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  “Look you there!” Nereb did not shift his gentle hold on the dead Pharaoh, but he pointed with his chin to a spot behind the chariot from which Sekenenre had commanded Iris beleaguered force.

  His feet leaden with exhaustion, Rahotep wavered over. Two bodies lay there. The under one was that of an officer with the special insignia of a guardsman--Nakh-hof. And the dagger protruding from his armpit was Egyptian. In his hand was still held a bloodstained mace, while across his knees sprawled his companion in death, one who wore a jackal mask such as the one Rahotep had found in the storeroom of the temple.

  Steadying himself with a hold on the chariot, Rahotep stooped low enough to seize upon one of the upright ears of that strange headdress, tugging it from the head of the assassin. He had seen the man who had worn it before. It was that silent scribe who had sat behind Tothotep’s stool during the meeting of the traitors he had spied upon in the Temple of Anubis!

  “Did these kill--?” he began slowly.

  “Nakh-hof struck the first blow--he who was supposed to protect our lord with his own shield. May Osiris judge him fittingly! And the priest struck twice more while I was busy sending the first traitor to his final accounting with Re! Had it not been that this crocodile spawn turned against him, the Son of Re was safe. Your Nubians were clearing the field and the victory was ours. I do not know from whence you came, Captain, or what good fortune brought you so to our aid. But almost did you give life to Egypt, and that you failed was no fault of yours or of those you lead.”

  “Lord!” Intef of the archers came running, and in his hand he held what seemed to be a mass of fur or hair. “We did not fight Hyksos alone. Look you!” He waved the disgusting handful of fibers under his captain’s nose while Rahotep surveyed it blankly, having no idea of its purpose. Then Intef, in his excitement, so far forgot himself as to pull his officer away from the little circle about the Pharaoh and point to one of the tumbled bodies of the attackers. He went down on his heels and thrust the stuff he held against the slack chin of the dead man to form one of those curled beards so strange to Egyptian eyes.

  “Thus it was, Lord, until Bis pulled it away. See, the black one seeks the same elsewhere--”

  Bis was crouched half across the chest of one of the captives who had been tied up at Kheti’s orders. The cub was snarling while the man he sat upon watched with terrified eyes. Bis’s ready claws tangled in the wealth of hair upon the prisoner’s face and tugged. The stuff came free to reveal very Egyptian features. Egyptians disguised as Hyksos! Had the Nubians not taken a hand in this venture, the Pharaoh’s death would have been listed as an act of war and the power of the enemy so made manifest to all the fainthearted. It was a plan that might have been born in the devious brain of Set!

  “Hoy!” From the heights came a call from a Scout. He gestured eastward, making the sign for troops approaching. But a second later he added to it the up-pointed finger, which signified that it was a body of their own men, doubtless from the camp.

  Rahotep shuffled back to Nereb. They had laid the dead Pharaoh on a bier of their cloaks and shields, his crook sword bared in his hand to show his death in battle. And under the orders of his officer, the wreckage of the chariots was being cleared.

  Ahmose drove the first vehicle to enter the narrow file of the valley, sending his horse well ahead of the rescuing troops who strained to match his pace. When he sighted the tangle of the ambush, he leaped from his chariot, running toward them, only to stop short as he caught sight of the bier. The face he then turned to Nereb was no longer that of a boy.

  “Who did this thing?” The words had odd little spaces between them as if the prince exerted great control to get them out at all.

  Nereb once more pointed without words to the bodies of the traitors, and Ahmose went quietly to look. He said nothing, then or ever, concerning Nakh-hof or the Anubis-masked scribe. But when he came away, he stopped before Rahotep. It was then that Nereb spoke for the captain--as if he feared that the Nubians and their leader might be charged with this crime also.

  “These men fought well to save the Son of Re, Royal Son. Had it not been for traitors’ blows they would have done it.”

  Ahmose took no notice. “Methen reached me,” he said directly to Rahotep as if they two were alone. “You have done well, kinsman, and we have served you ill. Pharaoh to whom you swore allegiance is dead in spite of your efforts. Is it your wish to depart from our service?”

  “Rather is it my wish to follow you, Royal Son, since it is in my mind that what has happened here shall be paid for.” Rahotep found his tongue.

  “Paid for?” queried the prince. “Aye, a hundredfold, a hundred-hundredfold! This is but a beginning--not an ending!”

  Chapter 12: RE STRONG IN JUDGMENT

  The semi-desert village was a poor one, built on a little hillock almost at the edge of the flooded land. Those who normally sheltered there must have had many a lean year when the rising river did not reach this point to renew the grainfields. But there was the well that gave water, and so the archer company could not complain of their temporary quarters, poor though they were--a fact that Kheti pointed out so briskly to the first of the grumblers there that there had been no mutterings since.

  They had ample supplies, brought them by night on an ass train driven by men of Nereb’s personal following. And they had orders to keep under cover, their duty ostensibly to guard the four prisoners taken in the Valley of the Lizard.

  One was an Egyptian, of noble rank Rahotep guessed, though he had been instructed not to question the man. The other three were real Hyksos, for not all the beards worn in that fatal valley proved to be detachable. The Hyksos watched their captors warily, openly suspicious because their treatment had been good so far. After the tales Rahotep had heard of the cruel handling meted out to captives taken by the invaders, he believed he could understand a measure of their bewilderment.

  The captain did not know the reason behind his present assignment in this village, but he trusted the prince and did not doubt that Ahmose had some plan afoot. In the meantime, there was no excuse for growing slack, so he drilled his men, regaining in that toughening process his own wiry strength as the gashes on his back healed to scars he must carry the rest of his life.

  Part of Rahotep’s exercise time was spent with Bis, who was growing fast. Battle lions and leopards were not unknown among the Egyptian forces. Of old, Pharaohs had led charges with tawny felines subject to their command bounding beside them. But such use of uncertain-tempered cats was chancy unless the beasts had been well schooled. So Bis was trained by the use of Hyksos garments from the valley until Rahotep was certain the cub could search out an alien lurker upon order. The leopard was affectionate with the captain, tolerant of Kheti to the point where he allowed the Nubian to caress him now and then, aloof with the rest of the archers, whom he accepted as a part of Rahotep’s general surroundings and so a part of the natural way of life.

  But with strangers he was wary, crouching with a trickle of growl deep in his throat. And he took the same stance when they held practice in the early dawn, ready to bound forward when the order to attack came. Soon he would be a formidable opponent for any man, especially one not expecting to front a black leopard.

  Kheti made him a collar of well-softened baboon hide, ornamented with bits of turquoise and copper in a traditional pattern of the south. And to this he submitted with pained resignation, even allowing a leash to be attached, providing it was Rahotep or the underofficer who held the other end of that restrainer. But he still retained some kitten playfulness, loving to wrestle and conduct a stealthy hunt of a feather lure the captain would trail for him in and out of the deserted village buildings.

  So a procession of days crawled by. They had come here under the guidance of one of Nereb’s men the evening of the death of Sekenenre, and they had strict orders to remain until they were summoned, guarding the prisoners. But they were beginning to chaff at their voluntary confinement when one of the sentries ga
ve a warning whistle. Men dodged into concealment, and Rahotep wormed his way on hands and knees up the roof stair of the overseer’s taller house in time to see a small company of men nearing the village.

  Their pace was limited by the oxcart that lumbered in their midst. But though they wore the scanty waistcloths of field laborers, the captain was sure they were other than they seemed. He glanced down at the mud huts. To all appearances the village was deserted. But could they continue to conceal their presence if the cart and men were headed here?

  Then one of the travelers advanced and looked up, as if he hoped to be identified by any who watched.

  “Methen!” Rahotep ran down the stairs. By the time he was out of the small court and into the beaten mud of the lane, the commander was hurrying toward him.

  “Rahotep!” They threw their arms about each other in a kinsmen’s embrace, and then the commander looked the younger man up and down, his satisfaction at what he saw plain on his face.

  “You have come for us?” demanded the captain.

  “Indeed I have come for you, boy. You look well and have done well. Now perhaps you shall do better. You have your prisoners? As if I need ask you that!”

  “They are safe and they have been kept apart from one another.”

  “Wise.” Methen nodded approvingly. “I have been dispatched to bring them--and you--to Thebes.”

  “To Thebes?” In spite of himself, Rahotep could not disguise that note of apprehension, and Methen understood as quickly.

  “You need have no fear of that charge still standing against you, boy. To what you learned, Pharaoh has added much more--”

  “Pharaoh?” Rahotep remembered only that limp body in Nereb’s arms.

  “The Royal Heir”--Methen spoke formally--”has been proclaimed before the face of the gods. Kamose rules the Two Lands. It is in his name that I bid you come to Thebes, that the Son of Re may sit in judgment.”

  They set off again at dusk. In the oxcart lay their prisoners, bound and then covered with bags so they looked like sacks of grain. To all purposes, their small caravan resembled one bearing tribute for the court, sent under guard from the holdings of some lesser noble. And Rahotep knew that many such would be on their way to Thebes, that the offerings at Sekenenre’s tomb might be worthy of a Lord of the Two Lands.

  Methen admitted that he did not know what plans the Pharaoh had made or what role Rahotep was to play in them. The rest of his news was almost as vague. With the death of Sekenenre the arrangements for the campaign were at a standstill. The royal army was encamped in the highlands, and rumors were alive there and in the city that the forces would be disbanded, for, after the lengthy ceremonies of the royal burial had been carried to their proper conclusion, it would be too late to move this year.

  “So it will happen even as those traitors planned it!” Rahotep burst out with chill disappointment. “They will net Kamose in their rites and customs and he will not be able to free himself--”

  “Do not see him as clay to be shaped by a potter,” Methen returned. “Aye, now he assents openly to those who would guide him. But has he not also sent for you? Once you spoke highly of the Prince Ahmose. Do you think he is one to forget his father’s death? Yesterday he was proclaimed Commander of the Army--since the new Pharaoh is not wed nor has a son. And, after his brother, Ahmose is the Royal Heir--”

  The commander fell silent for a moment and then added in a low voice, “There are others beside the prince to be concerned over this matter. The Royal Mother has long urged the war against the foreigners. And she bred her son to the belief, after him her grandsons. She is a lady of power. And Kamose and Ahmose have ever looked to her words with respect and attention. To her influence add that of the Queen Ah-Hetpe, who has been one with her mother in this. It is already said that if Pharaoh goes to war, her hands shall hold the Crook and the Flail for him here in Thebes. Neither of those ladies will surrender her hopes for a free land lightly--especially to such as Zau and Tothotep. Thebes is a city of many secrets, boy, and I think we guard some of them!”

  With the slow-moving oxen, the needful detours to avoid stretches where the Nile was already creeping into the fields, it was on the morning of the third day after leaving the nameless village that they came into Thebes. They were expected, for the Queen’s scribe, Pepinecht, appeared before them in the roadway as if conjured up by some magic.

  “Tribute from the Hawk?” he asked in such a brisk, businesslike fashion that Rahotep was close to gaping at him foolishly. “Head your cart to the right,” he ordered without waiting for any confirmation or denial. “The Court of Offerings is already full--you must find a place beyond--”

  That “place beyond” was a much smaller enclosure backed upon a wall that Rahotep’s knowledge of the royal city led him to believe was that of the garden about the personal apartments of the royal family. At one side was a shed, which Methen indicated.

  “Stay out of sight there with your men and the prisoners. I do not know how long you must wait, but do it in patience--”

  And Rahotep courted patience through the rest of that long day. Never had he been less inclined to sit on his heels and wait upon the pleasure of others, but it had to be done. Most of the archers went to sleep. Three started a toss-stick game in a far corner, walling in the prisoners they kept ever under eye. Bis snapped at inquisitive flies in intervals of intensive tongue-grooming, and finally followed the humankind into slumber, his whiskers and toes twitching now and then in the excitement of a hunting dream.

  No other cart turned into the enclosure. Their oxen had been taken away by Methen and his men, leaving the sack-filled vehicle as a screen before the shed. Kheti lay on his back, his head pillowed on a piece of sacking.

  “This is a strange land, this Egypt,” he commented. “First we lie in the king’s favor, then we are slaves, and now--what are we now, brother? Guards of secret prisoners, awaiting some new change of our fortunes. Let us be simple warriors again, for we know that trade and none can take the knowledge from us--”

  “Do you wish to return to harry the Kush?” the captain asked idly.

  “Not so. It is in my mind that when these princes eat up the Hyksos, then will they turn their eyes southward. Were I in Nubia, I must bend knee to Teti--”

  “Yet have I not heard you in the past speak of the Prince Teti as a mighty man in battle and a good leader of men?”

  “However, since that hour I have seen mightier men who shall someday lay their whips about Teti’s shoulders should he sit upon some high seat and call himself king before their faces! This new Pharaoh is great enough, brother, but in his shadow stands another man I would follow willingly--”

  “The Prince Ahmose!”

  “The Prince Ahmose.” Kheti agreed. “Those who trail bow or spear in his service shall have their fill of action. And if there are those in this strong-smelling city who believe they can drive him with a rope about his nose as they drive their horses, then let them look upon him again with more knowing eyes, for they are no judges of men!”

  “For which judgment do I render thanks, O archer of Nubia!”

  Rahotep stiffened, and Kheti, his eyes wide with surprise, sat up abruptly. But when they would have made proper obeisance to the cloaked figure, he waved them up impatiently.

  “Tell off four of your men who can keep their tongues quiet behind their teeth and let them bring the prisoners,” the prince ordered swiftly. “Do you come with me. Bearing your arms--”

  “Kheti, Hori, Mahu, Sahare.” Rahotep rattled off the names. His underofficer was already moving purposefully toward the captives’ corner. As he cut the thongs about their ankles, the captain turned the command of the rest over to Kakaw.

  They followed Ahmose through a gate into the garden and then on a path winding between rare shrubs to the center building. The sentry on duty there did not salute, did not apparently notice them, but he stood aside nimbly to let them pass.

  Rahotep was able to orient himself now. They
were in an outer corridor of Pharaoh’s private rooms, heading toward the small hall where Sekenenre had received the Vizier and the highest officials of his court. There were lamps aplenty, and in the corridor outside the curtained doorway were drawn up a double line of veterans of the guard who wore, not the insignia of Pharaoh, but that of the Prince Ahmose.

  “Pharaoh sits in judgment,” the prince said quietly to Rahotep. “Do you and those with you stand behind this curtain until you are summoned.”

  They faced an expanse of matting hung as a screen. Ahmose sidled around this to the right, and Rahotep, finding a slit through which he could see the room, signed his men and their captives back against the wall and planted himself before it.

  Lamps on small tables and brackets about the chamber gave light for the three scribes who sat ready with writing materials. One of those scribes was Pepinecht; the other two Rahotep knew were attached to the service of the High Judges.

  Seated a little to one side was Kamose. He did not wear the double crown of ceremony; a circlet with the uraeus proclaimed his rank. It was obvious that he was not present in his person as Ruler of the Two Lands, the dispenser of all justice. The stools of those who faced the rest of the company were occupied by three men who together made a strangely assorted company, though Rahotep did not doubt that they were firmly united in allegiance and purpose.

  Sa-Nekluft, Treasurer of the North, Holder of the Gold Seal, was on the right. On the left General Amony sat almost sleepily, his officer’s flail resting across his bare knees, for he wore the field dress of an active warrior, rather than the double skirts of a courtier. Between the administrator and the warrior was a third man the southern-born captain had never seen before, older than either of his companions, with a grave but untroubled face of serene self-confidence and authority. He was robed as a high priest, and on his breast was a beautiful pectoral of Amon-Re. This must be the Voice of Amon at Thebes, head of the far-flung priesthood of Amon-Re, Nefer-Rohu, the Beloved of Re, He-Who-Speaks-for-the-Great-One.