Year of the Hyenas (38 page)

“He is.”

“His weapons
will be
restored to him. We want you to know that you are in no danger from
us.” The king’s face became abruptly and utterly filled with rage and
he banged a fist down upon the chariot’s frame. “To live in such
times!” he said in a scandalized voice. “When a Pharaoh can be murdered
by his own wife and son—what infamy!” He waited until he was calm
again. “Yousef.”

“Lord?”

“I want two
hundred
strong men and women, dressed in beggar’s rags, and armed. Assemble
them in the forecourt in twenty minutes’ time. Be ready to ferry them
to Djamet.”

“Yes, lord.”

When the giant
had
departed, the Beggar King’s countenance was grave. “I fear, gentlemen,
that even two hundred of my beggars will not be enough if the army has
gone over to those traitors.”

Semerket spoke
up.
“Then we must bring Vizier Toh and his troops back from Erment.”

Quickly, paper
and ink
were brought to the crown prince so that he could compose a letter to
Toh informing him of the conspiracy and pleading for his quick return.
With any luck, the prince told them, Toh was camped in the vicinity of
Thebes, for he had been gone only a single day.

It was decided
that
Medjay Qar would take the letter personally to Toh. The Beggar King
volunteered a horse to ensure the speediest of deliveries. Despite the
gravity of the situation, Semerket smiled to himself—from what stable,
he wondered, would the beast be filched?

They agreed
that Nenry
would accompany Yousef into Djamet, there to await the arrival of Toh.
Semerket knew that if he himself were seen by any of the conspirators,
he would be instantly dispatched. Nenry was somewhat known among the
temple acolytes, and he could excuse his presence by saying that he
waited for Paser. If the opportunity presented itself, he must force
himself into Pharaoh’s presence to warn him of the danger.

“In the
meantime, I
will go into the Great Place,” Semerket continued, “to prevent the
treasure from being moved to the north.”

“No,” insisted
Nenry.
“I know you, Ketty. You’re only doing it so that you can arrest Nakht.
You’re too weak from loss of blood. You’d not survive it.”

“There’s no
one else,
Nenry,” answered Semerket. “I’m the only one who knows where the tomb
is, and how to enter it. I’ll go to the Medjays first for their help.”

Qar, Nenry,
and
Semerket stared soberly at one another. “That’s it, then,” Qar spoke
crisply.

When they were
gone,
the Beggar King spoke soothingly to the suddenly trembling crown
prince. “Don’t fret, Your Majesty. My beggars will rescue your father.
For if they don’t, they know the Cripple Maker will be waiting for
them.”

THE THUNDERHEADS, which had earlier
confined themselves to the edges of the desert, now flattened and
stretched wide across the horizon, obliterating the setting sun. In the
darkness a series of thatched reed boats and other small craft crowded
with beggars were secretly launched from the poor quarter of Eastern
Thebes. The boats were sent across the Nile in ones and twos, to avoid
detection by the river sentries.

When the
beggars were
safely across the Nile, Yousef dispersed them to various locations
around the pylons of Djamet-—alongside the canal, at the base of the
twin colossal statues of Pharaoh, and some, the brawniest of them,
clustered near the massive gates. Yousef positioned his army so
casually that the gradual infusion of beggars into Djamet’s outer
courtyard went unnoticed even by the temple guards.

At Yousef’s
signal,
the beggars settled down to take up their usual evening activities.
They threw bones with one another, shared songs, or laughed at jokes.
Some lit fires in small braziers and roasted a bit of game. To the
inhabitants of Djamet, the beggars seemed as indolent and indifferent
as on any other night of the year.

Nenry noticed
the
smell of rain from the southwestern deserts that permeated the
courtyard. A moment later a cataclysmic shock of thunder shook the
ground so profoundly that even the massive stanchions bearing the blue
and crimson pennants quaked. Intermittent raindrops began to bounce on
the granite pavement. Rain was such an infrequent visitor to Thebes
that many of the younger beggars had never before seen it. They raised
their heads, and held out their hands. The sky was suddenly lit from
horizon to horizon by a silent flash of lighting. Nenry, saying
nothing, gripped Yousef’s arm, for in that burst of light he had seen
Pharaoh’s hunting fleet turning from the river into the temple canal.

Yousef made a
signal
to the beggars. Heads turned. The beggars were treated to the sight of
the boats struggling up the canal in the increasing rain. Their sails
hung sodden on their masts, and the flowers that had been strung in
their rigging were withered and dripping.

Panic ensued
at the
docks. Boats thumped into one another in their haste to moor nearest
the temple. A few were swamped in the mêlée, and their
listing hulls became impassible barriers so that even Pharaoh’s yacht
was forced to moor a distance away. Dripping courtiers swore at each
other, and small fights broke out. Armies of servants came running from
the temple to hurriedly divest their masters’ vessels of dead ducks and
hunting sticks. Pharaoh was left to fend for himself as his courtiers
went running for cover. Even his bearers could not penetrate the chaos
at the wharf, and the king was forced to walk the long avenue into
Djamet, his mood darkening with every step.

As Pharaoh
passed some
distance away, muttering, Nenry turned to Yousef. “I must try to reach
him,” he said. Yousef nodded. Nenry hurried inside Djamet, and crept to
the audience hall where his sovereign stood glowering.

Ramses hurled
his
sopping wig to the floor; it scurried across the shiny black tiles like
a water rat. He stood dripping, fuming at the commotion around him, as
servants ran to fetch towels. As Nenry pushed his way through the
throng of hovering courtiers, Ramses spied Pawero in the crowd. The
pharaoh pointed a condemning finger at him.

“You!” Ramses
said
loudly. “Is this how you manage my estate? No fresh clothes—no braziers
to warm me! I count for so little, it seems, to you proud southerners!”

Pawero was
caught
short. “I humbly apologize, Great King. The servants are indeed lax. I
will see that they are beaten—”

“I will see
you
beaten, sir. Being my
wife’s brother won’t save you. Where is that woman, anyway?” The
pharaoh turned in irritation to scan the courtiers.

“She and your
son have
not yet returned, Your Majesty.” Pawero’s tone was obsequious and
mollifying.

“Good. I
didn’t want
to see them anyway. It’s that truth-teller I want to talk to. What’s
his name…?”

Tiya’s rich
voice
suddenly broke through the din in the audience hall. “Do you mean the
clerk Semerket, my lord? Have you not spoken with him yet, then?” It
seemed an innocent question to all around her. Only Nenry, cringing at
the back of the hall, heard the edge in it; Tiya was unsure whether
Semerket was alive or dead, whether he had reached Pharaoh in secret.

The queen had
possessed the foresight that morning to take with her a cape infused
with beeswax. She now stepped from its folds to emerge as dry and
composed as always. Other than a little dew on her wig, no other traces
of the rain were to be seen on her. Prince Pentwere skulked behind his
mother, also wrapped in a slicker, his eyes swollen from weeping.

As Pharaoh was
stripped of his hunting habit, he turned on his wife. “It’s a sad day,
isn’t it, when one finds out the gods don’t exist?”

“Whatever can
you
possibly mean, Ramses?”

“I prayed the
waters
of the Nile would swallow you up, but you’re not even wet.”

Nenry saw the
flash of
cool hatred that sparked in Tiya’s eye then, but in front of he
courtiers she became all consideration and comfort. Taking a towel from
a servant she began to rub Pharaoh vigorously. “You talk such nonsense
at times,” she said lightly.

Pharaoh’s eye
lighted
on Pentwere. “A fine day you picked for a hunt, sir,” he called over to
his son. The prince said nothing, staring at his father with strangely
burning eyes. Momentarily astonished, Ramses turned to Tiya and asked,
“What’s the matter with him? Has he been bitten by a rabid ape?”

“Assai is
missing. He
fell overboard.”

“Missing?
Assai? Are
they searching for him?”

“Of course.”

“Well,” said
Ramses
grudgingly, “they’ll find him.” An unholy light shone in his eye, and
the old man could not resist a final jab. “But if they don’t, perhaps
your son might bed with a woman now and again. Millions recommend it,
you know.”

There were
small gasps
from the courtiers. Pentwere cast off his slicker and his fists
tightened. Tiya shook her head at him, so slightly that she might not
have done it. Pentwere reluctantly dropped his red gaze, muttering,
“Yes, Father.”

Tiya finished
toweling
Ramses. “There. You’re dry. Go to your rooms now for a warm bath. I
shall send my masseuse to you.”

“I have my own
masseuse!”

Tiya took a
breath
before she continued. “Well then, afterward, come to the harem and your
wives will beguile you. We’ll make sure all your cares slip from your
shoulders. You’ll see.”

No one but
Nenry, out
of all those assembled, seemed to think her words betokened anything
other than the queen’s usual forbearance toward her irascible husband.

“Well,” said
Ramses,
somewhat mollified. “Perhaps,” he said, “perhaps. Send Semerket to me,
first, when he’s found. A rare fellow of good sense, he is.”

“Really?”
sniffed
Tiya. “Rather too fond of wine for my taste. But when he comes here
again—if he does—I will know what to do.”

Satisfied,
Pharaoh
indicated to Pawero that he should assist him to his apartments.

“Your
Majesty!” Nenry
found his tongue and called desperately after the king. “Please! I must
see you! A matter of state!”

Tiya furiously
overrode him, chastising Nenry before the courtiers. “Later, you idiot!
Who was that?” She glared at him. Nenry cast down his eyes, not wishing
to be recognized as Semerket’s brother. He crouched in the shadows.
“Can’t you see how tired and ill he is? He has no time for business
tonight! Come back tomorrow.” She called out to a chamberlain, “I want
no one to disturb you. Do you understand?
No one.
Pharaoh must
have his
rest.” The man inclined his head, and fell in line behind Pawero,
accompanying Pharaoh into his rooms.

Tiya,
surrounded by
her ladies, ascended the stairs that led to the harem. Halfway up, the
courtiers heard the queen suddenly chuckle to herself, the tinkling
sound of little bells, enjoying a joke that only she heard. Moving with
her usual feline grace, she went to prepare herself for Pharaoh’s
arrival.

Nenry stared
after her
in panic. He had failed to intercede with Pharaoh. Moving numbly
through the throng of milling courtiers, he wore a dazed expression.
Having been so sharply rebuked by the queen, he was given a wide berth
by the others. Disfavor at court, apparently, was contagious. He moved
swiftly down the hall and out the temple gates to rejoin Yousef.

“I wasn’t
permitted to
speak to him,” Nenry almost wailed. “And she’s inveigled him into the
harem!”

“That’s not
our only
problem,” said Yousef. He nodded in the direction of the Nile. Barely
seen at the end of the canal was a large warship. It had arrived only a
few moments before, Yousef said, while Nenry was inside the temple.
Armed soldiers were streaming down its gangplank. Nenry gasped, for he
recognized their uniforms: it was the garrison from Sekhmet’s temple.

Mayor Paser
and High
Priest Iroy stood at the rear of the ship. Iroy was the first to
disembark, leading a gang of slaves who carried his supplies into the
rear of the temple. Paser was next off, following the soldiers as they
marched in formation to the Great Pylons.

At the gates,
one of
the guards challenged their right to enter. Paser gave orders to his
captain. There was an abrupt shout from one of the temple sentries, a
flash of copper, and the sentry fell to the ground clutching his side.
When he was dragged away, a stain of red melted into the wet paving
stones.

The sentry’s
commander
came running to where Paser stood, profusely apologizing for the man’s
stupid behavior. The commander gave the order to the rest of his men to
withdraw from this and every succeeding gate within the temple. They
were to be replaced by the men from Sekhmet, he said. This was such an
odd command that the men at first seemed hesitant to leave.

“Go to your
barracks,”
commanded the guard captain. “And wait there for me. New orders have
come in.” Soon every guard had been replaced by a man from Sekhmet.

Paser stood at
the
outer pylons, congratulating himself on the smoothness of the guards’
transition—an entire temple complex had been delivered into his hands
with only a single death. “Perhaps I should have been a general,” he
thought. As he was preening, he heard a member of the Sekhmet garrison
mutter in disgust.

“Horus’s
balls!” the
soldier said. “I thought the beggars were bad across the river. But
here—look at them—just like rats from the sewer!”

Paser looked
about the
glistening temple square for the first time that night, and beggars
indeed lurked in every niche, behind every statue, under every tree.
The mayor’s lip curled. When he was vizier, as the queen had promised,
he would throw every last one of them to the crocodiles. What a relief
never to rely again on the favor of the poor and humble. Those days
were over at last. He would be a different man when he was vizier—for
then he would be a noble, something else Queen Tiya had promised. Paser
sniffed, preening again, glad to be beneath the pylons and out of the
rain.