Eye of the Moon (29 page)

The next day I bartered for two pairs of earrings in the marketplace. Nothing grand like cornelian or turquoise or gold—but simple agate, milky as the desert sand, carved crudely but well enough to show they were rearing cobras.

I'm wearing them now dangling next to my face. Anoukhet and I both wear them until one day we'll meet again.

Now I sit here on the bank of the Great River with only the last short distance to go before Tuthmosis and I reach Thebes. Only the lapping of the water through the reeds keeps me company while he goes in search of wildfowl.

On our journey back, I've written as fast as my hand will let me of all that has happened since that morning, alongside the river in Thebes, when the first transparent shaving of moon came into the sky like a
fine, single thread of spun flax at the time of Queen Tiy's death. I hope my story will soon be carved in stone so the truth will be known to all. Poison, slavery, and murder are all a part of it.

Now all is told.

These are the words of Isikara—daughter of the embalmer at the temple of the crocodile god, Sobek.

May anyone who reads them know they are written by the white feather of Truth, under the protection of the Eye of the Moon.

T
wo double-page spreads of three mutilated mummies splashed across a Sunday paper were the catalyst for this story. One of the mummies was believed to be the much-loved Queen Tiy, grandmother of Tutankhamen. Next to her lay a young boy with a severe leg injury, and next to him a mummy that was possibly Nefertiti, beautiful wife of Queen Tiy's second son, Amenhotep.

But why were the mummies sealed up in a tiny insignificant chamber, and why had their mouths been smashed and their hearts, the one organ needed in the afterlife, been removed?

Murder, mystery, and intrigue are part of the history of Egypt. This story draws on all these elements. Egyptology sleuths will soon discover I killed off Queen Tiy about ten years too early and allowed her son Tuthmosis to escape death. So that while the main historical events are accurate, a few liberties were taken and the city of Thebes has been called by its more commonly known name, rather than Waset, as it would have been then.

The fact that Egypt's magic is ever present was shown to me by some uncanny coincidences. I had presumed the crippled leg of Tuthmosis to be a birth defect but invented a chariot accident. Later I realized how close I'd come to the possible truth when in
The Search for Nefertiti
, Joann Fletcher observed, after examining the boy mummy: “I wondered if the family obsession with fast horses and chariot racing had had anything to do with the prince's horrific injury.”

Another strange moment came with the original title I'd decided on—
Eye of Horus
. The right eye of Horus represents Osiris and the sun. The left eye represents Isis and the moon. They are the wedjat eyes and are always shown as dark. Yet when I went to print one, even though my black ink cartridge was full, for some mysterious reason the eye printed in the negative—white, pale, and slightly blue-flecked—exactly like a full moon.

I had found the perfect title—
Eye of the Moon.

Don't miss the sequel,
EYE of the SUN

A
n owl swoops down. There's a strangled screech followed by an uneasy silence.

The sounds and rustlings of the night have set his imagination running. He feels that at any moment something will loom up out of the shadows. His skin prickles. His heart beats faster.

Who's there? he wants to call out. But there's nothing except the hoarse bark of a dog in the distance and the dry smell of dust in the air. Now a more pungent
odor pinches his nose. Perhaps a desert fox is prowling for scraps of food at the offering altars.

He looks about uneasily.

The towering statue of his father glares down in the moonlight. His stony eyes are narrowed and unblinking. The edges of his gigantic nostrils flare. The carved line of his lips seems to sneer. Behind him the Temple of Amun is silent and secretive. Along its walls, carved creatures with curved claws, jagged snouts, and fierce fangs wait silently to pounce. And throats and chests of enemies are forever still as they wait for the arrows that are directed at their stone hearts.

All are frozen into silence by the bloodless moon.

The paving stones are still warm under his feet. His fingers feel for the comfort of the giant scarab beetle. The stone has been polished by the touch of many hands.

He feels exposed here next to the moon-splintered water of the Sacred Lake. This is the wrong place to have agreed to meet his brother. The inner sanctum would've been safer. In the inner sanctum the gods would surely protect the son of a king against the dark evils of the night.

It's strange to be back in Thebes. After the emptiness
of the desert, with its far horizon and the wide stretches of river, his eyes aren't used to the boundaries set by the stone walls that anchor Thebes to the Great River.

And it's strange not to have returned to the palace.

No one knows he has returned. He has kept his identity secret. At all costs he has to speak to his brother first. He needs his brother's protection.

A sense of something behind him—an imperceptible movement—makes him turn.

He sees a face made pale by the moonlight. The hand clutches an object that glints.

In the moonlight the dagger is sharp and hard and unforgiving.

“You!”
The word is more breath than sound.

The blade finds the soft spot just below his ribs and angles upward, seeking his heart. Two quick thrusts. Hard and brutal.

The blows make him gasp with their suddenness. No words are possible now. The blade is swiftly withdrawn.

He sees the hand that clutches the hilt. He knows it well. It's unmistakable. He looks down and sees the huge dark stain seeping through his tunic. He slams
his fist against it. Presses harshly with both hands against his chest. As if in pushing he will stop his life from flowing from his body. But he knows it's too late.

He looks into the narrowed eyes of the face in front of him and sees the same answer in them. It's too late.

Someone calls his brother's name. Over and over. A voice that's surely not his own. It threads and weaves through the darkness.

Around him the night pants like a savage creature. The sky expands. The stars reel. His heart thrums in his head louder and louder . . . until he hears nothing but the sound exploding inside him.

   
1
   
THE ENCOUNTER

T
hebes is the color of chalk—a mixture of sand swirling up from the desert and dust billowing down from the ancient limestone mountains. It sifts down over the city like fine bread flour. And this morning hordes of people with handcarts and donkeys pushing their way through the narrow streets were kicking up even more dust than usual.

I felt a shiver of excitement. This was going to be
the best market ever. Traders were coming from faroff Syria with exotic oils, woven cloths, spices, and nuggets of precious stone as large as duck eggs.

It didn't help that there was no ferryman waiting on the west bank of the Great River. The crowd was restless. Children squalled and mothers scolded. I pulled the rough cloak around my head and hoped no one would recognize me.

When a boat finally came, the crush was so great that an old woman fell from the quayside and disappeared under the water.

“She's not coming up! Quickly, do something!”

“Perhaps a crocodile's got her!”

“Oi! You! If a crocodile's got her,
you
won't be coming back either,” someone shouted as a boy teetered on the edge of the ferry, ready to jump in after her.

He dived all the same and came up dragging the woman. They were hauled back onto the ferry. People laughed and teased as they picked off strands of water-weed from the old woman's hair and tunic.

All this took time. Eventually on the east bank, I was carried along by a surge of people like a bit of debris swept down by the flood. Men, women, large and small, old and young, all mingled with loud
shrieks and yelps as carts were overturned, a child fell, and a dog was trodden underfoot. In the midst of this some geese escaped their cages and were honking and hissing and snapping at passing feet.

A pestilence of flies! My tunic hem was dragging in the dirt, and through some fresh donkey droppings as well.

There was a loud curse behind me. “Oi! Mind where you're going, stupid girl!”

I had barely time to save myself from falling under the wheels of a handcart piled high with onions and leeks, when someone held out a hand to steady me.

“Watch out! They'll flatten you as quickly as oxen trampling through barley,” he shouted over the noise of the geese. “Come to the side of the road. You're limping.”

I glanced at the boy as he examined my foot. He looked familiar.

“Your sandals are ridiculous with those upturned tips! No wonder you tripped! You need strong leather sandals on market day!” He pressed around my ankle.

“Ouch! That hurt!” I snapped at him.

“It's only twisted. But it needs to be bound.”

I pulled away and tried to stand. “I'm fine, thank you!”

“You're not! Sit down. I'll bind it for you.”

I looked back at him. Smooth, freshly shaved cheeks. No formal wig. His hair falling in damp tendrils against his neck. “Aren't you the boy who saved the old woman?”

He shrugged. “Saving old women or princesses, it's all the same to me!”

“Princesses?”

He raised a dark eyebrow and grinned at me. “Your rough cloak doesn't fool me. I can see by your fine linen tunic you're no country girl come to town on market day. You don't belong here, do you?”

I glanced quickly over my shoulder in case anyone had overheard.

“Don't look so dismayed. Your secret won't be told. It's safe with me.”

“I'm . . .” I left off and brushed his hand from my foot, eager to get away. He jumped up just as abruptly and pulled me against his chest.