Eye of the Moon (15 page)

Then she rubbed my head more vigorously as if trying to rid me not only of lice but also of stupidity. “No! A cheetah's eyes are lined with
black
. Gazelles have
dark
eyes. So must yours be! Black kohl, the gray paste of galena, and the dark green of malachite around the eyelids are for
protection
in the desert . . . not just vanity!”

She scooped up water with impatience and let it run over my head and shoulders and then mopped me with a piece of linen. Then she tipped some oil from another vial into the palm of her hand to warm before rubbing it across my back, shoulders, and arms. Her hands worked roughly but expertly, her bracelets making their own music.

She slipped a fresh robe over my head and brought the ends around my waist. It was long and
finely pleated and fell from a knot tied on one shoulder. She shrugged as I examined the finely woven cloth. “You can put on a man's tunic later. Tonight you must be dressed properly to fool everyone.”

Then she hurriedly washed and oiled herself before slipping into a short tunic woven with bright-colored patterns. She rubbed palm oil into the wild tangles of her dark hair. It gleamed in the lamplight, and her bracelets shirred against one another as she worked. Then she hung large gold hoops from her ears. I watched as she slipped a small jeweled dagger into a sheath strapped to her hips and patted her hand against it.

She shrugged and laughed as she caught my look. “This is my dance outfit. I don't plan to cross the desert like this! And don't look so fearful—I don't plan to stab anyone, either! Now some eye paste. And since the sun has already set, to wear paste now
is
vanity! But why shouldn't we?” She laughed. “In celebration of our escape!”

She dipped into a jar of gray galena paste and rubbed her thumb over my eyelids. I could smell the sweet perfume of almonds and cumin seeds on her breath as she drew around my eyes with a kohl stick.

“There! Just one more thing.” She touched the pair of cowries at her neck, then undid the leather cord and removed one shell. She held it up for me to see the underneath. “It's from the sea. A stone of the water's edge. Its power comes from its eye shape. Its magic is as strong as the wedjat Eye of Horus.”

She undid my amulet necklace and threaded the single cowry shell alongside the wedjat. “We'll each wear one. We'll be sisters in spirit.”

The two amulets lay against my neck as strange companions. One a natural eye shape all the way from the sea, the other the moonstone eye my mother had given me. They were powerful protection.

“We need headbands.” She reached into a leather pouch and took out some red strips. “Tie these around your forehead. The seven red ribbons of Hathor. They'll bind her opposite spirit—the lioness, Sekhmet—and protect us tonight! And we'll wear a piece of linen fastened around the throat as well.” She laughed as she grabbed a piece of linen and ripped it into two strips. “Let's wear them all. Red ribbons around our foreheads and linen around our necks. Tonight Hathor shields us! We are protected from her lioness spirit! We
ourselves
are lions!”

She flung back her wild hair so that the red ribbons swirled around her shoulders and picked up a tambourine, shaking it so that the disks ruffled against one another and joined the tinkling music of the silver charms on her bracelets. Then she struck the tight parchment stretched across the hoop sharply with her fingers three times. “To sisters in spirit! To adventures ahead!”

“To our escape!” I said quickly before she was able.

She flashed a smile and threw her arms around me and we spun around. “To our escape!” she whispered against my ear while her small monkey scampered around the goatskins at our feet. “See, even Kyky is celebrating.” She grabbed my hand and romped until I was giddy and we fell down on the goatskins.

The music and the lamplight and the prospect of what lay ahead had set her alight. Her mood ignited my own. For a moment I could forget. I clutched her hand and strode out of the tent alongside her.

   
14
   
NAQADA

W
here have you been?” Tuthmosis demanded as we emerged from the tent. He was standing on the pathway between the braziers, his tunic filthy and his arms and legs smeared with dried mud and dust.

“Where have
you
been?”

He flicked his hand over his body. “What does it look like? The Medjay have enjoyed watching a king's son work. I've only just escaped. I've been tending the
camels. Tethering them and feeding them and watering them.” He shot a look at us. “Not dressing up by tying ribbons and scarves around myself.”

He looked me up and down. “Your outfit's not suitable.”

“Not suitable for what?” I tossed my head. The red ribbons flew about my shoulders.

“Not suitable for anything!”

I felt my jaw stiffen. “Who are you to say what I can and cannot wear?”

Anoukhet glanced between us. “This is no time to fight. We have to have our wits about us. The three of us mustn't be seen like this together. They'll suspect something.”

He turned to her. “Suspect what?”

“Shh! Not so loud! Don't attract attention! Tell him, Isikara. I'll look out for you later. I must speak to the camel tender.” She waved and disappeared down a path with Kyky scampering along after her.

Tuthmosis gave me a look. “The ribbons are silly.”

“It would be sillier not to wear them! They're to tie up the scorpions of Seqet.”

He reached out and gripped my arm tightly.

“Be careful, Kara! Don't you see? The girl's wild.
She could mean even worse trouble for us.”

“Ha!
Worse
trouble? What could be worse than knowing we're going to be sold back to Thebes? Or killed here in the desert? What's worse than
that
? She can't get us into any more trouble than we are in already. She's trying to help. She plans to help us escape.” I pulled my arm free and stood glaring at him.

“Stop being so headstrong, Kara!” he hissed.

“Well then, listen to Anoukhet's plan!” And quickly I told him.

Darkness settled on the camp with a sky so black, it fell like a thick, heavy cloak across my shoulders—a dark coat spangled with more stars than a sky could surely hold.

Beyond the tents in an open space, huge fires with flames plaiting upward sent showers of sparks into the night. Musicians were already plucking at strings of lutes and lyres. An old man sat tapping a tambourine. When I got closer, I saw he was in fact a young man, staring unseeingly down at the ground. His eyelids were scarred and the eyes behind them milky.

Naqada's hawk? I shuddered at the thought.

Girls sat on reed mats in the firelight, dressed in brightly striped wraps with heavy curved collars of beads about their necks. They wore cones of perfumed wax on their heads and their hair was plaited or hung in ringlets, tied with mimosa blossoms and small beads. Some were playing double flutes while their friends clapped and sang. Every now and again a few jumped up and did a lively dance, the huge gold disks hanging from their ears and the bracelets on their arms glinting in the firelight.

Serving girls whisked among the people with huge reed trays resting on their shoulders, heaped with dishes of goat and fowl, steaming bowls of cracked durum wheat flavored with dried apricots and mint, and platters of honey and figs, barley bread and goat cheese.

Music and perfume and flavors filled the night air until my head felt giddy. I kept to myself—as did Tuthmosis and Anoukhet—so we wouldn't be spotted together. I saw no sign of the leader, Naqada.

Much later, when the feasting had come to an end, a group of men burst into the open sandy space with flaming torches. They tossed them high into the air among one another and caught them again with
ease. The eyes of the crowd lost their wine-glazed look and flashed with excitement at this new entertainment. One after another the men extinguished the flames in their mouths, then breathed out again so that flags of fire burst from their throats in a sudden whoosh. The crowd roared.

Then Naqada strode forward. His chest and arms were oiled and gleaming, and he was holding a sharp-bladed sickle sword in one hand. He unclasped his hawk's cord and handed the bird to a fellow Medjay.

As the music grew louder and the beat livelier, he began a wild dance, swirling and twisting and brandishing his sword dangerously close to people at the edge of the circle. I felt a swish of air brush my face. It was a test of skill. One small stumble, one slip, would have had someone's cheek sliced off or neck cut through. And one sharp intended thrust could have found the heart of an unsuspecting opponent.

Someone grabbed my arm and pulled me back. It was Tuthmosis. He drew me deeper into the crowd, away from Naqada.

Naqada was joined by a group of fellow Medjay swordsmen. Now the music was even faster as they danced and reeled about. Pomegranates were hurled
into the air and swiftly sliced through by the swirling swords. The crowd cheered as red seeds rained down like garnets.

Suddenly, someone threw up a live fowl. It squawked and beat its wings in surprise at being so high up in the air. With the swiftness of lightning finding its mark and just as deadly, a sword swept upward and decapitated the fowl before it could even start its downward plunge. Blood sprayed in an arc against the firelight. The crowd roared again.

Despite the heat of the fires I felt myself shiver and my fingers searched for Tuthmosis's hand. Across the circle I caught Anoukhet's eyes.

Another fowl was thrown up. And another and another—sliced through, decapitated, impaled—until the air vibrated with beating wings. Heads and feathers flew and blood spurted and spattered and sprayed in all directions. The stained sand became a mess of limp, torn bodies.

Suddenly a shrill alarm call silenced the crowd. It was Kyky.

In the center of the arena, one of the Medjay stood holding her by the scruff of her neck. She squealed and shrieked and struggled to free herself.

Anoukhet screamed and rushed forward, but just as quickly her arms were grabbed by two men.

“No! NO!” she shouted as she kicked and thrashed and tried to bite their hands.

Naqada stepped into the center space. His eyes glinted as he glanced at Anoukhet and the crowd began to chant. Then he nodded at the Medjay to throw the monkey up into the air.

I turned my head away and fought the urge to vomit. How evil could Naqada be? How evil were these people that they could urge him on?

I didn't want to watch, but out of the corner of my eye I caught the blur of a small shape somersaulting upward—its body twisting and turning in midair as it shrieked and attempted to right itself. Naqada's sword flashed as it shot up to strike on the downward fall. But at the last moment, he swept his sword arm sideways and caught hold of the monkey with his other hand. He held it tightly against his chest.

His eyes were as cold as an ax head as he turned to Anoukhet. She stood slack. Helpless, with her arms still held by the two men. I couldn't bear to look at her face.