VIII. Treachery and Deceit

The first sun of Menes' formal ascendance rose clear and cool. The king, the prince, and the sorceress stood outside the city walls, surrounded by guards and priests and the rest of the formal retinue. The gates of the city had been flung open in celebration; four doves had been released, symbolically announcing to the four corners of the world that Menes, son of Mathayus, was the heir to the Scorpion King's throne.

And now that heir was leaving. Three of the red guard would accompany him, and though the prince chafed at their protection--as if he couldn't defend himself perfectly well--he was also grateful for them. These were his father's own honor guard; they were a visible sign of the king's esteem.

They were not, of course, draped in their usual scarlet. Calling attention to themselves like that would be making themselves into moving targets, once they left the civilization of the cities and outlying farms.

Menes rode in a light but sturdy wagon, drawn by a pair of mules and filled with bales of hay. Nothing to draw the attention--or greed--of the nomads roaming the wilds of Upper Egypt and Nubia. The presence of Philos completed the picture of an old farmer and his young son. And a trio of hired hands wearing leather and homespun, carrying only staffs and flint hand axes.

Underneath the bales of hay, though, lay the real weaponry. Scimitars and crossbows, short swords and cudgels and slings. It would take a small army, Menes thought, to overcome them.

* * *

"Anakronos is gathering his armies again. That son of a vulture has been picking at the leavings ever since Memnon's death." As usual, Isis announced herself with a scowl and a snap. But she let the tent flap fall closed before adding, "And you had to hand over your nine best men to Mathayus."

"The man bears watching," Balthazar rumbled back. "He may be a fine warrior, but can he handle a kingdom? And now this," he continued, waving a papyrus roll at Isis. "He's asked me to take care of this boy. As if he thinks I have time," he snarled, "to teach his princeling the finer points of... of looting and pillaging and the bedding of women!"

Isis' laugh was dry. "You're saying you don't want to have the chance to shape the future of your allies?"

"I'm saying," he yelled, throwing the papyrus roll to the ground, "that it would be better if Mathayus had never adopted the whelp! I'm about to go to war, Isis, and he wants me to play nursemaid?" Balthazar paused, momentarily shaken by his own anger. "Yes, wife, I want a hand in Mathayus' future. What I don't want is his using me!"

"Then send him a message of refusal."

"It's too late for that. Menes is already on his way."

"Then what--"

He cut her off with a glare. "I'll just have to think of something else."

* * *

They camped nightly close enough to the bank of the Nile that they wouldn't become disoriented, but not so near as to bother the monstrous crocodiles living in the sacred river. This was Menes' third night of travel as a simple farmer boy, and he had fallen into it with the ease of one used to hard living. It hadn't been that long since he was a street urchin with only other homeless children to call family.

The red guards took the watch in shifts; Menes had offered to take a watch himself, but was secretly relieved when they refused. Eat when you find food, sleep when you can: that was the rule for someone still not accustomed to palace life.

Wrapping his arms about his ankles, he leaned his chin on his knees and stared into the tiny flicker that was their campfire. What kind of prince likes sitting on his rear better than standing watch with honorable warriors?

Philos patted Menes on the back. "Come on now, cheer up, lad. There's much to look forward to when we reach Nubia. I imagine you'll get quite an education from King Balthazar!"

Menes toyed with the golden bracelet, snapping it open and clipping it back around his wrist, stroking the jackal's head and scorpion's tail. "Philos, why don't you make more things like this? You could probably be a famous jeweler." Snap. He opened the clasp. "You'd be rich." Clip. He squeezed it closed.

The old man chuckled. "That, my boy, is a very good question." He fell silent momentarily, then asked, "Which is more useful to the sorceress, her beauty or her gift?"

Shrugging, Menes said, "Her gift. She can see ahead to what will happen. It's how Memnon won all those battles." Snap. Clip.

"Well, there, now, you see? I can be more useful by making functional devices to help people. Beauty doesn't serve any practical purpose."

Snap. Clip. "Maybe if people thought more about beauty, they'd think less about war."

"Perhaps you're right. It's a good thing to think on, for a future king."

* * *

After the moon had set, Menes found himself still awake, or nearly so. The fire had long since flickered out, and now only a few embers gave proof of the group's presence. The tall grass surrounding them swayed in the breeze, whispering as if there were secrets only the wind and the grassland knew.

Wispy black clouds scudded across a star-strewn sky. One after another, they sailed the bright river of the gods that traversed the blackness. Three of these clouds, Menes thought as he drifted on the surface of sleep, looked remarkably like human silhouettes.

Cold knifed into his stomach, and he came fully awake with an almost painful stab of fear.

But by the time he yanked the short sword from its sheath under his bedroll, Menes already knew it was too late. Philos lay only a few paces away, starlight glistening wetly in his eyes, on the blood still pouring from his gaping neck and seeping into his beard.

None of the red guards where anywhere to be seen.

Menes tried to rise to his feet soundlessly, the way Mathayus had taught him--but how could he be silent, with his heart pounding like a war drum? The very ground beneath his feet seemed to be thudding in time with his terror. He crouched to keep below the level of the grasses--but the problem with that was that now he couldn't see above the grasses.

In the end, it didn't matter. When the darkness came alive to clutch at him, Menes knew this was no rite of passage. This time, there was nothing to stop him from howling in rage and fear, stabbing and slashing in blind desperation. His blade bit into flesh more than once, and he tasted the heat of blood spattering his face.

And then he was flat on his back. Something warm and wet and terribly heavy was lying on his chest. He tried to draw breath, but he tasted only blood, warm and salty.

He found himself looking down on the body of a boy. The boy wore a look of shock etched on his face and a gash across his chest. Beside the body, a golden bracelet had fallen open in the dirt. From somewhere far away, Menes heard Philos' voice saying, Religion, my boy, is just people trying to figure out things they're not smart enough to understand. Yet.

He gazed up at the river of the gods that shimmered in the sky no matter who lived or died, and he tried to understand.