The Princess of Prophecy

by Aria Cunningham

  "Then eat as I do. Ingest not the flesh of animals, nor spirits which cloud the mind. Grain is of the earth, grown from the rays of Re. In this holy food will He sustain you."

  Helen took a small bite of the bread: barley with a hint of honey. She almost groaned with relief. She knew she was deeply malnourished from her time at sea. Over the past two days her pangs of hunger had faded to a numb ache. Loath as she was to admit, the lack of food had made her grow weak in the knees. She devoured every last morsel of that bread, deciding it tasted better than the finest feast.

  "You are no stranger to prophecy." Meryatum handed her his share of the loaf after watching her lick her fingers clean.

  "What makes you say that?" she managed between mouthfuls.

  The priest smiled, amused by her weak attempt to evade his question. "It is in your eyes. That was not the first time a servant of the Gods spoke of your future. It is typically so for those with great destinies."

  Helen swallowed painfully, a hard knot of bread sticking in her throat as she collected herself. "The rumors must be true, you have the All-Father's sight." When he did not respond, she continued. "My... union with Troy was foretold in the Temple of Aphrodite. I go now to fulfill that prophecy."

  It seemed a lifetime ago that the high priestess tantalized her with vague promises of a powerful destiny and an even more powerful love. Her mad dash to Troy was a blind leap of faith in pursuit of that destiny with as many dangers as it held promises. The Goddess did not speak directly of Troy, but Helen was convinced she followed Aphrodite's divine plan.

  Meryatum studied her for an agonizingly long moment, as though puzzling out the truth of her words. She shifted nervously on her stool and wondered if Shoteraja was right, that he could sense when a person spoke falsehoods.

  "You are a child of prophecy?"

  Helen nodded, surprised that was all he questioned. "I am blessed with that privilege and duty."

  He folded his arms back into his sleeves, the reserved aura of his position returning to him. "I have many titles, Princess. The High Priest of Re, Chief of Seers... but to those who know me best, I am First Prophet, One who Beholds the Gods and Hears the Whispers of Their Hearts." His pressed lips spread into the first genuine smile she had seen him produce. "Omens and prophecy are my special talent. I look forward to a deeper discussion about your foretelling. Perhaps your foray to Egypt was not quite as happenstance as it seems."

  Helen's breath caught. She was no sage. She had no insight into the plans of the Gods, nor her place within them. Could Meryatum, this austere and foreign priest, provide her with the answers she desperately sought? Dare she trust him?

  For a moment, there was a crack in Meryatum's rigid armor. She saw the man beneath, an aged spiritual leader balancing the great duties of his office. He was a hard man, but one of compassion and reason—not unlike her father.

  She laid her hand on his forearm, the icy cool of his touch burning away in the heat of her enthusiasm. "I... I would like that very much." She surprised herself with that desire.

  "Meryatum. Princess." Chancellor Bay stepped through the reeds, breaking their intimate moment. "I am glad I found you."

  Helen yanked her hand away from the priest, a flush of embarrassment on her face. Meryatum, however, was unruffled. He studied the oily chancellor with a calm that Helen could only envy. "You have some urgency, Bay? I pray you are not disturbing temple business flippantly."

  "Of course not, Your Eminence." The chancellor snapped a curt bow for the high priest. "Penanukis sends word from the temple. Your presence is required there post haste."

  "You were in conference with Penanukis?" Meryatum raised a hairless brow, his eyes boring into Bay. "Why?" He did not need to raise his voice, but the simple question set the chancellor's knees to shaking.

  "I was reporting on the construction of the temple in Heracleion," Bay stammered. "A bird arrived from Thebes. That is all I know, Your Eminence." He dipped his head in deference, but not before Helen saw his cheeks blotch in angry spots.

  "So be it." Meryatum sighed and rose to leave. "You will see the Princess back to the palace?"

  "It would be my pleasure." Bay grinned, his face twisting from fear to a sick pleasure that turned Helen's stomach.

  "Pleasure is for the weak." Meryatum held Bay's gaze with unflinching eyes. "You should avoid its excess, Master Chancellor, lest you wish to be its slave." Once he was fully satisfied that Bay was subdued, he turned to go.

  "Meryatum?" Helen rushed after the priest, a deep anxiety gripping at her. "Will I see you again?"

  The priest's brow furrowed as he considered. "Now that we've met, I will submit your request before the Gods. Once I have consulted the omens, you will have your answer."

  Helen cursed Bay and his poor timing. This would cost her time she could not afford. Some of her disappointment must have given him pause. The high priest hesitated at the trail head and turned back to her. "Tomorrow. Come to the temple at sunrise and participate in the salutations to Re. We will study the omens together." He delivered his instructions with a curt perfunctory. Dipping into a bow hinged at the waist, he said his goodbyes and retreated down the path.

  Helen watched him go, one hand lifted in farewell. So many of her hopes rested with that man. "Thank you." She knew her words were too soft to carry, but she said them anyway.

  Bay crept up to her side, standing far closer than custom should permit. "So, you are to study at the temple?" His voice thickened suggestively. "You must have impressed the high priest for him to take such a risk. He should worry your presence will tempt his 'Pure Ones'."

  Helen bristled, pulling away from the chancellor. "Pure Ones?" A sudden realization hit her and she gasped, understanding the predicament she presented to Meryatum. "Are the priests celibate?"

  "Did you not know?" Bay twirled the long hairs on his chin with delightful glee. "Truth told, some priests take their vows more seriously than others, but your virtue should be safe in the temple, Princess." He emphasized the word, giving Helen reason to doubt. "I could help you, if you were so inclined. Make certain only the most trustworthy priests were assigned to your care..." He held out an arm for her, a gallant offer if it had come from any other man. Bay, however, was delighting in the discomfort it caused her.

  She refused him an answer and sped down the trail towards the palace, eager to spend as little time as possible with the slippery chancellor. With each step, her nagging doubts grew, and she prayed Meryatum would prove a man above reproach.

  Her life, and Paris', depended on it.

  Chapter 19

  A Den of Thieves

  AN EGYPTIAN PATROL marched down the street of Heliopolis' slums, the workers' village comprised of narrow alleys and mudbrick hovels. Scylax took cover beneath a wooden cart carefully stored by its owner in the shadowy recesses alongside his shop. He waited for a count of ten as the heavy footfalls of the guards receded, the twinkling light of their oil lamps disappearing into the night.

  It had taken some effort to infiltrate the royal palace and get placed as a Trojan servant. He was not about to risk that advantage by getting caught in the open. This trip into the underbelly of Heliopolis was necessary, but it had best be brief.

  He pulled a length of cloth over his head and hunched over, taking care to stumble every third step so as to appear a sickly drunk, the sort of character Egyptians frowned upon but did not find suspicious. While Egypt was no stranger to international relations, it was unusual for a foreigner to travel openly so deep in the Two Lands. He kept his head low and moved as quickly as he could without drawing attention.

  He wasn't the only one seeking anonymity this night. Scylax passed several gatherings of men huddled in darkness, their heated whispers silencing when he stumbled too near. Hands quickly tucked inside their dark robes, hiding powders, weapons and purses of silver and gold. He made a mental note of the alley these black-market dealers traded in. He might have need of their products before his task was complete.r />
  A torch burned in a sconce outside his destination. The mudbrick hovel had no windows or decorations. There were no markings along the lintel, like on the homes of the Israelite slaves. The unremarkable dwelling was virtually identical to the units to either side, and the only sign of occupation was the fat drunk snoring on a barrel beside the door.

  Yet the place was unique, even if only a master builder could notice the difference. Situated at the division line of the north-east-south-west axis, this house was at the heart of the worker's village. It sat atop the sewage canals that channelled refuse down to the marshland of the Nile—canals that many a mercenary had used to make his escape from the City of the Sun, Scylax included.

  He stepped before the wooden door and waited. Only a fool would knock. If his brothers of the sword did not already have an arrow aimed at his back, he'd cut off his own manhood and declare himself a meshwesh. He waited for the signal to be given that would grant him access.

  It was not a hidden bowman, but the drunk beside the door who barred his entrance. His snoring did not stop even when the tip of the man's dagger pressed against the tender flesh of Scylax' gut.

  "Go find your own kind, Northerner," the cutthroat growled, speaking in a pidgin language that was part Egyptian and part Greek. "Only dead men enter here."

  Scylax moved his left hand wide, showing he meant no harm. While the guard was preoccupied following that motion, his right moved swiftly to the man's throat, a hidden dagger springing forward from the latch on his forearm.

  "But in Death we are equals." Scylax grinned at the sloven man, giving him a covert wink. "And you are my own kind. Now be a good boy and open this door." The guardsman made quick work getting to his feet, as eager as Scylax to avoid a public encounter. The door swung open, and he pushed the man in before him.

  The acrid stench of opium smoke filled the air. In the dim light, Scylax could just make out the room's half dozen occupants lying around a hookah pipe, their eyes glazed over from the drug.

  "Where are the masons?" He tightened his grip on the guard's throat.

  "In the back. To the right." The guard struggled against his hold. Scylax planted a hand in the man's lower back, shoving him to the floor with the other degenerates.

  "My thanks." Scylax holstered his dagger. "And try not to piss yourself. I am expected."

  He sped down the short hall feeling more than a little disturbed. The Brethren had lowered their defenses if they allowed undisciplined boys to guard their backs. It had been years since Scylax left Egypt for Mycenae, and it appeared Pharaoh's wrath had truly broken the spirit of the men who once dared to defy the God-King.

  He strode across the room, tossing open the door to the back. Four men, dressed in finer clothing than the lost souls who frequented their common room, sat in a circle around an agitated asp. They took turns snatching pebbles around the serpent, their hands darting in quickly before the venomous fangs could find purchase. It was a clamorous affair, and, as Scylax entered, a Nubian tribesman with skin as black as obsidian nearly lost a finger.

  "Sloppy, Taharqa. Have you grown so fat and lazy these past years you cannot tame an asp?"

  The Nubian glanced up at the disruption, his eyes widening with joy. "Ah, ha! Scylax, you salty dog! Is it true? You've returned to the Two Lands?"

  "Afraid not." He shook his head. "I have business to conduct and will soon be on my way."

  Taharqa wrapped his arm around a young concubine reclining in the corner beside him. She was naked save for the henna designs painted over her lithe body and ropes of gold draped across her chest. "You see this man, lovely girl? He is the most vicious killer north of the cataracts. I once saw him gut an Egyptian overseer and strangle the man with his own entrails. You should make love to him and brag to your sisters that you lay with a Titan."

  "Oh," the girl's eyes widened. She placed a finger in her mouth and moaned suggestively as Taharqa bounced her on his knee, her perky breasts wobbling ever-so-slightly with the movement.

  For a moment, Scylax found himself tempted, but only because the girl reminded him so strongly of Heliodora. With her long black hair and even darker eyes that sparkled with secrets no man would ever possess, it was impossible for him not to see signs of his wife whilst traveling in her homeland.

  "I haven't much time, Taharqa. May we speak in private?"

  The other masons voiced their disapproval loudly, with many upset gestures pointed to the unclaimed purse of their gambit. Taharqa rose to his feet, flexing his thick muscles with an imperious glare. Before the seven foot might of the Nubian warrior, they quieted their complaints. Gathering the serpent back into a reed basket, they collected their women and left Scylax and Taharqa alone.

  "I thought your messenger to be touched by evil spirits." Taharqa poured two glass drams of a bitter tea, handing one to him before retaking his seat. "Scylax would never return to Egypt, I say, but here you are, in the land you swore in vengeance to destroy. Should I be worried, old friend?"

  You should... Every day spent in the company of Egyptian royalty seared at his soul. He was sorely tempted to renew that ill-fated quest. If not for Heliodora and the sacrifices she made, he feared he'd stray down that dark path again. He owed her his heart, and more so, his courage to stay true to the life they had built together. "I am that man no longer."

  "I know that I am pretty." Taharqa smiled, his perfect white teeth flashing dangerously. "But you have not come all this way merely to bask in my presence. Some great need must fuel you, Scylax of Sparta. What is it you need of me?"

  There was no man Scylax trusted more than Taharqa of Punt. His sword arm was more true than a God's Wife's virtue. But most friendships were enriched with mutual profit, and it provided his silence as well. Scylax tossed the man a heavy purse. The Nubian untied the leather drawstring and murmured appreciatively, surprised to see the glint of gold instead of silver.

  "I am on a mission for the crown of Mycenae to kill a murderer and thief and return the woman he abducted."

  Taharqa whistled. "And so they send you, also a known killer and thief? Perhaps it is they who are touched with spirits, 'eh?" They both shared a brief laugh, but when Taharqa's died off, he watched Scylax with unease. "It is unlike you, old friend, to take a bounty for the crown. I pray your time in Mycenae has not compromised your allegiance to the cause."

  Scylax glowered, the curl of his lip telling Taharqa just how unpleasant that conversation would prove to be if he chose to pursue it.

  The Nubian's prodding was not unexpected, however. Taharqa was Medjay, of the nomadic clans along the Second Cataract. His people suffered greatly from the Egyptian military campaigns to expand their kingdom. He had lost mother, sister, brother and son to Egyptian swords. For Taharqa, his fight against the God-King was personal.

  For Scylax that ill-fated quest had begun as one of desperation. A man must eat. In the powerful grip of hunger, Scylax discovered there was not much he was unwilling to do. It was only when he discovered the true lives of their noble rulers, of their vanity and waste that beggared the common people, did he dedicate himself to balancing the scales of injustice. He was a soldier in that righteous army, a fighter who always triumphed because he had nothing to lose.

  Until now...

  "My reasons for accepting this bounty are none of your concern. I do not need to know why a mark is set. And neither do you."

  Taharqa reclined in his seat. Though his eyes sparkled with curiosity, he held his tongue. He rolled the purse of gold in his hand and considered his next words carefully. "How might I help you, old friend?"

  "I need access to the escape tunnels and your fastest barge to take us back to the Delta. I will make my own way from there."

  "When will you need these services?" The Nubian plucked a nugget from the purse, testing the yield of the soft metal with his teeth.

  "That part is uncertain." Scylax rose to his feet and began to pace. "My thief has taken refuge inside the royal palace. And my access is... rest
ricted. Until I can arrange for the right conditions, I cannot act."

  "I have a man on the inside who might be of some value," Taharqa offered, the hint for more gold as blatant as the nose on his broad face. "A chancellor of questionable morals."

  Scylax' stomach churned and he spat on the floor. "I don't work with Egyptians!"

  Taharqa laughed. "Fortunately for you, he is not of the Two Lands. Shall I introduce you?"

  He considered the offer for a moment, but then shook his head. The fewer people who knew of a task reduced the chances it would be exposed. Moreover, Scylax did not want to reveal his true identity to anyone who colluded with Egyptian royalty. "I work alone."

  "Like old times, 'eh?" Taharqa leapt to his feet and took Scylax' hand in his. "It will be done. My tunnels, my silence, and passage for two."

  Scylax grimaced, that last item reviving the nagging question that gnawed at his angst-riddled nerves. Killing a Trojan prince on Egyptian soil invited the wrath of two kingdoms. Scylax had no wish to draw the evil eye upon himself again. He had barely survived the last time. If he could not arrange an "accident" for the Trojan in due time, he would have to complete the task elsewhere. "Best make it for three."

  They exchanged information on how to reach one another, and Scylax was soon back into the night skulking through the empty alleyways of Heliopolis' slums, more uncertain than when he first set out.

  One thing was certain. The Trojan prince was not the thief the queen had portrayed. Something deeper, more sinister was at play here. If that Mycenae bitch-of-a-queen thought to use him as her weapon and toss the blade aside, she was in for a reckoning. Yes, the sands of the hourglass were running out—for Paris and for Scylax, and when the last grain fell, Heliodora and his girls had best be returned or there'd be no kingdom on Earth where his wrath would not follow.

  Chapter 20