Shiri (2 page)

II

The crimson caress of the rising sun fought the goose bumps on the bare skin of her arms and legs as Shiri rubbed sleep from her eyes and picked her way up the rocky path. It was always her that had to check the flock at first light. Her father expected that she earn her keep.

She shivered as the chill morning breeze tugged at her tunic, and was glad of the rough-spun woollen shawl her mother had gifted her for her fifteenth name-day the week before. She wrapped it tighter about her as she trekked ever higher.

Three moons had passed since the soldiers had come to Yaham. They were long gone now and had taken half the menfolk of the village with them. Old and young were all that were left. Shiri heard rumours of high adventure, great battles and glorious victories from the tongues of every passing merchant.

The men of Yaham had made all the difference, even Old Dathan agreed on that. “Each one is worth ten of the lowlanders,” he advised her at every opportunity. One day, some boys too young to go had called Shiri’s father a coward for not marching to the Shepherd King’s call. None said as much to his face of course, but they said it to Shiri. She met their words with fists and curses and though the boys were bigger and had a larger vocabulary, she held her own.

It was a long climb to her father’s pasture and as usual, she took advantage of a well placed granite boulder to rest and take water. She’d filled her satchel at the well before she came and laughed at Ethan, when half way up, the boy had realised he’d forgotten to fill his and had to run back down. Their pastures were side by side which gave the boy an excuse to accompany her each morning. If Shiri didn’t know better, she’d have sworn the youngling spent most of their morning climbs, searching for the best spots to observe the parting of her skirts as she clambered over the steepest bits. Small wonder he was ever forgetting to fill his satchel.

She watched his small legs
pumping as he ran the whole way and waved at his distant form as he lowered the old wooden bucket into the well. He didn’t see her. Instead, he was staring at something in the distance, a cloud of dust moving quickly up the dirt track that led to the village. She saw him whoop and hop towards the cloud. She heard the beat of hooves on stone.
The soldiers have returned.
Ethan went to greet them. With a grin, he showed them his long practiced salute and offered the first chariot his water satchel. Suddenly all was turmoil.

A flash of red mist burst from the boy’s throat and he fell back screaming. Shiri jumped to her feet, too shocked to mirror the boy’s cries. She looked on, frozen to the spot as he writhed on the ground in front of the chariot. She found her voice. “Gyptos!” She ran towards the village.
I must warn father!
“Gyptos! Gyptos!” A man jumped from the vehicle and Shiri saw that his sword was drawn, it was dripping red liquid. He thrust it down and Ethan went still.

And then there were more, dozens more, hundreds. The chariots tore into the village. Warhorns blared and through it all, the thunderous beat of what must have been a thousand hooves echoed off the rocks beneath her. She saw Old Dathan run from his cottage and go down with an arrow in his throat. She saw the furthest shack from the well erupt in flames, heard a woman scream. A second later Naomi, daughter of Ruth, emerged half naked, her hair ablaze. She ran for the well shrieking. A chariot ran her down.

More houses erupted in flame. Shiri’s legs went weak. She tripped forward and fell on her tummy. An abortive attempt to rise followed before she realised she was crying, and not just crying, she was screaming, screaming like the people of her village. She buried her head in her hands and sobbed as murder came to Yaham.

She could smell the smoke now, it was all around her. Daring to look up, she saw her father. His bare chest glistening with sweat, Lady in his hand, and she was red, red like blades of the soldiers. She felt a surge of hope. But then a chariot charged towards him, twin grey steeds hauling it faster than she’d have believed possible. Her father raised Lady
above his head and shouted something. Again she buried her face in her hands.

She heard a horse scream and the crash of wood on stone. She looked up, she could barely see now. Her eyes were blurry with tears and stinging from the smoke. The chariot was on its side. A grey horse was writhing on the ground, blood and guts pouring out of it, its legs flailing wildly. The other reared and bucked trying to pull it along, blood everywhere. Her father was fighting with one of the soldiers now. Her neighbour’s house was in flames! The soldier went down clutching a severed arm, more blood, so much blood.

She was running towards him. She didn’t remember getting up. The well wasn’t a hundred yards away now, her father barely fifty. “Gyptos! Gyptos!” If she could just get to him everything would be alright.

He saw her, and his face was suddenly a mask of anger.
“What are you doing, you fool? Get back! Run!”

She’d never heard him so livid before, never seen him so mad at her.
She froze at his command, but for once she didn’t obey. She simply stood there dumbly. She called for him.
Why wouldn’t he come?
A second or a lifetime she stood there crying, just crying.

A soldier saw her and reached for his bow. “RUN!” she heard again and this time she did. An arrow clattered by her feet but she didn’t look back, another struck the path ahead and still she ran. She ran and ran until she could run no more. Finally she collapsed by her rock and slid in behind it, the great granite barrier shielding her from the terror.
Are the Gyptos climbing up after me?

A cheer went up from below.
Silent as a ghost,
she edged forward and peeked out from behind the boulder. She saw her father. He was slumped by the door of their shack, a brace of arrows in his chest, another in his leg. Lady
lay uselessly on the red earth before him. Her mother was at his side desperately trying to stem the bleeding.

Shiri’s eyes widened as
a chariot gilded in a strange yellow metal that seemed to shine like the sun pulled up before them.
Gold … the chariot is covered in gold.
The vehicle was harnessed to twin chestnut mares, faces and chests protected under armour of thick bronze scales.

Astride the chariot like some hero of old stood a warrior trimmed in gold. From head to feet, everywhere was that glint of gold. Gold rings, gold bracelets, a great golden torc about his neck and chest … and there were other metals too, strange metals that sparkled blue and green in the morning light. It seemed impossible that he could stand under the weight of it all.
Princes wear crowns and rings and bracelets of gold ... this ... this is a prince.

A moment the Prince gazed at her parents in eerie silence and then she heard it; an impossible sound frothing from his lips, soft at first and then louder. It took her a moment to realise what it was …
Laughter.
He was laughing at their pain, a cold, cynical laughter that seemed to suck the warmth from the world. Her breath came in shallow, wheezing pants.
This was no hero; no prince come to save the day, this was a demon, a monster wreathed in cold unfeeling gold.
In horror Shiri tugged her shawl tighter, fear coursing through her veins.

The monster said something to her mother and laughed all the harder at Amita’s sobbed response. Gingerly he stepped from his chariot, seemingly wary of staining his sandals with the blood of peasants. He strutted towards her leisurely, as if enjoying prolonging the terror of the moment. All the time he played with those jewel encrusted bracelets and even from her hiding place Shiri could sense callous eyes appraising her mother’s soft and vulnerable flesh.

With no warning save a sideways glance the monster booted her father in the chest and drew his sword to strike the final blow. Amita was suddenly on her feet, Lady in her hand. Shiri saw her lunge at the golden demon, saw her fall, heard her scream.

This can’t be happening. It’s all a horrible nightmare, some sick and twisted dream.
Shiri pressed her hands to her ears, her face a mess of tears.
Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!
She slammed her forehead against the unyielding rocks.
Wake up! Wake up!
Again and again she crushed her head against them until her tears took on a crimson hew. Even then she could not block out those screams, so loud that she began to wonder if they were not her mother’s but her own.

One last time Shiri glimpsed her. She was curled in a ball, a trembling, whimpering ball, one arm outstretched; her fingers vainly questing towards her husband’s, her sobs were quieter now, barely a whisper and yet they seemed to fill the world.
She used to laugh, she used to laugh.

And then the monster was on her again. He grabbed her by the hair, dragging her unresisting form towards their shack. It was too much. In a daze Shiri half crawled, half slithered behind her rock. She pulled her knees tight against her chest, rocked slowly back and forth and waited; waited for the monster to come for her.

III

Prince Amenhotep entered the royal marquee with a bounce in his step. That wench had provided excellent sport. He couldn’t help but smile as he though on it.
Aye, she’d looked well … for a shepherd’s whore.

His smile faded as he drew closer to Pharaoh. Throughout the Two Lands his father went by a hundred different names, each one more glorious than the last. In the streets of
Thebes men called him, ‘Tuthmosis the Great,’ in Memphis they named him, ‘Godking,’ in the halls of Karnack the priests of
Amun
proclaimed him, ‘Sword of the Hidden One’ and ‘Defender of the Faith.’

Amenhotep named him, bastard.

Ever did the Godking refuse to offer him the Co-Regency, ever did he look on him with scorn. The Prince had seen near thirty summers, yet still his father refused to give him the Red Crown. Amenhotep sensed the disdain in Pharaoh’s eyes as the Godking raised his head from the papyrus maps sprawled over the cedar bench before him. Even before Amenhotep could open his mouth, his father interrupted him, “They tell me you managed to lose a chariot taking this village of piss and shit.”

Amenhotep stumbled to a halt. He looked to left and right, hoping that perhaps General Thauney, First Lord of the armies of
Amun,
might take his part. But when he met the general’s eye Thauney found reason to lower his gaze and inspect his sandals.

Amenhotep felt the thrill of victory wane. Slowly it was replaced by that gnawing ache in his stomach, that knowledge of his own inadequacy he always felt in his father’s presence. Nervously he fidgeted with his golden bracelets, his mouth feeling suddenly dry, his tongue an awkward leathery protuberance behind his lips. He struggled to meet Pharaoh’s eye. “And … did they tell you how I downed a great warrior at the height of the battle?”

Tuthmosis grunted. “You couldn’t down a one armed Habiru eunuch.” Pharaoh’s nostrils flared at the flowery scent of jasmine and honeysuckle that wafted about his son. Amenhotep could feel him glaring pointedly at the thin lines of black
kohl
that decorated his soft skin. “Is it your pleasure to present yourself as a wench now?” Tuthmosis said, “Is such the fashion of your perfumed friends in the cushioned halls of Memphis?”

Amenhotep felt the colour rising in his cheeks. His father was ever on campaign, born with a sword in his hand, war was his daily bread. For three decades he’d vanquished all before him, expanding the empire’s borders at every turn and through it all he wore no gold but that of his crown, no perfume but that of blood and sweat.

The Prince shifted from foot to foot, struggling to find some sign of strength, some word of defiance, in the end he simply nodded his head and lowered his gaze.
Why can I never stand up to him?
Why can I never show him my worth?

Pharaoh shrugged as if he’d expected as much of his son and returned his attention to his maps. He glanced briefly at Thauney and even under the great Blue Crown the Godking’s displeasure was plain to see. “A week you say? The
Pass of Gilboa is it?
Seth’s
tits, Thauney, you’d have me march seven days at the bed of a valley with twice a thousand rebel archers above my head? Is there no other route?”

Thauney shook his head, powerful fingers resting on the hilt of his blade. “My scouts have reported none worth mentioning, Divinity.”

Tuthmosis made an irritated gesture. “Your scouts aren’t worth the price of a sixty year old whore. What word from Aratama of Mitanni?”

Thauney spoke to the Godking’s feet. “Our envoys to King Aratama are missing or dead.
I’ll endeavour to discover what…”

Tuthmosis grunted. “You’re a man who’d best serve any endeavour by being absent from it.” He waved the general away. “I stand before a council of fools.” He peered towards the entrance and his eyes met Old Solon. Alone of all the men in the marquee, the old bowyer was common born. Tuthmosis grinned at him. “With naught but my sweet daughter and this dung beetle-” he
jerked his thumb at Thauney, “-to give me counsel, I may have need to raise you to the privileged ranks.”

Amenhotep scowled at his father’s words.
He has more love for that old fool than he has for me.
He was ever threatening to raise the lowborn filth to high position. The Prince glanced over his shoulder. The scrawny, white haired ancient held an unusually shaped weapon in hand. It was covered with ornately carved blessings from the god of Thebes.
Father’s new bow.
Solon caught Amenhotep’s gaze, grinned, and blew the Prince a kiss.

Pharaoh’s old bow had warped when Amenhotep had forgotten to unstring it after a hunt in the Memphite Desert. Amenhotep could still remember how Solon had berated him for his stupidity before all the nobles of Memphis, proclaiming, “I did not spend six moons toiling over the piece for some fool boy to treat it like the dirt under his feet.” Amenhotep had demanded the old man’s head for his impudence. How dare a whore-born peasant speak to his betters thusly? Pharaoh, of course, had taken the part of the bowyer and added a few choice words of his own to complete the Prince’s humiliation.

Amenhotep turned back to his father and steeled himself.
Show him your worth, prove you deserve the Red Crown
. He stepped a little closer and at last dared to hold the Godking’s eye. “The … the villagers, I questioned a score of them with sword and flail they…”

His father rolled his eyes.
“Preach your woman’s sermon elsewhere.” He beckoned Solon closer. Amenhotep was forced to hold a scented linen cloth to his nose; Solon stank of the disgusting fish glues he used to strengthen his bows. The Prince took a step back as the ancient went to bended knee and presented the weapon to his king. “The bow of
Amun
,” Solon said. “I’ve completed five hundred of similar design already, one for every chariot.”

Tuthmosis nodded appreciatively. “How far will they fire?”

“Further than any bows before them.” Solon said proudly.

Amenhotep sneered at the old man through his scented cloth. “A hollow boast, word is your bows are good for naught but scratching your arse.”

Solon glanced at the Prince as he would at a piece of dog leavings he’d just trod in. “And talk is your blade is good for naught but fighting peasant women.”

Amenhotep felt a rush of anger
.
“Be careful with your words, wise friend Solon, or mayhap that blade will find your throat.”

“Old men and grieving widows,” Solon bowed. “Ever does his majesty’s sword find opponents to fit his ability.” Amenhotep reddened but a quick glance at his father counselled him to be silent. Solon returned his gaze to Pharaoh. “Aye, Divinity, further than any bow before it.” His eyes flitted to the Prince again, a goading smile on his lips. “Twice as far as those from the batch Herben of Thebes botched together.”

Amenhotep glared at the old man, “Why … Why I myself proclaimed Herben’s bows to be things of beauty! Your weapons are poor things in comparison.”

Solon shrugged. “You’d declare the contents of Pharaoh’s chamber pot to be things of beauty if you thought it would gain you favour.”

Amenhotep turned first crimson then purple. He opened his mouth to reply, but his father’s thunderous laugh was enough to convince the Prince to bite his tongue.
Time enough to deal with the old fool when I come into my crown.
Instead he simply shoved passed the bowyer, determined now that his father would hear what he’d discovered. “You must hear me, Father, the peasants, I had them dragged behind the horses, took my sword to their throats, roasted their younglings over the campfires and they…”

“I care not for the methods only the results.” Tuthmosis appeared to be only half listening, his attention still on the bow as he tested its draw weight.

Amenhotep nodded quickly. “There is a hidden path, Father, the Aruna Pass they call it. Between their screams the lowborn muck of this village spilled all and betrayed their usurper king.” He cast Old Solon a brief and eloquent glance. “Such is ever the way with those of poor breeding.”

He sensed his father raise an eyebrow and quickly brought his finger to the map. “
They say it is deserted, not even a lookout. This shepherd who calls himself King thinks it impassable. His chariots are heavier than ours, too bulky to be carried by hand.
His
host cannot travel in the high mountains and he thinks us no different.”

Pharaoh grew silent. For what seemed like an age, he studied the map before finally, he spoke, and spoke softly.
“Taking this route would force us to be strung out, horse after horse and man after man. Chariots would need to be dismantled and carried by hand, wagons and supplies left behind. If the rebels have men in the mountains above Aruna, all will be lost.” He looked to Solon, “Brave or foolish to risk all on the word of a man with a sword at his throat?”

The old bowyer shrugged.
“Men will call it brave if it works, Sire.” His eyes flicked to the Prince, “Foolish if not.” He glanced at the map, “If we take this pass we will be dead in a day, or celebrating victory beneath the walls of Megiddo in two.”

Tuthmosis
, the third and greatest of his name, smiled ever so faintly. He turned to his son and for once Amenhotep imagined there was something other than disdain in that look. “That’s the way I like it.”