Day of the False King

by Brad Geagley

  “I ordered it,” said the heavily accented voice. This time, however, the queen’s voice was not slurry from beer. “Surely you had guessed by now.”

  Semerket shook his head slowly.

  Narunte’s laugh was a vulgar cackle. “And my husband thought you were such a brilliant investigator!” Behind her, Menef tittered immoderately.

  “But why?” Semerket asked faintly.

  Narunte sighed, rolling her demon’s eyes, and spoke in an indulgent tone. “Because Nugash and Pinikir had been sent to undermine my husband. Shutruk, his own father, had sent them—he could not have a son who outshone him. Not even his own blood could compete with that monster. Well, I couldn’t have that. I wouldn’t.”

  Was that what Rami meant when he said that Naia had known Pinikir’s secret reason for coming to Babylon?

  “Menef and I put our heads together,” the queen continued, “and came up with a perfect solution to both our problems. We could eliminate all our enemies at once, and make everyone think that the Isins had done it.” Her voice grew petulant. “It was a perfect plan—perfect! Until you came here. You even foiled the assassin we sent against you. Did you kill him, Semerket?”

  “Yes.”

  He saw her silver eyes darken. “He was my kinsman. The Asp said he had seen your followers do it.”

  “I was there that night, Semerket,” said the Asp.

  So he had been the second man!

  Menef’s voice behind the door was solicitous. “Don’t fret, Majesty. In a few moments, Semerket will die and the king will never know about any of this. Your kinsman will be avenged. You’ve nothing more to worry about.”

  Semerket pounded on the door. “Pharaoh will scour this country looking for me, Menef!”

  “Alas, Semerket, you’ll have disappeared. As completely and utterly as anyone can disappear. There won’t even be a fingernail left to identify you.”

  In the hallway, a bronze stirrup hung from a chain. The last thing Semerket saw before they closed the grated window was the Asp reaching for it, his death’s-head smile etched on his face.

  “Goodbye, Semerket,” he heard Menef’s faint voice from behind the thick door. “We’d stay and watch, but the king will be wondering where we are. Mustn’t keep royalty waiting, you know.” There was a pause. “Pull the lever,” Menef said. Semerket heard the fading echoes of their footsteps as they walked swiftly away.

  With a great rasping of chain, the sound of moving machinery came to him from the floor above. Wheels were turning, latches falling into place, hidden doors springing open. From behind him, in the cell itself, he heard another noise, and turned swiftly to look. A small portal in the far wall opened. He had not noticed it before, for it was located close to the floor, in the shadows. Two other doors were beside it, but they remained closed.

  A slight movement in the portal’s black recess caught his eye. Something was crawling forward into the light. A rat, Semerket thought. Yet the thing was not gray, as a rat would be, but gleamed iridescently as if it were made of metal. He looked closer. It skittered forward. Its flat, shiny eyes shone in the flickering torchlight, and mandibles moved in its head. Then its long back broke apart. As two wings sprouted, the thing lifted from the ground, and the giant black beetle flew straight at him.

  With a shout of terror, Semerket realized where he was…

  SEMERKET POUNDED ON the chamber’s door, scratching at the wood with his nails, screaming for help. He felt the thing hit his back. Searing pain radiated from the nape of his neck. The beetle had sunk its mandibles into his flesh and clung there, already feasting. Its legs wrapped obscenely around the contours of his shoulders, so that it pressed against him in an almost intimate way. Semerket’s mouth filled with bile.

  He reached behind to pry it away. The beetle made a hissing noise, and he felt it move across his back to avoid his hands. He could not reach it. Swiftly, he turned and rammed himself against the brick wall. There was a satisfying crunch, and the beetle fell to the floor, writhing, legs and mandibles still working spasmodically.

  Other beetles were beginning to emerge from the portal, equal in size to the monster he had just killed. He saw them begin to twitch and quiver as they sought to break open their carapaces and stretch their wings. Though he could barely stand to touch it, he kicked the dying insect over to where the others teemed. They fell on their cousin, swarming over it, devouring it. Even at the opposite end of the chamber, he heard the awful sounds of their jaws working in unison.

  He pounded on the doors again, screaming, “Help! Somebody! Please! Open the door!”

  Semerket pressed his ear to the wood to ascertain if anyone in the corridor moved, but the only thing he heard was another clanging movement from the hidden mechanism above. He turned, gasping, and saw the second portal open across the chamber.

  The scorpion emerged slowly, creeping warily into the light, keeping near the door while it studied the chamber. Semerket saw it raise its forearm, and heard the clack of its pincer, as big as an infant’s fist. Even in his primal state of horror, he stopped to gape at the thing.

  Semerket remembered those scorpions he had seen by the river at Mari, and almost laughed aloud to think that he had once thought them large. The creature he now faced was easily the size of his foot, and its lethal sting curled up over its back like a miniature scimitar.

  Semerket remembered the desert nomads telling him that the larger scorpions possessed the least-toxic venom; it was the sting of the smaller ones that caused the greatest numbers of deaths, and the most agony. But Shepak had told him that these insects in the chamber had reached their grotesque size from a steady diet of human flesh; for all he knew this could be one of the smaller specimens grown large.

  He heard the dry skittering of countless others of its kin trying to wedge themselves out from the portal. But the giant scorpion did not move, and the others behind it could not enter the chamber; the first scorpion seemed to be taking Semerket’s measure before attacking him. Fortunately, it sensed that easier prey was nearby, and it turned, rushing with a blur of legs to the beetle’s carcass. The beetles that feasted on it fled backward, giving the scorpion ample room to dine alone. It was clear which was the dominant insect in the chamber—so far. Semerket watched, sickened, as its claws delicately sheared off pieces of the dead beetle, bringing them to its mouth where its jaws worked busily.

  Other scorpions and beetles boiled out from their hidden lairs. Semerket again pounded on the door, screaming. The insects began to venture near him, and he lunged threateningly at them. He was gratified to see them retreat, but only for a moment.

  Sweet Isis, what was he to do?

  Then, as though Isis herself had sent the thought, he suddenly remembered the young guard.

  The torch!

  Now he knew why the boy had looked so intently at it before he left—and Semerket called down all the gods’ blessings on the lad, who had left it there for his defense. Kind lad, intelligent lad—sweet and wonderful lad—!

  In one leap, Semerket had the torch in his hand.

  He brought it low in a wide circle in front of him. To his relief, the insects clambered away, hysterically piling atop one another, some even attempting to crawl back into their portals. Savagely, he held the torch to them, gleefully watching as they shriveled and died. Even the stench of their bursting carcasses was like perfume to him.

  Semerket heard the overhead mechanism stir itself again, and this time maggots and grubs poured out from the third and final portal—fat squirming things the color of mucus and the size of a man’s thumb. These were the things that were supposed to cleanse his carcass of all the shreds the others had left behind. He burned them as they spilled from the portal, glorying in the sounds their shriveling bodies made, like tiny shrieks as they withered into nothing.

  He actually might survive this, he thought.

  But the hope was dashed as soon as it was born, when he saw the torch begin to sputter, going dim for a moment.

>   Oh, Sweet Isis, no! He could not run short of fuel—not now! Please, please, he begged the torch soundlessly, trying to shake more melted wax from its cone into the flame. But its light was irretrievably dying, and the chamber was becoming dim.

  Once again he banged on the door, screaming. The torch in his hand gutted and flared, plunging the chamber into total darkness, then lighting it up again. To his horror, he saw the insects begin to peek from their portals once more. Their flat, unblinking eyes reflected the momentary bursts of light. Antennae moved, tasting the air, seeking his smell.

  Semerket sank to the floor, his back against the door, and he wept in despair. He had faced death many times, but always at the hands of humans—not like this, engulfed by thousands of tearing jaws and ripping pincers. Worse, at the end of it there would be nothing left of his body. His ka would be doomed to wander the earth forever, looking for it, never able to rest in the eons ahead. Menef had even stolen his eternal life from him…

  The chamber echoed with his sobs. The torch sputtered for a final time and died. Not long now, he thought. He began to mouth the ritual prayer for the dead. “Osiris, who made me,” he began, “raise my arms up again, fill my lungs with your breath. Let me stand at your side…”

  From across the chamber he heard scratching movements coming nearer.

  He inhaled raggedly, rushing to complete his prayer. “In the fields of Iaru…” But terror had burgled the prayer from his memory. “In the fields of Iaru…” he kept whimpering, “of Iaru…”

  Semerket closed his eyes. He held his hands over his ears to shut out the sounds of the skittering, advancing insects. He braced himself for their onslaught…

  Then the world fell out from behind him.

  With his hands to his ears, he had not heard the door’s latch unbolted. Before he even realized what was happening, arms were reaching in to drag him swiftly from the cell. He was dimly aware that the chamber door was being slammed shut, and a moment later, he heard the noise of a thousand chitinous bodies hitting the back of it at full force. Then he was looking up from the floor at the inverted face of Shepak hovering over him.

  “Semerket!” Shepak whispered. “Thank the gods! You’re not hurt?”

  He could not speak. He could not move. He was thinking, I’ve died, I’ve passed through the gates of darkness—and this is what heaven looks like.

  SEMERKET COULD NOT rise from the floor. He was only able to lie on the bricks, staring upward.

  “How did you know I was here?”

  “Your servants found me,” Shepak said.

  Servants? Semerket craned his neck. The brothers Kuri and Galzu, his two Dark Head spies, bent their heads in greeting. He was shocked to see Nidaba as well, standing apart from the rest.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” she said languidly. “I’m not your servant.”

  “But how did you find me here? How did you know?”

  “We had you in sight most of the day, my lord,” said Galzu, wheezing. “Didn’t we promise you that we would? I confess, though, we lost you after you left this lady’s house. You both seemed to disappear suddenly at the end of a street. Luckily, around sunset, we checked the wineshop—merely as a last resort, you know—and saw you there.”

  “I had followed you from…” Nidaba turned away, eyeing Shepak, her Elamite enemy, and bit her lip; she could hardly mention the cisterns to him. “I followed you to the Egyptian Quarter. It took me a while to find where you had gone, but then I heard your shouts. I saw those men surrounding you.”

  “We knew you were in trouble,” said Kuri. “The lady here joined us, then, when she saw that we were also following you. She was most concerned, and wanted us all to attack the men. We convinced her that such a job was hardly fit for a woman. The lady hid here in the corridors while we went to fetch Colonel Shepak from the garrison.”

  Semerket blinked, interrupting them dazedly. “But where is ‘here’? Where am I?” he asked.

  “The palace dungeon, Semerket,” Nidaba told him.

  The dungeon. Of course; that’s why Queen Narunte had been there. And if they were in the dungeon, then—

  Shepak interrupted his fevered thoughts. “When I got here, this lady was trying to rip the door from its hinges. I daresay she would have done it, too.” He looked at Nidaba admiringly. “I’ve never seen a woman so brave—or so strong.”

  Despite the fact that Shepak was the hated invader, Nidaba dimpled prettily.

  Under the full force of Nidaba’s gaze, Shepak had to swallow before he spoke again. “I must tell you, Semerket,” he said, “we didn’t know what we’d find in there.”

  “A few seconds more and you wouldn’t have found anything,” Semerket answered. Shakily, he sat up. It was then that he noticed he was still naked. Hastily, he covered himself with his hands, looking askance at Nidaba; but Nidaba was staring only at Shepak. And Shepak, he noticed, was staring back.

  “Did they happen to leave my clothes behind?” Semerket asked plaintively.

  Shepak and Nidaba joined Kuri and Galzu to search the dim hallway. They found his garments on top of a nearby midden. So sure were his captors of his imminent demise, they hadn’t even bothered to hide them. Shepak and Nidaba helped him dress, for his limbs were still so rubbery that he could barely manage the task. As he donned his clothes, he told his four friends of what he had learned—that Menef and the Asp had been responsible for the raid on the plantation, as well as the Egyptian temple, and that the queen had assisted them in their crimes.

  When he had clothed himself at last, they huddled together, conferring in whispers. “We’ll go to the garrison and put a guard around you,” said Shepak. “Then we’ll ask for an audience with the king. You’ll have to tell him what you know.”

  “No,” said Semerket after a moment. “Not yet. There’s something else I must do here first, one final task.”

  “But what?” asked a puzzled Shepak. “You’ve solved the riddle—at least enough to tell Kutir who the culprits were. What else is there?”

  “If we’re truly in the palace dungeon, then we must be near the burial vaults…?”

  Nidaba and the Dark Heads looked at him quizzically, but it took only a fraction of time for Shepak to comprehend what he meant. Semerket saw the Elamite’s face slam shut. “No,” Shepak said.

  “I must.”

  “I told you before—it’s sacrilege!”

  “Shepak, listen to me. Naia’s body is in one of those jars. I know it now. The last possible thing I can do for her is to take her back with me to Egypt. My one comfort is to know that we’ll be able to lie together in our tomb.”

  Shepak remained obstinate. “How would you like it if we were to come to Egypt and sift through your dead? You need a priest to recite the proper prayers and spells before you can go inside a crypt. It isn’t just a tomb to us—it’s the underworld itself. Ghosts and demons lurk there!”

  Before Semerket could reply, Nidaba delicately coughed, interjecting in a small voice, “I’m a priest.” She shot an alarmed glance at Shepak. “Er, priestess. I serve Ishtar.”

  Semerket looked at Shepak, silently pleading for his consent.

  With a resigned curse, Shepak seized a nearby torch from its sconce.

  THERE WERE ACTUALLY several floors to the palace cellar. Over the generations the Babylonian kings had been forced to dig ever deeper into the fine river soil, creating chambers in which to store the detritus of their reigns—unwanted gifts of tribute, old furniture, tattered hangings. Statues from faraway lands, outlandishly formed and bizarrely colored, emerged from the darkness, caught in the passing light of Shepak’s torch. They seemed, indeed, to lunge forward when the light caught them, like the underworld demons Shepak feared.

  They came to a pair of immense copper-plated doors, set into a blood-red wall. Nidaba began to chant a prayer in her loveliest voice, while Galzu came forward with his knife to dig out the lead that had been poured, molten, into the crack between the doors. Only when Nidaba st
opped her chanting and indicated that he could, did Shepak pull them open.

  The first thing Semerket noticed was the overwhelming smell of honey, overlaid by the sweeter smell of rot. Semerket placed a tentative foot inside the crypt. Nidaba’s prayers must have been effective, for no demons or ghosts rose to do battle with him. With a nod to the others, Semerket reached for the torch that Shepak held.

  “I’m coming with you,” Shepak said.

  “You don’t have to.”

  “You’ll need someone to hold the torch for you.”

  Semerket nodded, grateful for the company.

  “I’m coming, too,” Nidaba said. “I must say the Prayer for the Dead over the jars you unseal.”