Year of the Hyenas (36 page)

Assai shot
Semerket a
desperate, pleading look. Fighting down every instinct he had, Semerket
watched in horror as the man slowly drowned before him. Assai’s
movements became even more wild, his eyes bulging in his skull.
Finally, Semerket heard a bubbling scream of the most profound rage as
Assai exhaled for the last time. Unable to watch his death struggles
any longer, Semerket kicked toward the surface.

There, hidden
in the
reeds, he waited until no more foam appeared from below. Shaken, he
twisted in the water, trying to get a notion of where he was. Semerket
sensed that the murderous plotters were very near. Sure enough, he
spied the red flag atop Queen Tiya’s barque snapping above the reeds in
a lagoon a short distance away.

Something
human
touched him. He spun, heedless of the splash he created and the short
scream that erupted from his lips. But it was only Assai’s outstretched
arm. Semerket’s eyes were drawn beneath the water to the body that
hovered just below the surface. Once Assai had ceased his struggle, the
sunken yacht had let him go. His would-be slayer’s mouth was open in an
appalling grimace, filled with the silent echo of his final scream, and
his eyes stared straight up at the sun, unblinking.

Semerket knew
he had
to leave the reed thicket quickly. The blood seeping from Assai’s
self-inflicted wounds and his own forehead would be sure to draw
crocodiles, even though they preferred the open waters to these reed
marshes. And, too, the conspirators in the lagoon were sure to come
looking for their companion. As if conjured by his thoughts, Pentwere’s
plaintive voice rose from behind a nearby screen of reeds. “Assai?” the
prince called out. “Where are you?”

Semerket
seized
Assai’s body by the neck and dragged it to a distant clump of weeds,
hoping that the corpse would blend in among the shadows and rotting
vegetation. The longer the favorite’s body remained unfound, the more
time Semerket would have to leave the reed copse and head for safety.

A sudden large
splash
roiled the lagoon, as if someone had jumped from a skiff. More splashes
were coming toward him, and Semerket sank out of sight. Staying below
the surface, he swam as far as he could through the clumps of reeds.
Above him were the hulls of the cabal’s hunting boats, the largest of
them being the queen’s. He surfaced silently at her boat’s stern,
pressing himself below its overhanging deck. His black, glistening hair
allowed him to blend in with the dark water.

He started
when he
heard a piercing wail: Pentwere had found Assai’s body. Watching
through the tall grasses, Semerket saw that the prince had caught his
friend in his arms and was holding him, pleading with him to live, to
breathe again, begging the gods for mercy.

Semerket saw
in the
distorted reflections on the water that Tiya stood at the prow of her
boat.

Paser’s
nervous voice
came from the other side of the lagoon. “Your Majesty! If Semerket is
alive—”

“Shut up!” the
queen
hissed.

“But he will
tell
everything!”

Tiya turned on
the fat
mayor then, and the boat rocked with her steps. “Is this the kind of
counsel I can expect when you’re vizier? You should be giving me
advice, not pointing out the obvious!”

Semerket heard
the
oars of Iroy, Nakht, and Neferhotep as they pulled nearer in their
boats. Pentwere’s demented shrieks still echoed in the far lagoon.

“If Semerket
has tried
to reach Pharaoh, Majesty—” Nakht began.

“Impossible!”
snapped
Tiya. “Ramses is clear on the other side of this misbegotten swamp.
That clerk couldn’t get there so fast. Surely the crocodiles will take
care of him—”

“Crocodiles
avoid
these reeds, Your Majesty,” Iroy pointed out.

“I don’t care!
He’s
not with Pharaoh, I tell you!”

“But it’s
simply a
matter of time, isn’t it?” Paser said. Semerket could imagine him, his
fat face hanging in dispirited folds. No doubt he was seeing ahead to
the terrible death he would suffer if he were captured. Since he was
not royal, there would be no silken cord for him, no private suicide as
was accorded to nobles. His execution would be a hideous public
spectacle. “We must flee,” he said, his voice cracking, “and go into
exile.”

“Yes,” agreed
Nakht.
“Syria. Or Libya. Later, when we can return—”

The queen’s
laugh
interrupted him. “Oh, what fine brave men I have around me,” said Tiya
scornfully. “If we were to reach India itself, Pharaoh would still find
us.”

“Are you
saying we’ve
lost?” It was Paser again, his voice moving up a notch.

“No,” said
Tiya
firmly. “Our only hope is to go forward with the plan—tonight.”

“But,
Majesty—! We’re
not ready!” Neferhotep’s distinctive whine filled the lagoon. “The
treasure is still in its hiding place— the generals have not yet
received their gifts of gold—”

Tiya did not
speak at
first. Below the deck of her boat, hiding, Semerket waited. “The
treasure truly departs tonight?” the queen finally asked.

“Yes, Divine
Majesty.”
Neferhotep accelerated his whine to an even keener pitch. “But it will
take many days to reach Pi-Ramesse, and many days after that for the
beggars to convey it to the generals.”

“Then the
generals
will simply have to wait for their rewards.”

“But who will
protect
us from our enemies?” asked Paser. “You can’t expect Pharaoh’s northern
family to sit idle, particularly after the crown prince has been
killed.”

In the water,
Semerket
winced. So the plot included even Prince Ramses! He should have guessed
as much—how else could Pentwere rule if his chief rival for the throne
were not eliminated?

Tiya
considered. “We
will make Djamet into a fortress and barricade ourselves in it, until
our own armies reach us.”

The men in the
lagoon
fell silent. Though Semerket could not see them from where he was
hidden, evidently they acquiesced, for Tiya quickly issued her
instructions.

“Paser, you
will
return to Eastern Thebes and collect the men of Sekhmet’s temple
garrison. Bring them to Djamet for our defense. Iroy, you will return
with Paser. Prepare the works of sorcery. Distribute them to our
enemies, so they may know they are bewitched. In particular, you must
ensure that Pharaoh’s guards realize they are under my control.”

Paser and Iroy
murmured agreement.

“Nakht, you
and
Neferhotep will go into the Great Place, to send the treasure north
with the beggars.”

“And you,
Majesty?”
Nakht asked with a cough.

Semerket could
hear
the lioness’s fangs in the queen’s voice. “Why, I shall merely await
Pharaoh’s pleasure in the harem, arrayed in Asian silks and bathed in
perfume from the shores of Punt. What else is there for me to do?”

“But…” began
Paser.

“Yes?” Her
multi-stringed voice plucked a fierce note.

“It’s a wise
plan, a
perfect plan, Your Majesty. But what of the crown prince? Who will…
that is to say… be honored with the task of… ?” Semerket heard the
queen call to her son. Pentwere still moaned and sobbed beside Assai’s
corpse. “Come away, my son,” she said to him. “We will build a mighty
tomb for your hero—but later. There are more important things to think
of now.”

Semerket sank
beneath
the water, silently swimming away through the adjoining pools and
thickets, leaving the conspirators far behind. When he knew he was far
enough from Pharaoh’s hunting fleet to remain unseen, he pulled himself
from the Nile.

The winter
winds were
bitter against his wet skin. Looking to the south, across the inland
sea of reeds, he saw that the sails of the hunting fleet were spread
widely among the marshes. The hunt was still in progress. His head
began to throb, and he raised a hand to his brow. When he brought it
away, it was bathed in red. Until that moment he had forgotten that
Assai had slashed it open.

What should he
do…? He
knew he should try to warn Pharaoh now, while the conspirators still
caviled in the lagoon, but the king was too far away. Going around the
marshes on foot would take hours; if he tried to swim to the fleet, he
would no doubt become hopelessly lost in the thickets, or fall prey to
a lurking crocodile. No, the best thing to do was try to warn the
authorities in Djamet.

To the north,
Semerket
saw a massive bank of dark clouds at the edge of the deserts, with soft
flashes of lightning illuminating them from behind. A rare Egyptian
rainstorm was developing. He had no time to lose.

Semerket began
his
long run to the temple.

THE WINDS FROMthe desert storms bore
down upon Djamet Temple. Outside, in the makeshift bazaars, the
vendors’ awnings were torn away from their stanchions. Merchants
scrambled to lash down their wares before they went crashing. Unnoticed
in all the furor, Semerket stood at the wall of blue faience tiles
within the temple’s main building. Though others were shouting that
such winds were surely omens of terrible catastrophe, Semerket silently
thanked whatever god had sent them—for the longer they gusted, he knew,
the longer Pharaoh would be detained in the marshes and away from
danger.

Semerket had
no way of
knowing the extent of the conspiracy, so was unsure of whom to trust.
He could not go to the army captains— Queen Tiya had declared the army
to be under her control. Whether she spoke the truth was immaterial;
Semerket could not risk exposing himself to anyone he once considered
friendly, not until he knew the number and names of those plotting to
assassinate Pharaoh.

He hid in the
shadows
of a column, pondering his dilemma. At that moment he happened to catch
sight of Mayor Pawero, hurrying along the corridor. An army of servants
followed him, and Pawero hurled quick orders to the chamberlains to
lower the wooden lattices at the doors and windows where thin curtains
billowed wildly.

“The holy
fires must
be snuffed out!” he heard Pawero command. “If a spark catches on these
screens, the entire temple will be set ablaze.”

Semerket
instantly
made for Pawero’s offices. Since the Western Mayor was Queen Tiya’s
brother, Semerket was certain that he was also a member of the
conspiracy. He thought back to their encounter that morning. Pawero had
seemed oddly furtive at being discovered in cheerful conversation with
his rival Paser.

Then it came
to him;
the two mayors’ famed loathing for one another was a sham. Their enmity
was nothing more than an attempt to deflect attention from their shared
goal—to see Tiya’s son on Egypt’s throne. And if Paser had been
promised the vizierate, Semerket now wondered, what was to be Pawero’s
reward for his part in the conspiracy? As the blood uncle of Pentwere
he certainly would be first among the advisors to the young king,
ranked above any vizier. In addition, he would probably be elevated to
the rank of Prince of the Blood. Semerket shuddered, considering what
flowed in that blood—Pawero, too, was every bit the descendant of the
accursed Amen-meses and Twos-re.

Semerket
realized that
Tiya and her brother had probably long planned to divide the rule of
Egypt between themselves. Tiya’s son Pentwere, captivated by his
favorites and the cheers of the mob, would be easily convinced to
divest himself of the more onerous responsibilities of ruling, leaving
his mother and uncle to administrate. Semerket saw ahead to the Egypt
brother and sister would rule, with arrogance and hauteur the
centerpiece of their governance. How they would relish it, he thought,
when all the kingdom groveled before them, convinced as they would be
that the rightful heirs of Egypt again held the scourge and crook in
their bloodstained hands.

Pushing aside
the
curtain at Pawero’s door, Semerket entered the mayor’s office. The room
was dark, the only light coming from a small opening in the high stone
roof. Semerket stepped into the gloom, looking sharply for any
lingering scribe or clerk. His luck held, for the room was empty; the
rare storm had claimed everyone’s attention.

Rapidly he
crossed the
room to tables strewn with papyri. Glancing at them, he saw that the
documents were all blandly innocent of treasonous plots, being
transcriptions of court cases, lists of goods that had been delivered
to Djamet as tribute, taxation records, and so on.

If
incriminating
documents did indeed exist, he pondered, where would the mayor hide
them? The office was replete with rows of shelves, each stone cubicle
in them containing several scrolls. He quickly scanned their leather
identification tags—none purported to contain anything other than lists
and schedules like those he had found on the table.

Semerket spied
a door
at the far end of the room, difficult to see in the dark. Pushing it
open, he discovered a chapel of sorts. A variety of gods and goddesses
crowded together, each in their own small niche. Devotional flames had
been left burning before them, and the room was warm and bright from
their glow. Pawero was famed, after all, for his religious fervor and
his ostentatious display of piety.

Semerket
remained
unimpressed; Pawero was simply another criminal who cloaked his sins in
pompous devotion. Semerket turned to leave, but as he stepped through
the door, his foot kicked something across the room. The thing,
whatever it was, bounced lightly off the wall. He looked down and saw
that the floor was littered with at least five or six crumpled balls of
papyrus. Curious, he knelt to examine them.

“The land is
in
desolation,” he read, after smoothing out the paper. He recognized the
handwriting. Pawero had written the words, and recently too, for a set
of still-damp reed pens and a pot of ink were in the corner of the
room. Blank rolls of paper were piled neatly beside them.