by D. S.
“I would.”
They turned in unison to see who was interrupting their business. A pair of strikingly blue eyes met their gaze. Much of the man’s face was swollen and battered ... there was a lot of that going round. He wore strange multi-coloured robes and held a leather money pouch of impressive size in hand. A moment he glanced at the slave before shrugging with obvious indifference. “Is lying face down in the mud whimpering like a whipped cur the limit of her talents?”
Narmer shrugged. “Aye, well, I won’t lie, she’s not the brightest. A lackwit I reckon, slow to learn her new place in things. But what matter? Her mouth can be put to better use than debating philosophy.”
The stranger laughed well at that, but there was an odd look in his eyes. They found their way back to Narmer and did not stray again. Shiri looked up, red eyes searching to see who it was that deemed her worth twenty pieces of copper. There was something vaguely familiar about him, but she couldn’t quite place it. All these soldiers looked the same to her anyway. This one was of the same foul breed as the others, laughing at cruel jests and buying and selling folk at his whim.
“Hold up a minute I was here first,” Bomani stepped between the two men in fear of being forgotten. “Alright I’ll give you twenty. And I’ll have her now.”
Narmer considered him for a moment and slowly shook his head. “Nay, I’m afraid I find myself growing attached to her and...” he nodded at the new arrival, “the demand seems to be rising. On second thoughts I won’t be letting her go for less than twenty five.”
Bomani loosed a series of oaths. “Why you dirty scoundrel! I’ve never seen the like! A man says he’ll take such a price and when it’s offered he refuses! By the gods what type of villains am I dealing with at all?” He exhaled first in anger, then in resignation. “Alright then, twenty five, but I’ll remember this, be sure of that.”
“Fifty”
Bomani swung round. Cold blue eyes looked past him dismissively; they seemed to know the soldier could not better the offer. “What!? Fifty?? Man are you mad? She’s just a scrawny Habiru slut! A lackwit! Narmer himself admits as much!”
The stranger didn’t deem the man worthy of a response; his eyes were once again fixed on Narmer. Bomani clenched his fists, staring from Narmer, to slave, to stranger. If he didn’t know better he’d swear Narmer and the stranger were in cahoots. Fifty debens. It was ridiculous. He’d have five for that price. He cursed, “Ah to Apeth with it, to Apeth with you both,” he flapped his hands despondently and pounded off looking for better value stock.
“It’s Narmer isn’t it?” the stranger said. “Hero of Megiddo, slayer of the Shepherd King?”
Narmer raised an eyebrow. “Aye, who wants to know? Besides, ‘twas Prince Amenhotep that slew the King, they went sword to sword in the square.”
“Aye, that’s what the reports say true enough, but the gossips tell it different. I’ve a mind to take me a ghaffir. I’ll be wanting the best and I pay well, as you can see.”
Narmer’s eyes narrowed. “Mayhap you do,” he said. “But Amenhotep pays better. Take the slut and be on your way.”
The stranger stared at him for an uncomfortably long moment. It was almost as if he was commending his features to memory. In that look Narmer imagined he saw hate, hate and anger. He held the man’s gaze, allowing his fingers to slide to the hilt of his sword. The stranger’s eyes followed the movement and suddenly he grinned. The tension passed. “Aye, well, if ever your situation changes, seek Yuya of Heliopolis. I’ll see you get all you deserve.”
Narmer’s eyes widened. “Ah, so you’re the one everybody’s been talking about! The slayer of the Shepherd Prince! They say Pharaoh was impressed by your tale, if not your jester’s rags. How much gold did he reward you for your services then?”
The man shrugged. “Enough.” He tossed a handful of coins on the ground next to Narmer and went to the girl. He offered her an outstretched hand and a smile that under other circumstances would have seemed kindly. He saw only hatred in her eyes.
XV
Solon mopped his brow. Blood was on his hands. Blood was on his clothes. Blood was in his hair and under his fingernails, but still the wounded kept coming. It was ever thus when Pharaoh donned the Blue Crown. Songs told tales of victory and glory. Legend spoke of mighty deeds and heroic death by sword or spear, experience told of tears, whimpers and pain. He shook his head. Easier to close your eyes and sing, than open them and weep.
He bound their wounds and treated them with all manner of herbs. Oft as not it was the same procedure, there was little time for subtleties. A broth of coriander to reduce fever, honey to resist Sekhmet’s foul vapours, and henna, most commonly found on breast and cheek of great ladies to seal their wounds. Then he would move onto the next. But it was not always so. Fifty times this day he’d sighed and called for a mouthful of belladonna or hemlock to help put an end to a man’s pain.
He’d tended hundreds so far. Some would live and return to the Two Lands short arm, leg or spirit. Those he accounted lucky. Too many would remain in Jezreel and rest forever beside the folk they had slain. Solon rose from his latest charge. The stretcher bearers had left him in a pretty fix. The man was a rebel plain as day, but they’d bungled him into the carts along with the rest, and it wasn’t until Solon himself had come across him that the mistake had been realised.
Rebel or not, Solon had tended him all the same. The broken arm had been set with due skill and would mend in time, but his ribs were crushed, his leg twisted and deformed. A moment Solon contemplated the hemlock. But the man had opened his eyes and the surgeon saw strength there. Holding a damp cloth to the man’s brow, he called for a broth of coriander. His patient’s eyes flicked open a second time. “You ... save Aretas ... Aretas thank you.”
“You best be keeping your mouth shut or the only thing I’ll have saved you for is Amenhotep’s dogs.”
The man looked confused, but Solon’s herbal concoction seemed to be bringing his senses back. “You trouble now?”
“‘Tis not my place to haul in the wounded or recognise friend from foe. I’m just here to tend those put before me. I shouldn’t even be here truth be told, this old man’s a bowyer by trade, but ‘tis my curse to be master of more than one art.”
“You good man.”
“A foolish man more like,” he grinned. “Your Egyptian is a deal better than most in these parts.”
“Prince Josef teach me some word, he good man too.”
“He was a good man.” Solon corrected. “And a more foolish one than me at that – fancy thinking he could play at war when young master Tuthmosis is about? Now there’s a rare form of lunacy and no mistake.” He shrugged, “Well, he got a knife in the neck for his troubles.”
Aretas slumped back on the stretcher, but Solon imagined he saw a thin smile on his lips. Aretas closed his eyes. He’d dragged his broken body for nearly a mile through death and blood until finally he came to where Prince Josef had been impaled. The Gypto’s had meant the display to be a warning to any who would dare dream of freedom.
Aretas had sworn to die by his prince’s side and even in defeat he had intended to keep that oath. But when he arrived beneath the corpse he’d laughed in coughs of blood and laid down his head waiting to die, content that he had failed to keep his promise. He opened his eyes again. “Yes ... was a good man.” The smile was broad and wide.
Not more than a few minutes had past and Solon was nearing the end of his work on the man’s leg when he heard a voice behind him, “What’s going on here, bowyer?”
“I’m tending to the wounded. I’d have thought that plain enough.”
“This man is a rebel,” The tone was that of someone correcting a misunderstanding. “He will be taken outside and dealt with in a manner more fitting to him.”
“He will remain here.” Solon answered without turning from the patient.
“You dare defy me! You impudent whelp! Look at me when I’m talking to you!”
S
olon turned to face the man who had disturbed him. Amenhotep glared back at him. His hand was bandaged and held in a sling. The Prince had spent much time displaying the wound to all and sundry, describing how despite the injury he fought on until his foe was defeated. “My father has been too soft on you, Solon, letting you come and go as you please, doing and saying whatever you want. I think it’s time you were taught a lesson in humility, now stand aside.”
Solon was unperturbed. “It seems then, that the father’s wisdom has not graced itself upon the son. Now, how about you trust a man who knows his business to do his job and leave him at it in peace?”
“I trust my blade and my wits, naught else.”
“I wouldn’t trust them beyond half, Sire ... neither are over sharp.”
Amenhotep struggled to contain his anger. “You would speak thusly to the slayer of the Shepherd King?”
“I was speaking to you not your ghaffir.”
Amenhotep inhaled, but managed to hold himself. “Aye, there’s been a deal of rumours about that but I tell you now, I slew the King. Do you proclaim me liar?”
Solon bowed. “Not I, Sire, I’ll listen not to rumour in future.”
The Prince gazed imperiously at him. “It was a close run thing true enough, for he was mighty. But for all his strength I gave him better than I got, ‘ere the end he scratched me, but I took his head an instant later. Isn’t that so, Narmer?”
Narmer who had returned to the Prince’s side after a successful day in the slave markets wagged his tail. “Aye, that’s how I recall it, Your Grace.”
Amenhotep turned back to the old man and offered him a friendly smile, “You’re a man of knowledge rather than wit, friend Solon, for if you had wit you’d be aware that I could make a powerful friend or ... a most unpleasant foe.”
“Unpleasant? Aye, you’re that alright.”
Amenhotep’s eyes flared. He jerked his head and Narmer grabbed Solon from behind, his blade instantly pressing against the old man’s neck. “What should we do with him, Narmer?”
“Cut his throat and have done with him I say.”
Amenhotep feigned surprise and glanced almost sympathetically at the old bowyer. “Oh dear, it seems young Narmer has strong opinions on this. I fear that in my weakened state I may lack the debating skills to convince him otherwise.” He waved his good hand in a helpless gesture. “What say you to that?”
Solon steadied himself, the blade was pressing hard against his throat, but he would not give them the satisfaction of showing fear. “That I’m surprised to learn young Narmer is capable of forming an opinion.” An instant the blade pressed harder. “But ... I was long since aware that your majesty’s debating skills are lacking.”
Amenhotep’s eyes blazed. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t gut you right here, you treasonous dog!”
“I could give you a hundred if you like.” A trickle of blood wound its way down Solon’s neck. “But suffice it to say, I’d rather die here by your hands, than be in your place, as you explain to Pharaoh how you slit the throat of the greatest weapon-smith his army has ever known.”
“You over estimate your worth, old man.”
“Then be about it and add another glorious victory to your pile.”
Amenhotep was breathing deeply, his cheeks red, a vein running up the centre of his forehead looked fit to burst. He glanced at Narmer but gave no signal.
Solon’s lips curved into a smile. “Be off with you then. And be quick about it too, charming company though you are I have work to do.”
Amenhotep gestured to Narmer, and with a grunt the man released him. Solon patted himself down. But Amenhotep was not done yet, “Work? Well, I think perhaps we can aid you in that.” Abruptly, he turned his attention to the patient.
“So this scum is in pain is he?” Before Solon could protest, the Prince nodded to Narmer and an instant later there was a gout of blood at Aretas’s throat. Solon moved to stop him, but Amenhotep stepped in front of him, daring the old man to push him aside. It was one thing for the bowyer to have words with the Prince, another entirely to lay hands on him. Solon was forced to step back. Narmer held his victim’s head firmly in place as he struggled. Soon enough Aretas went still. Amenhotep laughed. “They die easily these rebels.”
Solon looked at him in horror. “You think cutting a defenceless man’s throat is something to be laughed at?”
“I’ll laugh all the harder when I cut yours.”
“You had your chance yet I’m still here.”
Amenhotep laughed again. “Fear not, Solon, I’ll be about it soon enough, but I think perhaps the time is not yet ripe. Still, you’ll be glad to know that my father has been impressed with my deeds in this campaign. He is to name me Co-Regent on the morrow ... so perhaps our next meeting will bear fruit.”
The Prince turned to leave but not before granting Solon a parting morsel of advice. “Stick to the Egyptian patients in future.”
XVI
A coin at a makeshift stand bought him a pair of leather sandals and a thin linen kaftan of Theban style. He passed them to her. She snatched them from him and even with her hands bound together, she managed to hastily draw the kaftan over her head. It felt soft and clean against her skin. The sandals slipped on easily.
“Better?” He asked in Egyptian. She refused to answer, but followed a little less reluctantly after that all the same. He stopped at two more stalls buying wine and robes for himself before leading her to the tent that had been provided for him. All the while he kept his head low. There were many new won slaves about.
He motioned for her to enter, but she seemed suddenly afraid; terrified to be alone with him. There was a shout from a line of slaves filing past, “Look!” One of their number was staring directly at him, a look somewhere between confusion and disbelief on his face. The slave stumbled forward under heavy chains gesticulating violently to a friend in bondage beside him. Harsh words and the crack of a whip put an end to that. The guard turned in Josef’s direction to see what had caught the slave’s attention. The man took a step closer looking curious.
Heart pounding, Josef shoved the girl harder than he would have liked. She fell through the tent flaps, sprawling on the hard earth within. The guard laughed when he saw that and his voice boomed loud, “Aye, even the ones that look dainty and noble have at them pretty hard when they get them alone.” He loosed his whip across his slave’s shoulders, “What’s wrong, dog? Know the slut do you?” He shoved the slave onward and the procession was soon out of sight.
Josef entered swiftly after the girl and with a sense of relief he left his mask drop just a little. He did not like being Yuya. The tent was small, damp, and dark, but it would do for his purposes. Once they were inside Josef closed the flap behind him, shutting out the jeers and whistles from soldiers drinking ale nearby.
The girl scuttled away from him. She went directly to the furthest corner and sat, huddling her knees up about her face. She rocked back and forth whimpering something to herself and occasionally glancing fitfully in his direction, almost as if expecting him to lunge on her at any moment. She was young, mayhap three or four winters less than he. But a few years made a world of a difference.
Where he was tall, broad shouldered and now, handsomely clad according to the latest mode. She was small and wretched, barely half his size. The best of her was the new linen kaftan, but already mud and filth had managed to attach themselves to that. He sighed. I hadn’t planned on this. But while searching for Narmer he’d seen the girl. He’d seen her tears and the depraved looks in her tormentors’ eyes. How could I live with myself if I’d walked away?
Had he been alone and still grasped his sword he would have slain them where they stood. He owed Narmer that much, girl or no. But he was not alone, he was in the middle of the enemy camp with twenty thousand Gypto soldiers, so he did the only thing he could do; with a hundred debens fresh in his pocket he’d bought her.
Shiri watched the tall Egyptian from her corner. He s
eemed to be in two minds, as if he were contemplating something. Suddenly he drew a knife and came forward. Panic gripped her. “P ... please ... please no,” she whimpered in her broken Egyptian. She tried to push herself further back into the corner. She knew what he wanted, and he was showing her what would happen if she refused. I can’t take any more pain. “D ... don’t hurt, please ... d... don’t hurt.” Her eyes welled up and the words came in sobs. “I ... I do what you want ... don’t ... don’t hurt anymore.” She hated her weakness; she hated herself, hated herself almost as much as she hated him. She looked up at him. “Don’t hit ... don’t hit anymore.”
Josef knelt in front of her. His face was grim, the knife he held was small, but it had a keen edge. “It’s alright, little one, I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to cut your bonds.” He spoke as softly and reassuringly as he could. But he spoke in the language of Pharaoh; he couldn’t risk revealing his true identity. The girl seemed to understand something of what he said and fearfully, hesitantly she raised her tied wrists. He brought the knife forward and gently he held her wrists and cut through the bonds. Her hands free she pulled them back, pushing herself against the canvass of the tent. He smiled, almost as if he expected her to thank him. She did not.
He moved to the washbasin, turning from her to hide his anger. Gypto scum. He slammed the blade into the wooden table and left it standing upright. How could anyone treat a girl like this? He dipped some cloth in the water and returned to his captive, kneeling beside her again. Ever so slowly he brought the cloth towards her face; a patchwork of ugly bruises roofed in dirt and all manner of filth. Even her lips were chaffed, swollen and caked with blood. She flinched as the cloth touched her, “No p ... please.”
“It’s alright,” he moved closer. She pulled her head back and whimpered as his hand brushed against her hair. He brought the cloth towards the lump on her forehead. A little clumsily he took it the welt. She made a noise as if in pain, but seemed to be attempting to stay still, as if fearing it would make him angry if she didn’t. A moment her eyes met his, so sad, moist with pain or fear. Despair. There was no hope in them.
