But why, if they felt so strongly, had they only rescued her?
“If you hate slavery so much, why didn’t you steal my friend too, when you took me from the prince’s camp?”
“Your friend? The boy on the horse?” asked Qeskaant.
“Yes. Matt.”
“I-I thought he was one of the prince’s men.” Qeskaant looked down and the other men grinned. What did that mean?
“Matt looks different. He was wearing different clothes, too. If you saw the prince’s men capture us, then you knew he wasn’t one of them.”
Qeskaant squirmed, as if troubled by ants or something just as annoying. “It was dark, so I wasn’t sure. And boys can be enlisted in the prince’s army. Girls . . .” He shrugged. “The prince would have made you a slave, for certain. I couldn’t allow it. Plus,” he added, “had I tried to lead you away on a horse, well, your friend’s horse wasn’t fast enough. You would never have escaped. And you looked frightened. You might not have trusted me.”
“You think?” said Sarah.
Qeskaant traced a pattern in the sand, still not quite meeting her eyes. He was holding something back, she knew it. Whatever it was, he seemed ashamed of not rescuing Matt. Maybe . . .
“Well, if you weren’t sure before, you know now. Matt has nothing to do with the prince, and he’s probably a slave again, too. Can you steal him back? The prince’s guard mentioned going to Napata. Could we just—?”
“Napata? You want us to raid Napata?” Qeskaant’s words rolled out like thunder.
The men sat up straight, in stunned silence. Then laughter erupted. They leaped to their feet and whipped out their swords, parrying with each other while tears of laughter strolled down their cheeks.
“We ride right up to Shabaqo’s palace,” said one.
“And defeat a hundred guards,” said another.
Clang, clang, crash, bang.
“We knock on the door.”
“And kindly ask them to empty the treasury.”
Bang, crash, clang, clang.
“Then slip into the slaves’ quarters.”
“And free everyone!” Qeskaant shouted, joining in and adding his own sword to the mix.
“Then fight back through a thousand soldiers.”
“And fly into the desert.”
With the last statement, they slammed their swords back into their scabbards and bowed to her.
“Are you making fun of me?” asked Sarah.
Qeskaant smiled and sat down beside her again. “We make fun of everyone,” he said, “especially when they say ridiculous things. Napata is impossible—too well guarded. We can’t rescue your Matt there. But perhaps there’s another possibility.”
Sarah leaned forward.
“I’ll tell you later. But, for now, we have to go inside and ride out the storm.”
Sarah looked at him in surprise. “But we’re in the desert. How can we have a rainstorm?”
Qeskaant chuckled, shook his head, and pointed to the darkening horizon. It was as if ink had been sloshed over a canvas, a stain that spread and spread, turning the sky an ominous . . . lavender?
“Not rain,” he said. “Sand.”
Chapter 15
A Queasy Discovery
The bald man stood rigid in the doorway of the prince’s chamber, his lips twisted, his eyes narrowed, the dagger still angled at Matt.
“You return from the desert with only half the ivory, set upon by raiders again,” he snapped at Taharqa. “You are supposedly our finest warrior, guiding our best soldiers, yet you can’t even repel one attack?”
Taharqa opened his mouth to reply, but the man cut him off.
“Now I find you resting in your chamber with an odd-looking foreign lad—”
“I’m not odd-looking,” Matt retorted, although he backed up a step.
“And now he dares to speak. Don’t you fear the gods, lad? Would you speak to a priest in such a manner in your own land?”
A priest. Now Matt understood. This was one of the men the prince didn’t like very much.
“You don’t have to be insulting,” said Matt. “Or point a knife at me. Especially if you’re a priest.”
Taharqa’s lips twitched, but he swiftly reset them. “Bakket. Lower the knife,” he ordered. “The lad’s our guest. We treat guests with respect.”
“As we do agents of the gods. Don’t attempt to teach me manners, boy.” Despite his reprimand, he slipped his dagger into a sheath at his side.
“General Taharqa,” the prince said with an edge to his voice. “I’m no longer a boy.”
“But you act as a boy. You cannot defeat simple raiders.”
“As you know, the Medjay are not simple raiders.”
“But they’re not as formidable as the Assyrians. And now you’ve been summoned by the pharaoh to the Delta.”
Taharqa stiffened at the priest’s words. “Summoned? Are the Assyrians threatening Egypt?”
“Not yet. King Hezekiah, of the tribe of Judah, who resides in the city of Jerusalem, has requested our assistance with the Assyrians. To protect our borders and keep the peace of neighbouring nations, Shabaqo feels we should extend our hand. He thinks you are ready. I’m not so sure.”
“I will go,” said Taharqa, “but I must deal with the Medjay nuisance first. They chip away at our defences and they’ll attack if they know I have left Kush unguarded. There’s also the possibility—”
“You will do as you’re told,” snarled the priest.
“I will do what’s best,” Taharqa retorted.
At first both men looked as if they might fly at each other’s throats, but the priest, surprisingly, backed down first.
“Perhaps,” he said. “We will discuss this in council with the other priests. Come, and don’t leave this foreign boy unattended. Place a guard over him.”
“What do you have against foreign boys?” asked Taharqa with a slight smirk. “I will join you within the hour. But first, I must eat and rest. We have travelled a long way and I will soon be travelling farther.”
The priest scowled, but whirled around and stomped out without another word.
“That,” said Taharqa, “is who will decide my fate. That one, among others. But he’s the worst.”
The prince signalled a slave to bring them food, then sat sullenly and ate. Matt had never seen such a spread—lamb and hippo meat, honey and dates, a flat bread made from the millet and sorghum he’d seen growing in the fields, plump juicy melons, and frothy cups of goat’s milk. The slave, a pretty girl dressed in a scanty linen costume, poured some other liquid into golden cups. Matt took a sip and grimaced at the yeasty, bitter taste.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Beer,” said Taharqa. “I usually prefer wine from Egypt, but I suppose the shipment hasn’t arrived yet. One day, perhaps, we will produce it here. But in the meantime, we drink beer brewed from our own barley.”
“Hmm. Interesting.” He took another sip, but it didn’t exactly excite his taste buds. Maybe it was an acquired taste—like Sarah’s dad said about snails. “I’m a little young to have beer,” said Matt and shoved it aside
The prince looked at him with one eyebrow quirked, but didn’t comment. Instead he gave Matt instructions. “While I’m at council, you’re free to wander the grounds.”
“With no guard?” asked Matt. He couldn’t help it.
Taharqa laughed. “Of course, with no guard. I know what your greatest desire is, and it has nothing to do with my treasure. It has to do with yours.” He winked. “I’m sure you will find everything to your satisfaction, but if you get bored, by all means keep practicing your bow shot. There’s still room for improvement.”
With that said, the prince got up and left. Matt felt a gaping emptiness in the room when he was gone. Until now, he’d been taken under the prince’s wing, and he hadn’t had to think about his dilemma or sort through the puzzle of the time alteration. He was just learning how to fight and had thought only of taking a
straight shot at the Medjay, to rescue Sarah. But now, there were other things to consider. The prince had been summoned to do battle with the Assyrians, to protect the people of Jerusalem. Could that have something to do with his father and the end of their timeline? But Taharqa didn’t want to race right to Jerusalem and fight the Assyrians. He wanted to attack the Medjay. Was Matt tugging him in the wrong direction?
Oh, this was just too tough to figure out. Then he remembered the notes in his backpack. Matt leaped up from his chair, zipped open the pack, and rustled through the papers. He pulled out the entire stack and started to flip through until the word “Jerusalem” caught his eye. There he began to read, but only found a brief mention of Taharqa—a Bible reference—stating he’d been called to prevent the Assyrian army from attacking Jerusalem. After that, nothing.
The Assyrian army had laid siege to the city, but for some reason—the notes suggested a plague—had fled during the night and never attacked. Not even a hint that Taharqa had ever arrived to save the tribe of Judah. So was it important or not?
Matt chewed on his lip in frustration. He skimmed through a few more pages, but couldn’t find any other references to this particular battle. He was about to throw the whole sheaf of paper on the floor when the word “priests” jumped out at him. The reference had to do with another pharaoh—Aspelta—and how he’d evicted the priests from the temple of Amun because he accused them of being responsible for an innocent person’s death. The historian also suggested there could have been many squabbles between the pharaohs and the priests of Nubia, one possible reason why the temple of Amun was located across the river from Napata and why the pharaohs eventually relocated to Meroë at a later date, a city farther up the Nile. It was all quite fascinating, but it certainly didn’t help Matt solve his problem.
Matt launched himself out of the chair—the glittering golden chair—and paced into the hallway. He traipsed through corridor after corridor in the maze-like palace, now barely noticing the colourful portraits of gods and men covering the walls. He passed through a courtyard, stumbled up another path, and came across a structure supported by a jungle of columns and obelisks. A temple, maybe? He wandered through the gigantic halls and peered in a doorway to the side. At first what he saw didn’t register, he was so deep in thought. Then the slab of stone came into focus, a motionless body lying on top. A plump, sweaty man hovered over the body, inserting a knife into the flesh, rooting around inside, and extracting an organ—an oblong liver by the look of it. Matt paused, widening his eyes. What was this guy doing?
The man held the liver up to the sky and mumbled something in the Nubian language. Then he placed it reverently into a human-headed clay jar at his side. Turning back to the body, he grasped a hook with a long thread of wire and proceeded to stuff it up the dead guy’s nose. Matt was beginning to feel queasy. Still maintaining a dispassionate expression, the man yanked the wire back and a mottled grey jelly-like substance fell to the ground with a splat. Brains?
Matt had stood quite enough by this time. This had to be the process of mummification, but he certainly didn’t have the stomach for it. He stumbled out of the temple, trying his best not to throw up. As he was clapping a hand to his mouth and taking some deep breaths, he heard a commotion down the pathway, nearer the palace.
He staggered forward, wiping sweat from his brow and trying to erase the image of the brains splattering to the ground. He heard a voice now, the stern bark of someone with authority.
“You will speak to the prince on that matter. I have no power to release you or to pronounce your sentence. But I will no longer hear your acid tongue. One more word and I will whip you!”
“But—” The word was choked back, but it had a familiar feminine ring to it.
Matt edged around the column that was obstructing his view and suddenly his entire meal was roiling around in his stomach.
There, surrounded by two very muscular guards, was his father—dust-caked, hunch-shouldered, his eyes red-rimmed with misery. And beside him stood a ragged, skeletal, hag-faced Nadine.
Matt lurched forward, his stomach doing flip-flops. Well, here they were, right on schedule, to change history, to ruin everything. Something told him it couldn’t have been his father at fault. It had to be her.
He couldn’t contain it any longer. With a mighty heave, he threw up . . . all over Nadine.
Chapter 16
Collision Course
“Matt!” shouted Nathan Barnes.
“Matt!” said Nadine, through gritted teeth.
Matt lifted his very heavy head and wiped the saliva from his lips with a grimy sleeve. “Dad,” he said. He didn’t acknowledge Nadine.
“Are you okay?” His father rushed to his side and grasped his shoulders to support him as he swayed.
“Just a little queasy,” he said.
“Queasy?” yelled Nadine. “You threw up on me, you miserable brat!” She tried to flick the copious amounts of curdled dates and bits of lamb meat entangled with long strings of saliva from her ragged Roman toga.
“Couldn’t help it,” he said. “You do that to me.” He chuckled, then heaved again, this time coating Nadine’s sandy feet.
He staggered as he pulled back. His father tightened his grip and held him steady. “What are you doing here?” he whispered in Matt’s ear. “The danger and repercussions . . . Haven’t you learned your lesson yet?”
“You’re the prince’s new apprentice, aren’t you?” interrupted one of the guards. The other guard couldn’t keep a straight face. He started laughing, uproariously.
“Yes,” said Matt, but he couldn’t hold back a grin when he met the other guard’s eyes.
“Well done,” the laughing guard muttered and winked.
“And you know these people?” asked the first guard, still trying to keep his own laughter bottled.
“Yes, I do. They’re okay. Well, he is, anyway.” Matt nodded at his father.
“I suspected as much. Two of the general’s soldiers found them near the Sixth Cataract. The men had remained at the site of the ambush to guard the soldiers’ graves, but when these strangers appeared, they thought they must be connected to you and decided to bring them to Napata. What would you like me to do with the woman then? Should I kill her?”
Matt froze, his head reeling. Were they really asking him this? Did he have that much power? He had the overwhelming urge to say yes.
“No!” he said, quite firmly. “Leave her to me.”
The men nodded, the second guard still smirking, then turned and walked away as if they were glad to be rid of Nadine. Matt couldn’t blame them for that.
“Thanks a lot, Matt,” she said, still scowling.
“What? I just saved your life. Can’t you be grateful for once?”
“I wouldn’t need you to save me if you wouldn’t keep messing up my life to begin with. What have you meddled with now?”
Matt couldn’t believe this. True, he’d just thrown up on her, so she had a right to be a little peeved, but to blame him for something she’d done . . .
“You’re the one who meddled and messed up!” he shouted. “You’re going to somehow interfere with history, here, at this time, and Sarah and I won’t exist anymore if we don’t stop you. Nothing we know will exist.”
“What?” His father spun Matt towards him. “What are you saying, Matt?”
“Isabelle sent us here, Dad, to stop you. You have to get out of here, away from these people.”
“My goodness. It has actually occurred. The butterfly effect,” muttered his father.
“Huh?” said Matt.
“It was just a theory. The butterfly effect is a concept to describe the more technical notion of sensitive dependence on initial conditions in chaos theory. Small variations of the initial condition of a dynamical system may produce large variations in the long term behaviour of the system.”
“Uh, Dad,” said Matt. “In English, please.”
“Well,” said his father, scratc
hing his head. “It really means if a butterfly flaps its wings in North America it could generate a tidal wave in Japan.”
“Still sounding Greek to me,” said Matt.
“Okay. Let me make this relevant. In a time travel situation, if we did something seemingly insignificant, like stepping on a butterfly in the past, it could alter history irrevocably. Say that butterfly, if it had lived, flew into the eyes of a great battle commander—Julius Caesar—and he waved his hand. The army would take that as a signal to advance, when he really wanted them to retreat. In consequence, he won a vital battle. If he’d lost the battle, if that butterfly hadn’t interfered, then Rome might have been defeated. Do you understand? Any small change we make can have far-reaching and disastrous consequences.”
“Well, it’s not just a theory now,” said Matt. He went on to explain what had happened to Sarah and him when they’d tried to leave the lab. Then he told his father of Sarah’s abduction. But all through his speech, he couldn’t help but feel the thrill of actually talking to his father, finally being close to him and breathing the same air. Feeling that warm arm around his shoulders, still supporting him.
“Dad, I have to go with Taharqa to rescue Sarah.”
“But you may be altering history too, son.”
“I know, but I can’t leave her.”
“We have to leave,” said Nadine, cutting in abruptly. “Before this prince of yours returns. If what you say is true, we have to lay low, disappear. We’re in absolutely the wrong place not to affect major events.” She spread her arms wide, indicating the palace and the temple. “And that means you too, Matt.”
Matt turned to Nadine, unable to contain a heartfelt scowl. “I’m not leaving Sarah in the hands of raiders.”
“What makes you think that you can’t make a huge blunder here as well as us?”
Matt wanted to choke her. She had no problem leaving Sarah.
Time Meddlers on the Nile Page 9