The Pharaoh's Daughter (31 page)

“He wasn't as cooperative. He'll awaken shortly—with a headache.” The officer motioned two of his five soldiers to close ranks around Mered, their odor as imposing as their spears. “Why should we believe your story, linen keeper?”

Mered squared his shoulders and set his jaw, giving his best impression of bravery, then assumed by their smirks that he had failed. “Because if you don't take me to General Horemheb, the Egypt you once knew will be gone when you return.”

Their smirks faded. After only a moment's pause, the Ramessid jerked his head toward his new prisoners. “Bring them both. If the Hebrew is lying, Commander Sebak will do worse than I could ever stomach.”

One of the guards secured Mandai's wrists with leather straps, while another emptied his waterskin on his head, rousing him. The Medjay sprang to his feet and leveled a guard with a kick to his throat before the others could pin him back to the ground.

“Please, wait.” Mered moved between the guards and his friend. “This Medjay was King Tut's personal bodyguard. If you harm him further, the general will send you to the copper mines before dawn.”

Anippe had effectively used that punishment with the overseer on the Avaris plateau. Mered had no idea if General Horemheb would defend the man who'd served King Tut, saved his daughter, and tried to rescue his wife, but Mandai deserved better than a gang killing by desert lackeys.

The Ramessid officer shoved his men to get them marching and helped the Medjay stand. “No more kicking.”

Mandai scowled but didn't argue.

Relieved, Mered felt a sense of anticipation stir. They'd actually completed
their mission. He, a linen keeper, a successful military messenger. “How far to your camp?”

“A half day's walk.”

Mered grimaced. “But it's nearly dusk.”

No one answered.

He wasn't sure his feet could stand the journey. “Perhaps we should stop for the night.”

Silence.

“Will we encounter Hittites on the way?”

The officer heaved a sigh. “Doubtful. We've retaken the fortress at Kadesh on the Orontes River. It's clear from here to there.” He glared at Mered as if daring him to speak again and then turned his back. Evidently not much for conversation.

They walked another few paces, and Mered's stomach growled. Surely someone else was hungry too. “We brought food.”

Everyone kept marching.

“We have enough for everyone. Don't you think, Mandai? I think our rations are—”

The guard shoved his dagger hilt into Mered's gut, doubling the linen keeper over, and then asked Mandai, “Did he talk this much all the way from Egypt?”

The Medjay offered a slow, single nod.

“I would have killed him,” the guard grumbled.

Mered refrained from more comments.

Their journey passed in a blur, the pain in Mered's feet forcing him to lean heavily on Mandai. At some point the terrain changed from mountainous to a lush river valley, shrouded in darkness.

Mered noted small fires in front of primitive tents and a watchtower in the distance. “Is that where we're headed?”

The officer ignored him, seeming intent on their destination.

They passed a mound of smoking, foul-smelling ash. Mered covered his nose and mouth with his head covering.

“Turn away.” Mandai marched, eyes forward, nothing covering his nose to abate the stench. “Don't stare at the dead.”

Only then did Mered glimpse human bones at the edge of the pile, and he realized they were walking through what had been a battlefield days before.

A full moon illuminated their gruesome surroundings. The ground beneath their feet was saturated with blood—as was the linen wrapped around Mered's feet. Wounded men and horses lay near their tents, exhausted, while filthy women hurried from one demanding patient to the next. Closer to the watchtower, men celebrated with full wineskins and bloodied swords.

“How long ago did General Horemheb take Kadesh?” Mered spoke in a whisper.

The Ramessid officer slowed, coming alongside Mered and Mandai. “I only tell you this because you are surely trustworthy if you are who you claim to be—and if you are lying, you will be dead.”

Mered found no comfort in his reasoning but was happy to get some answers.

“We took the Kadesh fortress last week, and—as you can see—we're still cleaning up. But the general sent Commanders Sebak and Pirameses on another mission a few days ago.” He sighed, taking inventory of their surroundings. “It appears they've returned victorious—but with considerable losses. If you have a god, you should pray your master receives you in good temper.” Mered exchanged a wary glance with Mandai, feeling at once elated and sickened by their surroundings. He'd never been on a battlefield before, never realized that even victors endured significant losses. He'd never conceived it possible that human bodies could be a pile of refuse needing disposal. Life in Avaris flowed with the waters of the Nile, as colorless as the natron-bleached linen he produced in his shop. Respect for his master grew as they approached the three-story, hive-shaped tower.
How does Sebak live in both worlds so seamlessly?

The Ramessid officer halted and pounded on the wooden door of the tower with the hilt of his dagger. “Squad four, returning with prisoners.”

A metal latch clanked, and a small peep door opened. A set of dark eyes
squinted beneath a bushy black brow. “Why take prisoners? If they're Hittites, kill them. If they're escaping slaves, kill them. If they're—”

Mered's captor bashed his dagger against the door. “They say they have a message for the general and commanders Sebak and Pirameses. Do you want to withhold a message from any of the three?”

The peep door slammed shut, the cedar door opened, and the bushy-browed fellow sneered. “General Horemheb is at the top with Sebak and Pirameses, but the commanders returned only moments ago. Careful, they're still in battle frenzy.”

Mered saw only two windows in the rough-cut limestone structure and no other entry. The watchtower had three stories, a simple design, with each upper level smaller than the one below. The Ramessid officer led them to the central ladder on the first floor to access the next story. Mered followed him, then the Medjay, and then a second guard. As the officer mounted the ladder for the third story, the sound of raised voices grew louder—and one angry voice was terrifyingly familiar.

“Yes, we regained Amurru, but at what cost?” Sebak shouted. “If we press the Hittites toward Ugarit, they could flee by ship or farther north, taking us farther from our already exhausted supply lines!” Something pounded a wooden table above them.

The Ramessid officer leaned down to whisper before lifting his head above the third-story floor. “You'd better be who you say you are, or we're both dead men.” He grabbed Mered's collar and dragged him up the ladder's last two rungs. “Excuse me, sirs, but we're reporting two prisoners who say they have a message.” His words tumbled out, and he held Mered in front of him like a shield.

Mered had only a moment to see fury turn to fear on Master Sebak's face before he charged Mered like a bull. Two giant paces, and he'd grasped Mered's cloak, snatching him from the Ramessid's grasp.

Mandai leapt from the ladder, taking everyone by surprise.

The Medjay grabbed Sebak and his dagger in one swift motion, somehow pinning his arms back and holding the blade at Sebak's jugular. “Commander,
I mean you no harm, but you will regret hurting your linen keeper if someone doesn't stop you.”

Sebak panted, his eyes wild. Mered barely had time to think before Pirameses seized him from behind and held a dagger at his throat. “It seems we should negotiate, Medjay.”

General Horemheb approached Mered, calm as the Nile's lowest tide. “You're that linen keeper from Avaris, aren't you?”

Mered couldn't answer, couldn't blink. He felt the flint blade biting into his neck.

The general paced in front of the wooden table, hands clasped behind his back. “Well, I know Sebak as well as I could know a son. He fears you've come with bad news about Anippe or his son. Simply tell him his wife and son are safe, linen keeper.”

Warm blood trickled down Mered's neck. “Anippe and Mehy are well … but King Tut is dead.”

Horemheb's control faltered slightly. He nodded at Pirameses, who released Mered, and then turned to Sebak. “Are you satisfied?”

Something frightening still danced in Sebak's eyes, but he whispered, “Yes.”

The general ordered the Medjay to release him. Mandai withdrew his blade and jumped clear of the commander's reach. Mered thought it odd—until he saw Sebak's reaction. His master's fury turned on the fortress wall, Sebak screamed and pounded until his fists were bloody. Then he fell against it, resting his head against his arm, exhausted.

The general cleared his throat, nudging Mered to gain his attention. “Tell me everything.”

Mered stood frozen, unable to focus. He kept glancing back at Sebak to be sure he wouldn't attack again. For the first time, he was afraid of his master—his size, his fury, his violence.

Mandai stepped forward and bowed to the general. “Vizier Ay sabotaged Pharaoh's chariot during the Fayum hunt, and King Tut died from his injuries. General Horemheb, I'm deeply sorry to inform you that the vizier publicly accused your wife of planning the treachery and …”

The Medjay stumbled over the awful truth, and Mered knew he must intercede. “Mandai attempted to save your wife from Ay's traitorous Medjays, but he arrived too late. He was severely injured in the fight but rescued Anippe and Ankhe before they were harmed.”

Horemheb's shock was quickly displaced by sorrow. He sniffed back emotion, staring at the ceiling. “I will destroy Ay. How long before Tut's burial, before Ay steals the incarnation and the throne? Could we make it back to the Valley of the Kings if we—”

Horemheb stopped when he noticed Mered shaking his head. “You could make it back for the burial, but Vizier Ay has already set a plan into motion that makes your succession impossible.” Mered took a deep breath, feeling like a cat surrounded by tethered dogs. “Ay sent a messenger to the Hittite prince, proposing he marry Queen Senpa to unite Egypt with Hatti.”

He braced himself, waiting for someone to slice his throat for reporting the news.

Instead—silent disbelief. Egypt's three top soldiers exchanged glances, eyes sharp, jaws clenched.

Horemheb spoke with icy calm. “Sebak, Pirameses. You two are the best. First initiative, intercept Ay's messenger. If we're too late—may the gods forbid it—you must kill the Hittite prince and his escort before they reach Egypt for the wedding.” Both commanders nodded, and Horemheb gazed from beneath his bristly gray brows. “How many men do you need?”

Pirameses answered, checking each assertion for Sebak's approval. “We'll be more effective with fewer men—ten at most. Sebak will take five along the sea, and I'll take five through the mountains. We'll meet at the Hittite capital, Aleppo. If neither of us intercepts Ay's messenger on our way, it means we must kill the bridegroom prince and his escort on our way back to the Delta.”

Mered's heart was in his throat. How could they suddenly be calm? They spoke of murder and missions like he spoke of flax and linen. This world of war was insanity, and though he had wanted to help, he was grateful to know nothing of this life.

General Horemheb massaged the back of his neck. “I'll leave enough troops in Kadesh to maintain what we've gained in this campaign. We'll break
camp for the Sile fortress at dawn. I hope we have enough supplies for the journey.”

Mered's heart skipped a beat. Finally, something he could help with. “Isn't Damascus a day's journey south? If you can spare a few soldiers and wagons to guide me, Mandai and I can gather supplies and rejoin your troops on the way to the Delta.”

The general's forehead wrinkled, giving his short black wig a bounce. “That would greatly relieve my supply-line troubles. You've just joined the army, linen keeper. We'll rest tonight and proceed with our duties at dawn.”

Mered couldn't move, couldn't speak.
Joined the army?

Master Sebak grabbed his arm and Mandai's. “Both of you come with me.” He shoved them toward the ladder and the hole in the floor. Sebak was calmer but still ill mannered.

One step onto the ladder's rung, and Mered cried out, earning him heated gazes from every soldier. “I'm sorry, but my feet hurt.”

General Horemheb grinned. “You'd better toughen him up by dawn, Sebak. He's a soldier now.”

Mered climbed down, biting his lip against the pain until he tasted blood. Sebak led him and Mandai out of the fortress to a nearby copse of trees and a two-room tent near the river, guarded by four Ramessid soldiers. Nodding to the guards, Sebak ducked his head and marched inside, Mered and Mandai close behind.

“Are you hungry?” he asked abruptly, shoving a half-eaten loaf of bread at them.

The visitors sat on woven reed mats and ate in silence while Sebak paced. Like a caged beast, he walked the length of both rooms and back again, removing his weaponry and pieces of armor as his expression twisted in unspoken conflict. The spear went first, then a blood-stained cudgel and throwing stick. He hung his bow and quiver of arrows on the center tent pole, and then stood over Mered, silently staring down at him.

Mered rose, still chewing his last bite of bread. “May I assist you, master?”

Sebak lifted his right arm, revealing the laces of his bronze-plated breast piece. Mered fumbled to untie them.

“Why did you come? And—by the gods, Mered—why did you offer to go to Damascus?” Sebak shoved Mered aside and loosened the laces himself. Then he pulled off the breast piece and threw it across the tent, turning his back to his visitors.

Mandai stood. Mered sensed his protectiveness and was grateful. “We needed to gain passage on a merchant's ship, and Mandai knew how to find you. Besides, I knew you and General Horemheb would trust the message from my lips.” He stepped nearer to Sebak. “Anippe has learned to run the linen shop. I hadn't intended to volunteer as the general's supply chief, but the workshop at Avaris will endure.”