by Brad Geagley
Semerket dropped his eyes, unable to withstand her forthright gaze. Everything she said was true.
“Now you know why I could not let her go to you, or even tell you she was here—not until I showed her myself what the stars predicted for you.”
“And have you told her?”
“Tonight. Then she will decide for herself what her future will be. Know that she has been offered a place here. It’s the right we grant to all the women who ask our help. No man may claim her from these premises without her own consent.”
He swallowed. “When will I know her decision?”
“Wait outside the gate at midmorning, tomorrow. You will have your answer then. But mind you, do not yell at our gate, for it is the Day of the False King and we have our own rituals to perform.”
SO HE SAT in the hot sun on the Day of the False King, his feet dangling in the gagu’s moat. Hope seared Semerket’s soul, yet despair also chilled him. What would she decide, knowing that life with him meant having death for their constant companion? But Mother Mylitta had done nothing other than confirm what everyone in Egypt already instinctively knew—that Semerket was a Follower of Set, a man of chaos and danger.
Screams erupted in the nearby courtyard, and he quickly turned his head, his heart in his throat. But the crowd was only watching the antics of gymnasts walking a tight rope; one of them had pretended to fall, catching herself at the last moment.
Semerket breathed deeply to calm himself.
There were a myriad of smells in the air that day—fish from the river sizzled on the food vendors’ griddles; fresh-baked bread dipped in honey was given free to children (his gorge rose, for after the crypts he doubted that he would ever willingly taste honey again); waterfowl turned on spits, their skins crackling in the flames’ heat, fat dripping down to sputter on the orange coals.
Yet he knew at once when her familiar scent of citrus oil came over him, obliterating every other smell.
He turned.
“My love,” she said.
Then she was in his arms.
IN LATER YEARS, Semerket would remember those short weeks that followed the Day of the False King as the happiest of his life. He and Naia were honored guests in the sanctuary of Bel-Marduk, where his one-time slave was crowned king of Babylonia. They winced when High Magus Adad slapped Marduk smartly across the face before setting the mitered crown on his head. Tersely, Adad reminded both Marduk and the crowded room that kings in Babylonia are mortal, and that kingship is a painful duty. Despite that moment of shock, the ceremony proved so long and intricate that he and Naia fidgeted with boredom. They leaned forward, rapt, however, when Marduk stepped forward to grasp the outstretched golden hand of Bel-Marduk’s idol. Semerket half-expected that lightning would strike, or that the fonts of holy water would begin to boil, but nothing of the sort happened. Yet, when he thought about it later, he realized that something holy and mystical had indeed occurred, the quiet miracle of a people taking back their nation after three hundred years of servitude to foreigners. And, perhaps most miraculous of all, he had played a part in it.
At the festivities that night, Nidaba sang a special song of praise to Semerket. Sitting with Naia at the royal dais, he was more embarrassed than flattered. Naia snickered behind her hand as he flushed red, struggling to assume a dignified air as Nidaba intoned the thanks of a grateful nation. Though her voice was thrilling as ever, the ancient text Nidaba sang alluded to tales with which he and Naia had little familiarity. The two of them slipped away from the festivities as early as decency would allow.
More than the honors and gifts that Marduk showered on them, it was their time alone in their hostel’s bed, whispering the night away, that Semerket would remember always as their happiest moments. And it was there, as she nestled in his arms, that Naia revealed the remaining pieces of the mystery to him.
“When did you know I was alive?” she asked, stroking the scar on his forehead.
“The moment I saw Princess Pinikir in that terrible jar, wearing the scarf I gave you. I knew exactly what you’d done, you stupid woman—”
“What did you call me?”
“You changed clothes with her, didn’t you? To save her life.”
“What if I did?” she admitted, unwilling but still defiant.
“Stupid.”
“But, Semerket! I didn’t think they’d come after a servant. She had a child at home waiting for her—”
“And you didn’t?”
“But I had no hope of ever returning to him.” Naia’s eyes became moist. “Poor woman. I thought she might have a chance of seeing him again if she was dressed like a servant. How could I know that my poor robes actually made her a target?”
“As hers made you one.”
“Ah, but by then the mansion was in flames and there was no one to see me go out the back door.”
He held her close. “And then you hid in the river.”
“I?” she said, surprised. “No.”
“But you were dripping wet when you went into the village, jabbering madly in Egyptian. Did you know that the villagers thought you were a river nymph, speaking the language of immortals?”
“Did they really?” she said, momentarily charmed by the notion. “No, when the raiders set fire to the plantation, I ran out the back way through the flames. The princess’s mantle had caught fire, so I jumped into the well. The river was much too far away, and they would surely have seen me in the light of the flames. It took me all night to climb back up that rope.”
“Clever girl.”
“So now I’m clever!”
“I admit it. And beautiful, too.”
They kissed, for how long a time Semerket did not know.
“So after you hid in the village, you went to the gagu.”
“It was the only place I knew to go. Mother Mylitta had offered us sanctuary earlier that night. Rami was dead—at least I thought he was—and you certainly weren’t there to rescue me. I didn’t know what else to do, other than go to her.”
A sudden horrid thought struck him. “When you were at the gagu,” he asked, “what were your duties there?”
“They sent me out with the donkey trains sometimes, to help deliver the gold they covered in bitumen. Why?”
He thought back to that moment when he had arrived in Babylon, when he had seen the gagu’s women for the first time. Semerket had almost called out to one of them because she had reminded him of Naia.
Sweet Isis, he wondered—what if that woman truly had been his wife all along?
Naia saw his brow furrow in self-reproach. “Ketty, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he said quickly. Firmly he put the thought aside. Everything had turned out well in the end and there was no use in rebuking himself for things that might have been.
“Were you happy in the gagu?” he asked.
“I suppose.”
“What changed your mind about staying there?”
“What do you mean, ‘changed my mind’? I never intended to stay there in the first place. I am not the type to spend my life among women. You should know me well enough by now to realize that.” She pressed herself close to him.
“Even after Mother Mylitta told you about my future? How dangerous it would be?”
“Even then.”
“What convinced you I was worth the risk?”
“Oh, really, as if she were telling me anything I didn’t already know! These astrologers always predict the obvious and then expect everybody to gasp in awe. Ketty, I’ve always known you work in a dangerous profession. And I’ve always known you’re worth the risk. As for the rest of it, the dangers ahead—if they really exist—we’ll face them together, won’t we?”
“Kiss me,” he said.
“I just did.”
“Again.”
AT THE END of the festival, guards escorted the two False Kings into a nearby temple. There, magi and shamans read from prayer books, rattling their sistra and blowing into shrill pipes.
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��What are these fools doing now?” muttered the Asp.
“I don’t know!” hissed Menef in misery. He was bruised and stinking from the many pieces of offal and shards of broken pottery hurled at him during the festival.
The two were unaware that their most important function as False Kings would soon commence. The priests began to cast spells, ensuring that all the sins committed by King Marduk during the previous year were magically transferred to them. They also did not know that at the end of every festival, the False King was slain so that he could take the true king’s sins with him into the underworld. In ancient days, when the country had been poor, a goat was used for the ceremony. But as Babylon grew more prosperous and sophisticated, men were given the honor instead.
It was the prerogative of the reigning king to decide whether to be merciful when slaying a False King. Since Menef had been a dignitary and the Asp a soldier, Marduk (after consulting with Semerket) decided to administer a drug-laced wine to them. Shortly thereafter, they fell into a coma.
It was not a deep sleep, however, for the drug was not a powerful one. When they awoke, almost simultaneously, they found themselves in a brick cell, stripped of all their royal raiment. They had no idea where they were, and looked about in hazy wonder.
A small window in a nearby door suddenly snapped shut.
They heard a muffled order given from outside the cell. Only when Menef heard the grinding sound of gears moving into place above him did he know, finally, where he was. Then he began to scream, just as Semerket had.
The Asp, however, did not waste his breath with screaming. He reached out and seized the former Egyptian ambassador by his shoulders, and threw him to where the insects were streaming from their lairs. They immediately engulfed Menef, his body becoming a roiling mass of double-jointed legs and jaws and fluttering wings. Soon the ambassador was dead, yet still his body moved and writhed.
If the Asp thought the insects would be content with only Menef, he was mistaken. When the insects had reduced the ambassador to a glistening pile of milky bones, they turned with clicks and hisses toward the second False King, staring at him with their flat, shiny eyes.
Then it was the Asp’s turn to scream. Briefly.
SOME WEEKS LATER, on a day that the magi declared the most auspicious, the priests moved Bel-Marduk’s idol into his shrine of carved and gilded wood, to be strapped atop a wagon drawn by a hundred oxen. The wagon itself had twelve wooden wheels, inlaid with ivory, surmounted by two carved, winged dragons. The wagon gleamed with a fresh coat of paint, and its traceries of gold and inset gems gleamed in the hot sun. Silver bells strung around the wagon rang riotously in the morning air, frightening away any ill-intentioned demons that might be lurking. The ox-drivers eased the huge wagon onto the road that led to the northwest; as it moved slowly forward, it seemed indeed a coach fit for heaven’s corridors.
Behind it was a secondary wagon, where Semerket rode beside High Magus Adad. Semerket was clad in a plain white linen tunic, wearing the scarred and bent badge of office that Pharaoh had bestowed on him. Never again would he be without it; the falcon jewel had saved his life, and he now regarded it with superstitious awe.
As the secondary coach was pulled into position behind the god’s equipage, the high magus leaned over to Semerket, whispering into his ear, “I knew all along we’d be going to Egypt together, you know. A sheep’s liver told me.”
Semerket merely smiled, saying nothing, and turned to look at the god’s entourage that followed behind.
An array of carts, chariots, and drays composed the rest of the god’s train. In them were Bel-Marduk’s lesser magi and his singers, as well as a bevy of beautiful virgins to warm his nights. A long line of Isin soldiers marched beside them, protection for their journey into Egypt.
Also in the entourage, at its rear, was a small cart bearing three coffins carved in the Egyptian manner. They contained the newly mummified bodies of Senmut, Wia, and Aneku. Semerket himself would ensure that a fine tomb would be fashioned for them in Thebes’ City of the Dead. It was the least he could do for them, he reasoned.
Behind that cart was the litter that carried Rami. Though the boy declared himself well enough to sit beside Semerket at the front of the queue, both Naia and his attending physician, Kem-weset, forbade him to do so. Despite his sternness, the old physician was all smiles that morning, for he had eagerly accepted Semerket’s invitation to care for them along their tedious, dangerous passage. Babylon was thus losing its greatest physician, and its wineshops their most devout patron. Naia and Kem-weset rode close to Rami’s litter on little white donkeys, fiercely guarding the lad like a pair of eagles watching over their chick.
Cheering crowds of Dark Heads lined the road, come to bid their god a safe journey. Prominent in the crowd were the brothers Galzu and Kuri, Semerket’s former spies. The night before, Semerket had given them a sack full of Pharaoh’s gold (for had they not twice saved the life of Pharaoh’s envoy?), and they were now counted among the richest men in Babylon. Arrayed in splendid robes and feathered turbans, the brothers bowed elaborately as Semerket passed. He nodded his head gravely to them, saluting them in the Egyptian fashion.
At the crossroads, King Marduk waited on his stallion. “Semerket!” he called out in his flat, northern Egyptian accent. “I find that I cannot do without your dour face and sad eyes. When will you come back to us?”
Semerket could not say to Babylon’s new king that he hoped never to lay foot in his cursed kingdom again. So he merely shook his head. “You must speak to my wife, Sire,” he answered, “for she has the say of my coming and going now.”
Marduk rode to where Semerket sat in the coach. He leaned forward in his saddle to clasp Semerket’s arm. Suddenly unable to speak, the king thrust a leather packet into Semerket’s hands, and turned his horse away. Without looking back, he rode swiftly through the Ishtar Gate and into his capital city. It was not until some hours had passed that Semerket even thought to look inside the packet. Five pieces of gold glinted out at him from its folds. Semerket laughed aloud—for the king of Babylon had at last redeemed the purchase price that Semerket had paid the Elamites for him all those days back in Mari.
Semerket raised his head. By every measure, he was returning to Egypt in triumph. He had found the woman who was his life and the boy who had called across nations for his help. He was bringing the sacred idol back to his king, just as he had vowed he would. Yet even then, a part of Semerket remained sorely troubled. He knew now that Image: there were those in Egypt who still sought his death, and that the terrible queen Tiya had reached even through the Gates of Darkness to try to gather those he loved into her vengeful embrace. And he knew as surely as he lived that her restless spirit would try to do it again. But with Naia at his side, he would never fear the future. Though Mother Mylitta’s stars had predicted terrible times ahead, he would face them boldly.
What other choice had he, really?
Toward afternoon, winds from the west began blowing over the river plains. Semerket lifted his head and inhaled deeply, and in them was the scent of Egypt—of home.
Epilogue
PRINCE MAYATUM’S MAJOR-DOMO COUGHED discreetly at the door to his bedchamber, holding a terracotta lantern in his hand. When the sounds of slumber continued unabated, the man hissed to the servant girl lying beside the prince. “Wake him,” he said. “For pity’s sake—his brother’s guards are all over the front hall!”
The girl’s eyes shot open. Whenever the prince demanded her for the night, she was careful never to disturb him when he slept, not even to leave the room to make water. She had discovered over the few weeks she had been in his house that if she inadvertently roused him from sleep, it often engendered a hard slap—or worse, another bout of rough lovemaking. Already bruises around her throat were beginning to darken, inflicted by the prince’s hands where he had held her as he climaxed.
The girl’s eyes grew wide and pleading. She shook her head so slightly that it might have
been a tremor. “No!” she mouthed silently. “You do it!”
Cursing his luck, the man tentatively approached the prince’s side. “Highness,” he whispered, leaning down to the royal ear. “Highness, wake…”
There was a stirring on the bed. It was a moment before Mayatum recognized who had called to him. Mayatum reached out to pinch the major-domo’s fleshy upper arm. “I told you I wasn’t to be wakened until noon.”
Stifling his yelp of pain, the man spoke in a soothing voice. “I would never dare to disturb your slumber, Great Prince, were it not for that fact that Pharaoh has sent his heralds for you.”
Prince Mayatum sat up, swinging his legs to the floor. It was the middle of the night. “What are they doing here at this hour?” he whined petulantly.
