The Desert Prince

by Alisha Sevigny

  Reb starts down the path, but Paser lingers. Merat looks at him in expectation.

  “I will leave you then.” Paser nods with a final glance at us both. “The chieftain says his bride may keep the balm.”

  I settle down under a tree to rest my eyes. Merat stares after Paser, a look of longing on her face. Being unchaperoned in the wild with the person who has her heart must seem most romantic to her.

  “Take care of your face,” I say, my voice soft. “Looking at him like that in front of the Hyksos, especially the chieftain, will get him killed.”

  She gives me a wry smile. “I do not have my mother’s trick of hiding my thoughts.”

  “Then it is probably best if there are no thoughts to hide.” I motion for her to come sit beside me. “I know how you feel about Paser, and it must seem terribly brave, his showing up here to rescue you. But —” I take her hand in mine “— you will need to put him out of your mind if you want to keep him safe. Our position here is precarious enough.”

  I hesitate, then decide to tell the truth. Though it might hurt her a little, it is necessary for Paser’s continued existence. “It was not Paser’s idea to come after you.” I look into her eyes. “It was mine.”

  She nods as if she knew this all along — and maybe she has. “I will try my best to guard my thoughts. And my face.”

  I squeeze her hand, wanting to impress the urgency of the situation upon the princess, who has never had to fear for her life. “You must not try. You must do.”

  Merat and I wake from our nap to the faraway sound of cheering, laughter, and shouts. I feel like I’ve been to the underworld and back, so deep was my slumber. Our small fire burns low.

  “What is that noise?” I say blearily, scratching my arms, which are beginning to itch again. Time for another application of balm.

  “It sounds like a celebration,” Merat says with the assurance of one who has attended countless parties of the royal court.

  “What can they be celebrating? There are no weddings taking place.”

  She shrugs. “If I had to guess, men are fighting. Or someone has killed something large.”

  “Let us hope it is an animal.” The cheering grows even more raucous. I think of our friends and worry for them, even though I did give Paser my father’s blade to hold on to shortly after we arrived. “Do you think we should go and check on Paser and Reb?” It is dark, and if we move quietly perhaps no one will see us. With luck, the Hyksos are not turning on them after they tended the people all day.

  “They are likely well enough.” Merat scratches at her legs. She looks like she was bitten by a hundred insects. There is a loud cry and she glances up from her shins. “But perhaps we could take a quick look.”

  I pick up the balm. “I am sorry for all the discomfort I’ve caused you. At the most, it may only offer a few days’ reprieve from your situation.” Especially if we are forced to stay.

  “Do you not mean our situation?” Her words are a cold splash of water in my face. Exhausted, I momentarily forgot my own engagement. Just because it is not real does not lessen the chance of a marriage actually happening. “Besides, a few days should be time enough for us to work out another plan.” Her teeth flash in the night. “One that — by the gods — does not involve purging and boils.”

  We creep like animals being stalked in the dark. A glow in the distance hints of a large fire. A distinct smell permeates the air, one I encounter often in my profession.

  The smell of blood.

  A curdling scream sends a bolt down my spine, like one of Set’s flaming spears shot down from the sky.

  “Hurry,” I whisper to Merat. We walk faster toward the fire, looking around for anyone who might spot us, but whatever is happening, everyone is there.

  The fire is located past a large wall of bushes and trees, sending sparks up into the sky. We peer over the thick brush. At first, the bodies are indistinguishable, black shapes in the night, forming a circle around two people.

  Pepi and Paser stand off, facing each other, crouched low and moving in circles, each watching the other intently. The Hyksos people cheer for Pepi. Reb, Paser’s lone supporter, stands off to the side, shouting encouragement.

  “It is a fight,” Merat whispers in my ear, one hand over her chest.

  “What do you think happens to the loser?” I say, thinking of the blood smell, which is much stronger here, closer to the fire.

  “I do not know,” Merat says. She clutches at my arm. Frozen, and unable to do anything else, we watch the match unfold.

  24

  PEPI LUNGES QUICK AS A COBRA. Paser only narrowly manages to avoid his swing. They continue circling, while everyone cheers and shouts their suggestions. I try to feel the mood of the crowd, which seems to be more merry than deadly. For the moment.

  “Why are they fighting?” Merat asks. “Do you think Paser challenged Pepi for your honour?”

  “He is supposed to be my brother,” I whisper.

  “There is nothing brotherly about the way Paser looks at you,” Merat says, and I look at her in shock. She makes a face. “It is only your obliviousness that keeps me from being completely jealous.”

  “I told you before, Paser is a friend,” I stammer.

  “It never occurs that he would like to be more?”

  The crowd lets out a shout and I turn my attention back to the fight, ignoring her question.

  Pepi has years of experience and only the gods know what kind of training, but Paser holds his ground. He lunges at the spy; Pepi catches his arm and pulls him off balance, to the delight of his supporters. Paser stumbles but does not fall. He spins around, hands held high in a defensive posture. The crowd jeers and someone darts forward, pushing Paser from behind. Again Paser stumbles but does not fall.

  Pepi turns to the crowd. “He is good on his feet, for a Theban.” Several members vocalize their disagreement.

  Why is Pepi doing this? He helped us, saved our lives, even.

  “I think it will be all right,” Merat says. “They are testing Paser’s strength and skill as a fighter. Probably to see if he is worthy of joining them.”

  “Of course he is,” I say. We clutch at each other in the darkness. I hope she’s right and the fight is only sport, not something more sinister.

  Pepi lunges again at Paser. Someone from the crowd sticks out a leg, and this time Paser goes sprawling backwards. Pepi lands on top of him. The audience cheers, but the fight is not over yet. Wrapping his legs high around Pepi’s waist, Paser prevents the Hyksos from landing a solid blow on his upper body and head, his arms blocking Pepi’s flying fists. Paser manages to catch hold of Pepi’s arms and, like a crocodile in a death roll, he uses his body weight to flip the Hyksos onto his back, shoving his left arm tight under Pepi’s throat. Reb lets out a loud, lone cheer.

  Pepi’s hands scramble back in the sands. He grabs a fistful of dirt and flings it into Paser’s face. Coughing and choking, Paser’s grip on Pepi weakens. The spy jumps to his feet while Paser wipes at his watering eyes.

  “That’s cheating!” I protest loudly. Merat shushes me.

  “After all that time in the desert, you’d think you’d be accustomed to a little sand in the face.” Pepi grins. The crowd laughs, everyone apparently thinking the tactic fair play.

  “Paser had him,” I say.

  Pepi offers his hand to Paser, who is still on his knees. Paser accepts it and Pepi pulls him to his feet.

  “Still, you are a brave fighter,” Pepi says. “Our troops welcome you to their ranks.”

  The chieftain steps into the circle. “Not so fast, my cousin.”

  “He’s so big.” I do not realize I speak aloud.

  “Tell me something I do not know, Sesha,” Merat mutters beside me.

  “Though this young one fights well, how are we to know that when the time comes, he will be able to face his own people?”

  My heart stops. The chieftain makes a fair point. If, for some reason, we are unable to escape the tri
be, Paser would never truly be able to fight against his fellow Egyptians. Hopefully, it will never come to that.

  Pepi does not look concerned despite the unspoken threat. “His people rejected him. His queen tried to end his life. He owes them nothing.”

  Paser nods at Pepi’s claim, seeming to sense the immediate danger in not gaining the chieftain’s trust. He measures his own words carefully. “What your cousin says is true. I am honoured to fight alongside you and your men, if you will have me.”

  “What do your people know of honour?” The chieftain crosses his arms, firelight gleaming off his bare chest. A collar of smooth animal bones sits around his neck, impressive as any necklace of precious stones. A rhino horn hangs at its centre, a protective charm. “Your rulers enter into treaties with our people, then break them when it suits their purpose.”

  “They are no longer my rulers,” Paser insists. He is doing a good job, though I am not convinced he could pick up a weapon against Pharaoh or the sons and grandsons of his grandsire’s friends. The chieftain does not look convinced, either. Pepi, as if expecting this, nods at someone in the crowd and a stony-faced man comes forward, holding up a large bucket.

  Pepi lifts his arms wide. “Let us wash away his Egyptian blood then, so he may be reborn as one of us.”

  From here I can see Reb’s swallow, but he moves into the firelight. “And mine as well,” he calls out, voice cracking only slightly.

  Pepi nods and another bucket is brought to him.

  “The spy seems well prepared.” Merat echoes my thoughts. I realize the fight, probably this whole ceremony, was planned by Pepi.

  An older man in a leopard skin joins them; he must be the village priest or wise man or whatever the Hyksos call those who perform these types of magical rites and incantations. He holds up his hands like Pepi had, fire glinting off the copper cuffs encircling his wrists. His voice rings out in the night, entering directly into my bones. The drums start then, and the people slowly circle Reb and Paser. They chant along with the priest, whose voice rises in strength and volume. Faster and faster the drums beat. Louder and louder the chanting gets. It makes me want to squirm out of my skin. I look over at Merat, whose spotted face is white in the moonlight.

  The priest says something loudly in a language that I do not understand, but his meaning is clear enough. He brings his hands down in a cutting gesture and the crowd immediately falls silent. The buckets are held high over Paser’s and Reb’s heads. When the buckets are dumped over the boys, I expect water, but a thick black liquid spills out, coating them completely. The smell that first caught my attention before I was distracted by the excitement of the fight is back, and much stronger.

  Blood.

  “Do you think … that is from a person?” I gulp. The blood runs in rivulets down their half-clothed bodies, claiming them as the tribe’s own.

  “I pray not,” Merat says, holding my hand tightly.

  The crowd cheers as Paser and Reb wipe the dark, sticky stuff from their eyes, their faces streaked black-red.

  “There may not be a wedding tonight,” Pepi shouts, “but there will be a celebration! We have two new members of our tribe.” He looks Paser and Reb up and down. “And while they may not be as comely as my cousin’s bride-to-be and my own —” the crowd laughs; Pepi has the way of a born entertainer about him “— we welcome them into our midst!”

  The chieftain crosses his arms and nods. The crowd roars in approval. The drums resume and the festivities begin. A few women, perhaps wives of the soldiers, start dancing. They ululate, twirl, and swirl around the fire like the sands during a storm. The body of a giant lion, hanging from a large branch, is carried into the firelight by several men. I feel a pang for the noble creature but am relieved the blood did not come from humans.

  “Come,” I whisper to Merat. “We should get back before we are seen.”

  “Yes. It will do us no good to be caught sneaking around in the dark.”

  We slink back the way we came, careful to remain unseen. It takes time for our eyes to adjust after the light of the fire and we stumble blindly along a halfworn path.

  We are almost back to our quarantine area when a low growl stops us in mid-step.

  “What is that?” Merat asks, the lion likely still fresh in her mind. Perhaps his mate has come looking for him. But I recognize the sound, having heard it many times before. It is the sound of a woman about to give birth.

  25

  “THIS WAY.” I PULL MERAT ALONG. We find the woman on all fours, panting. I drop to my knees by her side. She looks at me, terror in her eyes.

  “Get away from me!” she says. “You are diseased!”

  “Never mind that,” I say. “How long have you been labouring?”

  “The pains came on quickly.” She grits her teeth as another contraction grips her body. Arching her back, she groans, and the ferocity of it causes Merat to take a step back. “I was overcome with thirst and going to get more water.”

  “You have nothing to fear.” I keep my voice soothing. “Will you allow us to help you?”

  “You will make the baby and me sick,” she says, eyes wide with fear, perhaps not only of an infectious stranger, but also with the anxiety that comes with delivering a child. Fear that it will not end well. Another contraction hits her and she closes her eyes.

  “Do not hold your air. Breathe.” When the worst of the contraction passes, I ask, “Is this your first?” and place one hand on her lower back to massage it. She looks only a few years older than Merat.

  “Yes,” she pants. “Please, do not touch me.”

  “I am not contagious,” I say firmly. “It was a ploy to delay the wedding.” There’s no help for it now — I need her to let me assist. I look over at the princess to confirm my words. “Tell her, Merat.” Merat stands frozen, a look of horror on her face. “What is it?” I glance around, expecting to see a wild animal about to attack, but we are alone.

  And then I remember.

  Merat’s sister Nefertiri died in childbirth at seventeen. The two princesses were inseparable. Sisters not only of blood, but of the heart. They were together always, laughing and playing, unconcerned with serious matters, as is the privilege of young princesses.

  “It will be all right,” I say to her. But she does not see me, as she is lost in memories. “Merat!” I sharpen my tone. “Go find some water.” The pregnant girl was on her way back from the lake, and her container lies spilled on the ground. Merat will not be of any help to me in her present state anyway.

  She stumbles off into the darkness. I do not know if she will return, but I turn my thoughts to the patient beside me.

  “What is your name?” I ask the girl.

  “Amara.”

  “Amara, will you let me help you?”

  Reluctantly, she nods. She does not have much choice in the matter, as I am the only one here. I feel her abdomen, the outline of the child. Bastet and Taweret, goddesses of birth and mothers, are with us. The baby is in the proper position.

  “It’s not supposed to be my time,” Amara says. “The baby comes early.”

  “Perhaps she has a mind of her own. A good quality. Or maybe she is just eager to meet you,” I say. A flicker of a smile crosses her face. It is replaced by a grimace of pain as she is struck by another contraction. It will not be long now. I help her off the path.

  “Try squatting,” I urge. “Many women find that a beneficial position.”

  “You have done this before?” she pants through the next wave of pain. Her dark hair is matted with sweat and I smooth it back from her brow, wishing for my bag, some herbs, something more to help her. But all I have are my words, and so I encourage her to push, find a stick for her to bite on, and massage her between the quick and hard contractions.

  “I see the head,” I say excitedly, after what feels like hours, but is probably no time at all.

  She grunts in response.

  “Push,” I urge. She grips my hand, squeezing my fingers,
and with a howl to summon the dead, she pushes with all her strength.

  The baby’s head emerges. “Again!” I command. Amara closes her eyes tight and bears down. The shoulders are next and I let her do her job, instinctive and as old as the time of Isis, the Mother Goddess who gave birth to Horus. As I gently manipulate and murmur, the baby slowly emerges into this world. Amara gives a final grunt, and the baby comes out in a plop of fluids.

  The infant, a girl, lets out a startled cry as I wipe her with my clean robes, making sure her mouth and nostrils are clear. Her eyes are wide open and she seems fairly calm, despite the hurried exit from her mother, who lies beside me.

  “Here.” Merat is back, with water and linens. She lets out a shaky breath. “Are they all right?”

  “They are well,” I say, securely swaddling the babe to keep her warm and lessen her distress at being abruptly expelled from the cozy quarters she occupied these past nine moons. Amara lies on her back, one hand over her brow, eyes closed in exhaustion.

  “You have a beautiful daughter,” I say, beaming. Beautiful may be a slight exaggeration to describe the baby in her present state, but a good wash will take care of that. This has been a messy evening.

  Amara props herself up on her elbows, tears streaming down her face. Merat helps her to a seated position and I place the babe in her arms. “Thanks be to the gods, and to you …”

  “Sesha.”

  “Sesha.” She smiles. Amara puts the baby to her breast, and she begins to suckle, hungry from the difficult task of being born.

  “Will you stay with her?” I ask Merat. “I need to find something to cut the cord with.” My father’s obsidian blade will do nicely. But first I must get it from Paser.

  “Yes, I will stay,” Merat says, watching the tender scene of mother and newborn before her.

  I touch Merat’s shoulder. “Thank you for coming back with the linens and water.” Princesses are not used to being told what to do by their lessers. But Merat is not your average princess. “Give her some water. She will need it for her milk.”