Shiri

by D. S.

  The Habiru raised her head and looked her straight in the eye. “Do you really not know?” She bit her lip as if she’d said something she shouldn’t have, but even then she seemed about to blurt out more. At the last minute she managed to contain the words, but she could not stop her eyes from speaking. Tiye returned the look strangely. There was such love in her Habiru’s eyes that she couldn’t help but feel a little for the slave too. She felt that anger return and this time it could not be contained, “That bastard! He’ll not get away with this!” Suddenly, she spun and moved for the door.

  The slave bolted after her. “Wait! You mustn’t!”

  “Don’t worry, Shiri, I mean to offer him nothing but the back of my hand.”

  Her bodyslave grabbed her. “No! You mustn’t! Not tonight! You must stay here.” She pulled her back into the centre of the room with surprising force. There was a sudden commotion in the hall outside. They heard a man shouting, heard someone running, more shouts, a woman’s scream. Suddenly bells were ringing in alarm, trumpets were sounding. The slave’s face went pale. “I … I have to go.”

  There was a banging at the door. Tiye felt a surge of panic, a sudden and overwhelming sense of dread. She looked at the slave again, there’d been so much blood, yet on closer inspection the only cuts on the slave were those about her lips and a little speckle on her neck. A terrifying thought gripped her, ‘he won’t come for you … he won’t ever again.’ She felt her breathing quicken, her mouth went dry. She pushed the slave away from her, “W…what have you done, Shiri? Oh gods what have you done?”

  The slave looked away. “He’s dead,” she said simply.

  Tiye drew back. Her legs felt weak.

  “He’s dead,” she repeated. “I killed him.”

  Tiye shook her head in disbelief. She felt herself swoon, felt bile rise in her stomach. She reached out and found the slave there to steady her. She wrenched free of her grasp and shoved her away. “What’s the matter with you?” she shrieked, “Are you insane!?” Even as she said it she was backing away, edging towards the door. It’s murder! … Assassination! … I must warn the Companions. I must warn the Companions. The slave saw the movement but made no effort to stop her. The Princess paused even as her hand reached for the handle. “You … you killed him to protect me,” she said slowly.

  They heard that banging again, more urgent this time, and then a voice demanding the door be opened at once. Shiri stepped towards it. “I will turn myself in,” she said, “I’ll tell them the truth of it. It had nothing to do with you.”

  “They’ll skin you alive! They’ll impale you in front of the gates of Thebes!”

  The slave gave her that look again. “But you will be safe.”

  Tiye blinked. “What?” The Princess shook her head. This wasn’t right. Guilty or not, surely no Habiru, no matter how loyal, would willingly go to the block to save their mistress from suspicion, “You kill Pharaoh so he does not get to force himself upon me, and then you sacrifice your very life for me without even a word of complaint. Why?”

  The voice at the door came again. It was angry now, angry or worried. The slave tried to shove past her. “I must go!”

  “You will not.” Tiye blocked her path. “You will tell me why you do this.”

  “Please, m’lady! If they discover he came to you they will think you’re involved!”

  Something slammed into the door. The whole thing reverberated but it held. Again Shiri tried to move past her, but again Tiye prevented it. “Tell me, Shiri!

  Shiri glanced one way then the next. The door would be breached any second. “Please, I must!” She reached for the door, saw it buckle and splinter as they slammed into it again, saw a beam of light shine through from outside.

  Tiye grabbed her hand. “Tell me!”

  “Please, Tiye … they must know I acted alone! They’ll think you ordered it!” She wrenched her wrist free but Tiye blocked the door. The slave looked panicked. She spun one way then the next. She met Tiye’s eyes again and seemed to come to a decision. She turned and ran towards the bath. Tiye came after her but suddenly she stood frozen, an incredulous look on her face.

  The slave had an eating knife in hand. “Shiri … what … what are you doing?” The slave came at her suddenly aggressive. She glanced at the door, seemed to pause as if fighting with herself and then all at once she lunged. Too late the Princess shrieked and spun for the door. The Habiru took the legs out from under her mistress and was on top of her, her knife at her throat. Tiye raised her hands to defend herself but her softness was no match for Habiru’s wiry strength. Easily Shiri held her mistress to the ground and then she paused again, staring at the door. Tiye felt hot tears in her eyes, “Let me go!! Shiri! What are you doing!?”

  The slave refused to look at her, refused to answer. She just hovered there, her knife at her mistress’s throat, all the while staring at the door as if waiting for them to burst in. Tiye pushed vainly against her, but the Habiru had all her weight on top of her and she couldn’t win free. She felt the knife press against her skin. Tears streamed down her face. Her Habiru had murdered Pharaoh and now she meant to murder her, kill the unborn heir to the throne. “Shiri … I … love you, Shiri … you’ve been with me all … all my life, you were my wet-nurse, my bodyslave … my … my friend.”

  The slave turned her head and looked into her mistress’s eyes. Tiye shook her head, her vision blurry from tears. She heard them smash against the door again, heard it splinter and felt the knife press harder against her throat in concert with the sound. “Shiri please … I … I loved you as if you were my mother … please!” Even through eyes brimming with tears she saw something in the slave falter then, saw something in her face.

  “Shiri?” Tiye felt the grip on her wrist loosen just a little. She watched the slave’s eyes well up, saw her lip tremble. The Habiru tried to say something but the words wouldn’t come. Instead she just looked at her and in that look the Princess saw truth. She stopped struggling and realised that somewhere, somewhere in the dark recesses of her mind she’d always known; a soft caress on reddened cheek, a silent tear on her wedding day, a thousand shared glances with her father. She stared into her bodyslave’s eyes. “You … you are my mother.”

  The door burst open. A man shouted. Another stumbled through the smashed ruins of the door and instantly dozens more were struggling to follow him through. “She has the Princess! She has the Princess!” Before Tiye knew what was happening the naked slave was wrenched off her.

  Tiye saw her struggle, saw the knife pulled from her grasp. “Assassin!” someone shouted. “Murderer! She means to kill the Princess too!” Tiye felt strong arms reach around her and gently pull her to her feet. Her rescuer said something but it went over her head. Shiri was on the ground, a Companion straddling her back. With one hand he slammed her face into the tiles, the other wrenched her arms cruelly behind her back while a second Companion secured them with cord.

  “Shiri!” Tiye screamed and tried to go to her. The Companion at her side attempted to hold her back but she pushed him away, “Get off of her! Get off of her at once!” The soldier still straddling the slave’s back looked at the Princess a little quizzically, before slowly rising to his feet. Tiye glared about her imperiously. There were at least a dozen men in the room, “Leave us. I will punish the slave personally for this.”

  The men looked at each other almost incredulous. One of their number stepped forward. She recognised him instantly. Her husband’s ghaffir bowed, “With all due respect, Your Grace, she is not for you to punish. The Godking is dead and this one is…”

  Tiye gasped, “Dead!?” She looked shocked, “Is this some sort of jest?”

  Smenkaure stared at her strangely. “‘Tis no jest, my lady, he was slain with his own sword and even now his body is being carried from his chambers.”

  The Princess swooned and Smenkaure had to lunge to stop her from falling. “But … but how?” She said weakly.

  “Well, by the lo
ok of it your slave here…”

  The Princess placed a hand on his shoulder and seemed to steady herself. “We must seal the gates of the city! Rouse the city watch! Search every room in the palace! Where’s my husband? Why are you not by his side? The assassin may still be here!” She began ushering them towards the door, “Hurry! Hurry! My husband must be told at once!”

  Smenkaure would not be moved. “The assassin is here.” He pointed to the slave. “She tried to kill you and the Godking both. Who else could have entered…”

  Tiye offered him a bewildered look. “You think my wet-nurse killed the hero of Megiddo?” It was almost a laugh.

  “There is but one entrance to the royal apartments … nobody else was seen,” he sounded less sure of himself.

  “But she was with me all night. I think I’d have noticed if she popped out for a spot of murder.”

  The ghaffir glanced from princess to slave and back again. The slave opened her mouth as if to say something but held herself. “But … but what was going on here? Why was your Habiru trying to kill you?”

  Tiye shrugged. “The whore took some Habiru dog into her bed despite my expressed wishes to the contrary, and to make matters worse, the swine went and got her with child.” She made a defeated gesture, “Well, when I found out I slipped some hellebore root into her broth and did away with the thing. But after I revealed as much to the slut well … she lost her head. Thank the gods you came when you did.” She offered him a wan smile before glancing angrily in the slave’s direction. “I mean to make the bitch regret the day she raised her hands against me.”

  Smenkaure turned and walked over to the slave. He grabbed her by the hair and raised her head, “What do you have to say about this Habiru?”

  The slave said nothing, simply stared at her mistress. Her face was a mess of bruises, her lips swollen and cut. Smenkaure frowned and heard his brother’s voice behind him. “She says little.”

  Smenkaure turned. “‘Tis a fault the rack will mend.” His brother’s eyes were bloodshot, his face pale and sickly from drink or shock. It was Narmer that had discovered the body. Smenkaure gazed at his brother in a way he never had before, you failed in your duty. You should have been at Pharaoh’s door not collapsed in a drunken stupor in the great hall. He released the slave and rose, speaking to the Princess without looking at her. “Why was there no ghaffir in the royal apartments? Where was your man, Akil or whatever you name him?” Should he not have been at your door? Was that not his charge?” He glanced at Narmer as he said it.

  Tiye shook her head. Pharaoh must have dismissed him. “I … I don’t know.”

  “Last I saw of him he was getting drunk with the rest of us in the great hall,” Narmer said.

  Smenkaure met her eyes. “You are certain this Habiru did not leave your chambers even for an instant?”

  Tiye nodded. He held her gaze a moment longer before all at once he showed her his back and moved for the door. Smenkaure made an unpleasant face. He brought his lips to his brother’s ear, “She lies.” He waved at one of the Companions. “Take the slave. I mean to put her to question.”

  Tiye stepped forward quickly, “No! I told you I will deal with the Habiru.”

  He didn’t turn back to her. “I will have the truth of this.” He nodded to the Companion again,.“Take her.” The man hesitated a moment, glanced from Tiye to Smenkaure and made his choice. He moved towards the slave.

  “If you take her I’ll … I’ll tell my husband how you disobeyed a direct order from his … from his queen!” Tiye’s voice sounded increasingly shaky.

  Smenkaure paused at the door as six solemn Companions, bearing a covered stretcher, slowly filed past. He turned and looked at her without fear or emotion. “His queen is it? Aye, you’ll be that now.” He held her eye for what seemed like an age before at last he grunted, and his subordinate stepped away from the slave, looking somewhat relieved. Yet, still the battle of stares continued. He touched the hilt of his blade and bowed a little shallowly, his eyes not once leaving hers. “Mark me, Princess, men will bleed for this.”

  XIV

  Jafar was dead. The fiend had stretched him over a pit of flaming coals while he’d questioned him. Akil had watched with water in his eyes as occasionally Smenkaure prodded Jafar’s flesh with a giant, evil looking branding iron, “Why did you leave your post? Who did you see? When did you turn traitor?” Always the same questions repeated again and again until Akil lost count.

  Soon enough Jafar had grown silent and Smenkaure could get no more out of him. Akil didn’t know how long he’d sat there. His throat was parched, his limbs battered and bruised where the brothers had beaten him. He’d never thought it would end like this. The stories never mentioned branding irons and roasted captives. They talked of honour and glory on the battlefield, not slow painful death in the dungeons of Pharaoh’s palace. Jafar’s corpse had been dumped unceremoniously in the corner and a rat had settled atop his face gnawing a bloody hole in his cheek. Nobody seemed to pay the creature any mind. Akil heard a barked command and suddenly strong arms grabbed him.

  He shrieked that he’d tell them all he knew. They didn’t need to torture him. He’d strangle the slave with his own hands. He’d murder the high priest of Heliopolis, batter the princess bloody, anything. They wouldn’t listen. Why wouldn’t they listen?

  His arms were lashed with leather and suddenly he felt himself being hoisted over the fire. His bowels gave way and he could hear his captors laughing and jeering as he begged them for mercy. One of the men threw oil over the coals and the flames rose towards him. They seemed to be laughing too. He cried as the heat built up and he felt the flesh of his stomach redden and blister. Then he felt another pain, even worse than before. For an instant the whole world went blank and then he was back, woken by the sound of his own screams.

  The men were laughing harder now. Four, five, he didn’t know how many there were, he looked desperately from one grinning face to another. Then he saw him. Alone amongst them his face was hard and callous as stone. The serpent brand was in his hands. Akil saw pieces of his own flesh stuck to it. His tormentor brought the serpent nearer – straight at his face. That pain again. More screams, more pleas for mercy, more pain, more laughter, more fire.

  He heard the voice. It sounded distant, but nonetheless it filled his ears. “Why did you leave your post? Who did you see?” He screamed the answers as best he knew them but it didn’t stop the torment. Again came the brand, again came the pain, again came the questions, “Why did you leave your post? Who did you see? Why did you leave your post?” Again and again and again until finally, mercifully, Akil’s world went black and the pain ceased.

  Smenkaure turned from his victim in disgust. Death was his trade. Blade, bow and naked hand his tools. But he had other skills besides. He could make men talk, he could make men scream. He warmed the brand in the fiery coals and motioned for Akil to be taken down and left to rest on the cold stone floor. The ghaffir was not yet dead and may still reveal something new. Only when the shrivelled husk of a man began to moan once more did Smenkaure remove the iron and kneel beside him. He allowed the glowing metal to hover before the man’s eyes. Gently, he stroked a meandering raven coloured lock from Akil’s brow before cradling his head in his hands. He smiled almost sympathetically. “Why did you leave your post?” His voice was soft as a maiden’s kiss.

  Akil mumbled something through broken teeth, his words garbled and confused by unrelenting agony, “Ph … Pharaoh … Pharaoh … permission.”

  Smenkaure sighed. He brought the iron to the man’s cheek. The screams rolled over him like water as the scent of burning flesh filled his nostrils. When he removed the iron half the man’s cheek came off with it, “Why did you leave your post?” He sounded half irritated, half bored now.

  The answer came in sobs. “He …he told ... me to,” Smenkaure slammed the hard edge of the brand across the man’s jaw and the last of Akil’s front teeth gave way. The Memphite champion rose and tu
rned to the brazier, again stoking the charcoal with his brand. Slowly he turned it, watching as the red glow returned to the metal. He did not look on his victim this time. “Why did you leave your post, Akil?

  The sobs came even louder as the animal begged and cried and pleaded like a Habiru suffering under his master’s flail. Smenkaure shook his head. He had been a man once. He heard his brother’s voice, “He won’t talk, not sense at least.”

  Smenkaure withdrew the brand slowly and met Narmer’s eye. “Everybody talks brother.” He inspected the serpent critically before returning it to the coals. “And this one tells it true, Pharaoh told him to leave.”

  “If he tells it true why do you continue to put him to question?”

  Smenkaure shrugged. “He and that other one were the sole guards in the royal chambers. They left their posts and Pharaoh was murdered. He should have gone to you and advised you that the royal chambers were unguarded. He deserves no reward but pain.” Akil reached a pleading hand towards his booted foot. Smenkaure peered down with an almost quizzical expression before stepping on it. The creature writhed and sobbed in agony as he crushed down and felt fingers break beneath his weight. He returned his gaze to his brother, “You should not have taken the sword.”

  “Trust me, brother, he would have wanted me to have it.”

  Smenkaure’s response was an unimpressed grunt. He removed the brand from its fiery berth and brought it down against Akil’s back. When he withdrew it, the thing at his feet was little more than a convulsing slab of meat. He looked to his brother, his eyes as cold as the brand was hot. “He wished to bed the Princess. That much is plain. He left the feast not long after her. You stayed behind by cause of orders or drunken stupor.”

  “Orders,” Narmer said quickly.

  Smenkaure stepped a little closer to his brother, an unpleasant look on his face. “Either way he followed her to her chamber, dismissed the ghaffirs and died. The Princess showed bruises and her slave looked like she’d done a turn in the fighting pits of Tjaru. Nobody else could have entered the royal quarters without somebody spotting them, I’m sure of it. Clear enough what happened. He ordered her to his chambers and in fear or panic she sent the slave to murder him.”