against the wall and return to their tables, never thinking of their own sleeping mats at home.

  Thus I skirted around the dining hall by a back corridor that led to the kitchens. It was here that I found Selana, near a half open door, watching the banquet from behind a screen of empty water jugs.

  “What do you mean by this?” I hissed, pulling her up by the back of her tunic. “What are you doing here? You should have been in your bed hours ago!”

  Screeching like a peacock, she twisted around and attempted to bite me on the wrist. I swung the door shut—this was not a scene I wished my guests to witness—and dropped her, giving her a kick in the backside that sent her sprawling.

  Once was enough. When she regained her balance she did not continue active hostilities but instead grew quiet. She sat up, drawing her knees in under her chin and glaring at me, leaving me to wonder why all our recent encounters seemed to end in brawls.

  “What are you doing here?” I repeated.

  “What difference should it make to you?” she answered—if a look could kill I would have died that instant. “You made me a kitchen slave, remember? I should be beneath your notice. You would not punish one of the household cats for stealing a peek at your silly friends.”

  I went back to the door, opened it a crack, and looked out. She was perfectly right. They were silly.

  “They are not my friends,” I said. “I hardly know most of them.”

  “Then why do you invite them to your house? They drink your wine and eat your food—perhaps you have become a tavern master.”

  She stuck out her tongue at me.

  “Why are you angry with me, Selana? You are a child and should be in your bed. I repent that I struck you.”

  “Oh—I don’t mind that.”

  “Then what do you mind?”

  Her only answer, after a long pause, as if made under compulsion, was a curt gesture at the door to the dining hall.

  “You resent these people, Selana? Are you jealous of them?”

  “Jealous of them? Why should I be jealous of them?” she asked hotly, straightening her legs with a snap. “I am a Greek and better than that rabble of mud-colored Egyptians! Jealous of them!”

  “Go to bed, Selana—what am I to do with you?”

  “I know not, Lord. I know not.”

  There were tears in her eyes. She got up from the floor and went back to the kitchen.

  What was I to do with her? Over the next few days I considered the question from several different vantages and could arrive at no conclusion. In another three or four years, when she had grown to womanhood, what would become of her? Certainly she had never been destined for life in my kitchen—if I kept her there she would probably run off one night and end up in the brothels, or in the gutter with her throat cut. Something else would have to be found for her.

  “What do you think, Enkidu? She should be taught to read and to do sums. Then, when she is old enough, we can give her a dowry and marry her off—in Naukratis, to some young man with his way to make in the world. She can be a merchant’s wif
e. She is no fool and would be a great help to him.”

  The Macedonian, who was eating his breakfast at the time, merely glanced at me for a moment, as if he thought I had gone a little mad.

  “Well—someone must have her. Sooner or later, someone.”

  He growled, exactly like a large, bad-tempered dog that resents the interference.

  “I suppose I shall have to do it myself—I mean, teach her to read.”

  But Enkidu had lost interest.

  That evening I told my steward that I wished the girl Selana to be taken from the kitchen and given her own room. I did not explain why, so the gods alone know what the man thought.

  . . . . .

  The Lord Senefru returned from Saïs, and with him Nodjmanefer. I saw her again the night of a festival honoring the god Set, and the next afternoon she lay in my arms.

  It was soon generally understood in my household that the master was involved in an intrigue and, since no man can long hope to keep anything secret from his slaves, doubtless many knew the identity of the high-born lady who had become the Lord Tiglath’s mistress. Certainly Kephalos knew.

  “Every man must take an interest in something,” he said. “And, since now you may no longer pursue a soldier’s glory, and have never displayed any appetite for wealth, a fashionable woman, safely provided with a husband, is a harmless enough pastime. This one is no Esharhamat and will not disturb the tranquillity of your mind.”

  “Kephalos, how can you know what she is?”

  “I receive the confidences of your serving women, Lord, and, since you continue to go into them with a healthy and pleasing regularity, I can guess well enough what she is not—at least, to you. Beyond that, the question concerns me but little.”

  I could not even make pretense of being offended, since he was so delighted to have found me out.

  Another matter, however, seemed to give him much less satisfaction.

  “I am informed, Lord, that you have removed that wretched infant from the kitchen.”

  “You refer to Selana?” I asked, secretly gratified at being provided with the means of avenging myself upon him. “Yes—she was not happy there and, besides, we must give some thought to her future. I have decided to have her instructed in the calculation of sums, and I myself will teach her to read and write the Greek script.”