Reflections in the Nile

by J. Suzanne Frank

  “What have you?” he asked with a smile. Basha realized belatedly that she had not been paying attention to the conversation.

  “My lord?”

  “A sweet from the tray of the lady?” He smiled ingratiatingly and took a step closer to her. “I will hot betray you. Will you share a bite?”

  The edge of his collar touched her bare breast, and she recoiled. His flesh stank, heavy and alien. “Have no fear, little one, I will not harm you.” He lied easily, she thought. His gaze was fixed on hers, his lips moving, telling lies. ReShera said lies were all men knew. In the blink of an eye his hand snaked out and grabbed her wrist, pulling her into his arms so he could see the papyrus.

  The words he muttered she did not recognize. They were not Egyptian. He thrust her away from him, pale beneath his dark skin. Basha didn't wait for his permission but fled. She didn't know where the temple was, but she would find a contact. If this missive caused an erpa-ha to pale, her lover needed the information.

  CHAPTER 8

  Chloe was sitting in the peaceful garden, watching the wind stir the blue lotus and fuchsia bougainvillea, when Basha ran to her and fell at her feet like a melodramatic heroine.

  “What is it?” she asked, sitting up straight.

  “My lady, they killed her! She confessed and they killed her!”

  “Killed whom? What are you talking about?” But Basha was weeping, talking about guilt and innocence, how it was all her fault. Chloe pulled the girl up and slapped her sharply across the face, the only instant remedy for hysteria that she knew.

  Basha was immediately silent, her eyes sparking with a hate she didn't try to disguise.

  Recoiling from the slave, Chloe sat back in her chair. “What happened?” she asked, trying to smile yet chilled by the expression in the girl's eyes.

  “The dancer confessed to trying to murder Horus-in-the-Nest by poisoning your duck,” Basha stated, her gaze now on the ground. Her tone was curt, but Chloe didn't have the nerve or me heart to reprimand her.

  “The dancer?”

  “The Kefti dancer.”

  Of course! Chloe thought. The girl's obvious hatred for Thut, noted not only by her. “She confessed?”

  “After two days of questioning,” Basha answered dully. “At first she denied it, but they persuaded her that she was guilty. She said she'd poisoned yours because she knew it was impossible to get to his.”

  “How—?”

  “Drawn and quartered by His Majesty's favorite four steeds.” Basha's voice was hollow, and she had begun to shake. Shock, delayed shock. Why?

  “Basha,” Chloe said, but the girl was beyond hearing her. She got up and knelt beside her. “Basha?” She lifted a hand and winced as the girl cowered, shielding her face. “I only slapped you because you were scared,” she explained softly. “Basha?”

  The slave was frozen, staring at the ground, her shoulders hunched as if warding off a blow. The terribly brief class Chloe had taken in psychology told her the girl was probably a victim of some sort, but Chloe couldn't guess more. She pulled Basha up, careful to move slowly, and led her into her sparsely decorated room. Automatically Basha curled into a fetal position, and Chloe pulled a light blanket over her. Cheftu would know what to do.

  She heard steps in the main room and stepped out. Nesbek stood there, glowering at her. “Up to your old tricks with the slaves? Why waste your talents, my lady?”

  Entering the room slowly, she looked at this repulsive stranger whom she, RaEmhetepet, was supposed to marry in less than three months’ time. She could not fathom her instant and all-encompassing loathing for him. However, it rose like a fever from every pore in her body. She'd avoid him at almost any cost.

  He bowed slightly over her hand, and Chloe's skin crawled when he turned it palm up and licked. Two palace servants watched every move, and Chloe fought the urge to yank back her hand and flip him like a stranded roach. That would not be politically correct—he had something on her, and she had to know what. However, she couldn't keep her lip from curling in revulsion. He saw her expression, and his eyes darkened with an unnamed passion.

  “My touch causes your petals to wither, Lotus? It used to make you bloom.” Chloe withdrew her hand and wiped it covertly on her sheath. She dismissed the servants and walked into the garden, struggling for some diplomatic way to tell him she would rather mate with the crocodile-headed god Sobek. She gazed at the ground, the picture, she hoped, of innocence.

  “Nay. It is not you, my lord. I find all such contact displeasing.” Too late she realized her mistake and felt blood rush to her face.

  “Who else have you allowed to touch you, sacred priestess?” His words were polite, but he threw venom with each word. He advanced and seized both her wrists in a surprisingly crushing grip. “I know your little secrets, RaEm,” he snarled. “I would also know your reasoning behind this coyness.” He dropped her hands and stepped back. “Is the prince in your sights now? He would not stomach the real you. The lovers I am so generous to share you with would be cold and alone.” Nesbek smiled, his gold teeth flashing. “He would be appalled if he knew your fondness for bruised slaves. Do not be a fool, RaEm! He would demand your death and leave you unburied and unmourned.”

  The ancient Egyptian part of Chloe blanched at the thought. To be forgotten in this world and the next. Her bodiless ka flying endlessly through time and space with no rest … ever. Nesbek let RaEm have lovers? What a strange relationship. And bruised slave flesh? That might explain Basha's cowering. Chloe managed a shaky smile. “I have the protection of the throne. I have nothing to fear.”

  Nesbek laughed, an annoying sound like the snuffle of a pig. “I am having a small entertainment tonight, and you are the guest of honor.” His glance flickered beyond her as he leaned toward her. “Even your precious prince will attend, but still know it is for you.” Nesbek's face was close, but he turned away from her lips, thank the gods! “I miss you, Lotus.”

  He pressed his face into her neck. “Why are you so cold to me? I think you will warm again when you see the young prizes I have found for you.”

  Chloe grimaced but couldn't pull away from the vise around her wrists. She yelped in shock as he sank his teeth into her bare shoulder.

  “Haii, RaEm, to hear your cries again … Aiii, aye, you will like your presents. Apiru.” Eyes smarting with the sting and her stomach churning with disgust, Chloe wondered if he'd had all his rabies shots. His grip had loosened and she pulled away.

  “I think you shall entertain us tonight well, priestess,” he said as his reptilian tongue darted out to the bright red smeared on his lips. “Being back where you belong should restore your fire. You will dance for us … and share your other skills. I will send for you at the twenty-fourth decan.” He smiled again and then said in a voice as cold as stone, “You will not like the penalty if you disappoint me.” He blew a kiss at her and slunk away. Chloe sank onto the stool, head in her hands, her face mottled with rage and fear.

  What was their relationship? Was he blackmailing RaEm? Did they have an understanding? At times he seemed as though he were playing at being harsh, that it was expected. Her chilly reception had been noticed; didn't he realize she wasn't RaEm?

  She looked at the already darkening flesh of her wrists and the bite on her shoulder. What had she stepped into? This was not part of anything Cammy had ever mentioned about Egypt. What could she do? There was no help, no friend, no one to turn to, even for comfort.

  She thought of Cheftu, of the obvious hatred he had for her, as well as the physical desire. Or Count Makab, who although her only relative obviously disliked RaEm as much as Cheftu. Or Basha, who obliquely hated her.

  No one. She was on her own.

  How did one refuse the attentions of a soon-to-be-king and his lecherous courtiers? She had only hours to formulate a plan. Maybe she could run away … but where? With a baby on the way, what could she do? Have it in secret and then give it to some family and try to blend in with the common Egyptia
n folk?

  She was dead in the water. Crocodile bait. RaEm didn't have the faintest idea how to do anything except order people around and perform HatHor priestess rituals. Chloe could learn, but she didn't even speak the same dialect as the rekkit.

  There had to be some alternative. She slumped with her head in her hands. A discreet cough jerked her head up. Cheftu. For a second the sensations of seeing him in a clinch with her sister-priestess enveloped her. He seemed unaffected, as cool and removed as ever.

  “My lady. Life, health, and prosperity to you. How do you fare this afternoon?”

  “I am well,” she lied.

  Cheftu studied her in silence for a moment, his long golden eyes moving from the bite on her shoulder to the mottled color in her cheeks. His jaw tightened as he spoke. “As it is the beginning of the month, I wondered if you wanted your horoscope read?”

  Chloe shrugged. Not unless it contained the phone number for the flight out of here.

  He bowed slightly and turned away.

  “My Lord Cheftu?” Chloe said anxiously.

  He half turned back. “My lady?” For a moment he looked almost approachable. Then the haughty mask slipped over his features, and with a slight inclination of his head, he left.

  BY THE TIME CHEFTU REACHED HIS APARTMENTS he had ceased to be angry. RaEm was RaEm. This new vulnerable look was only a trick from her basket of manipulative skills.

  A soldier was waiting for him After the appropriate greetings he read the note from Thutmosis: an invitation to join the army on a brief camp in the desert. His refusal was not accepted, and Cheftu began to wonder if this was Horus’ way of keeping the competition for RaEm at bay.

  The shared fowl had shocked everyone. With Hatshepsut, living forever! withdrawing her favor from RaEm, she needed a powerful protector. Unfortunately, a court magus was not appealing enough.

  The guard was waiting for him to gather his clothing and then escort him to Thutmosis’ side. Who would watch over RaEm? Since when did she need anyone to? he asked himself derisively as Ehuru packed his bag. How did the slave girl fit into it all? Obviously she was Hat's spy—but why would she steal a document from Hat if she already knew?

  Questions were still pounding Cheftu's brain, multiplying in the sunlight as he stepped into the chariot and followed Thutmosis and his contingency of soldiers into the desert.

  BY NIGHTFALL CHLOE WAS POSITIVELY ANTSY. She paced her apartments, picking up objects, then setting them down. Cheftu had not returned, and soon she would have to either run away or brazen out the evening as best she could.

  Neither was an appealing option. Surety it couldn't be all that bad, she reasoned. Just a party. Maybe she'd have to fob off Nesbek, but she'd had practice evading amorous drunks. Still, she doubted he would be as easily manipulated as a frat rat. If the prince tried anything—

  She jumped at Basha's approach, anxiety and fear making her fierce. “Curse you, kheft!” she yelled. “Sneaking up like Sobek to destroy me!”

  Basha stiffened as if Chloe had slapped her again. “I only follow Ma'at's desires,” she said, her eyes downcast and hand trembling.

  Chloe was sick of Basha's cryptic statements and nervous disposition. She grabbed the hesitantly offered drink. “Begone!”

  Tossing it back like a shot, she grimaced at the gritty texture. Just like Egyptian bread, she thought sulkily. Angry and wanting to lash out, she threw the alabaster cup against the wall. Feeling better, she called for assistance to dress. She would simply have to outwit them—somehow.

  EXHAUSTION HAD WHIPPED CHEFTU'S BODY, yet his mind would not cease questioning. The papyrus he'd seen for only a second in Basha's hand had been from the Great House. In the scroll, Hatshepsut, living forever! had informed RaEm that her behavior was unacceptable and she stood on precarious ground. RaEm must have been shocked, though it had not stopped her from accepting the violent love token from Nesbek.

  Cheftu turned on his stony bed, ignoring the star-hung night and the sonorous snores of the hundreds of men around him. The time had come for him to make his decision. Why couldn't he? To go against the wishes of Pharaoh was something no true Egyptian would contemplate. To Cheftu, the poison placed in his hand by Hatshepsut, living forever! for RaEmhetepet was nothing short of murder.

  He did not want to believe RaEm had betrayed the truths of the Sisterhood she purported to believe, yet the hard swelling of her body was the last confirmation necessary. If she survived the miscarriage and the incident remained unknown, RaEm's position might survive noticeably unscathed. He had thought that was Hat's wish.

  Or she could die. He feared that was Senmut's wish. Was it now Hat's also?

  Cheftu had been startled by the protective instinct RaEm demonstrated when they spoke of the unborn child. Even the most vicious creature Khonsu created had some admirable traits, he reminded himself. Since learning about his former betrothed's lifestyle, Cheftu had come to regard her as among the most predatory. Despite that, the memory of her soft mouth beneath his sparked lightning through his veins.

  The woman was poison. He knew that. She infected his blood and would ruin him if he allowed her. Still, he could not kill her or the unsuspecting babe she carried. Instead he would give her something to imitate the drug yet not unsettle the unborn.

  What about the hapless slave who had died in the night, after vomiting blood? His all-too-human cries still rang in Cheftu's ears. Had that been an attempt at assassinating the crown prince? Aye, the dancer had confessed, but what mortal after two days’ torture would deny anything? More important, she'd named no accomplices. It did not add up.

  He knew that Hatshepsut would never, even in the direst circumstances, allow Horus-in-the-Nest to be hurt. She respected the blood of her father that ran in Thut's veins. No doubt he would already be on the throne if he had been her son. But he wasn't, and she could not let the power pass from her hands right now. However, she would never commission or approve his death.

  Cheftu mentally reviewed her trusted ones. Would Hatshepsut's faithful bodyguard, Nehesi, do this without her permission? Nay. He would never go against his commander in chief's request Hapuseneb? Nay, because Thut III was the offspring of the god, and the high priest of Amun-Ra would never risk the god's eternal wrath or the disruption of Ma'at.

  That brought the question to Senmut, Hatshepsut's beloved vizier. He had risen from a common peasant to be second in the land. Cheftu smiled into the night. Senmut had thirty titles alone, one of those an erpa-ha, a hereditary prince of Egypt. Did he hope to kill Horus and then take Hatshepsut to the temple and declare himself Senmut I, living forever?

  Nay, Senmut would not go against the wishes of Pharaoh. If that was his intention, he would have done it years ago. Years before the miracle.

  Cheftu remembered that day. He had been among the many from the palace school who had sneaked into the courtyard of the temple, aching to see Amun-Ra in all his golden glory. It was one of the many feasts in the Egyptian year, when the god traveled in his golden barque from Karnak, upriver to Luxor Temple, for a visit.

  Hatshepsut had already begun her singular reign but had not openly thwarted Thut III. She had merely sent him to the temple to be instructed as a priest, appropriate for a boy who would rise to godhood. Cheftu, already inducted into many of the temple's mysteries, had been surprised when the barque on which Amun-Ra sat stopped before one of the many sem- priests on the temple steps. This one, however, was wearing the blue-and-white ribbons of royalty in his youthlock.

  As a stupefied Egypt looked on, the god had inclined his head, his words lost in the roar of the people's applause. Young Thut III had fallen to his knees, and the surrounding priests had dropped onto their faces. Hatshepsut, living forever! and Hapuseneb had finally come out of the temple, and they had seen the last moments. Thut had stood up, raising his already meaty fists in the air, and yelled, “Amun-Ra declares me pharaoh!”

  The populace fell to the ground in awe, shouts of “Thutmosis Makepre, living forever!�
� drowned in the dirt. Cheftu had dared to raise his head and look at the reigning sovereign. Hatshepsut was shaven headed for the occasion. In the shaft of scorching sun, she was the incarnation of Amun-Ra: full of awesome power.

  Her skin was painted gold, and like the gold tissue of her kilt, it appeared to glitter with the power of the sun itself. She had raised both of her hands, projecting her low and lovely voice. “My father Amun-Ra has spoken. He has declared himself pleased with Horus-in-the-Nest. Thutmosis will succeed me when I fly to Horus and Osiris.” Her voice had risen with emotion as she spoke. The population, awed by the sight of the ripe and sensuous man-woman, their living god and the defender of Egypt, had shouted, “Hail, Heru uatt Hatshepsu Ma'atkepre, living forever!” until the cries echoed back and forth from the shrouded temple to the cliffs across the Nile, gaining in strength and fervor.

  Cheftu too had cheered, overwhelmed at the mystery and power of this golden creature, caught up in the paganism of the moment and the contagious enthusiasm of the crowd. Thut had slipped out with the other sem- priests, and Cheftu knew Hapuseneb would ferret out who was responsible. They would be in the House of the Dead by nightfall—if they were even given the courtesy of an embalming and not thrown directly to Sobek.

  He sighed as the vision of the bright golden day in Waset faded into darkness. Where were they all now? The boy had grown into a formidable man, truly the conqueror of Egypt—if his aunt would let him. Still Hat hung on, trying to interest her gentle daughter, Neferurra, in the succession. The whole court however, recognized that Neferurra wanted nothing but to stand by her cousin's side, clinging to his arm as consort.

  Every minute of his thirty-one years pressed down on Cheftu. All the living those years had encompassed suddenly amassed in aches and pains. His soul cried out in lonely exhaustion. Why could he not be a simple physician? Or take over the family lands and ferment the finest wines in Egypt? Would he ever have a good and gentle woman to hold in his arms as they watched Ra fade on the horizon, exchanging glances over the rims of their cups? Children? A legacy of his blood to carry forth? He realized he was tired of the court's intrigue and the constant burning both ends of the torch while trying to hold on to the middle. He sighed wearily. At least his stomach was calm.