by Scott Peters
He slipped on his new sandals, and hurried to fasten his kilt.
The acacia tree threw sharp shadows as he ran for Weris’s room. He yanked his papyrus from its hiding place, then climbed back out over the sill. His eyes went to his cell. The door hung open on its hinges. The gaping threshold loomed like a hole of eternal darkness.
With a growl, he sprinted away from the house.
Never again would he return to that room.
Never again would he live trapped like a slave in his own home.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Gulping, Ramses glanced up at the sun god’s progress. Ra was dangerously close to the horizon. What time did the exam end? Would he even make it?
He tore across an unfamiliar field of barley. A mass of acacia rose up. It cracked and slashed under the force of his arms and legs. He burst out the other side and kept running. His new sandals grated against flesh, the thong grinding between his toes. He ran faster. Soon, beyond the humid sprawl of farms, the hills of the desert rose skyward.
A line of dusty date palms marked the border between the two worlds. The trees threw cold, dark slashes across the earth; the day was rapidly headed for dusk.
He had to hurry. But which way? There were no clear roads like there were to Thebes—the Place of Truth wasn’t a place you just visited. He’d been stupid to think he’d just go there without directions! Why hadn’t he thought to ask someone when he’d had the chance? His hands started to sweat around his papyrus.
He could wander the desert for days before he found it. The exam would be long over. The sacred village could be anywhere.
"Where are you going?" a small voice said.
Ramses spun around.
A child, a small girl, sat at the base of one of the date palms.
"The Place of Truth, do you know where it is?" He almost laughed; of course she wouldn’t! Why would she, a little girl like that?
She wrinkled her dirty nose at him. "Why do want to know?"
"Because . . . just, do you know where it is?"
She shrugged and said in a singsong voice, "Why do you want to go there?"
"Please! Do you know the way or not?"
She pointed east. "That’s the way the deliverymen go. They have pretty donkeys. Sometimes they let me pet them."
He followed her gesture and made out a raised dirt causeway, snaking away toward the sands. "Thank you!"
His feet churned across the earth, leaving a wake of pockmarked tracks. Only when he reached the causeway did he realize she’d been wearing a white feather in her dirty hair.
He thought of the amulet of Maat, and then of Neferet. How could he face her, knowing he was a traitor? The thought made him sick. He forced it from his mind.
All around, the world stood out in brilliant focus; a flock of white birds swooped low over the earth; the silhouette of a tamarisk tree stood out in bold black lines. The distance between sun and earth was shrinking, rapidly. He urged his legs onward, alternating his papyrus from one sweaty palm to the other to try and save it from smearing.
Soon the last holdout of dusty farms gave way to lifeless desert. The causeway grew hard and stony. It flattened out into a simple road, curving up and right, weaving its way into the mountains. The gulch deepened; cliffs closed in on either side.
After what seemed like forever, a small valley opened ahead. Then he saw it. Cupped in the bowl of hillsides, at the far end, lay the Place of Truth. Two big tents sprouted in front of its earth colored walls. Colorful banners waved in the soft breeze.
He shouted with joy. The girl had been right!
With a burst, he renewed his speed. There was no hesitating now. Closer, he could see pole stanchions to which ribbons had been tied, as if to form long lines. All the lines headed toward the tents. Yet the lines were empty. Most of the ribbons hung broken and fluttering in the wind.
He tore down the road, heading for the nearest one. People trickled toward him: parents with crestfallen faces, boys clutching scrolls of papyrus. Ramses drifted through them in a blur. He saw only the door.
Then he was there, face-to-face with a sentry.
Trying to catch his breath, he gasped, "I’m here for the exam."
"Too late," the sentry said. "Exam’s over."
"It’s . . . over?" Ramses stood there, stunned. "But, it can’t be over." How could it be over? Not now! Not after everything.
"Go home. I said it’s over, all right?"
"Please . . . I’m begging you!"
"You’re too late. The finalists have been chosen."
"Finalists. So they haven’t decided yet?" He grabbed hold of the tent flap. "Let me give them my scroll, please—"
"Stand back, you arrogant whelp," the man growled, hand going to his dagger.
"What is it?" called a gruff voice from inside.
"Just a late one," the sentry called back.
"A late one, huh?" The flap was thrust aside and a face appeared.
Ramses heart turned to lead. It was Denger, the corrupt guard, and Weris’s inside man. Suddenly he knew with every bone in his body that he’d been wrong to come here. He couldn’t do it. He had to get away.
Denger’s bloodshot eyes met Ramses’, and the guard grinned.
"Well, well." He darted forward. "About time you got here. Give me your papyrus. Quick."
Ramses ducked as Denger’s arm shot out. The guard growled, reaching for him. Ramses lurched sideways. He slammed into a gang of boys. They swore at him and pushed him away. He sprinted through the crowd. He had to get out of there!
"Stop him!" Denger bellowed.
"Hey you!" one of the boys shouted and lunged at Ramses. His hand closed around Ramses’ elbow, but he tore free.
"Get him!" the boy shouted.
Ramses’ legs moved like lightning. He surged forward, gaining ground. An old woman shot out her cane, sending him sprawling to his knees. Over his shoulder, he spotted Denger closing in. The sentry rammed through the crowd and mowed down the ground between them. Ramses scrambled to his feet.
Just before he turned to run, he saw four familiar figures emerge from the examination tent: Aunt Zalika, Weris, Uncle Hay and Sepi. Aunt Zalika marched in the lead, her proud chin jutting forward like a battering ram.
It was too late to hide. Their eyes met, and she screamed. Ramses took off.
"Thief! That’s stolen papyrus," Aunt Zalika shrieked. "He’s getting away!"
Sepi’s voice came as a faint shout. "Mother, leave him alone! Leave Ramses alone!"
"Get him!" Weris shouted.
The sound of Denger’s grinding footsteps spurred Ramses on. Picking up speed, he tore around the high wall of the village and headed for the Peak of the West. Maybe he could find shelter there, hide until they gave up the chase. Onward he ran, beyond the village, across the hard, sun-beaten sand. The rocky earth hissed with the coming of dusk, cooling in the evening air.
Shadows from the mountain reached for him. He followed their darkness, climbing onto higher ground. Under his feet, dusty pebbles scattered and slid against his sandals.
Yet even as he ran, his heart screamed for him to go back. The day wasn’t over. Not yet. It couldn’t end like this!
Choking with dust, heart threatening to burst from his ribs, he strained to listen for Denger. He heard only his own footsteps, scrabbling against the dry, stony earth. Finally, he risked a glance back.
The hill was deserted.
He’d made it. They were gone. They’d given up.
Then he understood why.
They had no reason to follow him. Somewhere along the way he’d dropped his precious papyrus. He’d left it lying in the dirt, abandoned and forgotten, waiting for them to find it. His entry, his last hope, was gone.
On the horizon, the sun hovered briefly like a tiny spark. Then the gods snuffed it out. Darkness fell like a cold hand, crushing his hopes into the earth. A sob racked his chest. In the dryness of the desert, the tears never came.
In the valley below,
bells began to ring. Their clanging rose to the sky.
The exam was over. They’d chosen their apprentice.
Chapter Fifty
Crouched in the back of the judge’s tent, Neferet’s fingers slid from her legs. They left bruises where she’d pressed them into her thighs, harder and harder as the day had progressed. Outside, the bells continued to ring.
It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be possible.
It was over.
How could Ramses not have come?
She’d been so sure he would in the end. Like an idiot, she’d given her trust to hope instead of doing something. It was too late. Her head felt strangely light.
Her father, along with the twelve elder craftsmen, talked in low voices, all looking hot, weary and irritable. No one noticed her in the deepening gloom.
"Quite the day. Two thousand applicants," Neferet’s father said, rubbing his eyes. "How many are still in the holding tent?"
"Four," said Paimu, the painter.
"Akil’s the only one with any talent," grumbled Wosret. "We could’ve done away with this wretched event."
Akil—always Akil. She felt sick. His prophesy in the desert had come true.
"Let’s take a look at what we’ve got, Wosret," her father said. "Bring in their entries. We haven’t made the final decision quite yet."
The rapidly cooling air dried the sweat from her forehead. So there was still hope. Nightfall stifled the chaos outside, fading it to silence. She pictured Layla and her mother searching for her back in the village, along with the other girls in their fancy wigs and face-paints, and felt a brief moment of satisfaction that she’d managed to escape. No doubt they’d forget her soon enough once they started gossiping about the boys who’d come today.
Four scrolls were brought in. The thirteen men gathered around a small table. One by one, the entries were passed, discussed, carefully examined.
When the debate slowed, her father said, "I think we’re ready. Unless anyone wants more time?" In the absence of a reply, he chose a scroll, and displayed it around. "I’m told this one’s father is a woodcarver. He’s skilled with the brush, as you can see."
"It’s really not bad," Tui said. Others agreed.
"Any votes?" her father said. He waited. She crossed her fingers.
Despite their enthusiasm, not one craftsman raised his hand.
Good things were said about the second artist; the boy’s name was called to a vote. Once again, all hands stayed at the craftsmen’s sides. Her father named the third boy. Neferet got to her feet, willing the men to vote.
He waited only seconds before moving on. "Last, as a formality, do we have votes for Akil?"
Thirteen hands went up, and she cried, "No, you can’t!"
Faces turned in dismay, frowned when they saw her there, and with more than a few gusty sighs, turned back to the discussion. Well she could care less about their disapproval. And she didn’t give a beetle’s snout for formalities now. It wasn’t supposed to end like this. This wasn’t supposed to happen. They had no idea what they were doing. If they knew Akil like she did, they’d never let him through the gates.
Let alone share with him the secrets of Pharaoh’s tomb!
"Stop this!" she said.
Her father’s lips turned white. "Neferet! Get out. Immediately." To the others he said, "It’s unanimous. Akil’s our new apprentice."
"Good." Wosret nodded. "Give the verdict so we can go."
She tasted tears of rage as a sentry tried to pull her toward the door. "Don’t make me carry you," he growled.
"Try it and you’ll be sorry," she hissed.
But before they could leave, the flap opened and Denger—Jabari’s younger brother—slammed into the sentry holding Neferet’s arm.
"Watch yourself!" the sentry said.
Denger gave him a black look. "Out of my way. I’m here to see the Chief Scribe."
"What is it?" Neferet’s father demanded.
"Sir? It’s urgent." Denger waved a scroll. It looked dusty and creased, as if someone had dropped it and others had trampled on it. "I found this on the ground."
"Another papyrus?" Neferet’s father sounded as if he’d seen enough for a lifetime. "Some applicant must have thrown it away. You should have arrested him for desecration. Anyway, it’s too late. We’ve made our decision."
"With all due respect, sir, you might want to look," Denger said.
At his tone, Neferet’s heart quickened. "Did you see who dropped it?" she cried.
"I did." Denger’s face was sweating beneath his leather helmet as if he’d been running, and his eyes were bloodshot. He smiled. "It was your friend, Miss. The boy you met by the river."
For a moment, she paused. Had Denger been there by the Nile? But what did it matter? Her heart leapt. Ramses had come! She dashed forward. "Let me see!"
"Neferet!" her father barked.
She skidded to a halt.
"I’ll take it." Her father reached for the scroll. He unraveled it halfway. For a moment he stared down in silence. His eyes widened. Then, with a gasp, he unrolled it completely.
"What is it?" Paimu said, hurrying to his elbow. His jaw dropped.
The other craftsmen pushed in close. Shocked murmurs went up. Neferet shoved her way between them. She squeezed through to her father’s side.
For once he didn’t scold her. He simply held the page for her to see.
A magnificent image almost leapt from the papyrus. Meretseger—cobra goddess, sacred protector of the tombs—looked out at her. Either a breeze was moving the page, or the goddess’s chest was rising and falling of its own accord. The illusion was so real, so complete, she jerked back in a moment of panic.
"Is it alive?" she whispered.
As if in response, Meretseger’s eyes flashed. The men stumbled backward.
"What trick is this?" Wosret whispered.
The figure of the cobra shimmered, bulging up from the page. Brighter and brighter she glowed, until her light reflected in every man’s staring eyes. Meretseger was rising, a frightful goddess made of gold.
Men paled. Some fell to their knees and covered their faces.
Neferet stood stock-still, unable to move, unable to fall to the floor. Ramses’ drawing filled her vision. Meretseger had awakened, called to life by Ramses’ hand. But had he gained her patronage—or her wrath?
Over the noise, she heard a voice. It hissed into her ear: "Death shall come on swift wings to him who disturbs the peace of the Pharaoh!"
Broken from her trance she spun around. There was no one there.
Chapter Fifty-One
Neferet searched for a sign that others had heard the voice, too. A few feet away, Denger swallowed visibly, his face ashen. She realized that even if she shouted, no one would hear over the throbbing hum that shook the air.
Suddenly, it broke off.
The silence felt deafening.
The drawing of Meretseger hadn’t moved from her father’s calloused hands. She was shocked he hadn’t thrown it down, impressed in a way she’d never imagined. His fingers rolled it shut, then closed protectively around the scroll.
"We must find this boy," he said.
It was as if a spell had been broken. Everyone started talking at once.
"Call Jabari," he told the sentry at the door. "Have him round up the men. I don’t care if we have to search every farm, every alley in Thebes, from the desert to the Nile. I want this boy found."
"On my way, sir."
He ordered lamps lit, and then to Denger said, "You are to be commended, sentry."
Denger colored, smiling slightly, and stared at the dry, sandy floor.
From outside, shouts arose. "Let me go! Let go of me!" The tent flap was torn aside by a tall, lean boy with dark, oily hair. He hurtled over the threshold. Akil.
Two sentries followed, red-faced, and seized him by the arms. Akil cursed and kicked at them and wrestled free. The sentries darted after him, roaring with rage.
"Did
I win?" Akil shouted. "I won, didn’t I?"
"Stop right there," Neferet’s father said.
Akil drew up short. "But the bells . . ."
"I’ll tell you when—and if—to come!"
The sentries caught up, panting. One had a bloody gash on his cheek. "Sorry, sir. This boy’s a slippery one." He grabbed Akil by his tunic. "You’re coming with me."
Akil held his ground. "I demand to know what’s going on. I deserve to know what’s going on! We’ve waited long enough."
"You demand nothing. Not from me, or anyone else." Her father’s eyes were hard. "Now find some patience. A decision has not yet been made."
"A decision? About what? You can’t compare me to any of those idiot boys in there." Akil gestured rudely toward where he’d been waiting. "And you all know it. So what kind of decision are you talking about?"
"He’s talking about someone who’s not in there," Neferet said loudly.
All eyes turned to her. Paimu cursed under his breath and her father let out an angry snort. "Thank you Neferet, but that’s no one’s business but ours."
"Someone else?" Akil scoured the tent. "I don’t see anyone else. Show him to me, show me his work. I’m better. I’ll prove it!"
"You’ll prove nothing," her father said. "What you’ll do is wait."
Akil crossed his arms. "How long?" he demanded.
Tui cut in, his voice smiling but firm. "As it says in the sacred texts of the Ke’gemni, ‘comfortable is the seat of the man of gentle speech—but knives are prepared against the one that forces a path, that he does not advance, save in due season.’"
A few men laughed.
"There’s no point in keeping it secret now," her father said. "You’ll wait until dawn. That’s when we’ll make our decision."
Neferet ran to her father. "Dawn, tomorrow morning? But that’s only hours away! That’s not enough time to find Ramses, he could be anywhere, he—"
