She moaned softly and was scaldingly hot. Calling for colder water, he bathed her through the hours, trying to ease her temperature. Fever killed suddenly with miscarriages.
“Have you had anything to drink? RaEm, where have you been?” His words were a litany, repeated endlessly as he dissolved mandrake root in a weak wine and soaked linen cloth in it. Patiently he dribbled the mixture down her throat. The herbs would ease her pain as she woke. If she awoke.
During the night Cheftu alternated between bathing her and making her drink. Through the smoke of incense he could see her swollen eye and the white patches of linen covering her wounds. The chanting in the corridor rose and fell, a monotonous hum that threatened to lull him to sleep.
Meneptah sent for his cousin D'vorah, and the two of them helped RaEm onto the birthing bricks as her body convulsed with premature contractions. She could not sit upright, so the Israelites each held an arm, placing her calves to either side of the stone, where Cheftu knelt, waiting for the unborn. Sometime during the interminable night, amid her halfhearted groans and cries, a small package of flesh was forced from her womb. Cheftu gave Meneptah orders to find a small sarcophagus and turned away, his hps pressed into a tight line. Then he cleansed her body, ridding it of the infection. Soon, may it please Amun, her fever would lessen.
Who had been the father? RaEm's relationship with Phaemon was well-known; ReShera had introduced them. Would a guard of the Ten Thousand and brother of a priestess have touched RaEm when she was in her serving season? Where was Phaemon? How could he make her endure this pregnancy alone?
When Ra finally greeted the world, RaEm had broken into a sweat and Cheftu felt the worst danger was past. He ordered the clerestory windows uncovered to dilute the suffocating incense wafting in from the priests in the corridor.
RaEm slept through the day, waking at times to scream and beg in a broken, indiscernible voice, until Cheftu held her hands and soothed her with quiet words.
At the end of the second day Meneptah came to his side, startling him out of one of the many Bast-naps he had taken.
“My lord, bestir yourself and go bathe.”
“I cannot, I dare not leave her. When she wakens she will be frightened. She will not recognize the room,” Cheftu croaked. Meneptah allowed himself a brief grin as he glanced toward Ehuru in the darkened corridor.
“When she awakens and sees you she will believe herself to be in the company of a khaibit,” he said, and brought a bronze mirror from behind his back. Cheftu was inclined to agree with him. Bleary, bloodshot eyes stared at him from a glob of running kohl. The dark shadow of several days’ beard masked his face. His chest and kilt were spattered with bloodstains, and his fingers were dark green from crushed herbs. He groaned. Even his hair hurt.
“You are quite correct,” he said slowly as he glanced at RaEm. She was sleeping peacefully now.
“My cousin D'vorah will sit with her,” Meneptah said.
Cheftu stumbled across the receiving room into his own chamber. “I shall return shortly,” he muttered as Ehuru called for a bath. Then he fell onto his couch, already snoring.
CHLOE OPENED HER EYES to a room flooded with light. For a moment disorienting images swam in her mind's eye. Then she opened her eyes completely. Correction, one eye. The other was swollen shut. She looked around, thankful for her twenty-twenty vision.
Where was she? This wasn't her Amber Street town house, that was for sure. She glanced at the woman sitting opposite her, and the reality of her trip through time whizzed through her head like MTV on speed. She felt her pulse double time as she realized she was RaEmhetepet, priestess of HatHor. Now a disgraced—and from the messages her nerve endings were communicating to her brain—seriously bruised priestess. With something disgusting spread on her stomach and breasts. Slowly she focused on her surroundings.
Her hand was being held by a beautiful young woman with hazel eyes and wavy hair. Behind her stood a swarthy young man, his beard and one-shouldered garment making him familiar. Cheftu's protégé, Meneptah. A slow smile that started at his mouth and reached his eyes greeted her.
“My lady! How do you feel?”
Chloe felt throbbing from a dozen wounds but shrugged. Her voice was rough. “I am better. What is this mess on my stomach?”
“I am glad you are better,” Cheftu said from the doorway. She turned her gaze to him, and the young woman dropped Chloe Is hand and crossed her chest in respect “It is a remedy for your sickness,” Cheftu continued. “A mixture of swallow's liver, beer bread, and healing herbs.” Even as Chloe smelled the concoction he was describing, she was dazzled by his alien splendor.
The magus's robe hung from his broad shoulders to the floor, a frame for his bronze physique and pressed white kilt. As usual, his wig was perfect, his eyes ringed, and the wealth of jewelry on his body a little overwhelming. Chloe was unaccountably cranky that he should be so presentable when she lay there practically in pieces.
“My lord, you deign to visit a disgraced priestess?” she snapped. She was decidedly irate that he had not warned her of Nesbek's inclinations yet knew rationally that there was no reason to warn her. RaEmhetepet was just as corrupt. This knowledge did not encourage leniency, however. She glared at him through one eye.
He colored at her words, and Meneptah broke in, dismayed.
“Nay, my lady! Lord Cheftu has attended you these past several nights. He himself washed the blood …” His brown skin reddened in embarrassment, and Chloe stared incredulously at Cheftu. Squinting, she saw lines of strain around his mouth and violet shadows under his eyes. He stood stiffly, staring through her, indignation in every line of his taut, muscled body. Chloe was ashamed and momentarily mute.
“My lord,” she tried.
I did it for your family, woman,” he said coldly, and stalked out. She was horrified at her behavior.
“Is my lady hungry? Does she thirst?” the young woman asked, changing the subject as she glanced, panicked, at Meneptah.
“Aye, call my slaves,” she said, hiding behind RaEm's personality.
Meneptah looked uncomfortable. “My Lord Cheftu has instructed his personal slaves to attend you,” he said apologetically.
“Why?” she snarled.
“His Lordship doubts your slaves have your best interest at heart. You were poisoned, and Basha has fled. This is D'vorah,” he said, indicating the woman. “She will wait on you.” With a slight bow he left, D'vorah following him to the kitchens.
Chloe winced at the aches and pains full consciousness brought to her attention. She tried to recall the events of the previous evening. Like an S&M video, the scene played through her head, and Chloe quickly turned it off, repulsed. What kind of twisted reflection of RaEm had she enacted?
When Cheftu returned he found RaEm cradling her once more flat stomach. She pressed her trembling hands to it and looked up at him, her gaze bright, the confrontation of a few minutes before forgotten.
“The child did not live.” She said it as a statement, as if fearing his response.
Cheftu reluctantly nodded affirmation, avoiding her stare. “We… we could not tell what it was.”
She looked bewildered.
“Whether male child or a female,” he mumbled.
“Aye.” She closed her eyes, swallowing loudly. “How far—I mean, how old was it?” Her voice was barely a whisper, and Cheftu had to lean closer to hear her.
He turned away. “I would guess one hundred twenty-four to one hundred thirty-four days. About halfway through your time.” He licked his lips and glanced down. “Who is the father, RaEm? He has a right to know.”
She tried to sit up, inadvertently groaning at the pain. “Just yesterday, or was it yesterday, I realized I'd have a baby.” Her words were rushed, spoken in a half whisper, fragile and cracking. “Basha must have given me poison, but I was too caught up in other things to pay any attention. I was scared and on edge and I didn't even know why. A premonition. Maybe I should have read a horoscope.”
Cheftu watched the emotions chase across her face. The last was an achingly sad smile. She ran a tongue over her dry lips and swallowed, her hands clenching the linen sheets around her. He saw her bite her trembling bottom lip and fought the instinct to draw her to him, to comfort her.
Slowly she sank back onto the pillows, one hand caressing her necklace, and then she covered her face with her hands. RaEm made no sound, but her brown, bandaged shoulders started to shake. Certain she was mourning her child, he turned to leave, trying to honor the unborn's memory with silence. He gestured the waiting Apiru slaves away.
“Cheftu,” she said brokenly, “please …” and reached out a trembling hand.
Cautiously Cheftu walked to her side and sat on the edge of the couch. He put a gentle hand on her shoulder. She threw herself into his arms and curled her legs up, half on his lap, burrowing against his chest.
Cheftu was dumbstruck. Who was this? To cry? In the presence of others? To care about something other than herself enough to cry? This was a different RaEm. Gently he caressed her sticky black hair, rocking her like a child, his words and voice drowned out by her racking sobs. The paste on her chest adhered them together.
Through her hiccuping tears he managed to interpret. “I promised to protect it,” she cried. “How could I fail this? Only yesterday it was real! How could I do this?”
Cheftu winced at the agony in her voice. “Sweet Moonbeam, pain is a part of love,” he whispered. “The god will protect you. Do not fear. You will have another child. Assst. This is but your first.” He knew if she wanted two children to reach adulthood, this would be only the first in a series of ten or more pregnancies. Life was hard on the weak and defenseless.
He held her, a disgraced and disfigured priestess, and wondered, if she could pick something to change in her life, what she would pick. He wished it would be he. They could have created this child together, and then her grief would be lessened, for he would carry it. Her hair was matted, but he stroked it, wondering at her paradox. Strong yet vulnerable. Had he ever really known RaEm? Could he get to know her now?
Or was it too late?
Later, Cheftu picked at the roasted fowl on his plate, his mind still reeling from the warmth and compassion he'd glimpsed in RaEm. Ehuru entered, but Cheftu waved him away, craving privacy with his thoughts. Ehuru didn't leave. “My lord,” he said in a quavering voice.
“Aye?” Cheftu demanded, irritated.
“It is gone, my lord,” Ehuru blurted out. Cheftu saw the old man's face was tightly drawn, his gaze downcast.
Cheftu spoke slowly, softly. “What is gone?”
“The quiver, my lord.”
His belly cramped, burning. The papyri. The notebooks. The knowledge. “Since when?”
“I know not, my lord. I have not seen it since you went to Pi-Ramessa.”
“Is anything else missing?”
“Nay! Nay, my lord. Your jewels, your gold, your magic, it is all here.”
“Except the quiver?”
“Why would someone take your quiver, my lord?”
Cheftu clenched his hands, willing himself calm. Why indeed?
Except to ruin him.
BASHA SHIVERED IN THE MORNING AIR. “It is done, my lady,” she murmured to the seated figure. “I also know that Lord Nesbek had an entertainment where RaEm once again indulged in lascivious behavior.”
The woman laughed. “Nesbek is an example of the weakness and crudity of men. His only excitement comes from hurting or being hurt.” Basha placed a quiver and a stack of rolled papyri on the small, inlaid table.
“Like RaEm? She likes to inflict harm, too.”
“Nay, precious, RaEm is different. She fights inner demons, but not only those empowered by pain. She fears being alone and will pay any price for company. She should seek the goddess, the priestesses given her, but she seeks men with no understanding of the strength of Sekhmet. Fools who think they rule the world.”
Basha took a stool by her mistress's feet, feeling the beringed fingers work through her hair, as comforting as when she was a child. “If she is engaged to Nesbek, why did RaEm sleep with Phae—?” Too late Basha realized she had infuriated her mistress. However, the priestess would not beat her but instead would ignore her, making Basha the least significant grain of sand in Egypt. “Mistress, I am so sorry!” She turned, pleading with Phaemon's beautiful twin.
“She will pay,” the silver-clad woman said softly. “He is gone, destroyed by her evil, and she will pay.” Her lover scared Basha when she spoke this way. Her lips would curl and her gaze would focus inward as she whispered secret words, hissing with venom. Her mistress could sit for hours like this, and it terrified Basha. Better RaEm's fury, even if it meant broken bones and scars.
Basha got up to leave, stepping quietly from the room as if her mistress were praying.
“You must remain here, in secret; you cannot return. I will protect you.” Basha spun, looking at her. The color had returned to her face and she was fine. “Once your task is finished, this will be yours,” the priestess said, handing Basha a small parcel.
Basha opened the box. “It is beautiful!” The golden scarab twinkled in the faint light as it twisted on a finely wrought chain. “Will you put it on me?” she asked, holding it out to her love.
A faint grimace of distaste crossed the woman's lovely features. “Nay. I cannot. You cannot wear it until …” Admonishing Basha like a child, she had her return the necklace to the box. “I will even inscribe a special prayer on it for you,” tile priestess said as she set it down. “Are you thankful?”
Basha clung to the beautiful woman, stuttering her gratitude. “I love you more than life itself, my lady!”
The woman smiled, her focus once more inward, and Basha felt a tremble of fear before losing herself in the passion of her kiss.
CHAPTER 9
Cheftu slipped into the audience chamber behind the foreign magi. He had checked on RaEm this morning; consequently he was late. The long, narrow room was already full of soldiers and courtiers, the antechamber crowded with petitioners. It was rumored some tribe from within the Apiru was threatening Egypt with terrors if they were not allowed to leave and worship their god in the desert. Cheftu knew that Hatshepsut wanted details.
He was just in time.
These Apiru were not impressive looking … they had the same dark eyes, skin, and hair as the rest of Egypt's populace. Only their unsanitary beards, body hair, and one-shouldered garments set them apart. They walked the length of the room, halted by a soldier's sword from getting too close to the prince.
One of the men bowed, his white-streaked beard reaching almost to his waist. He spoke in a melodious voice. “Horus-in-the-Nest, this is what the Lord of Creation says: Let my people go, so that they may worship me. If you refuse to let them go, I will plague your whole country with frogs….”
Cheftu was caught up in the court's following. Across the painted and colonnaded courtyard, down the wide water steps leading to the Nile, they walked, Thut's entourage moments behind. The two Apiru halted beside a small stream, one of the many irrigation rills that led to Horus’ private gardens.
Ramoses spoke to Aharon. When he handed him his beautiful, unusual walking stick, a buzz of nervous conversation rose from the crowd. Looking around, Cheftu saw Thutmosis surrounded by guards, watching. Aharon stretched the staff over the stream, then turned away. The Israelites walked quickly through the crowd, which parted easily before them.
All eyes remained fixed on the water. Silence reigned. Moments passed as Cheftu tried to still his pounding heart. Could the Israelite do as he said?
Suddenly the silence was pierced by a loud “Rrrrrrbitt!” as a huge spotted frog sprang from behind Thutmosis; surprised, Thut drew his dagger, impaling the frog before it was a cubit away. Suddenly the air was dense with the calling of frogs.
Cheftu looked back. Ramoses and Aharon stood by one of the ornamental pools, watching a brown green tide come up from
the Nile. There were hundreds of frogs, all sizes and colors, leaping over each other and on top of everything.
The Egyptians, no strangers to frogs, nevertheless reacted with astonishment at this sudden invasion. Confusion reigned as soldiers tried to guard Thut, women shrieked, and everyone else steadily backed away from the living reflection of Inundation.
Thut turned on the two Apiru, forgetting his princely dignity in anger. “We shall see who is greater!” he bellowed. “Anything your puny desert god can produce, so too can the noble gods of Egypt!” The physician in Cheftu noted Thut's purple visage and the pulse pounding in his temple. He should be careful.
Balhazzar, the chief magus, had already walked back to a decorative pool and was producing frogs from its depths. Surprisingly, the frogs would not jump on or over the Apiru. They jumped in a wide space around them. All the other magi had started conjuring up frogs.
Cheftu almost laughed at the ridiculousness of the situation. Now the Egyptians were polluting their own pools! Before, only the Nile was responsible. His laughter stuck in his throat when he saw Thut staring with total revulsion at his magi.
“You impotent women!” he raged. “You have taken this trickery and multiplied it into a plague!” He grabbed a sword and advanced upon two unfortunate slant-eyed magi. One of them he ran through with the sword. The other vanished into saffron-colored smoke. Cheftu slid back through the jostling crowd, looking for the Apiru. They were gone.
Wise choice.
Belting his kilt between his legs, Cheftu set out for his apartments in a leisurely lope through the gardens, his stride broken only by leaping frogs.
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