The Captive Soul

by Josepha Sherman

  And here, too, had stood those grim rows of heads on stakes, warning without words: See the payment for rebellion.

  Charming.

  Each village Methos had reached after that, going on along up the east bank of the Nile, had been pretty much like the next: small, mud brick houses and tough, wiry, wary villagers, the descendants of untold generations of tough, wiry, wary villagers. Their ancestors had welcomed strangers a hundred years ago, but Hyksos domination had made this generation so suspicious of outsiders that Methos had actually had to flee a few villages or be stoned.

  Hyksos, he thought with distaste. Hikau-khoswet, to be quite accurate. The word meant “Desert Kings” or “Foreign Princes” or even “Shepherd Kings,” depending on who was doing the telling. No one seemed sure exactly who the Hyksos were, other than that they’d come from the east and were tyrants determined to slaughter anyone who didn’t submit to them.

  Wonderful. Just wonderful.

  Egypt: a land with no standing army, no cavalry, no long-range bows—

  Why not just hang out a sign reading, “Come Invade Us,” and have done with it?

  The sun was well above the horizon by now, and the full heat of the desert day was approaching. No one but an idiot challenged it, so Methos found a quiet spot with a rocky overhang to shade him. No one around, nothing venomous to sting or bite him.

  So be it. Elsewhere there might be invaders and heads on stakes. Here, at least for the moment, there was nothing but peace.

  His peace shattered in a sudden storm of men’s voices. Methos woke with a start, scrambling to his feet, hand on sword hilt, to find that while he’d slept, an army had overwhelmed him—

  No, no, not an army: These were Egyptians. And it wasn’t surprising that he hadn’t heard them approach, since they were all on foot, with most of them wearing not much more than he. A mob, then, of badly armed, foot-weary, but determined men.

  “Rejoice!” one of them told him. “You are part of the fight for our freedom!”

  “Sorry, but I’m not—”

  “Are you not a true-born son of Egypt?” another man cried.

  “Well, no, actually—”

  A storm of accusing questions whirled around him: “Do you deny your heritage?”

  “Are you a coward?”

  “A traitor?”

  “A spy?”

  “No to all of that,” Methos cut in before the crowd’s mood could turn dangerous. “I am nothing more or less than a wanderer, and if I happen to look like one of you, believe me, it is merely a chance of—”

  But all at once, no one was listening. A tall man, lean-faced and no longer young, had jumped dramatically up on a rock. He was one of the few wearing any sort of armor, a linen tunic overlaid with strips of finely worked leather, and while his leather headdress was far from a formal crown, it was encircled by stylized, protective wings.

  If memory serves, only royalty wear those.

  No doubt about it. Everyone around him was bowing nearly to the ground. No mere princeling: This could be none other than Pharaoh Sekenenre.

  Couldn’t stand being a vassal one moment longer? Methos asked him silently.

  Sure enough, the pharaoh was proclaiming in grand and ornate style, “This is a just and a holy mission! We, the son and brother of the gods, so decree it! And he who follows Us shall never be forgotten by gods or men! Further…”

  Methos mentally discarded the rhetoric, which he’d heard in various similar forms over his years in this empire and that kingdom, and waited for the kernel of truth. Ah yes, here it came: the final blow to the pharaoh’s tolerance, the final injury to his pride. There had been a recent message from the Hyksos king, Apophis, contemptuously bidding Sekenenre to silence his hippopotamuses, since their constant empty noise kept Apophis awake. The message had been couched in the deliberately condescending tone of an adult to a not-quite-bright child.

  “We are not mindless beasts or humble slaves!” Sekenenre shouted. “You are all free men, true, honorable men of Khemt, and We, son and brother to the gods, shall lead you to victory!”

  To your graves, more likely. “Never mind our lack of an army or superior weaponry, let’s go and wipe out the Hyksos!” Thank you, but if I’m going to lose my head, it’s not going to be in a hopeless cause.

  The others had no such qualms. Methos, glancing about with a cynical lack of surprise, was surrounded by men cheering and shouting like so many idiots.

  Nothing like patriotism to wipe out common sense.

  He was slapped on the back, nearly knocked off his feet: one big happy band of brothers. That was the trouble with looking like a member of any number of races; these Egyptians were sure he was one of them, and if he tried to argue or to stay behind, they really would think him a traitor or spy.

  So be it. He would go along with this makeshift mob till nightfall, one more docile and obedient recruit—then quickly slip away into the darkness. Then, off to Nubia and the safety of the Red Sea. Leave these suicidal patriots to their game.

  But a sudden storm of shouts and wild noise sweeping down upon them from the north told Methos that it was already too late for any escape.

  Oh, of course, he thought, whipping out his sword. Everything else has gone wrong, so why not this? Here comes the Hyksos Welcoming Committee.

  And how do I get out of this mess?

  Chapter Four

  Egypt, Nile Valley: 1573 B.C.

  Stupid, Methos thought, parrying a cut from a gleaming bronze blade that would have taken off an arm, staggering back a step as the shock of impact shivered up to his shoulder. Stupid, he added, recovering, slashing at his opponent’s knees with his own sword, and forcing the man back. Stupid and stupid!

  It wasn’t as though he was some brand-new Immortal without any instincts for survival. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t had sufficient warning right from the moment he had stepped off that cursed boat onto Egyptian soil.

  But no, here he was smack in the middle of a battle that wasn’t even his, surrounded by shouting, screaming, dying men and the sickening reek of blood and mortal death. The Egyptians had been utterly unprepared for that damned Hyksos cavalry. Those two-horse chariots, each with one man driving, one man free to fire arrows at will or slash down with his sword, had already made one swift, horrifying charge, smashing the first line of the hastily assembled Egyptian force into so many broken bodies. And as soon as the chariots regrouped—

  Ducking right under a sideways slash from a new foe and stabbing up at his belly, opening nothing more than a cut in that cursed bronze-scale and leather armor the Hyksos warrior wore, Methos twisted, turned, got in a good thrust to the enemy’s sword arm. Someone else cut the man down, but before Methos could take advantage of the moment’s confusion to get out of there, yet another warrior closed with him.

  Stupid!

  He cut, slashed, cut again, trying to win himself some free space, very much aware that while a brief linen kilt might be suitable everyday attire, it left one woefully unprotected. He’d been cut a dozen times, though never badly, never enough to weaken him, but it was just a matter of time before he suffered genuine injury—maybe even a chance beheading.

  No real chance of escape, either, even if he could win free of this crush, not with his back to the Nile: He’d sooner be cut down by a Hyksos sword or arrow, if it came to that (always assuming, of course, that his head stayed attached to his neck), and take his chances about reviving amid the carnage, than die more slowly and painfully in the jaws of a crocodile.

  Damn it to whatever gods were listening, here came the Hyksos cavalry for a second charge.

  You would think that in a hundred years the Egyptians would have figured out the worth of horses and chariots, but no, they had to go and be traditionalists.

  The world suddenly narrowed. He saw only the one chariot, heading straight toward him at full speed, saw the white-rimmed eyes of the maddened horses, one bay, one dun, the red of their distended nostrils, and behind them, the
leering charioteer and the archer beside him, bow drawn. No time to get out of the way. If he stabbed at one horse, the other would trample him. But he’d seen a daring escape once in Mesopotamia: onager chariot back then, not horses, but the same idea should work.

  Methos leaped to one side, grabbing for the nearest horse’s reins, unfortunately just as a body crashed into him—a young man, his startled mind registered in a flash of time, very young, Egyptian, glint of gold, important somebody. The arrow the archer had aimed at him whirred past them both, so close to its target that Methos hissed in pain as it raked his arm. Grateful glance from the Egyptian, who probably thought Methos had deliberately saved his life.

  No time to agree or argue—the horses shied, and Methos, altering plans more swiftly than thought, caught the chariot rim as it sped by, nearly jerking an arm from its socket as he left the ground, twisted in midair, and landed in the chariot with a jolt. Too close for the archer to use his bow. A quick sword thrust took care of the archer, and a shove toppled him from the chariot—which was lurching so wildly with the sudden shifts of weight that Methos nearly followed the body overboard. The charioteer, swearing under his breath as he fought his team, couldn’t even spare a glance at this intruder.

  A second alarming lurch—the young Egyptian, a quick study, had just leaped on as well, his boyish face contorted with warrior rage. Before Methos could stop him, he’d cut the charioteer’s throat with a slash of his sword, giving Methos time to think only, You idiot, he had the reins, before blood spurted everywhere and the horses, overwhelmed by this hot new horror spattering their backs, bolted.

  The reins, dammit, where—

  Methos made a frantic snatch for the flapping reins, missed—ha, yes, caught them just before they disappeared over the chariot’s rim, all four of them in one swoop. He hastily arranged the set in his hands so that he wouldn’t snare a finger and lose it in the process.

  Steady now, steady. He’d driven a chariot a time or two in his life, but not for over two hundred years! Still, onager or horse, the mouth was the same, and: Don’t pull the reins too sharply, keep the pull even on both sets of reins… there now, they’re calming… as much as horses can calm in the middle of battle.

  A wailing shout from a dozen throats made him start and glance sharply back over his shoulder.

  “The pharaoh!”

  “Pharaoh Sekenenre!”

  “Oh gods, gods, our pharaoh is slain!”

  His young Egyptian passenger cried out in anguish, then grabbed blindly for the reins, struggling with Methos. “The body!” the boy shouted at him. “We must save the body!”

  What about our own bodies? In another moment, the young idiot was going to upset the chariot. “Yes!” Methos snapped, since he couldn’t get rid of his clinging passenger and there wasn’t another choice. “Hold fast to the rim and don’t move!”

  With a shout and a snap of the reins on their rumps, he sent the horses plunging back into the thick of things, into a chaos of shouting men and shrilling horses, dodging arrows, ducking wild blows from sword and mace, thinking that he who saved the pharaoh’s body might be a hero, but he who lost his head in the process wouldn’t much care.

  There! “Get him. Hurry.”

  The chariot pitched over onto one wheel and Methos quickly threw his weight to the other side: Back on two wheels with a jolt, but—

  He hastily leaned the other way as the young Egyptian made a frantic lunge, nearly dumping himself out of the chariot. The sensible thing would have been to shove the youngster all the way out and leave. Instead, not sure why he was bothering, Methos caught the boy’s arm with one hand, taking a deathlike grip on the rim with the other.

  With a desperate heave, the youngster dumped what Methos hoped was the right body on board.

  It had better be the right body! I’m not doing this again!

  With another shout and a slap of the reins on the horses’ rumps, Methos urged them into a renewed burst of speed.

  “Full gallop now,” he crooned to them. “Yes, that’s right, you brave creatures. Run. When we get somewhere safe, I’ll see you both get a good currying and whatever they feed good, swift horses around here. Just keep running!”

  All around them, the Egyptian troops were fleeing in total disarray, some of them struggling to stay aboard stolen chariots, others running on foot. If the Hyksos pursued them, they were all dead.

  But no pursuit followed.

  Why not? They could get us all!

  No. The Hyksos commander probably saw no reason to risk his men any further. Logical in a way, Methos thought, slowing his exhausted team to a trot, then a walk. The commander could hardly have taken this disorganized mob for a serious threat. He might not even have known he was fighting a pharaoh; a quick glance at the body’s battered head, which had long ago lost its headdress, revealed nothing that proclaimed royal.

  Ah yes, and if the Hyksos king allowed even a vassal pharaoh to rule the south, that must mean that he was worried about spreading his own forces too thin. Egypt was big, after all, and the Hyksos probably didn’t have enough men to enforce their rule over all of it. Far safer to allow there to be a vassal pharaoh—one with no army—even with the attached occasional risk of rebellion.

  Safer as long as you have the superior army, that is.

  Which, with their horses, chariots, better bows, and finer swords, the Hyksos undeniably had.

  There hadn’t been a sound from his passenger—his living passenger, Methos thought dryly—for some time. Worn out from battle and shock?

  I could understand that!

  Methos gradually brought the horses from a walk to a stop, jumping down from the chariot to see what he could do for the poor, panting beasts. They needed a good rubdown and whatever they fed horses in this part of the world. But for now there wasn’t much he could do for them save let them catch their breath, maybe walk them about to keep them from getting chilled after all that exertion. His passenger—

  Was silently weeping. Grief for the dead pharaoh? Or was this something more? Something more personal? Suddenly wondering, Methos glanced down at the battered body, up again at his passenger. So, now, interesting…. The boy was somewhere in his late teens, and his face hadn’t quite settled into its adult lines—but it bore a definite resemblance to the late Sekenenre.

  Now aren’t you glad you didn’t pitch him out of the chariot?

  Should he say something? No. Give the boy a chance to recover his composure.

  Which happened in an amazingly short time. Or not so amazing at that, Methos considered, since in his experience few royal fathers and sons were on truly close terms, and most princes were given rigorous upbringings in self-control.

  “You are… who?” the youngster asked in an autocratic tone, the regal sternness of his face spoiled only by the redness still in his eyes.

  “Methos. And I am addressing…?”

  But the youngster straightened, looking back over the route they’d taken. “Survivors,” he said, and relief was clear in his voice.

  Leading the straggling Egyptians was a tall, strongly built young man perhaps a decade or so older than the teen, striding along, for all his disheveled weariness, like a true warrior. And there was something about his face… ah yes. Difficult to miss the familiar resemblance.

  As if Methos had had any doubts, the man stopped short with a joyous cry of, “Ahmose! Brother—thank the gods!”

  He rushed forward to catch the youngster in a fierce embrace. “I couldn’t find you—I was afraid—”

  But Ahmose—Prince Ahmose, Methos corrected himself—pulled back, face somber. “Kamose, be strong,” he said as firmly as though he were the senior, and pointed to their father’s body.

  “Oh… gods…”

  Methos watched the quick play of emotions across Kamose’s face: shock, sorrow, then the dawning of stunned realization. Of ambition. After a few moments, Kamose straightened with new dignity.

  But it was Ahmose, his young voice fierce
and clear, pitched to rise easily over the crowd’s cries of dismay, who proclaimed, “Hear me, hear the words of Prince Ahmose! Pharaoh Sekenenre has gone to join Osiris and his brother gods! But he has not left us unguarded or alone: All hail the new Son of Horus! All hail the new God-King on Earth! All hail Pharaoh Kamose!”

  So now, Methos thought amid the storm of half-hysterical cheering, I really did rescue someone important! Not merely the son of a dead ruler, but a living pharaoh’s own beloved brother.

  That it had been by accident, that at the time he’d been tempted to toss the troublesome boy out on his ear—no. There was, Methos thought dryly, such a thing as being too truthful.

  And clever of you, youngster, to take charge so swiftly—and to put the burden of command so squarely on your brother’s shoulders.

  The newly named Pharaoh Kamose wasted no time. “We cannot show our father’s body its proper respect just yet. The rites can only be performed at Thebes. There, we shall have time for—for mourning. Now we must simply survive.”

  He tallied up the survivors, the wounded, with an efficiency that pleased Methos. “I see,” the new pharaoh continued, “that we have captured four Hyksos chariots and their teams. Excellent. The most severely wounded shall ride. The rest of us must walk. But we must make haste!”

  “And you?” Prince Ahmose asked Methos sharply.

  “Well now, I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”

  A hint of a similar sardonic humor flickered in the prince’s eyes, warning Methos: Young in years or no, this one is no child. “Traveling through Hyksos-held territory is out of the question, isn’t it?” Ahmose said. “And if you’re planning a trip through Nubia—you were, weren’t you?—be advised that those traitors are now the Hyksos’ allies. No one gets across our southern border these days.”

  His mouth almost quirked up in a smile, a boy’s satisfaction that he’d gotten the better of an adult. “You didn’t know that, did you?”