“I doubt it. He’d make you a slave, not his princess. We can offer you freedom.”
Sarah stopped and stared at him. What was he talking about? He’d just invaded Taharqa’s camp, chased them over the dunes, torn her from Matt’s side, tossed her over a horse, and taken her dozens of kilometres into the desert.
“Freedom?” she said. “Are you crazy?”
Chapter 9
The Red Sea Warriors
“Freedom?” repeated Sarah in astonishment, staring at the sun-washed Medjay raider perched on his demon-black horse. He was either out of his mind or the concept of freedom meant something completely different in this day and age. “You just kidnapped me, snatched me away from my friend—”
“Didn’t the Kushite prince throw ropes over you?” he asked.
Sarah gaped. Had they been watching?
“At first,” she explained. “But he let us go. Taharqa promised—” What had he really promised? It was Senkamon who’d requested their release and now Senkamon was dead. They’d likely be back under Taharqa’s suspicious watch after this raid, maybe even tied up and dragged behind a horse again. But even if that were the case, Matt was still there. She had to get back to him.
“I see,” he said, probably noticing her hesitation. “Taharqa promises death more than he promises life, little one. He must follow in the footsteps of the dynasty—fill his treasury with gold, ivory, and slaves, and strengthen his army to conquer, conquer, and conquer again.”
“To keep the peace,” she said. “That’s what he claimed.”
The Medjay chuckled and waved away her answer as if it was an obnoxious fly. “Peace? Of course that’s what he would say.” He held out his hand. “Come with us or you’ll surely die. Then perhaps you’ll realize Taharqa’s peace.”
Sarah bit her lip and tried to blink back tears. She had no choice. Survival, Matt had said. Yes, she had to survive and hope she’d get back to him. Or maybe, somehow, he’d get to her.
She grasped the raider’s hand and let him swing her up onto the broad back of the stamping, snuffling stallion. At least he let her sit upright this time, although in front of him, where he could keep an eye on her. He pursed his lips and blew out a shrill whistle. The stallion instantly responded, swivelling around at a tug on the reins and plodding through the shifting sand after the other men. In less than an hour he caught up to them and they continued up and over dunes, in and out of winding valleys, leaving trails of chalk-white dust hovering in the air. Finally, as the sun began to set, they entered another valley—a wind-scooped bowl in the sandstone—and they halted and slid wearily from their horses.
Her captor helped her down from the stallion and led her to a shelf of rock. Here they’d find protection from the nagging wind, he explained.
Sarah stood back and watched uneasily as he untied a roll of spotted fur—leopard?—and spread it on the ground. The other men did the same, nearby, patterning the sand with black polka dots. The Medjay waved her over and patted the blanket, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to sit there, especially so close to the strange group of men who were eyeing her constantly and looking every bit as uncomfortable as she felt. Her captor shrugged and began building a fire. As soon as the sun went down, a deep, burrowing chill invaded her limbs and she couldn’t help but shiver. She moved closer to the fire, despite her misgivings.
“I am Qeskaant,” he said. “You are?”
She hesitated, but what difference did it make if he knew her name? “Sarah,” she said.
“Ah. A Hebrew name. Are you hungry, Sarah?” asked the Medjay. “I have a healthy supply of nice fresh elephant meat.” He cast her a gloating grin.
Meat you stole.
“Or would you rather starve?”
Sarah sidled up to the fire and snatched the morsel of meat from the man’s outstretched hand. She tore into it ravenously, trying to keep from meeting his eyes. But she knew he was watching her.
“Is it good?” he asked.
She looked up and noticed a teasing light in his eyes. “It’s not bad,” she said.
“A delicacy,” Qeskaant explained. “But the Kushites rarely take elephants just for meat. Ivory’s what they’re after.”
“I know,” Sarah mumbled. It was a resource to them, for trade and decoration. “Do you really care about the elephants?” she asked.
“I care about waste,” he said, meeting her gaze with another fierce glance. But it instantly dissolved as he waved his hand dismissively. “You don’t know us, so you can hardly trust us. But it’s clear you don’t know the pharaoh or the prince either. They say they believe in ma’at—order, truth, justice, righteousness—and peace. But they don’t understand what that actually means. Without war, there is never peace. Medjay warriors know that better than anyone. And ma’at is only for those who are free.”
Sarah blinked, trying to grasp what this man was saying. What did he really mean by ma’at? If it had to do with Nubian beliefs, no wonder the prince and Senkamon had been intrigued by Matt’s name. But this guy’s arguments seemed to have something to do with freedom and . . . slavery? It made no sense. Even if the Medjay were opposed to slavery, that didn’t make them warriors. They were raiders, thieves, killers.
“You feel people should be free. So do I. But attacking the prince’s camp and—” She had to be careful. “—taking his things. How does that help the slaves?”
Qeskaant scowled. “We took you, didn’t we? Or would you rather still be tied to the prince’s chariot?”
“But . . . I wasn’t tied anymore,” she said.
“What do you think the prince was going to do with you? Did you really think you were free? Why must everyone kneel to the pharaohs?” Qeskaant yelled, slamming his fist on the ground.
Sarah shrank back from him, fighting down panic. She bit her lip and tried to keep a smooth poker face or, as Matt would wear in the same situation, a “Seriously?” face. But a shiver ran through her anyway.
Qeskaant took a deep breath and held up his hand in a calming gesture. “I didn’t mean to get angry. You’re tired, hungry, and scared, and I had no right to make you more frightened. It just seems impossible to convince others that the pharaoh’s policies are wrong. Please, eat, drink, and rest. We can discuss this later.”
Discuss? Does he mean shout, rant, and rave again? She had to escape as soon as possible. This Medjay man was crazy.
After chattering and arguing like a feuding gang of thugs, the other men eventually settled in for the night. Two men had even leaped to their feet and duelled with their swords, sending clangs like solidly-struck gongs echoing through the quiet desert. But at least the duel had ended in a draw. Sarah had seen enough of bloodshed to last her a lifetime. She’d been spared more of Qeskaant’s “discussions” too, thank goodness. He’d kept quiet the rest of the evening, slipping her the occasional half-smile—as if he were suddenly a kind, trustworthy sort of raider. Right. She’d trust him as far as she would a sleepy snake. With another weak smile, he spread out a fur wrap for her a slight distance from the others and encouraged her to lie down. On constant alert for any hostile movements, she crawled under the skin and lay perfectly still, but stayed wide awake. She closed her eyes briefly, trying to mimic sleep so no one would get suspicious. Gradually the air around her grew still, interrupted only by soft mutterings or sighing breaths, and the odd snore.
Sarah kept her body motionless, her breathing steady. Just wait a little longer. She opened one eye halfway and glimpsed Qeskaant breathing deeply, an arm flung over his head, his eyelids closed.
Now was the time. She eased off the blanket, rose silently and edged along the rock wall to where the black stallion was standing, his legs hobbled with rope. With fumbling fingers she peeled apart the knot and gently unwound the rope, but the horse snorted and whinnied. Sarah patted him and crooned in his ear.
“There. There. Black is your name, right? Not Shetan.” He nuzzled her, his snorts fading to gentle sighs. “Atta boy.”
&n
bsp; Finally she managed to get the last snarl of rope untied. Digging her fingers into the stallion’s thick mane, she flung her leg up, trying to hop onto his back, but she was too short. She slid down and off. She took a running leap, but still only got halfway, bouncing off his ribs. After several tries, she knew this wasn’t going to work.
Why do you have to be so tall?
Matt would say, “He’s not that tall, Sarah. You’re that short.”
Ha. Ha. Very funny, Matt. She blinked a tear from her eye.
Okay. Stop thinking about Matt and start thinking about escape. How to get onto the animal’s back? She looked around and spotted the coil of rope. An idea sprang to mind. She teased it into a loop and swiftly tied it—making a stirrup from the rope—then tossed it over the horse’s back, knotting it around his belly. But when she slipped her sandal into the loop, the rope twisted and snagged her foot. It slid under the horse, upsetting her balance and slamming her onto the sand. Now she had one foot suspended, but she was still on the ground. She kicked furiously, but couldn’t free her foot.
Great. Not only had she not escaped, but now she was tangled up in her homemade stirrup. At least no one had heard her yet. Scrunching her stomach muscles and straining her arms, Sarah grasped hold of the stirrup and worked her foot free. She spun her leg underneath her, staggered upright, and looked around.
There has to be a way to do this.
Aha! She spied a boulder, a dark hump in the sand a few metres away. She led the stallion towards the rock and coaxed him alongside it. Now she just had to step on the rock and sling her leg over the horse’s back.
But . . . she felt a prickle at her neck, a chill slither down her spine. She felt as if the sleeping men weren’t sleeping anymore. She turned and saw them—all twelve of them—sitting up, watching her. Not only were they watching her, but they were also grinning.
Sarah scowled, gritted her teeth, and swung her leg over the horse anyway. But before she could grab the reins and wheel him around, something sharp bit into her neck. She froze and peered down to see the tip of a sword pressed against her skin.
“Did you really think I’d let you steal my horse?” said Qeskaant.
Chapter 10
Matt’s Bargain
While slouching under a date palm, Matt watched one of Taharqa’s soldiers—his new guard—adjust the ring he wore on his thumb, and hook it on the string, or sinew, whatever it was, of the long wooden bow. He used this device to pull the taut string farther back. Then, with spectacular aim, he unleashed the barbed arrow at a knot in a nearby acacia tree, hitting it dead centre. He was obviously bored with his new assignment and would like nothing better than to impale a Medjay instead, or even Matt. The guard didn’t seem overly impressed with him.
“So that’s how you do it,” Matt said, sitting forward. “Um, Walet?” He thought that’s what Taharqa had called him. “Can I try?”
“You want me to give you my bow?” The stocky Nubian flicked his eyes wide, and then narrowed them.
“Not give, lend.”
The man frowned.
“You give it to me for a short time and I give it back. You could teach me how to shoot it.” Matt raised his eyebrows, looking for some sign that the soldier understood.
“I won’t give you my bow,” he said harshly. “You must make your own.”
Walet shook another arrow from his quiver, placed, pulled, and fired. The arrow nearly sliced the first one down the middle. The man’s accuracy was incredible.
Matt leaned back against the palm’s trunk again. He’d rather be doing target practice, like Walet, but at least for now he could take a break from riding in a site that, believe it or not, boasted shade.
Cool refreshing shade. Trees. Green stuff.
After the day and a half of travel following the Medjay attack, it had been a relief to come across these plots of land along the Nile that actually supported trees and grew crops, some kind of wheat and barley and little yellow balls called millet. These green and yellow Shangri Las—Madame LeBlanc had made him read Lost Horizon in detention—were only narrow strips of land directly bordering the river. Sheep, goats, and cattle grazed in patches of grassed land, fuzzy white or brown hills nestled between the green. It was like he’d finally reached the treeline and farm country after marching through the arctic tundra, except he was showering sweat on the ground rather than hunching down in polar fleece.
Another relief was to finally see people. Farmers—dark-skinned Nubians who greeted the soldiers with elaborate hand gestures and a great deal of shouting—tended the crops and animals. They hustled to their huts and returned with heaps of fruit, vegetables, and bread. Most of the men looked oddly satyr-ish, with only goatskin kilts tied around their waists, but the women looked quite normal, wearing simple linen dresses with little decoration, although some of the dresses were stamped with animal designs or dyed a bright red.
The thing he still found quite weird about the Nubians were the scars that covered their bodies—purposefully created geometric patterns that circled their eyebrows and swirled over their chests. Why would anyone do that? It looked painful. The designs on these people seemed unique too, different from the soldiers. Maybe it had to do with their jobs or status. One thing for sure, he wasn’t going to sit still and let them slice patterns into his skin. Ugh. He shivered. The cuts, bruises and blisters on his feet were sore enough. How he missed his runners, but at least he had sandals now.
It was funny, but not one of the Nubian farmers owned sandals either, especially like the ones he wore. Most of them shuffled about in bare feet, and they stared at him openly when they noticed his footwear—some even bowed, like they did to Taharqa. A shadow of shame stole over him whenever they did this, but not enough to make him give them away. He needed them. Even though Taharqa had allowed him to ride the mare, since “Senkamon would have no further use of her,” without sandals his feet would never have stood up to the burning desert sands and the rocky area where they’d camped last night.
Matt laced his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. Yeah, the shoes are good. Sarah has the same ones. A burst of pain shot through his head. Are you still alive, girl?
The raid came crashing back, everything etched in his memory like it had been carved there with a knife: the arrows, the screams, the raider . . . Sarah ripped from his horse. Then the anguish when he’d been forced to turn back and leave her. He relived the day and a half of torture too, without her, kowtowing to a prince who didn’t trust or even like him. The memories lashed him like a whip. . . .
* * * *
“We need to leave, now. Get to this place the raiders are gathering,” Matt said when they returned to the ravaged camp.
“No,” said Taharqa. “We need to bury the dead.” He dismounted his horse and wandered through the camp, shaking his head and pausing alongside each body. “If only I could bring them with me to be beautified and properly buried in Napata.”
Does he mean “mummified?” Matt wondered.
“We can’t though,” said the prince. “Too many bodies to carry in the chariots.”
Matt saw a glimmer in his eye. Was it a tear?
Taharqa quickly swiped it away and his lips grew thin and hard. He looked at the winding, shimmering river and then at the rough, sandy ground. With his spear he marked a rectangle, and then another. “At least we can lay them out by the Nile,” he said, “so they may receive its blessings.”
Blessings, right. Matt couldn’t suppress a frown. Maybe for the crocodiles.
When the men returned from the chase, empty-handed, as Taharqa had suspected, they set immediately to digging graves. Matt threw his muscles into the task, too. If only they could pursue the raiders now, stop wasting time. The tightness in his chest, the throbbing in head made him feel like he was going to explode. But they couldn’t leave these bodies lying around either—it was the right thing to do, to bury them, although it made him squeamish to see all the blood and guts spilled on the ground.
Matt couldn’t figure out why they’d discarded the valuable bows and arrows in this way. They should really hang onto them, in case they were attacked again. But it seemed like a religious ritual, and he didn’t want to make Taharqa angry at him for any reason. He needed his help. So he followed their example and fed weapons to the graves.
After the burials, they gathered up the remaining gear and mounted the horses to head north along the Nile. Taharqa assigned Walet to keep watch over Matt—“guide him” were his exact words—and allowed him to keep the bay mare.
Matt patted the mare’s neck after he’d swung up onto her back. “Guess I should name you.” He didn’t even have to think about it. Sarah. It was more so he could say her name and pretend Sarah was still with him than because she was anything like Sarah. The horse responded to a nudge. She was quiet, obedient, and accustomed to a harsh environment. Nothing like Sarah, really. But she was the only companion he had now.
“Sarah,” he said aloud. “What do you think?”
The horse snorted.
He patted her again and they set off, trailing the long line of soldiers, a dark chain that hugged the curved throat of the Nile. They travelled the full day, over dunes, through valleys and dry riverbeds. By evening they had to ford a river, and then camp for the night in a rocky gully. In the morning they sprang up with the sun and set out again after a wolfed-down meal. Within the hour they came upon another set of rapids in the Nile—bubbling water over jagged rocks. Taharqa called this location the Fifth Cataract, and Matt felt a dash of relief that he wasn’t plunging through the rapids this time, but was well seated on his horse. Just above the rapids he spotted creatures in the water—thick black snouts and bulbous eyes peering above the waterline.
Time Meddlers on the Nile Page 6
