The Shepherd Kings

by Judith Tarr

  Some of the younger princelings were making a game of swinging on ropes from ship to ship. The king and the queen indulged it; it was harmless, if noisy. Every now and then one would lose his grip, or simply let go, and fall into the water. His fellows would fish him out with much hilarity.

  One figure swung across with economy and dispatch, and no headlong whoop of delight in the game. It landed on the deck, rolled, came up beside Kemni.

  Gebu, who had once been his brother, sat beside him and investigated the plate and cup and bowl. “Someone loves you,” he said. “Even the princes didn’t get any of this honey-sweet. There was just enough for the king and his queens.”

  Kemni did not answer. Gebu shrugged, ate the sweet and drank half the wine, and set the rest of the jar near Kemni’s limp hand. He got up then and slipped quietly over the side, away from the golden flagship into another of the boats.

  That game too the young men had been playing: leaping from boat to boat across the river. Kemni did not know why he followed. Maybe because he was tired of sitting. Maybe because Gebu went toward Avaris, and Kemni’s belly did not care for the feel of it. His belly had felt nothing so distinct in so long that he could only follow where it led.

  It was useful for once that he did not care if he lived or died, leaped into a boat or fell into the water. He waited till Gebu had advanced two boats, or three, before he began his own pursuit, moving as quietly as he could. His body was slack with days of lying about, but it remembered somewhat of its strength, and its hunter’s cunning.

  As he had thought, Gebu made his way toward the eastern bank, somewhat apart from the camp that spread along it, and made his way toward the city. Once or twice he slipped into deep shadow: driven there by the passing of a sentry, or the arrival of a mob of beer-reeking soldiers. They delayed but did not stop him.

  Gebu might have been going into the camp. There was that. But the knot in Kemni’s belly would not go away. A prince royal had no need at all to creep and hide and slink, unless he did something that even a prince might be ill advised to do.

  Gebu slipped past the camp with no pause except for passersby. There was an open space beyond it, at the foot of the walls. He ghosted round the edge of it, away from the loom of the northward gate. Kemni was the ghost of a ghost in his wake.

  But there was another behind, a whisper in the wind, a ripple on the sand. Kemni stopped and made himself invisible, unmoving, unbreathing, utterly still. A shadow passed, wary, but never wary enough. Kemni tripped it and sat on it, blocking its mouth with his hand.

  In what starlight there was, he could see the shadow of a face. His hand told him more, and the sense of the body beneath him. It was an Egyptian—a little startling, for he had been expecting Iannek of the Retenu; but this was not that great bearded man. This was Gebu’s charioteer, the young man named for the king, Ahmose si-Ebana.

  Kemni staggered up, dragging si-Ebana with him. Gebu was almost out of reach, almost invisible. Kemni made what speed he could in pursuit, with si-Ebana hard on his heels.

  He did not try to stop the young fool from following. A loyal man, a man who knew how to fight, might be useful—if he had the sense not to move until Kemni allowed him.

  Gebu advanced less stealthily as he neared the walls. The Egyptian army was behind them. The walls were dark and silent. At wide intervals Kemni heard the heavy tread of a sentry; but the city was asleep, or feigning it.

  Round the curve of the wall, not far from the river, was a postern gate. It was hidden between two courses of stone, angled into shadow and well concealed by the stink of a midden, but Gebu knew where to go. It opened to his hand. He slipped within.

  Kemni never even paused. Where Gebu had gone, he went also, and si-Ebana, because si-Ebana knew no better.

  ~~~

  There was light within, torches beginning to burn low but illuminating a passage through the walls into what must be a portion of the citadel. All that way was clearly prepared, laid open and deserted, which could not have been easy in so crowded a city, and a city under siege.

  Gebu was not looking for pursuit, nor, it appeared, had those who opened this way for him. It led up by many flights of stairs, through dim passages, out at last onto a broad expanse of roof under the stars. There was a garden on that roof, small but cunningly made, lit now by a ring of torches. Men waited there, big bearded men in robes of rich embroideries.

  Gebu in his kilt of fine white linen, his collar of blue and red and gold, his princely wig, seemed odd, misplaced. But he held himself erect as a prince should.

  Kemni made himself a shadow amid the shadows of that garden. Si-Ebana slipped into his shadow, leaning toward him, breathing in his ear. “There. I’ll wager good beer on it: that’s Apophis.”

  There amid the rest, seated no higher or richer, nor dressed as splendidly as some; but they all sat so that, no matter where he was or what he did, he was their center. Kings did that. It was one of the gifts that made them kings.

  He made Kemni think, unwillingly, of Ahmose. He was much the same kind of man, the same age, the same comfort in his office. He wore kingship as easily, with as little need for ostentation—unless, of course, there should be need for it.

  He regarded Gebu with a flat dark stare, and no expression on what could be seen of his face beneath the thicket of beard. Gebu did not flinch. He was a brave man, whatever else he was. Kemni had always known that.

  Apophis spoke in Egyptian as many of these Retenu could, without either beauty or elegance of phrase, but his words were easy enough to understand. “So, man of Egypt. You have a bargain for me?”

  “I might,” Gebu said. “Tell me what you need of me.”

  “No, no,” Apophis said. “First you tell me what brings you here. What would lead a prince to betray the king his father?”

  “It’s said he’s not my father,” said Gebu. “My mother was a concubine. She died bearing me. Who knows who might have bedded her while the king was occupied elsewhere?”

  “Convenient,” said Apophis. “They say you resemble him.”

  “He has brothers,” Gebu said. “And he had more, once. I offer you the bargain that Kamose made. The siege breaks, the army withdraws to Thebes.”

  “How will you bring that about? Is your king about to waver?”

  “There will be a new king,” Gebu said.

  Apophis blinked once, as a crocodile will, lying in the reeds. “How do I know that I may trust a king who killed a king to reach his throne?”

  “A king with such a burden on his spirit would feel obliged to be loyal in all else. Yes?”

  “More likely no,” Apophis said. “I would ask that such a king give me more than his word. That he swear a solemn oath that he will do as he undertook to do—and that, once he has done it, he will rule in Thebes according to my advice and counsel.”

  “As a tributary king?” Gebu asked with great calm.

  Apophis spread his hands. “No. Oh, no. Nothing so dreadful as that. Say rather that we become allies—for you will be the new king, yes? Will you have your father killed, or will you do it yourself?”

  For the first time Gebu seemed disconcerted. “It will be done,” he said somewhat brusquely. “How it is done is my affair.”

  “So it is,” Apophis agreed with every appearance of amiability. “I simply wish to secure my half of the bargain.”

  “I trusted you,” Gebu said, “by coming here alone as you asked—and that was not well thought of among my allies. Will you trust me in return, that I will give you what I agreed to give?”

  “I suppose I must,” said Apophis. “Or I may simply have you killed here and now, and trust that my armies will overcome your father’s, and win a clear victory over both kingdoms.”

  “Do you honestly think you can win this war? Egypt rules the river. The land belongs to it—the people have risen to welcome the Great House wherever he goes.”

  “I might ask the same of you. If you dispose of the king, and make yourself king, then go
away, what will Egypt do?”

  “Egypt will submit,” Gebu said, “because the king is a god.”

  “Not if he can be killed.”

  Kemni, in the shadows, wondered if Gebu heard the threat there.

  Maybe he did. Or maybe not. He said, “His death will be seen to be the gods’ will. I intend nothing as crude as a knife in the back.”

  “Indeed.” Apophis let silence stretch for a moment. Then he said, “Tell me why. Why do you do this?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Yes,” said Apophis.

  Gebu did not like that: he was as close to showing temper as Kemni had seen him. “The gods move me. They set in me the desire to be king.”

  “So you blame the gods.” Apophis shrugged. “Maybe it’s even true. Though I think a younger son, the son of a concubine, whose parentage is somewhat in doubt, might find his ambition thwarted unless he took steps to accomplish it for himself. What will you do with your brothers, then? What of the heir—what is his name?”

  “Amonhotep,” Gebu said. “They also will be dealt with.”

  “By a conspiracy of—what? Priests?”

  “Lords of the Upper Kingdom,” Gebu answered. “Some are priests for part of the year.”

  “Are they still with you, now that your father is succeeding so well in his conquest of this kingdom?”

  “Do you think that he can win?”

  “He might,” Apophis said. “He has gained far more than I thought, though less than he seems to be claiming—or even than you seem to think. He rules one branch of the river and two cities—Sile and Memphis. I rule the rest. Now that all his forces are gathered here, I’ll close upon them and crush them. And yet, your erstwhile allies might not see it as I do. You might find them faint of heart and inclined to cling to the king they know, and not trust their hopes to a lesser prince.”

  “Some of them, perhaps,” Gebu said. “But most have other reason not to love the king. Kings make enemies, as you well know. Judgments given against certain men of the kingdom, jealousy of others favored above them, duties given them that are onerous or unwelcome—even the imposition of war on men who prefer to live in peace: no, my lord; these enemies will not turn back to the king who has treated them so ill.”

  “And they may believe that they can control you, whereas Ahmose has proved that he will submit to no such thing.” Apophis nodded, and rose suddenly. “Very well. Swear your oath before these men of my council. Then go, and do as you promise. The way out will be open, as was the way in. Only have a care that you don’t stray from it. An Egyptian of apparent rank in certain portions of this city is likely to be killed on sight.”

  Gebu inclined his head. It was not a bow. “I will swear,” he said, “and then go. We’ll meet again as king and king, before the gates of this city.”

  “So we shall,” said Apophis. “Only tell me this, before you swear. Has no one suspected this conspiracy of yours?”

  “No one at all,” Gebu said steadily. “We’ve concealed ourselves well.”

  “And yet I’m told that you sent a messenger to us before the war began, offering to stop it. He never came here, and the war went on in spite of you.”

  “He was one man,” Gebu said. “I would have sent more—would have had an embassy, and used the lords in Memphis who were then subject to you. But I was overruled.”

  “You never thought that the messenger might have been caught and stripped of his secrets, and the conspiracy uncovered?”

  “If he had been,” Gebu said, “do you think I would have been left alive, and even allowed to ride in a chariot behind the king?”

  “That would be very subtle of him,” Apophis conceded. “Very well, then. Swear. And then go.”

  Gebu swore his souls away before the lords of the Retenu council, bound in blood—a barbarian rite, but Gebu submitted to it. He seemed glad of it, as if after all some god was in him, perhaps even Set himself, who was the enemy of Horns. Had not Set destroyed his brother Osiris and fought with Horus for kingship over the Two Lands?

  Set was Baal of the Retenu. And it was to Set, and therefore Baal, that he swore. When he had spoken the great words and sealed them with his blood, he was let go. Alone as he had come, he left the roof and the garden, and the king of the foreign kings.

  III

  Kemni followed Gebu out of the Retenu palace and city, with si-Ebana silent in his wake. He glanced back once or twice, but he could not read the charioteer’s expression.

  As they took the narrow and lighted ways, keeping back out of Gebu’s sight, Kemni came to a choice. It was coming to king-killing—soon, if Gebu hoped to fulfill the oath that he had sworn. He would go to Ahmose, of course he would. But he would go as he best saw fit to go.

  He stopped before they passed the postern gate, so abruptly that si-Ebana stumbled into him. He grunted but did not fall. “Si-Ebana,” he said, soft but clear. “Will you do a thing with me?”

  “Yes,” si-Ebana said promptly.

  “But you don’t even know—”

  “I know.” si-Ebana’s face wore an expression at last, and it was grim.

  “It’s dangerous,” Kemni said. “He’ll never forgive you, once he knows what you’ve done.”

  “I belong to the king,” si-Ebana said. “Quick now. He’ll be gone before we can catch him.”

  Kemni had more to say, but si-Ebana had spoken rightly. They would lose Gebu if they lingered. With a shrug and the faint gust of a sigh, he slipped out of the postern into the odorous night.

  Gebu was still in sight, if barely. Kemni ran as quickly as he could, with si-Ebana soft-footed at his back. The army was close. If Gebu slipped in among the tents, he could lose himself before they ever caught him.

  Part of Kemni knew that that was absurd. Gebu the prince could not be lost. But if he gathered his co-conspirators before Kemni reached him, and set the oath in motion, it might go very swiftly—too swiftly. And Ahmose would die.

  If Kemni had been wholly in the world, he would have been too appalled to move. This black remoteness of grief made the rest of it, not endurable, but thinkable.

  Gebu had quickened his pace. He might be aware of pursuit, or he might simply be eager to finish what he had begun.

  Kemni was not as strong as he should have been. Si-Ebana passed him, running long and light. He circled wide round Gebu and vanished into the camp.

  Kemni stumbled to a halt, gasping for breath. Gebu had passed in among the tents—too easy; someone should see to that, dig a ditch or build a palisade, or the enemy could walk in unnoticed.

  Kemni slipped in much as Gebu had, on the edge of a fading revelry, to find Gebu face to face with a middling large, seemingly drunken, and very friendly young charioteer. He dropped a heavy arm about Gebu’s shoulders, spraying him with beer from a jar that he had found—gods knew where, but bless the boy, for that was clever indeed. “Friend,” he said in a slurred voice. “Good friend. Have some beer?”

  Gebu was neatly trapped. If he fled, he confessed to guilt. If he stayed, he could not go where he needed to go. And si-Ebana’s arm was immovable about his neck.

  Kemni did not need to feign the stagger, nor, when it came to it, the sluggish tongue, either. He was distressingly near the end of his strength. He managed to circle as si-Ebana had, to come from within the camp and not from without, as if in search of what he found in si-Ebana’s hand: “Beer! Where did you find beer? Everywhere I look, it’s all wine.”

  Gebu must have been grinding his teeth behind his fixed smile. Kemni cried out to him as if to a long-lost kinsman. “Gebu! Brother! So that’s where you got to. I looked everywhere. You were finding beer!”

  “And you see I found it,” Gebu said with a flicker of laughter.

  “Splendid!” Kemni declared. “Splendid!”

  He hung about Gebu’s neck from one side as si-Ebana hung about the other, by sheer force of ill-balanced weight bearing him away from the camp’s eastern edge where he had been aiming to go, and towar
d the starlit gleam of the river. The fleet was like a shower of sparks, so many lights were in it still.

  Near the bank, Gebu resisted at last, digging in his heels. “My friends,” he said, still feigning merriment, “it’s been a great pleasure, but I must—”

  “You must come with us!” si-Ebana cried. “The camp’s gone as dull as a dead fish, but look, the fleet is as lively as ever.”

  “No, indeed,” Gebu said. “I had promised—”

  “Ah,” si-Ebana said with a wave of his free hand that sent the beer-jar flying into the river. “Promises. She can wait. It’s early hours yet, and we’re out of beer.”

  “I must go,” Gebu said, with markedly less mirth. “Truly, my friends, I must.”

  “I don’t think so,” si-Ebana said. His free hand circled Gebu in an embrace that must feel like bands of bronze. He swung his burden up with surprising strength and dropped him with some force in a boat that waited on the bank. Kemni knew better than to think that the boat’s presence was an accident. Si-Ebana was proving to be a man of much more complexity than anyone would have thought.

  There were coils of line in the boat, since by birth it must have been a fishing-boat. With one of these Kemni bound Gebu’s hands, while si-Ebana cast off and began to wield the oars. He was skilled with them, and much at ease in a boat—more so, in truth, than in a chariot.

  Gebu lay at Kemni’s feet, bound and helpless, but not seeming yet to recognize that he was found out. “Brother,” he said, “what is this? Is it a joke? If so, it’s in poor taste. Let me go.”

  Kemni did not answer. Not because he was trapped behind the wall of dream; not at all. Because the wall was broken. He could feel again. And the pain—oh, gods, the pain.

  He could not even double up with it. He had to mount guard over the prisoner. Si-Ebana rowed them in among the ships, striking unerringly toward the golden flagship and Dancer moored beside it.