Andre Norton - Shadow Hawk (6 page)

"We shall go to the shrine—" Rahotep pushed himself away from the stones. He reached for a hold on Kheti's shoulder to steady himself, and then urged the other to move. Who was the Voice of Amon now? So much rested upon that single question. In the five years since he had left the Viceroy's court there could have been many changes.

The shrine light in the temple was larger and brighter than the lamp of the mortuary chapel. But the shadowy interior seemed as deserted to Rahotep as he staggered up the steps with Kheti's support, to waver over the pavement of the main aisle.

In the chapel he fronted the graven image of the Watcher. Here he faced a more than life-size crowned king, the Double Crown on His head, the staff with the sun disc in His hand. And to that representation the captain made homage wealdy, his knees on the cold stone, pushing the jar before him into the full beam of the light from the altar.

"Who are you who bring gifts with bloody hands into the sacred places of the Great One?" What Rahotep had taken for a second statue moved forward with a slow sway of priest's shoulder shawl.

"Khephren!" He identified the priest almost stupidly.

"Aye, Khephren. And you, who steal through the night secretly, what do you here?"

Rahotep answered with the sullenness of complete despair. He had made his cast and the sticks had fallen against him. The Voice of Amon was Khephren, a man of austerity, of great and noted learning, but also one who of old had divorced himself from all connection with the rule of Nubia, who visited the Viceroy's court only upon the demands of ceremony, and who had never been known to take a hand in any internal dispute.

"I am Rahotep, son to Ptahhotep."

"And by this evidence a despoiler of tombs." The Voice of Amon indicated the canopic jar, the remoteness of his voice chill with disgust.

"Not so," Kheti replied when Rahotep found it hard to summon the words. "The Lord Rahotep but went to reclaim the Pharaoh's message that our Lord's call for service might be known. Lie robbed no tombs, though there will be those who will raise that cry against him. And he has taken a hurt that must be cared for—"

"It seems that there is some strange tale in this," Khephren returned. "Let this robber of tombs speak in his own defense."

Somehow Rahotep found words enough to give a bald account of the night's happenings. Perhaps the very baldness of his tale was convincing, for Khephren heard him to the end without any interruption.

"And you came here then—why?" he asked at the end.

"Because He-Who-Travels-the-Sky overwatches Thebes, and Pharaoh is His son. Should a father turn against a son?" Something put those words into his mouth. Then the walls of the shrine tilted in a queer fashion, and he slipped sideways until Kheti caught him.

"Priest," spat the Nubian, "my lord dies if he is not given aid. And then perhaps others shall die also—"

Khephren's rigid features did not change. He stood above Rahotep now, more merciless in judgment than the statue of the god behind him. For a very long moment he looked down at the wounded man. Then he clapped his hands, the sharp sound echoing thinly through the temple. Men came out of the shadows and Rahotep struggled in Kheti's hold. They would be thrown forth from the shrine now, abandoned to the hunters.

"See to the youth's wound," Khephren ordered. "And"— he stooped to pick up the blood-stained jar, handing it to a subordinate—"place this on the high altar under the protection of the Great One, not to be taken from His care until I so will it."

Rahotep relaxed in the Nubian's hold. For the time he had won his gamble. They had been granted sanctuary under Amon-Re.

Some time later he lay on a high, narrow couch, clenching his fists, as the temple healer searched the slash and used the fiery palm spirit on it liberally before he bound it up. Rahotep was refusing the sleep drink of poppy seeds the other prescribed, intent upon keeping his full senses, when Khephren entered the small room. The captain levered himself up on his elbow.

"What is your will with us, Voice of Amon?" His uncertainty made his tone harsh and demanding.

"Say rather, boy, what is Amon-Re's will with all of us," the high priest rebuked him.

Even in his weakened, dizzy condition, Rahotep sensed that there was more to this than the conventional answer of a priest. He watched the stern face with the narrowness of a war captive reading either life or death in the movement of his victor's eyebrows. So he noted that the Voice of Amon was clad now not in his ordinary dress of linen shawl and skirt but in the inner and outer kilts of high ceremony, his shawl replaced by a leopard skin, one of its dangling, gold-taloned paws clipped to his jeweled cincture. High feast day, Rahotep wondered dazedly. Yet it was not dawn—or had the night worn away so swiftly?

Khephren made a gesture and four of the underpriests crowded into the room, taking up the bed on which Rahotep lay as if it were a noble's litter. Kheti stood away from the corner, where he had been squatting, as if to raise protest, but his captain signed him to silence. Something was afoot, but Rahotep was beginning to trust the high priest. He had done all that he could do. The outcome would be the affair of Amon-Re and His Voice.

The bed was borne out into the space before the altar. There was the grayness of predawn outside the outer ranks of pillars. When the priests put down their burden, slightly to the left of the Amon image, Kheti went down on his knees beside the bed, lending his shoulder to Rahotep's support so the captain could see clearly those gathered there.

Pen-Seti he had in a measure expected, also Unis—with a backing of guardsmen and Anubis priests. Drawn up opposite them was an even smaller group consisting of Methen, Hen- tre, and the Lord Nereb, with two of Rahotep's archers to back them.

Khephren took his place before the high altar. In his hand a sistrum of gold wires and turquoise beads swung to make a sweet tinkle. One of the lesser priests flung powder on a censer, and the blue curls of incense twined upward like lazy serpents.

"Voice of Amon!" That was Pen-Seti, his silhouette against the wall behind him that of a bird of prey. "Release unto us these despoilers of tombs, these blasphemers of the Great Ones, so that Anubis may deal with them as is lawful."

Khephren's face was expressionless, but Rahotep, watching, caught the faintest of eye flickers in his direction, and now he believed he knew what the high priest had been suggesting earlier. He hunched himself up against Kheti and stretched out one hand to the altar where the blood-stained jar still rested undisturbed.

"I appeal to the judgment of Amon-Re. May the Great One, in His everlasting wisdom, decide the truth or falsehood of my deeds!"

"To Amon-Re has this man appealed, to Amon-Re the judgment!'

Pen-Seti's lips twisted, his hands jerked at his shawl. To a lesser man than Khephren he might have voiced the protest now to be read in every line of his body. But somehow here and now he did not quite dare to challenge the other. There had never before been any trial of wills between them, but over the years the Voice of Amon had achieved a position that overawed his fellow priests.

"To Amon-Re the judgment!" That full-voiced agreement came from Rahotep's own party, and a few of those among Unis's followers nodded in a surly fashion.

Khephren twirled the sistrum, and two of the Amon priests brought forward a small wooden shrine, immeasurably old, immeasurably sacred, for it contained "Amon-of-the-Road," the Amon of travelers, which had been brought out of Thebes by that first Pharaoh who had added Nubia to Egypt.

The Voice of Amon prostrated himself before the shrine and then arose and broke the seal of its fastening. From the interior he brought forth and held up in both hands over his head the ancient statuette. And those watching, nobles and guards alike, went to their knees, shading their eyes with their right hands.

Rahotep heard through the silence the faint sound of Khephren's unsandaled feet upon the stone, knew that he was approaching the bed. Yet the captain kept his head bent, his eyes covered. There was a hiss of indrawn breath, a faint murmur, and Rahotep dared to look up.

Khephren stood beside him. Drops of sweat beaded the priest's forehead. He had the look of a man strained to the utmost of physical endurance. And slowly his arms were sinking as if the worn wooden statue he had held at arm's length above his head had taken on the weight of the great granite image behind the altar.

Down, down—Khephren's arms were at shoulder level, lower, lower—the whole body of the priest was being pulled forward by the weight of what he held.

Before it quite reached the ground, the high priest put forth a great effort and swung his body partly around. He faced away from Rahotep, inching toward the Anubis priests. As he progressed, he once more began to raise the statue, until, as he faced Pen-Seti, he again held the image high above his own head. For a long moment he stood so, but the image did not waver. Then he spoke.

"Amon has given judgment. The youth is Amon's. And his task is approved by Amon!"

He turned again with a swift tread to replace Amon-of-the- Road within the small shrine. Then he went on to the high altar and took up the canopic jar. With a swift movement he smashed the clay against the stone and drew forth a roll of papyrus. Slowly he unrolled it, viewing them all.

"This is the word of Pharaoh, of the sons of Amon-Re, of him who holds the Flail for our enemies, the Crook for his people. Let our ears be open to the word of Pharaoh by the will of Amon-Re!"

Chapter 4

WHAT IS THEBES TO US?

Rahotep tried to give his full attention to the words that came from the high priest's lips. The roll was, as they had believed, an order for Pharaoh's Viceroy to send north certain regiments settled in Nubian posts for generations—The Pride of Anion, The Protection of Ptah, The Spears of Sekmet. From what old records of vanished dynasties had they culled those names, Rahotep wondered dreamily? Maybe once they had garrisoned Semna, and Inebuw-Amenemhet at Kerma, but no longer. And Unis, hearing that roster of regimental names, was moved to laughter.

He smiled genially now at Nereb. "Pharaoh in Thebes is to be served," he said mockingly. "Summon up The Pride of Anion, The Protection of Ptah, The Spears of Sekmet, and I, myself, shall equip them from my storehouses. Aye, provide their officers with chariots, their men with fine bows, their quivers witli a wealth of arrows. Summon them before us, messenger of Pharaoh, and all shall be done even as I say it here in the Holy Place of Amon!"

Puzzled, Nereb looked to Methen for explanation. The veteran was studying Unis grimly, but it was with the grim- ness of one who has been outwitted. Now he answered the northern officer.

"That roll was compiled long ago. We have not heard of such regiments here since before the Dark Years when the Hyksos came upon us. The troops of Nubia are mainly native auxiliaries and the Border Scouts."

"Aye," Unis added. "Call up bones from the tombs to march north if you will, he who speaks for Pharaoh. But otherwise you will get no such men from the Land of the Bow."

"But you have men in plenty." Nereb raised a last protest. He must have known that he was making it in vain. "Is not this the Land of the Bow? The fame of your archers has spread far! Give me a company of your archer Scouts, a force of your fortress spearmen, to equal those which Pharaoh asked of you—"

Unis shook his head slowly. "Pharaoh asked of me three regiments by name. Those three I have not, nor can any living man lead them forth. The Land of the Bow is defended by her sons; we have the Kush ever raiding to eat up the land. Against the Kush shall our arrows fly. What harm have the Hyksos ever done in Nubia that we should march against them now? I ask you, Lord, what is Thebes to us that we should spill blood in her service, in her far-off wars!" There was a murmur of assent from those about him. Pen-Seti displayed his agreement with vigorous nods.

"Pharaoh commands—"

Unis corrected Nereb. "A prince who has his throne in Thebes commands—but does his force reach over all of Egypt? Apophi of the Hyksos will have a few things to say concerning such a claim. Not one man goes forth from Nubia to fight for Thebes."

Rahotep pulled himself up and found words at last.

"Not so, brother. One man goes forth—"

Unis swung about so fast that the transparent pleated upper skirt he wore whirled out like the scarf of a dancing girl.

"Speak not so loud, tomb robber!" he snapped. "You are as a fly crawling upon the floor—buzz and a sandal shall crush you. But go north if you will; we shall be well rid of you!" Pen-Seti touched his arm, the priest's shaven head close to the other's elaborate wig as he hissed some suggestion, his fanatic's eyes hard upon Rahotep.

"Two men." That was Methen. And Kheti, grinning, smacked his lips together as one might when facing a feast. "Eleven more, all archer Scouts," he added to the tally.

The archers who had come with Methen gave their consent to that eagerly.

Unis had his temper once more under control. He ignored Rahotep but spoke to Nereb. "You have had your answer, Lord. We regret we cannot send the regiments your Pharaoh has asked for—there are no such men within the borders of Nubia. Also, since you bear no orders for recruitment, that you cannot do. It would be well for you to hasten back to Thebes lest your lord depend too much on service he will not get and so go rashly into some enterprise—"

Nereb flushed, reading well the insolence beneath that. But the exactness of the royal orders had tied his hands, and he was forced to stand silent as Unis and his party left in triumph.