by Wilbur Smith
“Naja will not even let me go out hawking or fishing without Asmor to wet-nurse me,” he complained bitterly.
He had not known that Taita was to be at the welcoming ceremony in the temple courtyard until he had seen him there. He had believed him to be at Gebel Nagara. At his first opportunity, when Naja and Asmor were locked in the truce conclave with Apepi, Trok and the other Hyksosian warlords, he had browbeaten his guards and blustered his way out of the quarters to which he had been confined to come to Taita.
“Life is so dull without you, Taita. I think I might die of boredom. Naja must let us be together again. You should cast a spell on him.”
“It is something we can consider,” Taita avoided the suggestion adroitly, “but now we have little time. Naja will send the whole army out to search for us once he finds that we are missing from the temple. I must tell you my own news.” Rapidly, in simple outline, he told Nefer what had happened to him since their last meeting. He explained the relationship between Naja and Trok, and described how he had visited the scene of Pharaoh Tamose’s death and the discovery he had made there.
Nefer listened without interruption, but when Taita spoke of the death of his father his eyes filled with tears. He looked away, coughed and wiped his eyes on the back of his hand.
“Now you can appreciate the danger you are in,” Taita told him. “I am certain that Naja had much to do with Pharaoh’s murder, and the closer we come to the proof of it, the greater that danger becomes.”
“One day I will avenge my father,” Nefer vowed, and his voice was cold and hard.
“And I will help you do it,” Taita promised, “but now we must protect you from Naja’s malice.”
“How do you plan to do that, Taita? Can we escape from Egypt as we planned before?”
“No.” Taita shook his head. “Naturally I have considered that course, but Naja has us too securely imprisoned here. If we tried to run for the frontier again we would have a thousand chariots hot behind us.”
“What can we do, then? You are in danger also.”
“No. I have convinced Naja that he cannot succeed without my help.” He described the false divination ceremony at the temple of Osiris, and how Naja believed that Taita could share with him the secret of eternal life.
Nefer grinned at the Magus’ cunning. “So what do you plan?”
“We must wait until the right time to either escape or rid the world of Naja’s evil presence. In the meantime I will protect you as best I can.”
“How will you do that?”
“Naja sent me to Apepi to arrange this peace conference.”
“Yes, I know that you went to Avaris. They told me that when I demanded to see you.”
“Not to Avaris, but to Apepi’s battle headquarters at Bubastis. Once Apepi had agreed to the meeting with Naja, I was able to convince him that they should seal the treaty by a marriage between you and Apepi’s daughter. Once you are under the protection of the Hyksosian king, Naja’s knife will be blunted. He could not risk plunging the land back into civil war by voiding the treaty.”
“Apepi is going to give me his daughter as a wife?” Nefer stared at him in wonder. “The one in the red dress whom I saw at the ceremony this morning?”
“Yes,” Taita agreed. “Mintaka is her name.”
“I know her name,” Nefer assured him vehemently. “She is named after the tiny star in the belt of the Hunter constellation.”
“Yes, that’s her.” Taita nodded. “Mintaka, the ugly one with the big nose and funny mouth.”
“She is not ugly!” Nefer flared at him, springing to his feet so that he almost overturned the skiff and dumped them in the mud of the lagoon. “She is the most beautiful…” When he saw the expression on Taita’s face, he subsided. “I mean, she is quite pleasing to look at.” He grinned ruefully. “You always catch me out. But you must admit to me that she’s beautiful, Taita.”
“If you like big noses, and funny mouths.”
Nefer picked up a dead fish from the bilges and threw it at his head. Taita ducked. “When can I speak to her?” Nefer asked, trying to sound as though it were a request of no real importance to him. “She does speak Egyptian, doesn’t she?”
“She speaks it as well as you do,” Taita assured him.
“Then when can I meet her? You can arrange it for me.”
Taita had anticipated this request. “You could invite the Princess and her suite to a hunt here in the swamps, and perhaps a picnic afterward.”
“I will send Asmor to invite her this very afternoon,” Nefer decided, but Taita shook his head.
“He would go to the Regent first, and Naja would immediately see the danger. He would never allow it, and once he was alerted he would do everything in his power to prevent you coming together.”
“What shall we do, then?” Nefer looked agitated.
“I will go to her myself,” Taita promised, and at that moment there were faint shouts from different directions in the papyrus swamps around them, and the splash of paddles. “Asmor has found out that you are missing, and has sent his hounds to bring you in,” Taita said. “It proves how difficult it will be to elude him. Now, listen carefully, for we have little time before we will be separated again.”
They spoke quickly, making arrangements to exchange messages in any emergency and to put other plans into place, but all the time the shouting and splashing was growing louder, drawing nearer. Within minutes a light fighting galley packed with armed men burst through the screen of papyrus, thrust onward by twenty oars. A shout went up from the command deck: “There is Pharaoh! Steer for the skiff!”
The Hyksos had set up a practice field on the alluvial plain abutting the papyrus swamp of the river. When Taita came down from the temple, two battalions of Apepi’s guards were exercising at arms under a cloudless sky from which the morning sun blazed down. Two hundred fully armed men were running relay races through the swamp, toiling waist-deep through the mud, while squadrons of chariots performed complicated evolutions out on the plain, from columns of four forming a single line ahead, then fanning out into lines abreast. Dust swirled out behind the racing wheels, the lance tips shot beams of sunlight and the brightly colored pennants danced in the wind.
Taita stopped by the butts to watch for a while as the line of fifty archers shot at a hundred cubits, each man loosing five rapid arrows. Then they raced forward to the straw man-shaped targets, retrieved their arrows and shot again at the next line of targets two hundred cubits farther on. The flail of the instructor fell heavily on the back of any man who was slow to cross the open ground or who missed the mark when he shot. The bronze studs on the leather thongs left spots of bright blood where they bit through the linen tunics.
Taita walked on unchallenged. As he passed, the matched pairs of lancers who were practicing the standard thrusts and blocks with warlike shouts broke off their bouts and fell silent. They followed him with a respectful gaze. His was a fearsome reputation. Only after he had passed did they engage each other again.
At the far end of the field, on the short green grass beside the swamp, a single chariot was speeding through a course of markers and targets. It was one of the scout chariots, with spoked wheels and bodywork of woven bamboo, very fast and light enough for two men to lift and carry over an obstacle.
It was drawn by a pair of magnificent bay mares from the personal string of King Apepi. Their hoofs threw up lumps of turf as they spun round the markers at the end of the course and came back at full gallop with the light chariot bouncing and swerving behind them.
Lord Trok was driving, leaning forward with the reins wrapped around his wrists. His beard fluttered in the wind, his mustaches and the colored ribbons were blown back over his shoulders as he urged the horses on with wild shouts. Taita had to acknowledge his skill: even at such speed he had the pair under perfect control, running a tight line between the markers, giving the archer on the footplate beside him the best chance at the targets as they sped past.
/> Taita leaned on his staff as he watched the chariot come on at full gallop. There was no mistaking the slim straight figure and royal bearing. Mintaka was dressed in a pleated crimson skirt that left her knees bare. The cross-straps of her sandals were wound high around her shapely calves. She wore a leather guard on her left wrist, and a hard leather cuirass moulded to the shape of her small round breasts. The leather would protect her tender nipples from the whip of the bowstring as she loosed her arrows at the targets as they sped by.
Mintaka recognized Taita, called a greeting and waved her bow over her head. Her dark hair was covered by a fine-woven net and it bounced on her shoulders at each jolt of the chariot. She wore no makeup, but the wind and exertion had rouged her cheeks and put a sparkle in her eyes. Taita could not imagine Heseret riding as lance-bearer in a war chariot, but Hyksosian attitudes toward women were different.
“Hathor smile upon you, Magus!” She laughed as Trok brought the chariot to a broadsiding halt in front of him. He knew that Mintaka had adopted the gentle goddess as her patron, rather than one of the monstrous Hyksosian deities.
“May Horus love you forever, Princess Mintaka,” Taita returned her blessing. It was a mark of his affection that he accorded her the royal title when he would not acknowledge her father as King.
She jumped down in the dust cloud and ran to embrace him, reaching up to throw her arms around his neck so that the hard edge of her cuirass dug into his ribs. She felt him wince and stepped back. “I have just shot five heads straight,” she boasted.
“Your warlike skills are exceeded only by your beauty.” He smiled.
“You do not believe me,” she challenged. “You think that just because I am a girl I cannot draw a bow.” She did not wait for his disclaimer but ran back to the chariot and leaped up onto the footplate. “Drive on, Lord Trok,” she commanded. “Another circuit. At your best speed.”
Trok shook out the reins and turned the chariot so sharply that the inside wheel stood still. Then, as he lined up, he shouted, “Ha! Ha!” and they sped away down the course.
Each target was set on top of a short pole, at the level of the eye of the archer. They were in the shape of human heads, each carved from a block of wood. There was no mistaking their nationality. Each dummy head was a caricature of an Egyptian warrior, complete with helmet and regimental insignia, and the painted features were as grotesque as ogres.
Little doubt of the artist’s opinion of us, Taita thought wryly.
Mintaka plucked an arrow from the bin on the dashboard, nocked and drew. She held her aim, the bright yellow fletchings touching her pursed lips as though in a kiss. Trok brought the chariot in toward the first target, trying to give her a fair shot, but the ground was rough. Even though she flexed from the knees to ride the bumps, she swayed with the motion of the carriage.
As the target flashed by, Mintaka loosed, and Taita found he was holding his breath for her. He need not have worried, for she handled the light bow with perfect aplomb. The arrow slapped into the left eye of the dummy and quivered there, the yellow fletching bright in the sunlight.
“Bak-her!” He applauded, and she laughed with delight as the chariot raced on. Twice more she shot. One arrow lodged deep in the forehead, the next in the mouth of the target. It was excellent shooting even for a veteran charioteer, let alone a slip of a girl.
Trok spun the chariot around the far marker and they came back again. The horses’ ears were laid back, their manes flying. Mintaka shot again, scoring another hit right on the tip of the dummy’s oversized nose.
“By Horus!” Taita said, with surprise. “She shoots like a djinn!”
The last target came up fast and Mintaka was balancing gracefully, cheeks flushed and white teeth gleaming as she bit her lip in concentration. She shot and the arrow flew high and right, missing the head by the breadth of a hand.
“Trok, you clumsy oaf! You drove straight into that hole just as I was loosing!” she yelled at him.
She jumped down from the chariot while it was still moving and blazed up at Trok, “You did that on purpose to make a fool of me in the sight of the Magus!”
“Your Highness, I am mortified by my own incompetence.” The mighty Trok was as awkward as a small boy in the face of her anger. Taita saw that his feelings for her were every bit as ardent as he had suspected.
“You are not forgiven. I shall not allow you the privilege of driving me again. Not ever.”
Taita had not seen her show such spirit before, and this, together with her recent exhibition of marksmanship, sent his good opinion of her to an even higher level. This is a fitting wife for any man, even a pharaoh of the Tamosian dynasty, he decided, but he was careful not to show any sign of levity, lest Mintaka switch her wrath to him. He need not have worried, though, for as soon as she turned to face him her smile bloomed again.
“Four out of five is good enough for a warrior of the Red Road, Your Highness,” Taita assured her, “and it was indeed a treacherous hole that you hit.”
“You must be thirsty, Taita. I know I am.” She took his hand artlessly and led him to where her maids had spread a woven woolen rug at the edge of the river, and laid out platters of sweetmeats and jugs of sherbet.
“There is so much I have to ask you, Taita,” she told him, as she settled on the sheepskin rug beside him. “I have not seen you since you left Bubasti.”
“How is your brother, Khyan?” he forestalled her question.
“He is his usual self,” she laughed, “if not even naughtier than before. My father has ordered that he join us here as soon as he has fully recovered. He wants all his family around him when the truce is signed.” They chatted of trivialities for a while longer, but Mintaka was distracted. He waited for her to broach the subject uppermost in her mind. She surprised him by turning suddenly to Trok, who was standing nearby with a hang-dog air.
“You may leave us now, my lord,” she said to him coolly.
“Will you ride with me again tomorrow morning, Princess?” Trok was close to pleading.
“Tomorrow I shall probably be otherwise occupied.”
“Then the day after?” Even his mustache seemed to droop pitifully.
“Fetch me my bow and my quiver before you go,” she ordered, ignoring his question. He brought them to her like a lackey, and placed them close to her hand.
“Farewell, my lord.” She turned back to Taita. Trok hovered for a few minutes longer, then stomped off to his chariot.
As he drove off, Taita murmured, “How long has Trok been in love with you?”
She looked startled, then laughed delightedly. “Trok in love with me? Why, that’s ridiculous! Trok is as ancient as the Pyramids at Giza—he must be almost thirty years old! And he has three wives and Hathor only knows how many concubines!”
Taita drew one of her arrows from the magnificently decorated quiver and inspected it casually. The fletchings were blue and yellow, and he touched the tiny carved signet on the shaft.
“The three stars of the Hunter’s belt,” he remarked, “with Mintaka the brightest.”
“Blue and yellow are my favorite colors.” She nodded. “My arrows are all made for me by Grippa. He is the most famous fletcher in Avaris. Each of the arrows he makes is perfectly straight and balanced to fly true. His decorations and signets are works of art. Look how he has carved and painted my star.” Taita turned the arrow between his fingers and admired it at length, before returning it to the quiver.
“What is Trok’s arrow signet?” he asked casually.
She made a gesture of annoyance. “I do not know. For all I care it is probably a wild hog, or an ox. I have had enough of Trok for this day and many days to come.” She poured sherbet into Taita’s bowl. “I know how you like honey.” Ostentatiously she changed the subject, and Taita waited for her to choose the next.
“Now, I have certain delicate things to discuss with you,” she admitted shyly. She picked a wild flower from the grass on which they sat and began to twist it i
nto the beginning of a garland, still not looking at him, but her cheeks, which had lost the flush of exertion, turned rosy once more.
“Pharaoh Nefer Seti is fourteen years and five months old, almost a year older than you. He was born under the sign of the Ibex, which makes a fine match for your Cat.”
Taita had anticipated her, and she looked up at him in astonishment. “How did you know what I was going to ask you?” Then she clapped her hands. “Of course you knew. You are the Magus.”
“Speaking of Pharaoh, I have come to deliver a message from His Majesty,” Taita told her.
Immediately all her attention was fixed on him. “A message? Does he even know I exist?”
“He is very much aware of that fact.” Taita sipped his sherbet. “This needs a little more honey.” He poured some into the bowl, and stirred.
“Do not tease me, Warlock,” she snapped at him. “Give me my message at once.”
“Pharaoh invites you and your suite to a duck hunt in the swamps tomorrow at dawn, and afterward to a picnic breakfast on the Isle of the Little Dove.”
The dawn sky was the glowing shade of a sword blade fresh from the coals of the forge. The top of the papyrus formed a stark black frieze below it. In this time before the sunrise there was no breath of air to set them nodding, or any sound to break the stillness.
The two hunting skiffs were moored at opposite ends of a small lagoon, hard against the wall of reeds that surrounded the open water. Less than fifty cubits separated them. The royal huntsmen had bent the tall papyrus stems over to form a screening roof over the hunters.
The surface of the lagoon was still and unruffled, reflecting the sky like a polished bronze mirror. It was just light enough for Nefer to make out the graceful form of Mintaka in the other boat. She had her bow across her lap, and she sat as motionless as a statuette of the goddess Hathor. Any other girl he could think of, particularly his own sisters Heseret and Merykara, would have been hopping around like a canary on a perch and twittering twice as loudly.
