Shiri (7 page)

XIV

Shiri’s lips were swollen and decorated with lumps of dried blood. An ugly swelling had all but closed her left eye. The other was an open wound under the great purple welt in her forehead. She stumbled forward with the others, stopped when she was commanded and stood there in a daze of pain and confusion.

Three of them were lined up side by side. An old woman, hunched and wheezing to her left and a young boy, perhaps Ethan’s age to her right, he was sobbing inconsolably, calling for his ‘mama’ again and again. She turned to him and for a moment their eyes met. He didn’t seem to see her, just kept on crying, kept on sobbing.

A week ago she would have cried too, but now she simply stood there numbly. The last few days had been one long nightmare and she could not escape it. She felt almost like a sleepwalker waking up at the edge of a giant black abyss, not really believing what was happening
. I just want to wake up, I just want to jump.

A couple of Gypto’s were talking about them. Shiri sniffed, catching the general gist of their conversation. They were speaking of them not as people, but as pieces of meat to be bartered for. A man grabbed her roughly by the shoulders and shoved her away from the others.

“What about this one then? He’s in better shape than the other two, worth a few coins I’d wager.” She recognised the voice.
The one the monster called, Narmer,
the man that killed the King, the man that captured me.

Another man approached her, a b
ig ugly man that smelled of ale and stale piss. There were bits of food in his beard and his teeth were brown and rotten. He grabbed her by the chin and turned her face from side to side, “Why would I buy me a runt when there’re plenty of heifers about?”

“I’ll let you have him cheap, Bomani. You can feed him up a bit and sell him for a profit in a few moons.”

“Aye, maybe,” Bomani said. “I’ll not be giving much mind you. I mean to have enough for a decent heifer.” He yanked at her arms and she felt him squeeze her muscles. “By
Thoth
he’s a scrawny whelp! Barely any meat on him at all, he’ll not be up to much. I’ll give you two rings of copper for him.”

“That’s barely half what I’d get in
Memphis.”

“Does this look like Memphis? ‘Tis twice what anybody here will give, he’s not worth one and you know it.” He grabbed her by the face again, this time fat greasy fingers squeezed her jaw. Briefly she tried to resist but he was too strong. He pried her mouth open, forcing two fingers inside so he could inspect her teeth. “He’s a pretty face for a boy.”

“Is that your fancy?” Narmer sounded amused. “Four
debens
then and you can fuck him all you want.”

“Very pretty face,” Bomani repe
ated sounding almost suspicious. “And good teeth too,” He squeezed her cheeks even harder. It hurt. Shiri felt a few tears finally begin to well up. Briefly the man met her eye. “Ah, stop your snivelling.”

She bit him.

He yelped, and fell away from her, clutching his fingers, “By
Thoth!
You’ll pay for that, you little bastard!” He came at her as if to strike. Shiri stared defiantly back at him, fierce hatred in her eyes.
I’ll not show fear no matter how much I feel it
. He grabbed her and she tried to squirm away. His hand reached for her makeshift turban and tore it off. A roll of long dark hair cascaded across her face. The two men gasped.

“Well I’ll be damned the runt’s a heifer after all!” Bomani grinned, l
ooking suddenly more interested. “Young and not long in her blood I’d wager.” He went to grab her once more.

“Hold up there, Bomani. This puts a different face to the matter,” Narmer shoved him roughly back before turning to take a look at her. He pulled her withered tunic lower, revealing her shoulders. Shiri made to pull away but he held her fast. One more tug ripped it off completely. Her wrists were bound, but even so she managed to position them to cover herself.

He slapped her arms up, trying to raise them above her head, “Up, damn it, up! Show us what you’ve got.” She tried to cover herself a second time, and again and with a curse he slapped at them viciously and followed up with a trio of painful open fisted blows back and forth across her cheeks, “Bloody lackwit! Put them up damn you!” He grabbed her by the throat, squeezing with one hand while curling the other into a threatening fist.

Tears flowed freely now as Shiri capitulated and hesitantly raised her hands above her head. Her breath came in shallow halting sobs, the salt of her tears stinging like fire against her cheeks and bloodied lips.
This couldn’t get any worse.
Big flooded eyes pleaded helplessly with Narmer as he pushed her hair back, held her head between his hands, and spat a frothy wad on her face. Roughly he made to wipe some of the grime off her cheeks and get a good look at her. He went at her mercilessly and speckles of fresh blood began to appear about her bruises.

With one last tug he pulled off the last of her underclothes, Bomani breathed deep as he did so. Finally Narmer took a step back and frowned as if his efforts had done more damage than good. On top of everything, the quiet sobs and sniffles served to further foul whatever small beauty she might once have had. But still, there was some wisdom to his rough treatment of her. Bomani was known to like it when his whores were thus presented.

She stood there naked, crying, arms quivering above her head and one leg slightly raised and turned against the other, half trying to cover her secrets, but afraid of what he’d do if she did so too successfully. Narmer grinned over his shoulder. “You see? The slut’s starting to learn.”

“Beneath it all she might once have passed as half
way pretty,” Bomani said slowly. “But ‘tis hard enough to tell truth be told.”

Narm
er grinned for Bomani’s benefit. “You do her an injustice. She’s a lone flower blooming beautiful and tall from a stinking mound of shit.” He gestured towards the long line of new won slaves streaming past. He looked pleased with himself, “Aye, a daughter of
Isis
and no mistake. She’d make a fine bedslave.”

Through her sobs Shiri saw Bomani’s eyes glow as if drinking cruel pleasure from her tears. At some point during Narmer’s interactions with her, Bomani’s hand had found its way inside his kilt. He quickly removed it as Narmer turned, “Ah she’
s too scrawny by half,” he said. “I’ve bigger teats myself.”

Narmer laughed.
“You’ve bigger teats than half the whores in Memphis.” Bomani glared at him but Narmer continued regardless. “There’ll be plenty willing to swap good metal for this one, have no doubt on that. She’s that pretty face as you say, and the look of a virgin about her.” Suddenly his hand darted lower and he tried to force thick grimy fingers inside her. He leaned closer, bringing his lips to her ear. “Has some shepherd’s cock fucked this?” He said it in her own tongue and it sounded all the worse for it. He thrust at her viciously and she shrieked. Instinct made her hit out at him.

His eyes flared. A huge backhand across the face sent her sp
rawling face first into the mud. It was perhaps the hardest he’d hit her yet. “You’ll learn yet, you slut! I’ve been too easy on you so far, too easy by half. But by
Apeth,
strike me again and you’ll know pain.”

For a little too long she lay motionless and Narmer took a step forward, looking a little worried, before he saw life once again tremble through her limbs. He turned, leaving her face down in the filth as she started heaving out loud, vi
olent sobs. He waved Bomani off. “Away with you, I’ll not be taking four
debens
for this one. I’ve a mind to hold on to her and play with her for a night or two. She needs to learn her manners.”

“Alright then ten
debens
, and that’s pushing it. I’ve seen a score better than her already.”

“Hah! Save your breath, I’ll not part with this pretty little thing for less than twenty. And I’ll be the one to have her maidenhead at that.”

“Twenty! And you the one to break her in?” Bomani laughed. “Bah! Do you jest? No man would pay fifteen for her let alone twenty!”

“I would.”

They turned in unison to see who was interrupting their business. A pair of strikingly blue eyes met their gaze. Much of the man’s face was swollen and battered ... there was a lot of that going round. He wore strange multi-coloured robes and held a leather money pouch of impressive size in hand. A moment he glanced at the slave before shrugging with obvious indifference. “Is lying face down in the mud whimpering like a whipped cur the limit of her talents?”

Narmer shrugged.
“Aye, well, I won’t lie, she’s not the brightest. A lackwit I reckon, slow to learn her new place in things. But what matter? Her mouth can be put to better use than debating philosophy.”

The stranger laughed well at that, but there was an odd look in his eyes. They found their way back to Narmer and did not stray again. Shiri looked up, red eyes searching to see who it was that deemed her worth twenty pieces of copper. There was something vaguely familiar about him, but she couldn’t quite place it. All these soldiers looked the same to her anyway.
This one was of the same foul breed as the others, laughing at cruel jests and buying and selling folk at his whim.

“Hold up a minute I was here first,” Bomani stepped between the two
men in fear of being forgotten. “Alright I’ll give you twenty. And I’ll have her now.”

Narmer considered him for a m
oment and slowly shook his head. “Nay, I’m afraid I find myself growing attached to her and...” he nodded at the new arrival, “the demand seems to be rising. On second thoughts I won’t be letting her go for less than twenty five.”

Bomani loosed a series of oaths.
“Why you dirty scoundrel! I’ve never seen the like! A man says he’ll take such a price and when it’s offered he refuses! By the gods what type of villains am I dealing with at all?” He exhaled first in anger, then in resignation. “Alright then, twenty five, but I’ll remember this, be sure of that.”

“Fifty”

Bomani swung round. Cold blue eyes looked past him dismissively; they seemed to know the soldier could not better the offer. “What!? Fifty?? Man are you mad? She’s just a scrawny Habiru slut! A lackwit! Narmer himself admits as much!”

The stranger didn’t deem the man worthy of a response; his eyes were once again fixed on Narmer. Bomani clenched his fists, staring from Narmer, to slave, to stranger. If he didn’t know better he’d swear Narmer and the stranger were in cahoots.
Fifty debens. It was ridiculous.
He’d have five for that price. He cursed, “Ah to
Apeth
with it, to
Apeth
with you both,” he flapped his hands despondently and pounded off looking for better value stock.

“It’s Narm
er isn’t it?” the stranger said. “Hero of Megiddo, slayer of the Shepherd King?”

Narmer raised an eyebrow
. “Aye, who wants to know? Besides, ‘twas Prince Amenhotep that slew the King, they went sword to sword in the square.”

“Aye, that’s what the reports say true enough, but the gossips tell it different. I’ve a mind to take me a
ghaffir
. I’ll be wanting the best and I pay well, as you can see.”

Narmer’s eyes narrowed. “Mayhap you do,” he said.
“But Amenhotep pays better. Take the slut and be on your way.”

The stranger stared at him for an uncomfortably long moment. It was almost as if he was commending his features to memory. In that look Narmer imagined he saw hate, hate and anger. He held the man’s gaze, allowing his fingers to slide to the hilt of his sword. The stranger’s eyes followed the movement and suddenly
he grinned. The tension passed. “Aye, well, if ever your situation changes, seek Yuya of Heliopolis. I’ll see you get all you deserve.”

Narmer’s eyes widened.
“Ah, so you’re the one everybody’s been talking about! The slayer of the Shepherd Prince! They say Pharaoh was impressed by your tale, if not your jester’s rags. How much gold did he reward you for your services then?”

The man shrugged.
“Enough.” He tossed a handful of coins on the ground next to Narmer and went to the girl. He offered her an outstretched hand and a smile that under other circumstances would have seemed kindly. He saw only hatred in her eyes.

XV

Solon mopped his brow. Blood was on his hands. Blood was on his clothes. Blood was in his hair and under his fingernails, but still the wounded kept coming. It was ever thus when Pharaoh donned the Blue Crown. Songs told tales of victory and glory. Legend spoke of mighty deeds and heroic death by sword or spear, experience told of tears, whimpers and pain. He shook his head.
Easier to close your eyes and sing, than open them and weep.

He bound their wounds and treated them with all manner of herbs. Oft as not it was the same procedure, there was little time for subtleties. A broth of coriander to reduce fever, honey to resist
Sekhmet’s
foul vapours, and
henna
, most commonly found on breast and cheek of great ladies to seal their wounds. Then he would move onto the next. But it was not always so. Fifty times this day he’d sighed and called for a mouthful of belladonna or hemlock to help put an end to a man’s pain.

He’d tended hundreds so far. Some would live and return to the Two Lands short arm, leg or spirit. Those he accounted lucky. Too many would remain in Jezreel and rest forever beside the folk they had slain. Solon rose from his latest charge. The stretcher bearers had left him in a pretty fix. The man was a rebel
plain as day, but they’d bungled him into the carts along with the rest, and it wasn’t until Solon himself had come across him that the mistake had been realised.

Rebel or not, Solon had tended him all the same. The broken arm had been set with due skill and would mend in time, but his ribs were crushed, his leg twisted and deformed. A moment Solon contemplated the hemlock. But the man had opened his eyes and the surgeon saw strength there. Holding a damp cloth to the man’s brow, he called for a broth of coriander. His patient’s
eyes flicked open a second time. “You ... save Aretas ... Aretas thank you.”

“You best be keeping your mouth shut or the only thing I’ll have saved you for is Amenhotep’s dogs.”

The man looked confused, but Solon’s herbal concoction seemed to be bringing his senses back. “You trouble now?”

“‘Tis not my place to haul in the wound
ed or recognise friend from foe. I’m just here to tend those put before me. I shouldn’t even be here truth be told, this old man’s a bowyer by trade, but ‘tis my curse to be master of more than one art.”

“You good man.”

“A foolish man more like,” he grinned. “Your Egyptian is a deal better than most in these parts.”

“Prince Josef teach me some word, he good man too.”

“He
was
a good man.” Solon corrected. “And a more foolish one than me at that – fancy thinking he could play at war when young master Tuthmosis is about? Now there’s a rare form of lunacy and no mistake.” He shrugged, “Well, he got a knife in the neck for his troubles.”

Aretas slumped back on the stretcher
, but Solon imagined he saw a thin smile on his lips. Aretas closed his eyes. He’d dragged his broken body for nearly a mile through death and blood until finally he came to where Prince Josef had been impaled. The Gypto’s had meant the display to be a warning to any who would dare dream of freedom.

Aretas had sworn to die by his prince’s side and even in defeat he had intended to keep that oath. But when he arrived beneath the corpse he’d laughed in coughs of blood and laid down his head waiting to die, content that he had failed to keep his pr
omise. He opened his eyes again. “Yes ...
was
a good man.” The smile was broad and wide.

Not more than a few minutes had past and Solon was nearing the end of his work on the man’s leg w
hen he heard a voice behind him, “What’s going on here, bowyer?”

“I’m tending to the wounded. I’d have thought that plain enough.”

“This man is
a rebel,” The tone was that of someone correcting a misunderstanding. “He will be taken outside and dealt with in a manner more fitting to him.”

“He will remain here.” Solon answered without turning from the patient.

“You dare defy me! You impudent whelp! Look at me when I’m talking to you!”

Solon turned to face the man who had disturbed him. Amenhotep glared back at him. His hand was bandaged and held in a sling. The Prince had spent much time displaying the wound to all and sundry, describing how despite the injury he fought on until his foe was defeated. “My father has been too soft on you, Solon, letting you come and go as you please, doing and saying whatever you want. I think it’s time you were taught a lesson in humility, now stand aside.”

Solon was unperturbed. “It seems then, that the father’s wisdom has not graced itself upon the son. Now, how about you trust a man who knows his business to do his job and leave him at it in peace?”

“I trust my blade and my wits, naught else.”

“I wouldn’t trust them beyond half, Sire ... neither are over sharp.”

Amenhotep
struggled to contain his anger. “You would speak thusly to the slayer of the Shepherd King?”

“I was speaking to you not your
ghaffir
.”

Amenhotep inhal
ed, but managed to hold himself. “Aye, there’s been a deal of rumours about that but I tell you now, I slew the King. Do you proclaim me liar?”

Solon bowed
. “Not I, Sire, I’ll listen not to rumour in future.”

The
Prince gazed imperiously at him. “It was a close run thing true enough, for he was mighty. But for all his strength I gave him better than I got, ‘ere the end he scratched me, but I took his head an instant later. Isn’t that so, Narmer?”

Narmer who had returned to the Prince’s side after a successful day in th
e slave markets wagged his tail. “Aye, that’s how I recall it, Your Grace.”

Amenhotep turned back to the old man and offered him a friendly smile, “You’re a man of knowledge rather than wit, friend Solon, for if you had wit you’d be aware that I could make a powerful friend or ... a most unpleasant foe.”

“Unpleasant? Aye, you’re that alright.”

Amenhotep’s eyes flared. He jerked his head and Narmer grabbed Solon from behind, his blade instantly pres
sing against the old man’s neck. “What should we do with him, Narmer?”

“Cut his throat and have done with him I say.”

Amenhotep feigned surprise and glanced almost sympathetically at the old bowyer. “Oh dear, it seems young Narmer has strong opinions on this. I fear that in my weakened state I may lack the debating skills to convince him otherwise.” He waved his good hand in a helpless gesture. “What say you to that?”

Solon steadied himself, the blade was pressing hard against his throat, but he would not give them t
he satisfaction of showing fear. “That I’m surprised to learn young Narmer is capable of forming an opinion.” An instant the blade pressed harder. “But ... I was long since aware that your majesty’s debating skills are lacking.”

Amenhotep’s eyes blazed.
“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t gut you right here, you treasonous dog!”

“I could give you a hundred if you like.” A trickle of blood
wound its way down Solon’s neck. “But suffice it to say, I’d rather die here by your hands, than be in your place, as you explain to Pharaoh how you slit the throat of the greatest weapon-smith his army has ever known.”

“You over estimate your worth
, old man.”

“Then be about it and add another glorious victory to your pile.”

Amenhotep was breathing deeply, his cheeks red, a vein running up the centre of his forehead looked fit to burst. He glanced at Narmer but gave no signal.

S
olon’s lips curved into a smile. “Be off with you then. And be quick about it too, charming company though you are I have work to do.”

Amenhotep gestured to Narmer, and with a grunt the man released him. Solon patted himself down. But Amenhotep was not done yet, “Work? Well
, I think perhaps we can aid you in that.” Abruptly, he turned his attention to the patient.

“So this scum is in pain is he?” Before Solon could protest, the Prince nodded to Narmer and an instant later there was a gout of blood at Aretas’s throat. Solon moved to stop him, but Amenhotep stepped in front of him, daring the old man to push him aside. It was one thing for the bowyer to have words with the Prince, another entirely to lay hands on him. Solon was forced to step back. Narmer held his victim’s head firmly in place as he struggled. Soon enough Aretas went still. Am
enhotep laughed. “They die easily these rebels.”

Solon looked at him in horror.
“You think cutting a defenceless man’s throat is something to be laughed at?”

“I’ll laugh all the harder when I cut yours.”

“You had your chance yet I’m still here.”

Amenhotep
laughed again. “Fear not, Solon, I’ll be about it soon enough, but I think perhaps the time is not yet ripe. Still, you’ll be glad to know that my father has been impressed with my deeds in this campaign. He is to name me Co-Regent on the morrow ... so perhaps our next meeting will bear fruit.”

The
Prince turned to leave but not before granting Solon a parting morsel of advice. “Stick to the Egyptian patients in future.”