“There’s no need to worry, I won’t tell anyone.”
He left. Soromeh and Iram exchanged a worried look.
Iram squeezed her fingers. “I’ll go talk to him.”
He poured water in a cup and brought it to his brother. Barak took it without lifting his eyes from the Nile.
“You must have questions,” said Iram.
“You’re sleeping with the princess?”
“Barak, no! It’s not like that. We love each other.”
“Ha, yeah, of course. That’s not going to stop her husband, though. He’s going to cut off your balls and throw them to the crocodiles.”
“Sir Damon gave us his permission.”
“What kind of idiot allows another man to touch his wife?”
“Listen, none of this is important. Soromeh and I will leave this place, soon. Do you want to come with us?”
“Yeah, all right. It’s not like I want to stay and get a new master. At least the princess already gave us permission to leave.” He placed a hand on his pocket and felt the papyrus crinkle. He then thought for a moment and smiled, a bit tense. “You know what, I want to give you a gift. I’ll make myself scarce tonight. You two can have a night alone.”
Iram made a series of unintelligible sounds. Barak burst out laughing and gave him a great slap on the back.
“Your face! It’s completely red! Make sure to enjoy it. You won’t get to lay on soft beds in the future!”
Iram, still embarrassed, nodded and went back inside. Alone again, Barak sighed and took the papyrus out. He still couldn’t read it.
* * *
That same evening, the master scribe kept all his subordinates in the library after the end of the workday and had them scour scroll after scroll under the weak lamplight. He walked the central space, dabbing his brow with a handkerchief.
“You, over there,” he pointed at a group of scribes, “I want the census numbers! For the last twenty years for the Hebrews, Phoenicians, Maures, and any other non-Egyptian group that exceeds five hundred heads. You! I want a report about the crops during that same amount of time and a prediction of future harvests based on the Nile flood measurements of the last hundred years. And you, take care of legal and police reports regarding strangers. Our good king wants this information at first light tomorrow, and if we need to spend the night here, we’ll do it!”
In the religious archives section, Hermes rolled his eyes. He was hovering near the highest shelves and doing his best to avoid the panicked scribes running left and right. Aïden followed them with her yellow eyes from her perch on top of a bookcase.
“Why do we need to be here tonight?” she whined again. “I hate when they get like this. They look like mice running in a field.”
Hermes shrugged. “Mortals get like that, sometimes. Must be the sense of impending death. Anyway, we’re invisible to them. I don’t see why we should skip a workday.”
There were only a handful of scribes in their row. Pamiu appeared around the corner and sent them elsewhere. Hermes was about to unroll another papyrus, when Pamiu raised his head and looked straight at him.
“What are you both doing in my library?” he demanded.
Aïden jumped back, hissing. Hermes dropped the papyrus in surprise. Pamiu sighed in exasperation and picked it up, brushing off the dust.
“Have some consideration. Some of these documents are older than this empire.”
Hermes landed in front of him. A silver scepter with two snakes appeared in his hand.
“There’s no need for that, Olympian,” scoffed Pamiu. “We are not at war. As long as you don’t mess up my documents.”
“It’s you,” said Hermes. “The demon doing the Netcheroo’s dirty work.”
“Dirty work,” he repeated with a sneer. “You despise me, yet you enjoy my people’s company,” he said, pointing at Aïden.
“I despise your actions. You’re going to kill children.”
“The humans will kill them, not me. Hate them. Hate their swords. They’re always looking for the slightest reason to kill each other. I’m only providing the excuse.”
“I could stop you.”
“Why would you do it? This is not your war, and I’m not your enemy. Even if you wanted to intervene, it’s already too late. Everything is already in motion.”
He showed the entire library with a wave of his hand, from the shelves overflowing with documents to the diligent scribes running around. Hermes understood.
“How long have you been here?” he asked, his voice weak.
Pamiu only smiled and went back to work.
* * *
Barak waited until the night watch had switched three times. He got up, put on a dark tunic, and took a knife from under his mattress. It was heavy, golden and covered in jewels, stolen from Soromeh’s possessions.
He closed his bedroom door and walked to the princess’s, softly pushing it ajar. There was no movement inside. Slight snoring came from the bed, where two intertwined shapes could be seen under the moonlight. Barak hesitated, his fist closing on the dagger.
A noise coming from outside brought him back to reality. He had to finish his assignment before the fourth change of the guard. He closed the door and went to the balcony, towards the row of potted trees.
They grew tall and strong, all aligned against the wall dividing Soromeh’s terrace from the next. He climbed the biggest one, stepped over the wall, and landed on the balcony. These were the king’s old quarters, empty but well maintained. He pulled a chair to the next wall over and climbed that one too, to land on the Vizier’s terrace. There was no light or sound coming from inside.
Things became more difficult at that point. The royal wing adjoined the main part of the palace, which was taller and wider. The wall fused with the roof in an elaborate cornice carved in the stone. Most of it curved outwards, but there was an inwards molding that was deep enough to grab onto. He would have to move sideways, hanging by his fingers, over empty space, and fast enough to be unnoticed by a patrol.
Barak looked down. They were above the palace’s back entrance. There was only stone underneath. He suddenly remembered the rumors, the ones who said the late king had jumped from his balcony. He thought about Senedjet’s threats, and then about the queen of the rats, and decided that falling to his death would be easier.
He climbed a potted tree and stretched so he could grab the molding. Slowly, bit by bit, he moved sideways. He left the vizier’s balcony behind, and soon, there was nothing under him. His arms burned.
When he reached the corner, he tried to stretch his head so he could look out for patrols, but his movements were limited. He took a chance and rounded the corner, the sharp angle of the wall digging into his sternum. His eyes filled with tears of pain.
He reached the queen’s terrace. No one had lived there for a decade, so it was empty of furniture, trees, or even flower vases. Barak went inside, looking for a piece of furniture he could climb on.
He waited for his eyes to adapt to the darkness. The main living area was huge, bigger than Soromeh’s. There was a pale glow coming from the side, from a door that was left ajar. Looking through the gap, he could see the king’s quarters, lit by candlelight. He grabbed the knife and silently walked in.
He walked from shadow to shadow until he reached the bedroom door. He could hear snoring. He pushed the door open with the tip of his fingers.
There was a bed in the middle of the room. He walked in, without breathing, knife at the ready.
Barak noticed too late that the snoring had stopped.
The person in the bed jumped towards him. Barak hit blindly; the blade pierced flesh. The body hit the floor with a cry of pain. Barak stepped forward, ready to strike again. He didn’t see the punch coming from the other side.
There had been a second person in the bed.
Barak was thrown back. He managed to recover his footing but swore when he realized he had dropped the dagger. Weaponless and outnumbered, he panicked, turn
ed around, and ran to the balcony. He could hear someone following him. He reached the terrace, prayed, and jumped over the railing.
He landed on the stone, felt a horrible pain in his leg, and stumbled. He grit his teeth and found the strength to stand again, to run on his injured leg. If he could reach the cover of the trees, he had a chance.
He focused on the feel of the papyrus scroll hidden in his tunic. There were only twenty paces left, and the guards had yet to notice him. Fifteen. Ten.
He fell, an arrow buried in his back.
* * *
On the terrace of the royal quarters, Sethy lowered his bow.
He went back inside and found Damon kneeling next to the bed. He was pressing a crumpled bedsheet over his abdomen. The pale linen was slowly becoming red.
“Don’t worry. It’s just a scratch,” muttered Damon between his teeth. “Go take care of that bastard and send Master Kamuzu. I’ll join you as soon as he’s done lecturing me.”
Sethy helped him back on the bed, kissed him, and ran out.
* * *
For the second morning in a row, the royal trumpets called for a general assembly. The throne room was filled faster than usual, the crowd avid for more drama after the previous day. When the king entered, he was followed by the master scribe. Pamiu was carrying a small chest that he deposited on a table next to the throne.
The king addressed the people. “There has been an attempt on my life.” The crowd gasped and quickly went back to silence so they could hear the rest. “The assassin was part of a plot. He was hired by people that I trusted. They all forgot that the king of Egypt is not a man, but an envoy of the gods themselves!”
He gestured to the falcon statue behind the throne, its gaze unforgiving.
Sethy opened the chest. “The assassin got what he deserved.”
He held out something for everyone to see. It was a human head, grabbed by the hair. It was Barak’s head.
There was a scream. Iram and Soromeh pushed their way to the bottom of the stairs, their faces frozen in horror. The king looked at them with disdain and threw the head at their feet.
“Soromeh, your servant accessed my quarters from yours. He was found with a weapon that belonged to you. He had on him a papyrus signed with your seal.”
He gestured to Pamiu, who stepped forwards and cleared his throat.
“This document gives his freedom to Barak, son of Levannah,” said the master scribe. “It also states that he gets lands that belonged to Princess Soromeh before her disownment.”
The king spoke again. “Soromeh, daughter of Ramses and Satre, you who, until yesterday, I called sister, are guilty of a plot against the king’s life. Guards, arrest her.”
“What?” she yelled. “No! I didn’t do anything!”
She was grabbed forcefully by soldiers. Iram was also restrained before he could intervene. The king watched the scene without emotion.
“Soromeh, disgraced daughter, treacherous sister, you shall be decapitated on the great esplanade, today, at noon.”
The crowd waited for a clear and strong voice to resonate. But the screams went on, the guards left with Soromeh and Iram, and Sir Damon never appeared.
Chapter 17
The Massacre of the Innocents
The men of the Hebrew neighborhood left every morning at first light for the construction sites. The women occupied the streets, working outside, talking with each other, singing. Their children filled the air with yells and laughter.
Naími watched them from the roof of Amram’s house. He and his wife had immediately opened their door to Harouk and his friends, hiding them from the patrols.
When Naími insisted on being put to work, Yocheved had handed her her youngest child, who couldn’t be more than a few months old.
“Maybe you’ll manage to calm him down,” she had said, tired. “He’s been crying for days. Miriam and Aaron were easier to handle.”
The child kept on crying, but now Yocheved had her hands free to work. Naími paced the roof once again, avoiding the chests, jars, and the pile of straw covered in blankets where the older children slept. Most houses used their roof as storage or an extra room, protecting it from the weather with canopies of banana leaves.
Naími stepped under it to get some shade and searched the neighboring streets. Further away, she could see Silas and Dewei coming back from the market with a petulant goat. Amram had refused to be paid in gold or jewelry, but his wife wouldn’t refuse a more practical gift. An animal like this would make a huge difference in a family’s earnings.
The baby started crying again. Naími tried to get him to drink from a gourd, with no success.
“I don’t know a lot about children,” she muttered, “but if I compare you to the last one I’ve seen, you’re too skinny. Your mother can’t always be breastfeeding you. Look, it’s the same milk. Please drink. The queen’s son wasn’t so fussy.”
She sighed. The queen’s son probably had a better destiny than this one. She opened his tiny fist and read the palm. A bitter taste invaded her mouth. The life line was broken at the start.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “You and your people are going to die by my fault, and I don’t know how to stop it. I failed. Forgive me.”
The child kept on crying.
A silver light caught her eye. She instinctively jumped back, dagger at the ready. Hermes landed messily on the roof, the wings of his sandals beating frantically.
“Naími! You need to come back to the palace. The little princess is going to be executed!”
For a single moment, she froze. Then she ran down the stairs and strode up the alley to the communal oven where the women were baking bread.
Yocheved raised her eyebrows. “Lady Naími, what’s going on? You look like you’re running from death!”
“I’m running towards it,” she said, handing her the child. “I need to leave. Thank you for your generosity.”
She left without answering any of her questions and stepped into a narrower alley. Hermes caught up, looking around.
“Where are your angels? Do you need me to get them?”
“No, I need you at the palace. Bring me to the vizier.”
“That won’t be easy. No one has been able to find him today. He’s not in his room or in Soromeh’s, but he was never seen leaving the royal wing.”
“Then he’s still in there. Bring me to the king’s quarters.”
“All right. Hang on. The humans won’t see you if you’re with me.”
He grabbed her by the waist and, in a single jump, landed on the next roof. He went from building to building, gaining speed, his steps soaring above entire neighborhoods. They traveled the city in moments, and soon, he had stepped on the outer wall, the palace roof, and landed on the king’s balcony.
Naími, a bit shaken from the trip, went inside. She found Damon lying on the king’s bed, his chest wrapped tightly. His eyes, half-opened, were staring at the ceiling.
“How did you know he would be here?” asked Hermes.
“I made the mistake of reading his mind,” she said with exasperation. “Ever since, every time I looked at the king, I felt the urge to smile stupidly.”
She lifted Damon's eyelid and winced.
“He’s heavily drugged. Someone didn’t want him to intervene.”
Hermes undid bandages. “Or wanted to stop the pain. That’s ugly.”
Naími looked at the stab wound and swore. “He’s useless to me like that! With Princess Kamilah out of town, he’s the only one that could oppose the king!”
“The demon was saying the truth,” whispered Hermes. “Things were already in motion.”
Faced with Naími’s suspicious glare, he started talking fast. “The scribe. Master Pamiu. He’s the demon you’re looking for. I just learned this yesterday, and you had already left. I didn’t want to get tangled in your mess, but if I had known he would turn against the little princess, I would have fetched you sooner!”
“We don’
t have time for regret. I’ll take care of Soromeh. You, keep my guards away.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to grab the little princess and fly away? Not me, of course—I can’t break the law—but them? Maybe?”
“No. That would create a direct conflict with the Netcheroos.”
She pushed him towards the window. He stepped over the threshold and hesitated.
“Naími? What are you planning?”
The Celestial Conspiracies Page 25
