The Captive Soul

by Josepha Sherman

  “Ah, forgive me, my lord.”

  With a quick flash of a striking stone, the servant lit an oil lamp, setting it on the table. The room was suddenly bathed in a soft, flickering golden glow that added a glamour to everything—and, more important, revealed nothing perilous. At Methos’s wave, the servant gave a quick bow and scurried out.

  So, now: home. For the moment. Methos, used to considering such things almost instinctively, noted that the room would be, should it come to that, easily defensible.

  Not, of course, that he was expecting any out-and-out treachery from the royal brothers. They had no reason to betray him. It was merely that one did not survive very long by being careless and—

  And the room was not empty after all.

  “You. Out of the shadows.”

  “Of course, my lord.” It was a silken purr. “You shall not need your sword. Not… that sword, at any rate.”

  The woman who moved slowly and gracefully from the shadows was very blatantly bearing no weapons save, Methos thought dryly, those the gods had given her, since her only clothing was a jeweled, fringed belt hanging low on her full hips. He stood bemused, enjoying the sleek golden curves of her: lovely face, small, perfect breasts, narrow waist, the dark mystery below…. Long waves of dark hair cascaded down her back, but a stray ringlet curled seductively down over one breast, stirring as she breathed.

  If he waited a moment more, he wasn’t going to be able to speak at all, so Methos asked, “Who are you? And for that matter, whose?”

  “I am Tiaa, lord. And as to whose: yours, my lord.”

  “A pleasant idea, Tiaa. But who sent you?”

  “Why, is that a problem, my lord?” She took a smooth, gracefully swaying step forward, and that distracting ringlet bounced even more distractingly. “I am no slave.”

  “A free woman may yet have a master. Who sent you?”

  “Tsk, so insistent. Know that I am the gift of the royal household to you, for however long you wish. Quite… voluntarily on my part, I might add.”

  There was nothing on her face but anticipation, nothing in her eyes but delighted curiosity: Here was one who clearly enjoyed her work. And clearly royalty was offering him the best. Flattering.

  Not unheard of for courteous hosts to offer such hospitality. Also not unheard of for such hospitality to hold a double meaning. At least there wasn’t any immediate threat: There was absolutely no place for Tiaa to be hiding a weapon. And the Egyptians, unlike others Methos could have named, had never been ones for such exoticisms as poisoned fingernails.

  Immortal or no, there were limits to self-control, and it had been a long, long time since those friendly women of Albion. Even though the ship he’d been on had also put in at Malta, with its fierce, independent females (also friendly enough, when it pleased them), well now, it had been a long time since Malta, too.

  “What an excellent idea!” Methos said. Putting the bronze sword aside—but not quite out of reach—he pulled the smiling Tiaa into his embrace and found the bed with an outstretched foot. Difficult to be the gracious host just now: It really had been a long time. The jeweled belt went flying, and so did the carved wooden headrest as he and she, Tiaa giggling with delight, fell onto the bed.

  And then it was mouth on mouth and hand on silken flesh, it was gasps and moans and cries of joy.

  Afterward, Methos knew that he had slept—but slept lightly. Even then, even then, part of his mind had still been wondering. He glanced sideways at Tiaa. Fortunate that the bed was wide enough for two or they would, in that first wild frenzy, have ended up on the floor with the headrest and jewelry.

  Ah, but now Tiaa was awake as well, smiling faintly, looking pleased as a cat. Her eyes glinted in the lamplight as she studied him, and her skin was washed with gold. Methos hoisted himself up on an elbow to look down at her, enjoying the view, and saw her smile widen. She drew her arms languidly back, stretching up at him, like a seductive cat, indeed.

  “Again, my lord?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Smiling, he drew one fingertip teasingly across one lovely breast, hearing her gasp as he delicately ringed but didn’t quite touch its nipple. Then, before Tiaa could move, he pounced, catching her wrists with his free hand, straddling her, still smiling. Tiaa laughed, deep in her throat.

  “Yes, my lord. Do what you will.”

  “Oh, indeed.”

  He had learned more than mere survival in those long years. His fingers skillfully stroked that golden skin, caressing till she writhed beneath him. His fingers and lips teasing, toyed, never quite gave release, till Tiaa’s laughter turned almost to sobs.

  “Now, my lord! Please!”

  “First tell me, lovely Tiaa. Tell me who sent you to me.”

  “I told you!”

  “Not enough, my sweet. Who sent you to me, and why?”

  She fought him, fought for release, but he allowed her neither. Suddenly Tiaa gasped out a laugh, face gleaming with perspiration and eyes smoky with dark delight. “Oh my sly, sly lord, if you must know, it was the prince, the young prince.”

  “Ahmose!”

  “I am his, and… ahhh, and h-he wished to know what you might let slip when… when distracted or… sleeping or… oh yes, yes, my lord!”

  Speech was all but impossible for him, too, by this point, but Methos managed, knowing what he said would go soon enough straight to Ahmose’s ears, “I say very little. Nothing in betrayal.”

  Of myself, he added silently.

  And then, being after all only flesh and blood, he gave up clear thought for a time more.

  Methos stretched, yawning. The hour was unforgivably early, and every muscle was crying to him to stay in bed after last night’s exertions. But in a desert climate, the day started early, before the heat set in, and he could already hear people moving about outside.

  He had, of course, awakened alone. Tiaa had slipped out long before the first hint of dawn, back to the women’s quarters, or more probably straight to Prince Ahmose to report.

  What, I wonder, has she told him? Or, he thought wryly, is that taught him? No surprise about a boy Ahmose’s age—what, mid-teens, maybe?—having a woman or two: Princes in hot climates were often precocious and were expected to be educated in all aspects of life. At least Ahmose shows signs of excellent taste in… the arts.

  The morning was already growing warm. Methos slipped to his feet, stretching again, lithe as a cat himself, not yet bothering to dress, and found the Egyptian version of sanitary facilities—an actual, separate little room, this being a civilized land.

  Returning, Methos began the series of smooth, acrobatic exercises he practiced each morning, stretching and relaxing each set of muscles in turn. An Immortal might not have a choice over body type or basic appearance, but if you wanted to go on being an Immortal, you kept yourself fit. Methos had been born with the agile, deceptively lean build of a distance runner—as, he thought with a wry little upward quirk of his mouth, had young Prince Ahmose.

  Ah yes, Ahmose. “Save us from clever princes,” or however the quote goes. Wonder what would happen if I challenged him to a race.

  Now for the sword. Some Immortals, he knew, grew almost emotionally attached to their blades. As for him, no. Whatever blade felt right, trustworthy, and properly balanced in his hand was good enough.

  As was this one, fine and strong, with no distracting—and metal-weakening—ornamentation. Letting his face settle into a tranquil mask, Methos began a series of slash, guard, thrust, guard, cut left, cut right, lunge—

  Right at the face of a servant, the same one who’d arranged the room for him this past night. The man could hardly avoid alarm at finding himself suddenly facing a stark-naked, sword-wielding warrior, but after the first start, his well-schooled face revealed nothing.

  “Does my lord require my services for his morning grooming?”

  Of course he’s calm. In these uneasy times, he has to be used to the sight of weapons. And of course a guest room ha
s no lock, and a servant need not knock.

  “Thank you,” Methos said urbanely, trying not to pant, “but no. I really have no need for a servant. Tell your master or masters, if you would, that I shall be out and about shortly.”

  The still studiously blank-faced man bowed and left without a word. It was easy enough to dress in the white kilt and wide, nicely beaded red and blue necklace that had been laid out for him last night. Methos slipped his feet into woven palm frond sandals, wriggling his toes, then, in the spirit of “one never knew,” also buckled his swordbelt around his waist.

  With a fatalistic shrug, he left the room, to find himself, not surprisingly, with an instant escort of guards. Behind the guards:

  “Ah, Prince Ahmose. The gods send you a good morning.”

  The young prince dipped his head politely. He looked, Methos noted, amused, quite weary. That must have been quite a report sweet Tiaa delivered!

  “Walk with me a bit,” Ahmose said. “Let us enjoy the morning air.”

  Methos strolled beside him, aware of the guards keeping a wary eye on his sword—aware, too, that if he’d been allowed to keep it in the royal presence, he was well on the way to acceptance.

  “Thank you for the visit from Tiaa,” he said without warning.

  Ahmose, for all his princely training, was still too young not to show his surprise. “She told you, then.”

  “About your orders? She did.” Methos glanced sideways. “You aren’t going to have her punished for confessing?”

  “Of course not! One does not damage a work of art!”

  “Or so useful a weapon.”

  That startled a laugh out of the prince. “Indeed.”

  Precocious and clever.

  They walked on for a time, across a garden still wet with dew and heady with the fragrance of the water lilies, the only sound the chirping of sparrows and hum of insects. Methos waited patiently.

  Sure enough, Ahmose finally burst out, “Aren’t you going to ask me why I sent her?”

  “No.” Methos waited just long enough after that to see Ahmose frown, then added, “Were I in your place, I don’t doubt I’d have been wary of me, too. We do not trust easily, you and I.”

  “I… dare not. And you?”

  “I dare not, as well. For, shall we say, somewhat different reasons.”

  Ahmose could only take that to mean he had some perilous personal enemies. Close enough to truth, Methos thought. The Game hardly allows for many friendships.

  The prince was still frowning slightly, studying him. “You aren’t angry.”

  “At what? At you? For giving Tiaa and me a most delightful evening? Prince Ahmose, I think we understand each other too well for anger.”

  “Do we?” In the two words was a world of warning: Do not presume.

  “Oh, yes,” Methos said calmly. “Whatever differences there may be between us, there is one thing that we have in common: Prince Ahmose, we are both survivors.”

  That earned him a sharp, cool glance that had nothing of boyishness about it. “Gods grant. Methos, you have recently come down from the Hyksos lands. What can you tell me?”

  Methos, who wasn’t about to make the mistake of underestimating this youngster, told him frankly, “Not as much as you might like; I removed myself from them as quickly as possible. You already know that the invaders have better weaponry, plus the use of horses.”

  Ahmose bit back what clearly was going to be an unregal oath. “Yes. I warned my father—the God Sekenenre—I—I warned him we must be better prepared, but he… he…”

  The boy is still very young. Yes, and for all his cleverness, out of his depth.

  “Prince Ahmose,” Methos said, “your well-being, the well-being of Egypt, is mine, too. And we both know,” he added at the prince’s wry glance, “that I am not being altruistic about this. Merely honest. We both wish to go right on surviving.”

  “And you have a plan to help us do just that?”

  “An idea,” Methos corrected, “or at least the dawning of one.”

  He waited, testing.

  “We shall discuss it,” the prince said after only the slightest of pauses. “With, of course, my divine brother.”

  “Of course.” It took you a moment to remember him, didn’t it, Ahmose? But remember him, you did. Ambitious, then, but not fratricidal. Interesting.

  And who knew but that the fact might also be potentially useful?

  Survivors, Methos thought.

  Chapter Seven

  Egypt, Thebes: Reign of Pharaoh Ramose,

  1573 B.C.

  Kamose, Methos decided several days later, watching the young pharaoh stalk about the royal courtyard with a warrior’s brusque stride, was not stupid, merely hot-headed. Like his father.

  And, like his father, he seemed given to rhetoric. Never mind that Methos had a plan to discuss, never mind that it concerned exactly what both brothers wished most to hear. No, first the pharaoh must be allowed full vent to his frustrations.

  He’s not the first ruler I’ve waited out. And I doubt he’ll be the last.

  To be fair, most of the past few days had been full of speeches as Kamose had continued to consolidate power and prove to the people that, yes, they did still have a pharaoh. It must be difficult for such a young man to shift out of speech-making fashion, particularly when he was fighting an uphill battle on an almost daily basis with a timorous royal court that did not want to take on the Hyksos might.

  But the only people here right now—aside from those guards lurking back there in the shadows pretending to be rocks—are your brother and me, Methos thought. Relax, Kamose, relax!

  No. The pharaoh continued to pace, snapping out, “We have been idle too long!”

  “What,” Ahmose asked warily, “would you have us do?”

  “Do? What do you think?” Pace, turn, pace. “We have suffered many insults, brother, far too many, and kept our silence. But now—this—the murder of our father, of a pharaoh—no!” He stopped short, glaring. “No matter what those cowards all say, this cannot be tolerated!”

  “No,” Ahmose said shortly, “it cannot. But—”

  “No more excuses! No more ditherings and cowardice! How can I call myself a ruler when there is a king in Avaris, a king in Kush, each man holding a slice of the land, our land? How, when I am caught between the Hyksos and the Nubians? No more of this! I shall sweep the Hyksos from Egypt!”

  Of course you will, Methos thought wearily. The Hyksos will run in terror from the sound of your voice.

  With great restraint, he began, “It’s all well and good to want revenge, Sire. And, aside from the insult to your country, I don’t blame you at all for wanting blood to avenge your father. But,” he added with a subtle glance at Ahmose, “the Hyksos have better swords and bows. More to the point, they also have chariots and, above all, horses.”

  “None of which,” Ahmose reminded them darkly, “we are permitted by our kind overlords.”

  “The Hyksos,” Methos said to the air, “are far from here.”

  “Spies are not.”

  “Spies,” Methos retorted, “are finite, fallible beings, as I am sure you know, Prince Ahmose.” He saw the young prince blink at the veiled reference to Tiaa. “They cannot be everywhere at once. Always assuming, of course,” Methos added very delicately, “that they are but mortal men.”

  “Are you claiming to be otherwise?” Ahmose asked, just as delicately.

  Methos sat back, watching both brothers through half-lidded eyes. “Do you know that the palace servants have taken to calling me the ‘man sent by the gods’?” Thank you, Queen Teti-sheri, for that. “What if I really were such a one?”

  That made both brothers pause for just a wondering moment. Then Kamose snorted and Ahmose, ah, Ahmose glanced almost admiringly at Methos. Who smiled, ever so slightly and neither claimed or denied anything.

  Always keep your hosts off balance. It’s so much safer that way!

  “Very well, then, ‘man sent by
the gods,’” Kamose said, “what would you have us do? Merely sit like chastened hounds and do nothing?”

  “That is exactly what I propose.”

  Before Kamose could explode, Ahmose held up a hand. “In other words,” he said thoughtfully, “pretend to do nothing.”

  Methos gave him a cursory bow: At least one of the brothers saw where he was heading! “Precisely. Pretend that your spirit is broken. Present a submissive face to the Hyksos. After all, it can’t be too long before word of the new pharaoh reaches the ears of the Hyksos king…”

  “Apophis,” Ahmose supplied.

  “Yes. Apophis. He will certainly send an envoy to Thebes to find out the truth.”

  “And collect tribute,” Kamose muttered darkly.

  “All the more reason not to act prematurely. Because, oh royals, all the while we seem so very humbled, why, we shall be mustering our secret army.”

  “What army?” Kamose snapped. “Where are we to get the weapons? And, while we’re at it, the warriors?”

  Methos caught himself about to toss off some easy words about new generations always being born. No, curse it, these were mortals. He, with the easy confidence of an Immortal, might see time as insignificant, but they could not.

  Still, it could be done… it could, indeed… and well within one mortal life span.

  “It will not be easy,” he began. “And it will not happen in a day. It will also mean postponing your revenge, oh pharaoh—but,” Methos hurried on before Kamose could interrupt, “is not revenge the sweeter when it isn’t a man or even a god-king being avenged, but an entire nation?”

  Oh, very good, he congratulated himself sardonically. You should be an orator.

  But the brothers were still listening, so Methos continued, “The Egyptians who I—who my grandfather knew…” quick save, there, “those Egyptians held a strong love of country. I cannot believe that even a hundred years of occupation has turned them into slaves.”

  “It has not.” Ahmose bit off each word.

  “So much for our warriors,” Kamose cut in. “Untrained peasants. And for their weapons, what? Clubs? Stones?”

  “It seems to me,” Methos said to no one in particular, “that, without taking anything away from the god-king’s wisdom or knowledge”—a polite nod to Kamose—“there is a vast body of potential knowledge going untouched. Neither of you—your pardons, royals—can pass unnoticed among the common folk. But I can.”