‘They’re coming. They’ll catch us up.’
There was something strange about Hawk’s voice tonight. It’s excitement, thought Narmer, pulling on his kilt. I’ve never heard Hawk sound excited before.
‘You’re coming too?’ Narmer asked. Hawk rarely hunted, preferring life in the palace.
Hawk grinned. And that too was strange. ‘If I’m with you then you won’t be breaking your promise to Father. You won’t be hunting alone. We’d better hurry,’ he added, ‘before it does any more damage.’
Narmer grabbed his spears as he went out the door.
The moon sailed across the night sky like a round loaf, sending a wash of silver across the River. The wind from the desert had cooled as it crossed the flood. The River smelt even more strongly now that the waters had receded, of rotting leaves, dung and unwary animals caught in the waters far upstream, as well as silt. Narmer slapped at a mosquito and then another.
The palace and the town were quiet. Not even the blue flicker of a castor oil lamp shone through the cracks of the mats that were hung over windows to keep out dust and insects. The only sounds were a few snores drifting down from sleepers who had made their beds up on the flat roofs, and the cry of a disturbed plover from the hills beyond the flood.
‘This way,’ whispered Hawk.
They began to run. Up the town’s central street and onto the main dyke. Hawk was soon out of breath.
Narmer peered though the shadows. Hippos were hard to see at the best of times. Even in the moonlight it was almost impossible to spot a grey hide against a black sky, in even blacker water.
But they should have been able to hear the animal by now. Perhaps it was dozing, thought Narmer—just as Hawk called out behind him, ‘Stop!’
‘Is this the right place?’ Narmer tried to make out shapes in the darkness. The water was rippled with moonlight, the dyke wall all mud and shadows.
‘Down there!’ Hawk pointed into the shallows, hanging back. Narmer had long suspected that Hawk was scared of animals, especially large ones.
Narmer waded into the water. But still nothing moved. Was the hippo sitting motionless against the bank? It was impossible to see. Was it—
The world exploded.
For precious seconds he wondered where he was, and what had happened. His mind had been focused on the hippopotamus. He hadn’t thought of a crocodile.
Its first lunge trapped his leg. He screamed and twisted, so that he landed on his stomach in the mud, his head still out of the water, the great jaws still around his flesh.
‘Help!’ he shrieked. ‘Hawk! Help!’
There was no answer.
The croc was shaking him now, back and forth. Then it slid into the mud, and the water rose around him as the monster dragged him down.
Down, down…His fingers grasped frantically at the mud. He screamed again. This time the pain was too great for words.
Down under the water, the blackness choking him, the cold gripping him—all but his leg, which was a burst of fire. And then the creature rolled…
Over, under, twisting him, turning. This was the death roll, from which nothing escaped.
His leg was agony. More than agony. His lungs were bursting, desperate for air. But he couldn’t breathe. If he breathed he would drown, there in the murk and darkness. If he breathed the beast would have him. Not even his bones would be found.
And then it surfaced, dragging him along. Time for one quick gasp of air, then down again…
Time slowed. It was as if his brain had all the time it needed now to calculate his last chance of escape.
This time he lashed out, twisted himself, trying to get his fingers into the beast’s eyes. The crocodile seemed startled. Prey animals always went limp and passive in the water. They gave in to the will of the predator.
Not Narmer. Never Narmer. He thrust out again. Once again he had the feeling that the monster was shaken. This shouldn’t be happening, hadn’t ever happened; quarry never behaved this way. For just one instant the beast relaxed its grip. Narmer surged upwards. He had to get air! For one blessed moment he smelt mud and night-time, felt the air rush into his lungs.
Beside him the crocodile rose to the surface as well. It too needed to breathe. Narmer felt its leathery back against him; caught one glimpse of its teeth in the moonlight. And then he leapt, flinging himself towards the dyke wall, landing in the water again, but for the moment free, his feet pushing at the mud. No, one foot only, the other…
There was no time to think about the other…
Somehow, with one foot only, he struggled up onto the dyke, then fell onto his stomach in the mud. He couldn’t get up, he couldn’t run, but he could crawl…
He screamed again. Again there was no answer. Had Hawk run for help? Any moment now, thought Narmer, they’ll come, with spears and javelins. They’ll drive the beast away…
Something moved behind him, a slithering through the mud. The crocodile!
How far would it chase him? How fast could it go? A croc could grab its prey with lightning speed. But he’d never seen one run further than a few cubits.
He pushed his fingers deep into the mud—anything to help pull himself along faster. His breathing was too loud now to hear anything behind him—or was that his beating heart? His leg was on fire, but at the same time colder than the flood.
He had to run.
He stood up shakily. He hopped and staggered ahead, further, further, further. How could you run when one leg dragged behind you?
Narmer didn’t know. He only knew that somehow he did it.
The night was cold. Hot. Empty, except for the beast behind him…
Along the dyke he limped. Further. Further. Further…
Then suddenly he knew that he had got away. The instinct of any hunted beast, perhaps, that knew it had made it to freedom. The croc had decided that there were easier meals to be had. There was an ox nearby, unwary, its muzzle in the water, drinking at the dyke…
And then Narmer fell.
This time he knew there was no rising. He reached down to touch his side. It was wet and warm—not from water, but blood.
He didn’t dare to look. He just lay there gasping, falling into blackness…
Something moved above him. It was Hawk, his smile white in the moonlight. Narmer had never really seen his brother smile before.
And then the darkness won.
CHAPTER 9
They found him in the morning.
He had known little of the night. Brief glimpses, moonlight, mud and unbearable pain, then unconsciousness again.
Then suddenly voices, yells, a scream as someone saw his wounds, his name muttered in fearful tones from person to person. Then hands, gentle, but causing pain enough for darkness to close in once more, as they took him home to die.
Then nothing.
He awoke again in the palace. He was in his rooms, but the bed was different; underneath him was a pile of furs, covered with a linen cloth. Softer, smoother than his bed. Faces swam above him. Someone was crying. And then he heard his father’s voice. There had never been anguish in his father’s voice before.
‘How did this happen? How?’
More darkness. He felt Seknut’s hands upon him, just like in his childhood. It was she who was crying. But Seknut never cried. There was more pain as someone pressed his legs. No, not pain, what he felt was beyond pain. It was more like fire, as though his leg had been shoved into an oven.
‘I can’t stop the bleeding!’ Was that Seknut’s voice, or someone else’s?
Narmer had never imagined cold could be like this. Cold that came from within him, not from the air, as his warmth and life flowed away.
He heard his father again, yelling orders to the priests, just like he shouted commands in war.
He could feel amulets pressed against his side. A voice muttered beside him, one of the priests, chanting a spell to Isis: ‘Protect him from evil-wishers who are alive, from evil that is dead, or red…’
Somehow he knew the spell had no power, not over wounds like this. He had to speak. There was something he had to say. It had come to him at some point in that endless night, in the moments between thought and blackness. His lips moved, but no sound came.
‘The Trader…’ he tried to say.
Seknut’s face bent low over his.
‘The Trader.’ How could be make her understand? Nothing in his life had been so hard. ‘The Trader knows how…’
There was no strength to say more, to tell her, ‘The Trader mended Nitho’s leg. Perhaps he can mend mine.’
Would she understand?
Now a sandstorm, instead of darkness, swept him away. He saw red and white, then nothing…
Suddenly there was agony.
It was enough to wake him, bring him back from the nothing place, the cold place, the place of endless sleep.
Someone was holding his leg. For a moment he thought it was the crocodile again. And then he opened his eyes and looked into the Trader’s face.
The Trader was holding something; it was an awl, Narmer realised, like the women used for sewing. There was thread as well. And suddenly the Trader pushed the awl into his leg so that it pierced through the skin.
Princes didn’t scream. Princes were meant to bear everything in silence. But he screamed nonetheless.
The sandstorm thickened again. He heard the Trader’s voice. Then Nitho’s face bent over him, and she pinched his cheeks so hard they hurt.
How could you feel a pinch when your leg was in flames? But it was enough to keep him awake, to stop the sandstorm from sweeping him away.
‘Stay with us,’ ordered Nitho. It was the voice of the Oracle, the voice of his dreams. Narmer obeyed.
The pain seemed to last forever…
Finally he felt Nitho’s hands spooning something into his mouth, something bitter, but tasting faintly of honey. Most of it dribbled down his chin. The spoon returned. This time Nitho held his head, to make it easier for him to swallow. The mixture trickled down his throat. He wanted to speak, but the room whirled.
And suddenly there was no pain.
It was dark when Narmer woke again, apart from a lamp flickering by his bed: a small flame on a tiny lake of oil. He heard snoring, and could see the dim bulk of the Trader sleeping on a pile of cushions in the corner. Bast was there too, sprawled over the Trader’s feet as though the cushions belonged to her, not him.
Something moved beside him. Nitho. Her scarf was still across her face, but her dark eyes looked at him steadily.
She held a spoon to his lips again. ‘Drink it,’ she whispered. ‘The poppy juice will make you sleep.’
‘Nitho?’ Again, the words were hardly there. But somehow she understood.
‘Yes. It’s me. Can you understand?’
He couldn’t nod. He blinked instead. He forced his lips to move again. ‘How bad?’
She looked at him, eyes wide in the lamplight, as though wondering how much to tell him. ‘The top of your leg is gone, and half of your buttock. There are teeth marks on your lower leg. We’ve sewn up the worst of it, but the puncture wounds are deep. There’ll be fever, but we’ll do what we can.’
‘Die?’ whispered Narmer. She would tell him the truth, he knew. Oracles never lied…
‘I don’t know.’ There was honesty in her voice. ‘We’ll do our best.’ She hesitated. ‘There’s a wound on your face too, a deep one. But not from teeth. From a stick maybe, in the mud.’ And then, ‘You’ve lost a lot of blood. You need to drink. The poppy will take away your pain.’
No, thought Narmer, not take it away. The pain was part of him now. But at least the poppy made it feel like the pain belonged to someone else.
And then he slept.
Time passed in a blur. Seknut muttered prayers to Bes, her favourite household god, beside his bed. Nitho, her hands cool on his hot skin, spooned liquid into his mouth, or simply sat holding his hand, as the pain washed back and forth.
The smell of blood was constant. Then there was a new smell of rotting flesh. Narmer glimpsed dead skin in a bowl by the bed and knew it was his, as the Trader’s hands worked on him again and again smearing his wounds with a mixture of honey and myrrh and aloe. There had been garlic and crocodile dung in the mixture at first, which stank and had stung. The Trader made him drink teas, too: horrible messes of ox liver and raw eggs and onions, pounded smooth, with mint and sycamore seeds and more garlic.
His father’s face hovered above him. Or was that a dream? Seknut whispered a spell: ‘O Son of Pain, who brings the fever and the anguish…’
Once he woke to see Bast peering over him, her eyes pale gold in the moonlight. But it was Nitho’s hand that held her. It was almost as though the two of them were guarding him. Somehow, thought Narmer vaguely, they were keeping death away.
Days passed. No, not days. Days were defined by meals, at such and such a time, and sleep at night. This was just…time. Time and poppy and pain.
And then less poppy and more pain. And somehow, the realisation that he was going to live.
CHAPTER 10
There had been no more poppy this morning. So when the King arrived Narmer was fully awake, for the first time since the pain had begun to rule his life.
His father had been alone when he came before, usually at night, to sit with his son in the darkness. But today he came as the King, attended by his guards, his sandal bearer and his fanners, with their giant ostrich-feather fans. He waved them away at the door and entered alone.
Narmer watched as Nitho and the Trader bowed, picked up their medicine bowls, and left. The cat stalked out after them, her tail waving.
‘I’m sorry, Father,’ Narmer whispered.
The King touched his cheek gently. ‘I’m sorry too, my son. More sorry than you can ever know. This was why I made you promise never to hunt alone. You promised—’
‘But I wasn’t alone!’ Narmer rasped. ‘Hawk was with me!’
‘Hawk was asleep in the palace. The first he knew of the accident was when they brought you back.’
‘He told me there was a hippo by the top dyke! We went together! He must have run away and left me!’
‘Hawk knew nothing of this.’ His father’s voice was firm beneath its gentleness. ‘You must have dreamt it in your delirium.’ Or lied. The words hung in the air, almost as loud as if he’d said them.
He wanted to yell out, Hawk did this to me! Hawk tried to kill me! But he was too weak to say the words. Words like those would mean a battle. He would fight that war when he was stronger. Hawk will not get away with this, he told himself.
His father took his hand. ‘My son…’ The King hesitated, as though he too were looking for the strength to find the words that must be said. ‘You are going to live,’ he said at last. ‘But you may never walk again. Or run. Or hunt. Or fight.
‘Narmer, do you remember before…before the crocodile? I told you that a king lives for his people, not himself. So today I have to ask you to be a king, while you’re still a prince…to sacrifice yourself for your people, just as you might do in battle.’
Narmer stared at him, not understanding. Then comprehension dawned. ‘No!’ he whispered desperately.
‘My son…My dear son…The people of Thinis need a king who can lead them in war. A king the other towns will fear.’
The King’s voice grew stronger. ‘I will not—cannot—make Hawk my heir instead of you. The people respect you. Love you. They would never give Hawk their love and obedience if they thought I had taken the kingship away from you. When I died they would be waiting, always waiting, wondering if you would try to take the throne from your brother.’
The King paused. And then he added, ‘So it has to be your choice. A true king’s decision: to give that kingship up.’
The cold flooded Narmer’s body. It was as though his blood were seeping out of him again. But this time, he thought, it is my life, not my blood.
To give up everything he was. No longer Guardian Prince of
Thinis. No longer heir to his father’s throne.
And to give it up to Hawk! Hawk, who had schemed to kill him, to gain the kingship for himself!
It was almost unthinkable. But there was no one else. The King’s words hung in the silent air.
Narmer glanced out the door. All he could see was part of the courtyard: the lily pool, the tiles. But it would be his last glimpse of his future kingdom. Did he really have a choice?
He took a deep breath. His voice must remain steady. He struggled to sit up. It took his whole strength. But he would not say this lying like a child in bed.
His father helped him. But the King’s hands shook as they arranged the pillows to support his son, and tears ran down his cheeks.
‘I resign all claims to the kingship.’
Seknut brought him stuffed dates and honeyed lotus seeds, treats that he’d loved when he was small. He nibbled a few to make her happy, to let her feel that there was something—anything—that she could do for him.
But there was nothing. Everything he was had gone.
His father sent him a robe of panther skin and ordered quails to be trapped and roasted to tempt his son to eat.
Narmer fed them to the cat. How could he eat at a time like this?
Bast was his main companion these days. Humans wanted to comfort him, but the cat just wanted to eat his dinner.
It still seemed strange to give an animal a name, Bast—as though she were a person, not a wildcat. Of course geese could be tamed and sheep followed their shepherds. But to have an animal indoors? Unheard of. But he had to admit that once you got to know her Bast started to seem like a person too. Self-possessed, always ready for another meal. He also remembered how Bast had been ready to attack him when he might have threatened Nitho.
Would Bast do that for me? he wondered. Sometimes—just sometimes—he dreamt of watching her rip open his brother as she had the lizards, all that time ago.
How could he have been so stupid? Was he so used to love and admiration that he never noticed his brother’s hate and envy?
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