by Scott Peters
It worked. It really worked.
The line stood out a deep black against the smooth plaster. It was nothing like drawing in the dirt. When he did that, the earth bulged up as he pressed down. That was the nature of dirt. When you grooved down into it with a stick, the displaced material had to go somewhere.
But this—this was beauty itself! He stared, mesmerized by his one single mark.
He drew a second line, then another; why had he ever bothered with sand? Why hadn’t he thought of this years ago? It was so clean. So crisp. So vivid! A new world was opening up before him, right here on his father’s shed.
A magnificent image almost leapt from his fingers. It was of Pharaoh Tutankhamen, charging into battle against his enemies. Pharaoh rode in his wheeled chariot; Ramses felt as if he stood shoulder to shoulder beside him. He felt the wind in his hair, heard the groan of chariot wheels; tasted the salty sweat of fear in his mouth as the battle lines closed in, the two fronts preparing to clash.
Pharaoh held a great bow in his outstretched arm, an arrow ready to fly; he leaned forward, eyes narrowing at the approaching foe. Egypt’s great king urged his horses onward; the animals pounded ahead, fearless, their royal plumed headdresses fanning out.
Eyes on the forward flank, Pharaoh shouted, threaten Egypt at your peril!
Behind him, Egypt’s forces followed swiftly at his back.
Overhead, the sky darkened with gods. They came one-by-one, flying above the king. Whether to protect him or simply witness the battle, Ramses didn’t know.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Neferet sat on a stone in front of the Place of Truth. The vaulting sky was strangely dark, although she was fairly certain it was midday.
Beside her stood fourteen grim-faced craftsmen, shoulder to shoulder, all in a row. Silent as soldiers, the group guarded the village gates behind them. She glanced back and saw that the entrance was barred shut.
To her left, something moved. She squinted to see. A body, long and sinuous, crawled along the edge of the village wall. She recoiled in horror—inching closer, jaws dripping, came a monstrous crocodile.
A servant of the Underworld, here?
Shaken, she shook the man next to her, but he brushed her fingers off. She tore her eyes away from his face to see what held his attention. Directly ahead, boys were marching toward them. An endless line of them had sprung up out of nothing. The boys stretched out across the desert, winding away over the dunes, each carrying a sheet of papyrus.
The closest one approached.
Neferet’s father stepped forward. He reached for the boy’s scroll. When his fingers wrapped around it, the boy’s papyrus turned to dust.
He frowned.
A second boy arrived, and then a third. Yet, each time was the same. The scroll dissolved, rained to the ground in a shudder of sand.
Finally, only one applicant remained. The boy stepped forward. He lifted his head to look at her father, and Neferet gasped. He was not a boy, he was a jackal. The jackal began to howl. From the distance came the roar of chariots.
Her father turned and spoke to her. "It’s Pharaoh. He’s coming."
Neferet jerked awake in a cold sweat, blood pounding in her ears. It was a dream. It was just a dream.
She pulled her covers to her chin and tried to push the images away. Her thoughts strayed to Ramses. Was it possible he’d gone back there to look for her?
What if he’d gone there and waited? Or, what if—what if he’d gone there and left a note? Her heart fluttered. That’s what he’d probably done. Left a note to tell her when he’d be there!
Well, she could do the same. Even if she couldn’t meet him. Not with the way Layla’s mother watched her all day. But right now? Right now the whole world was asleep. And she could bring a note to the river and leave it for him to find.
Neferet pressed her ear to the wall and listened for her father’s snores. Sure enough, the plaster vibrated in a slow, steady hum. Pulling on her kilt, she hurried downstairs to her father’s writing supplies. Quietly, she slid a piece of hard ostraca from a basket. Her father had mountains of the white, limestone shards—more than he’d ever use for his record-keeping. He’d never miss this one.
And anyway, never—in his wildest dreams—would he think she took it. He knew she hated writing.
She did hate it, until this minute. Suddenly it seemed like a useful skill. Nearly a form of magic, in fact. How else could one speak to another person without actually being there?
She found a brush and chewed thoughtfully on the end.
Maybe Ramses had forgotten her already. He probably knew lots of girls.
She raised her chin—well, it’s not like she was obsessed with him either. She just had to explain why she hadn’t come, for her own sake. It was the right thing to do.
The overstuffed floor cushions were thick and comfortable. She hugged the ostraca to her chest and sank back against the wall, remembering how he’d pulled her out of that trap. With his tunic! Who would think of using their tunic? A giggle escaped her—she could still see his face when he asked her for it back.
He'd been so calm and collected about it all. That’s what she liked best.
What was he doing right now? Sleeping in his comfortable bed?
Outside, beyond the narrow window of her father's writing room, the moon hovered over the village rooftops. If he looked up wherever he was, they’d see it together.
She rolled her eyes, feeling silly. Time to write. But what?
The low howl of a jackal came from somewhere outside. Neferet’s skin prickled. It sounded like the jackal from her dream. Her giddiness drained away. She’d never crossed the desert at night before, let alone by herself. Did she really have the courage to do it?
For some reason, the drawing of Ptah flashed in her mind. She remembered the god’s mischievous eyes, the way he’d looked at her. This was about more than just seeing Ramses again. She had to do it for her father’s sake. For the sake of the village.
The risk of Ramses not coming to the examination was too high. As a rich farmer, he had no reason to apply as an apprentice. Drawing was probably just a personal hobby. They'd sat together on the riverbank, and he hadn't even mentioned it. Clearly, he had no idea the level of his skill. They needed him in the Place of Truth. That's why Ptah brought them together. How much clearer could it be? If only she could get Ramses here, the craftsmen could make him understand.
She dipped the brush in the ink.
Ramses,
I hoped to see you again, but I am unable to leave my village. Please look for me at the gates to the Place of Truth on examination day. I will wait for you.
Neferet
That had to be enough, for it was getting late. Writing it had taken too much time already. She had to go.
Silent as a cat, she slipped outside. Darkness, thick and black, enveloped the alley. A shiver slid down her spine. She’d be all right. She could find her way. She’d get there, leave the note, and sprint home before anyone noticed her missing.
On tiptoe, she ran down the steps.
A huge figure lunged at her, growling. He caught hold of her thin shoulders.
She stifled a scream.
Chapter Twenty-Four
"Again?" Jabari said in a low whisper. "You’re the most stubborn thing I’ve ever met. And where to this time?"
"Nowhere!"
Deftly, the sentry swiped the ostraca from her hand. "What’s this, a note?"
She scowled in the dark. "Give it back!"
"For your young noble, I presume?"
"Don’t be mean, Jabari."
"Mean?"
"Oh, please, let me go."
"Where?" Jabari gestured down the eerie alley toward the village’s outer walls. "To fight the lions alone?"
She took a chance. "Not if you’ll go with me."
He chuckled. "I see all reason has flown out the window?"
"It’s not like that," she whispered hotly. "Will you help me or not?"
"Help you do what, my little friend? What are you trying to do?"
She tried to swipe back her ostraca. "I’m trying to get him to come here! To take the exam."
"Indeed?"
"You saw his drawing. Oh, I can’t explain it right now—I have to go. Will you help me? Just say yes!"
"You could never keep up," he said.
She caught her breath. "So you’ll do it? Go with me?"
"No. I’ll go alone. And don’t try to follow me, little one, or I swear, I’ll—"
A crash exploded next to them. Jabari pulled Neferet sideways. A second roof tile slammed into the paving stones. She looked up and caught the silhouette of a girl on the roof above. Layla’s roof.
The silhouette quickly vanished, but not before Neferet heard Layla’s low, tinkling laugh.
Windows of homes on either side of the narrow street flickered to life. A moment later, Layla’s mother opened her front door. At the same time, Neferet’s father opened his.
"What’s going on?" they demanded at once.
Neferet slid the ostraca from Jabari’s palm.
"Good morning, sir," Jabari said, addressing Neferet’s father.
"By the gods, is Neferet running out at night?" Layla’s mother said. Her tone was all too familiar, and it made Neferet’s stomach churn.
"I’ll handle this," Neferet’s father said.
Layla’s mother hitched up her robe and bustled over to Neferet. "Have you no modesty, child? What’s the hour?"
"I said, I’ll handle this," Neferet’s father said.
She raised her lamp and shone it on Neferet. "What’s that you’re holding?" She stepped closer, grabbing her wrist from behind her back. "Is that a message?"
"Of course not."
"Is that what you’re doing? Delivering love notes in the middle of the night?"
Jabari stepped forward. "Sir? I believe the ostraca belongs to you. We found it on the street a moment ago."
Neferet’s father hesitated, but only for a moment. "Yes. You’re right. I must’ve dropped it earlier. Thank you."
"Don’t be silly!" Layla’s mother said. "I know it’s not yours, Nakht!"
Neferet’s father glowered at her. "Are you calling me a liar?"
They faced each other down.
"Well?" her father demanded.
Layla’s mother waved like a chicken fluttering its wings. "Then what was she doing out here in the dark? Layla doesn’t go out at night! She sleeps in her room like a well brought up young lady."
"If my daughter wishes to stand on our front steps for air, she’ll do so."
Layla’s mother’s mouth worked, but no words came out.
"Now good night," he said. "And thank you, Jabari."
Neferet followed him inside.
He walked silently to the room where he kept his writing tools. There, he sat heavily on a cushion, held Neferet’s note up to the lamplight, and scanned its contents.
Standing in the doorway, Neferet’s cheeks colored.
"Where were you planning to leave this?" he demanded. "Were you going to the river? Alone?"
She gulped. "Father, we have to find him."
His face reddened. He spoke, barely controlling his anger. "We discussed this already. I gave you my answer."
"But—"
"The exam is not your business." Cords stood out on his neck. "Stop meddling!" He crushed the ostraca in his fist. "Leave me. Now."
He bent his head and began sorting through the towering stacks of papyrus and official documents on his table.
She bit her lip. "I’m sorry," she said softly.
He suddenly looked so tired. She felt a tiny hum of fear. He never looked tired—not like this. She noticed gray hair spreading at his temples. When had that started? And his shoulders, had they always been so rounded?
He couldn’t grow old! Not yet!
Why did the village have to hang every problem around his neck? It wasn’t his fault Paneb left. Or that they had no boys to take his place.
Even if her father was Chief Scribe, it wasn’t fair. She couldn't remember the last time he took a day to relax. Like the other craftsmen, he was supposed to partake in the weekly three-day rest. But here he was, like always, under a pile of official business: letters and records of work completed in the tomb; making accounts of all the stuff everyone spent so much time ordering—fabric, wigs, and perfumed oils, ink, brushes, gold, jewels, chisels and mallets. It all had to be reported; royal favor was to be enjoyed, not abused.
And tomorrow, when the three rest days were over, he’d be right alongside the others—trekking up to the Great Place to continue work on Pharaoh’s tomb.
A small part of her would be happy to have him give up his post to Layla's father, and to become a simple craftsman. But he would never stand for it. And Layla's father frightened Neferet. He drank too much beer, and dealt with his problems by shouting. Under his rule, the village would be a dark, unhappy place.
"I’ll bring you something to eat," she said, and went to the kitchen.
Lighting the stove, she raised her chin.
It didn’t matter she had to go to Layla’s today. It didn’t matter Layla’s mother would make things worse than ever. She wouldn’t beg to be allowed to stay home. She wouldn’t complain.
They would get through this frightening time.
They just had to.
Chapter Twenty-Five
There is a moment between darkness and dawn when the temperature drops to its lowest. The sky turns from black to gray. Stars wink out and disappear. Birds stir in their nests. Across the fields, the crickets hum. Ra, the sun god, peeks over the edge of the earth. The god's new rays burn through the foggy mysteries of night, causing the mist to swirl upward and disappear like wraiths.
Ramses blinked at his drawings as if rousing himself from a strange dream. A vast mural covered the white wall. His fingers ached. He frowned and glanced eastward.
A pale line across the horizon announced the arrival of morning.
Morning!
Cursing, he snatched up his things and ran. The whole house would be awake and buzzing by now. Aunt Zalika would be demanding to know where he went. What would he say? How could he have left it so late? He could almost hear Sepi saying I warned you to get back on time.
Sprinting faster, his heart slammed in his chest. He flew headlong through towering stalks, over wastelands of harvested crop. The sharply cut stubble jabbed the soles of his feet. A rock slammed his big toe, tripping him. His lamp and charcoal flew from his arms. He scooped them up and kept going.
Fresh horror struck.
His drawings. He'd planned to wash his drawings off the wall! Idiot! How could he have forgotten? He nearly turned back. His stomach churned with indecision.
No. There wasn't time. He made for the kitchen.
"Ramses," Hebony whispered as he reached the door. She yanked him inside, took his bundle and threw it into an empty jar. "You’ve been out all night?"
He nodded, gasping, bent forward with his hands on his knees. "Do they know I wasn’t here?"
"I told Zalika you were cleaning the new tutor’s bedroom."
"Thank you," he gasped, relief flooding over him. "I better get in there and start doing it."
"I did it already," she said. "When I saw the cold stove, I realized you hadn’t stoked it this morning. I went looking for you. Your room was empty."
He couldn't meet her eye. "I had something to do."
To his surprise, her voice caught in her throat and she sounded tearful. She said, "I thought . . . I thought you’d gone for good."
Glancing up, he saw such fondness in her face that his own heart clenched.
"You can’t get rid of me that easy," he said.
"Come here," she said and wrapped him in a hug. When she let go, she dashed a tear from her cheek. "I’m on your side. I want you to know that."
"Then you know I have to take the exam."
Her face stiffened.
; Morning light flooded the kitchen in warm orange hues. The air smelled of cinnamon and flour. Even with Hebony looking angrily at him, it felt safe here, as if he stayed in this room, nothing bad could happen. But he knew that wasn’t possible.
Hebony said, "Do you remember the old priest who came here? The Wab Sekhmet?"
He nodded.
"It wasn’t his first visit. He came after your naming day ceremony. You were four. Your mother told me to hide you. While you played in here, I snuck out to listen."
"What did he say?"
" He was outraged. Furious about the drawings you made at the temple. Of course, we all knew your skill was no ordinary thing for a child, but for him to come here? I think he was frightened. He warned your parents to put a stop to it."
"Why didn't they tell me?" Ramses said.
"Because they disagreed. Your mother—"
"Hebony!" Aunt Zalika yelled. "Where’s breakfast? We’re starving out here."
"My mother what? What did my mother think? She never stopped me from doing it!"
"Later, or we’ll both be in trouble." Hebony quickly filled a dish with dried figs. This she set on a tray alongside a pot of wheat porridge and a bowl of honey.
"Please, Hebony!" But the moment had disappeared, and he knew he’d get nothing more out of her. He reached for the tray. "I’ll take that out there."
"I don’t think so. Unless you want to tell your aunt you slept in the stove?"
He frowned at her, confused. She grabbed his elbow and lifted it. His fingers, his hand, his forearm, all were smeared black with charcoal. He thought of his habit of rubbing his face. Despite everything, he grinned. "I bet she’d like it."
Hebony rolled her eyes. "Don’t give her any ideas. Anyway, you’d better get to work. Sobek and the others are in the west field. Take some bread, that'll have to do you until lunch." She headed for the door.
"Wait," he said quickly, "What did my mother say? Please, I have to know."
"I’ve forgotten. And I’m frightened. Something terrible is unraveling. A curse. I feel it."
