The Princess of Prophecy

by Aria Cunningham

  "Grandfather should never have ceded so much land to the Hatti," Seti sighed. "It emboldened the slaves and wrecked havoc in the Levant." He plucked a lotus and inhaled deeply of its sweet bouquet, his words as casual as if he spoke of a poor breakfast.

  Paris desperately wished Seti would stop talking. He was sick of the caravan of comments that flowed from the prince. He praised the conquests of his fore-bearers, touting other kings' accomplishments, yet had no example of his own. Paris suspected the prince suffered from an inferiority complex, a ridiculous notion considering the pampered life Seti insisted upon.

  "I suppose it will fall to me to right these wrongs." Seti cooled himself with a reed fan, using the object to bat away mosquitos. He leaned forward, staring intently at Paris. "Some treaties will need to be broken, and others forged..."

  "What was the prince's signal if the beasts had been spotted?" Glaucus shaded his eyes against the rising sun, every fiber of the captain's body on high alert.

  Paris could almost kiss the man and his well timed deflection. Trying to spear an enraged animal that weighed nearly 90 talents, had skin as thick as cured armor, and was armed with thick ivory teeth was dangerous enough without adding politics. Besides, one look at the effeminate prince was enough for Paris to know he was an unreliable ally.

  "I shan't be surprised if we hear nothing from Amenmesse." Seti's angular features tensed at mention of his brother. "When we were children he got lost in the palace trying to find his way back from the kitchens. He has a terrible sense of direction."

  Paris chose not to comment. He was determined not to pick a side in this growing feud, but when Seti had refused to let Amenmesse on the water this morning, that position was growing harder to hold. Seti had commanded the younger prince to lead the scouting party, the select handful of men who rode along the frontage road in chariots in search of their prey. Their task was to herd the animals down-river into the waiting spears of the huntsmen. It was an important role, but one that deprived Amenmesse from any glory of a kill.

  "Surely, we will hear something—" Paris began, his words cut short as the reeds directly in front of them began to shake violently. The huntsmen fell silent, muscles clenched and ready for whatever would emerge. Even Seti had flipped over to his stomach, the soft linen of his robes tangled in his legs, preventing him from rising further.

  As suddenly as it had begun, the movement stopped, and the river became eerily silent. Seti turned to him, his eyes wide in confusion. "What was that?"

  The reeds erupted as a flock of ducks took to air. Paris dropped to his knees and covered his head as he was surrounded with the flutter of wings and feathers. The other hunters were quicker to recover. Several throwing-sticks found their marks, the fowl dropping into the marshland with resounding splashes.

  "Ha, ha!" Seti laughed. "Marvelous! Well struck, Setnakhte!" he shouted to the general.

  Paris collected himself, disturbed by his defense behavior. His time in Egypt was making him jumpy. He normally would never spook so easy.

  In the disturbance, their boat had floundered closer to land, a patch of reeds now within an arm's reach. As Paris raised his head, he came eye to eye with another marshland inhabitant: not the colorful fowl that took to air, but a grey heron. The elegant bird waded through the shallows, its tapered bill stirring up the silt of the river bottom.

  "Bennu!" their pole-man exclaimed. The slave dropped his oar and pressed his forehead to the deck.

  Bennu? It was an unfamiliar word for Paris. He shot a questioning glance to his host, surprised to see Seti had crept silently to his side.

  "The Bennu holds the ba of Re. He is the spirit of the Great God as he flies daily across the sky in his solar barque." Seti stretched out a hand to the animal. "Salutations, Brother. May your journey remain eternal."

  The bird ignored Seti, ignored them all in fact. When the crown prince shoved his hand even further toward its head, the heron drew back with a sharp cry, fanning its wings.

  Paris rose to his feet, amazed at the power of the thin bird. It hung in the air before him, its wings spanning six feet across.

  For a moment, time stood still. All sound of the marsh dropped out, save the thunderous pounding of those enormous wings. The heron tucked its long neck back into its body and issued a deep croak, a sound so guttural it seemed to rip from the belly of the creature. Paris felt its pull tremble in his bones. He stared in awe at the majestic bird, understanding why the Egyptians had come to revere it. Tapering its body, the heron took off with powerful speed, narrowly missing Paris' head.

  Slowly the sounds of the marsh came flooding back to him, and with it, utter chaos. Huntsmen were shouting, the waters of the Nile were churning, and the pounding beat of hooves on soil greeted his ears. The scouts had returned, and with them their prey.

  It was impossible to hear instructions through the clamor. Paris grabbed his spear and took a defensive position. Two dozen hunters surrounded him, anxiously awaiting the herd, each man with spear or arrow nocked and ready to let fly.

  Within seconds the hippopotami showed their heads, the cows bellowing their displeasure loudly with heavy snorts, their massive bodies churning the still waters of the Nile into a boiling cauldron.

  Something tugged at Paris' nerves. With so much activity it was almost an unnoticeable sound. But as a bowman, it was one he associated with danger: the unmistakable twang of an arrow released, too soon, from its bow.

  "Paris!" Glaucus shouted, his captain pointing behind them. A single bolt shot through the air, not at the hippopotami, but directly where he and Seti stood. There was no doubt in his mind it was a killing blow.

  Glaucus barreled into him, shoving him to the deck. Paris tried to wiggle free of his mountainous bulk but was hopelessly pinned. And then his captain screamed in pain, a sound so piercing it hollowed out Paris' heart. The arrow had sunk deep into Glaucus' back.

  "NO!" He found a strength previously unknown to him, and he pushed the limp soldier over on his side. The activity proved too much for the small boat, and the craft flipped over, dumping everyone overboard...

  Into the path of the rampaging hippos.

  Broad faces with nostrils flared wide bore down on Paris. Their black eyes, like pools of bitumen, dilated wide with fear. Thirty animals filled the river, both adults and their young, an avalanche of blubber and teeth. The dominant bull, a beast noticeably larger than the females surrounding it, took aim on Paris. To a man struggling to stay above water, it seemed like a mighty titan, a remnant of monsters from a forgotten era. He clung to Glaucus' arm, careless of his own safety. Kicking as hard as he could, he dragged the unconscious captain out of the hippo's path butting up against the other reed boats.

  "SAVE THE PRINCE!"

  Paris whipped his head around in response to Setnakhte's call. Seti was further downstream. He had caught a finger of current and was battling to stay ahead of the enraged hippos. As Paris watched, the crown prince dipped below water and did not re-emerge.

  "Take him!" Paris shouted to the general, tossing Glaucus' arm over the hull. Without a moment to think, he took a gulping breath and grabbed hold of a passing hippo, his arms scrambling madly until he found purchase on the beast's tail.

  Water spilled over the heaving back of the animal, flooding Paris' face. He could not see, let alone breathe. When the beast had carried him a good distance and he could no longer make out the Egyptian shouts behind him, he finally let go.

  "Seti!" he cried out, spinning in a circle and scanning the shore for the crown prince, but there was no sign of him.

  Paris dove into the river, forcing his eyes open despite the burn from the murky waters. It was a hopeless task. The hippo charge had turned over the silt, and visibility was nonexistent. Paris could see no further than an arm's length.

  He tried to feel about. The waters were shallow. If Seti had been knocked unconscious, he could be laying on the river bottom. He alternated, shouting Seti's name at the surface before diving down and p
erforming search patterns, letting his fingers see for him. On the fourth trip to the surface, the crown prince finally answered.

  "I'm here!" Seti called, clinging to a floating log stuck in the foliage. The prince looked utterly exhausted. A gash above his eye trickled a trail of blood down his face. Paris reversed his stroke and was by his side in an instant.

  "Are you all right?"

  Seti nodded, too tired to speak. His cumbersome robes were plastered to his legs and arms, making it impossible for the prince to swim. Paris flipped over on his back, hooking his arm through Seti's, and towed the prince back to shore. Together, they crawled the few short feet through mud and grime to be clear of the water, and collapsed.

  Paris filled his lungs with heaving gulps of air. His pulse was racing. He wanted nothing more than to just lay there, in the filth, until someone carried him off. Seti appeared to be in no better condition.

  A nagging thought forced Paris to action. Someone needed to alert Setnakhte, to let the general know the crown prince was safe. Groaning from the effort, he lurched to his feet and waded back into the river to flag down the boats.

  The huntsmen weren't far. Paris blinked, trying to clear the silt from his eyes. With each blink, the papyrus boats went out of focus, and in his exhaustion, they morphed into that single arrow arching in the sky towards him.

  His cry for help froze on his lips. Someone had tried to kill the crown prince. And that "someone" was still out there. He splashed back to shore and shook Seti roughly. "We aren't safe here. We have to go."

  Seti groaned, barely coherent. Paris cursed his frustration. They were too exposed on the shore. He lifted Seti's arm over his shoulder, prepared to drag the man to safety if needs be. Digging his feet into the soft mud, Paris heaved, inching closer to the cover of the thick brush.

  But the brush began to quiver, the reeds bending forward as something rustled inside. There was no place to run. They could be surrounded for all Paris knew. He dropped the prince and took a stance before him. Reaching down his leg, he grabbed a dagger strapped to his calf, a whisper of relief coursing through him that he was not completely defenseless. Holding the small weapon before him, he waited for his assailant to show himself, his muscles burning with the effort to stay upright.

  "Come on!" he shouted as the long moments wore on, his nerves as tense as his trembling body. "You want him? Then have the courage to face me, you coward!"

  The attack came quickly. The beast came crashing through the undergrowth, its massive snout gaping open, displaying a long row of thick teeth. Paris had heard tales of the Nile crocodile before, but nothing could prepare him for its sheer size. Fifteen feet long and massively thick, the croc looked fierce enough to try its hand at a hippo. It snarled at him and Paris froze. In this fight, he was woefully outmatched.

  A peaceful inevitability flooded over him. If he was meant to die this day, he would meet his end with dignity, but if the Fates wanted his blood, there'd be a price for that reckoning. He held his ground, staring the baleful monster in the eye and reversed his hold on the dagger, ready for a killing blow.

  "No," Seti cried out behind him. "Re-Horati, spare me! I am your Chosen!"

  Paris had no time to warn the prince before Seti shuffled away from the creature, scrambling backwards on hands and feet. The crocodile, drawn to the movement, darted around Paris, crawling over the ground in a zig-zag pattern. Its jaw snapped down on Seti's leg, and the prince screamed.

  "Don't move!" he shouted to Seti, racing after them.

  The beast dragged the prince into the river. As soon as they hit the shallows, it began to roll, pulling Seti below water.

  For a moment, Paris hesitated. That was twice in a short span of time that he had stared death in the face. That was twice the specter of Hades passed him by. He was armed only with a small dagger. He could do nothing to stop that creature of the abyss. He would be tossing his life away. It was futile to keep fighting.

  Paris could not help himself. He had been born fighting futile causes. He leapt into the water and plunged his dagger down, praying he did not hit Seti by mistake.

  The crocodile thrashed, bucking violently. Paris tried to reverse his blade for a second strike, but it held fast, embedded in bone. The croc twisted, diving deeper. Paris straddled the beast, his thighs pressed firm against its scaly hide as he held on to his weapon with a strength born of sheer desperation.

  And then the water went still. The croc ceased its rolling, only its tail continuing to twitch sporadically. Paris struggled to the shore, dragging the croc out of the water behind him by its tail. His dagger was planted squarely into the creature's skull.

  Seti bobbed to the surface, coughing violently. He seemed to expel half the Nile from his lungs. His eyes, once filled with fear as he spied the crocodile, morphed to awe as he regarded his rescuer.

  "Please," he begged, pointing to his still-pinned leg in the monster's maw. "Take it off."

  Paris shook his head. "You'll loose too much blood. We need to wait for the others." He settled down beside Seti, shielding the prince's body as best he could. "Don't worry. It won't be long now."

  He did not bother to scan the perimeter for danger. He did not care if a hundred arrows were aimed at his back. He knew this land was dangerous, and he had come anyway. He had brought this reckoning upon himself.

  A bitter bile burned in his throat. He should have known better. A lifetime of experience should have prepared him for this inevitability. Every time he tried to forge something pure, to claim a better life, it was denied from him. Like the high priest had said, the Gods had other plans and would grant him no clemency. It seemed Egypt herself was giving breath to that dire warning, trying to expel him from her shores.

  The moments that followed passed in a blur. Setnakhte jumped free of his boat, shouting a dozen commands to his troops. Paris heard not a word of it. He sat in a daze, staring at the lifeless corpse of the crocodile at his feet.

  Let them come... That challenge simmered in his gut. I don't care if the Gods try to take me themselves. I will face them all. I'll die spitting in their faces.

  It wasn't until they were well on their way back to the palace that he thought to inquire after the assassination attempt. Setnakhte's troops had done a sweep of the marshland, but it had been too late. The culprit was long gone.

  Chapter 24

  Royal Reports

  A HUSHED SILENCE permeated the stone enclosure of the House of Ails. Once, only the lector priests roamed the narrow hall, their slippered feet walking soundlessly across the tiled floor as they darted between beds to check on patients. Tonight, however, a full regiment of Egyptian troops guarded each entry, and the general of the Lower Egyptian forces himself kept watch.

  Meryatum stood with Setnakhte, both men keeping a vigilant eye over the infirmary. News of the crown prince's accident proceeded the hunting party's return to the capital. As high priest, Meryatum was next in command if neither Pharaoh nor his crown prince survived the night. An inherently dangerous position he neither wanted nor knew how handle, especially if what the general said was correct.

  "The arrowhead is an older Egyptian design, primitive but deadly." Setnakhte held the item in question, a wickedly barbed piece of slag ore the surgeons had removed from the Trojan's scapula but an hour ago. "It's a common item in back alley trade, virtually untraceable."

  Perhaps that was true of the weapon, but not the poison laced on its tip. Only Egyptian royalty and those inducted into the Mysteries had access to those deadly agents. If the back-alley traders had somehow infiltrated those stores, no man or woman in the capital was safe.

  If not for the tell-tale scent of almond in the wound, the Trojan might not have survived his encounter. For all the world, he would have appeared to have suffered a blood infection from a flesh wound, an unfortunate accident in a hunting excursion gone wrong. He was lucky the doctors of Heliopolis were well versed with the silent killers.

  "And you believe this arrow was meant
for Seti? Not the Trojan ambassador?" He tried to not influence the general with his suspicions, but ever since the Trojan delegation had arrived in Heliopolis, the temple had been awash in dark omens. A spiritual storm was brewing, and he was certain the Trojan stood at its center.

  "Untraceable weapons? Venom tipped arrows? Who here could want the Trojan dead so badly?" Setnakhte frowned. "But Seti... I can think of two right now with the desire and the access to perpetrate this crime."

  A sharp cry echoed down the hall. Meryatum resisted the urge to race to the crown prince's bedside. Crocodile attacks were common in Egypt. Most men never survived the bone-crushing first strike. It was a testament of Amun-Re's favor that Seti still drew breath.

  He wished he could do more for his prince, but in battles of the flesh, Meryatum was as useless as a child learning his letters. His tenure as high priest had been one of exploring the Mysteries of the Gods, of philosophy and magic. Treating the ailments of the body was left to the lector priests, the tacticians of herbs and poultice.

  He scowled as one of the physicians passed by them. Like all his brothers, the lector let his hair grow wild and wore colorful robes that caught the eye. Two feathers woven into his hair, the mark of their brotherhood, was the only feature that distinguished him from a common street performer. Lector priests bore no resemblance to his pastophoroi.

  But they will save our future-king, he reminded himself, schooling his face to blankness.

  The healer caught sight of him and quickened his steps. The lectors might not be under Meryatum's authority, but they nevertheless feared him. If his prince died on their watch, he'd make all their worst fears a reality.

  "Will Seti walk again?" The general's heartfelt question denoted much more than the concern of a loyal citizen. A Pharaoh who was not whole signified an Egypt of similar distress.