The Shepherd Kings (2 page)

If so, no one had heard, or troubled to come. Slowly the
world came back to him, and with it memory. He lay in his bed in the palace of
Thebes, in his cell of a room that he had managed, one way and another, to fill
with possessions. One such, the lamp painted on its side with a many-armed and
coiling sea-creature, burned low but steady. It made great shadows about the carved
and painted chest in which he kept his clothes, and the plainer chest of his
weapons, and the box atop it that held his treasures.

His eyes rested on none of those, but on the lamp itself. It
had come from Crete, or so the trader had assured him. Was that then why he had
dreamed a Cretan dream tonight?

He had heard how they danced the bulls before their gods,
and seen pictures painted, but never in life. Yet he could smell the sharp
sweat of the dancers, and the heavier, muskier reek of the bull, and the dry
hot scent of sand—and over it all, the stink of blood and riven entrails.

He sucked in a breath. It brought him nothing more
terrifying than the pungency of his own sweat and a hint of perfume from the
maid who had been in his bed when he fell asleep. She was gone. He was all
alone. He and his dream.

He sat up, fighting the urge to protect vitals that no
bull’s horn had ever gored. His head ached abominably. Of course the winejar
was empty. He had drunk the last of it with the girl—what was her name? He did
not recall that he had ever asked.

He stumbled to his feet, clutching the jar to his chest, and
went somewhat foggily in search of wine.

It was the black hour before dawn, when even the servants
slept, and only the night-guard struggled to remain awake. He had walked these
ways before in the whispering dark, by the slant of moonlight across a
courtyard and the flicker of a torch in a passageway. Spirits of the dead and
those who slept like the dead fluttered and chittered overhead.

He had no fear of those. They were only air. Nightwalkers he
did fear, drinkers of blood and eaters of souls, but he was protected: amulets
of no little power hung about his neck.

He had never been able to find one that was proof against
the dreams.

Wine never prevented them, but it softened the blow
afterwards. He found a jar in the nearer storeroom, and it was nearly full of
the strong sweet wine that came over the sea. Not much of that came as far as
Thebes since Lower Egypt was taken by foreign kings—and all the gods curse
them. But this was the palace, and this was the princes’ house within it. For
them, never aught but the best.

Someone was waiting for him as he came out of the storeroom
with the filled jar, a shadowy figure lounging against the wall. Unless the
ka
walked of its own volition while its
master slept, this was a shape Kemni knew well indeed. “Gebu,” he said.

The figure straightened, bringing itself into the light of
the torch by the storeroom’s door. It was a young man, though older than Kemni;
taller, a little, and broader, a big man as men went in Egypt. He reached for
the jar and took it from Kemni’s unresisting hands, and sipped. His brows went
up. “Since when,” he inquired, “did you have leave to dip from that jar?”

“Since a dream of mine saved the prince-heir’s life,” Kemni
said. “And what are you doing awake at this ungodly hour?”

“Tracking you,” Gebu said. “So it was another dream?”

Kemni nodded. It was not cold, not even near it, and yet he
shivered. “Drink,” Gebu bade him.

Gebu was a prince, though not the heir. Sometimes it pleased
Kemni to remember that. And now, remembering it, he thought it best to obey.

The wine was strong, unwatered. It dizzied him a little.
Gebu’s hand steadied him, and guided him out of the passage and into a
courtyard full of moonlight.

This was the court of blossoming trees, some long-gone
prince’s fancy that had endured for later princes’ pleasure. The air was heavy
with fragrance. The moon turned every blossom to silver, and every shadow to
blackest black.

Gebu sat Kemni down under a tree, in a cool wash of
moonlight. “You’ve not dreamed in a while,” he said.

Kemni drew himself into a knot about the winejar. “No,” he
said from the midst of that shelter.

“Tell me.”

Kemni raised his head. This was not the king’s heir. But he was
a prince, and a power in this place; and, which mattered more than the rest,
Kemni’s friend and battle-brother. For that, Kemni did not put him off. “It’s
nothing much. Really. No one we know died.”

“Tell me,” Gebu said again.

“I dreamed,” Kemni said, “that I was in Crete. I saw them
dance the bulls. One of the dancers died. He leaped too soon, you see. The bull
caught him on its horn.”

Gebu frowned. “Crete? Bulls? You never dreamed outside of
Egypt before.”

“I am not a prophet!”

That came out of Kemni’s heart. Futile as it was, it
comforted him a little. “I dream dreams,” he said. “Sometimes they signify
something. I always know—there is a difference to those that the gods send me.
But I am not a prophet.”

“You are not a prophet,” Gebu said with the air of one who
obliges a friend. “But—Crete? Why would their gods vex you with visions?”

“Gods know,” Kemni said sourly. His fingers tightened on the
winejar. It was brimming full still, but he had no stomach for it, suddenly. He
set it down.

“This one you should tell my father,” Gebu said.

Kemni shook his head firmly. “No. No, I will not.”

“Then I will,” said Gebu.

“No,” Kemni said. “Then all the world will know—”

“That you dream dreams?” Gebu shook his head. “Not if we do
it properly. Come now, you should sleep. It will be daylight soon enough.”

~~~

Kemni had no intention of sleeping, particularly with Gebu
standing over him. For a while he did not, though he shut his eyes to gain
himself a little peace. He did not want to be known as a dreamer of dreams. People
had a way of expecting things; and of prophets they expected prophecies. The
dreams came when they came. Kemni did not invite them. He did not particularly
welcome them. They were a gift, he supposed; but a gift edged like a sword.

In spite of himself he slid into sleep. The dream came back
in fragments, scattered and incomplete. The horror of it had drained away. It
was merely strange.

~~~

The Horus, the living god, the king, Great House of Egypt,
lord of Upper Egypt and all lands tributary to it, was in a splendid mood this
morning. He had slept well, with the assistance of a concubine of surpassing
skill. There was no disaster to vex his morning’s ease, no trouble that kept
him from preparing a hunt upon the river. They would embark in a fleet as soon
as might be, armed to hunt the riverhorse, with bows and nets to catch fowl for
the pot, and even lines for such as had inclination toward fish of the river.

But at this hour, still close to sunrise, Ahmose the king
lingered over his breakfast. He dined alone but for a small army of servitors,
unattended for once by any of his lords or by the tribe of his sons. It was a
luxury a king could seldom afford, and one that his son Gebu did not long allow
him.

He was not visibly troubled to see that one of his sons, nor
vexed by Kemni’s intrusion, either. He smiled at them both and beckoned them
in, and bade them take what they would from the table spread before him.

Kemni found that he was hungry. He had broken bread with the
king before, though not, to be sure, in the palace of Thebes. Ahmose was not
one to stand on ceremony when he did not see the need. He was a warm man, for a
king. He was at ease among mere mortals, and even among commoners.

Sitting with him, eating subtly flavored cakes and fine
wheaten bread and cold roast goose, Kemni began to feel like himself again.
Perhaps after all it would not be so ill if Ahmose knew of Kemni’s gift. Kings
took gifts, and used them. It was their way. But Ahmose would use it as he
judged best for his people.

His son Gebu favored him for looks, though Ahmose was not as
big a man. He had inherited the kingship from his brother Kamose a hand of
years before, after Kamose died in battle against the Nubians; he had been past
the bloom of youth when he took the crown. Nonetheless he looked hardly older
than his son. He was strong, and young in his strength.

One did not begin a conversation with the king. One ate
one’s breakfast with unfeigned relish, washed it down with good Egyptian beer,
and waited for the royal majesty to speak.

Which he did, but only after both young men had eaten and
drunk their fill. It was a courtesy, one of many that marked this lord of Upper
Egypt. He said, “Now, sirs. Tell me what brings you here.”

Kemni hesitated. Gebu shot him a glance, but he could not
find the words that he should say.

Gebu said them for him, with admirable patience in the
circumstances. “Kemni my brother in blood, whom I love, is a dreamer of
dreams.”

Ahmose’s brow went up. It was not surprise, Kemni noticed.
“So I hear,” the king said.

Gebu nodded, equally unsurprised. “In the night, he dreamed
the bull dance.”

The king’s brow climbed higher. He turned the force of his
stare on Kemni. Kemni stiffened against it. “Tell me,” he said.

Kemni told him as he had told Gebu, word for word. It was no
easier in the second telling. The king listened in silence, offering no word,
no response at all, only that level dark stare. Flat, Kemni would almost have
called it, but only as deep water is flat; because human eye has no power to
pierce beneath its surface.

Ahmose, after all, was king and god. Kemni, mere mortal that
he was, could only speak as he was commanded, and hope that it would satisfy
the king.

And so it seemed to. When Kemni had told the last of it, the
young dancer slain, the bull triumphant, he fell silent. Ahmose was silent,
too, tugging at his chin, pondering the tale that he had heard.

At length he said, “The bull was victorious, you say. What
of the other dancers?”

“I don’t know, sire,” Kemni said. “I only saw the one who
died.”

“Indeed,” the king said. He glanced at Gebu. Gebu’s brows
went up. The king nodded.

“Now?” the prince asked.

The king inclined his head.

Gebu had caught Kemni’s arm and tugged him up and out of the
king’s chambers before he could say a word, or think to resist. Only when they
had passed the outermost guard did Kemni manage at last to dig in his heels.
“What—”

“Just come,” Gebu said.

“Not till you tell me where.”

“Not here,” said Gebu. “Follow.”

It was that or be dragged bodily, with the aid of a massive
Nubian guard. Kemni went where he was led, biting back the rest of his
protests.

He had gone that way before, and often enough, too: out one
of the back ways of the palace, into the less savory portions of the city. They
went in no more state than they ever had on night rambles in search of bad beer
and willing women, and no escort but one another. Kemni would have been better
pleased if he had been given time to put on something other than his best kilt.
At least, he reflected wryly, he had put on few jewels and only his third-best
wig, since it was likely he would be hunting the riverhorse with the king once
his audience was done.

It seemed he was hunting something else altogether;
something that made its home down by the river. Not far from here, traders moored
their ships. Their crews found women and beer and lesser entertainment behind
the low doors and the weatherbeaten walls. The streets were ripe with the reek
of their passing: piss, stale vomit, the fierce stink of dung both human and
canine.

At this hour of the morning, only a valiant few braved the
light and the rising heat. Swarms of flies beset them. A pack of dogs, all ribs
and mangy hide, jostled past and vanished into a lesser alleyway, in full cry
after the gods knew what.

Kemni had begun—not to be afraid, no. But to wonder if he had
done something to anger the king. Why else had he been brought here to this
odorous underbelly of Thebes, if not by way of punishment?

When Gebu paused, Kemni nearly collided with him. He ducked
through a leather curtain into a house like every other along that cesspit of a
street, into darkness absolute.

He froze, but Gebu had him by the arm again, tugging him
into a space that he could not see. Then, with the rattle of a bolt and the
slide of a latch, out suddenly into daylight again.

Daylight and the scent of flowers; the glimmer of sunlight
in a pool. Kemni stood blinking, astonished, in a courtyard such as he might
expect to find in any lordly house—but not here, in this poorest quarter of the
city.

They paused only long enough for Kemni to get his bearings,
before Gebu tugged at him yet again. They passed under the colonnade into shade
and almost-coolness, then up a stair and into a long airy room.

Kemni stopped short on the threshold. Before he could stop
himself, he laughed.

He was standing inside his own lamp from Crete. The same
many-armed sea-creature coiled and undulated along the wall, in a great
gathering of its kin. No bulls here. No slender supple dancers.

One of the shadows moved. Kemni suppressed a start. This was
not his dream come to life. It was an older man, thicker-bodied, tanned to
leather by years of wind and sun. But the shape of him, broad shoulders,
slender waist; the long-nosed, large-eyed face; and the hair bound in a fillet
and trailing in ringlets over his back and shoulders, all spoke vividly of the
dancers in the dream. He moved like a dancer, too, light on his feet, soft and
quick as a cat.

There were others behind him, quiet men with the look of
well-trained servants. He took no notice of them, nor did Gebu. It was Kemni’s
oddity that he noticed everyone, even slaves.

Gebu advanced past Kemni with an air of unfeigned pleasure.
The Cretan’s face reflected it: sudden smile, quick clasp of hands.
“Naukrates,” Gebu said. “I thought you might have sailed before this.”