XI. The Negative Confession

There were forty-two supporting pillars in the long main chamber of the Temple of Anubis in Mathayus' necropolis, each carved with one of the forty-two parts of the Negative Confession. I have done no iniquity, read the inscription chiseled on one. I have done no murder, read another. I have not acted with guile, I have not been deceitful, I have caused no tears to be shed. The pillars seemed to have been grown from the floor, like a strange stone forest.

Balthazar trod quietly through that great, oddly echoing chamber, feeling as though he was disturbing the peace of someone--or something. His every step was magnified by the silence it broke.

Between the forest of pillars, the remaining ceiling was painted matte black and inlaid with thousands of gemstones set in the shapes of the zodiacal constellations. The sky model was oriented so that the central constellation was that of Scorpio, facing towards the western wall of the chamber where a massive granite statue of Anubis sat enthroned. As Balthazar neared the throne, a heavy chill laid itself across his shoulders.

Anubis' feet rested upon a block of limestone carved in relief with the weighing of the mortal heart against the Feather of Truth. To the right of the scales knelt jackal-headed Anubis, while to the left waited a monster. With its front half a lion, its back half a hippopotamus, and its head that of a crocodile, Ammut, the hideous Eater of the Dead, waited to devour the unworthy heart.

Balthazar shuddered.

* * *

Nephthys led the flight from the Nubian encampment, leaving her sister Isis at the head of the small army awaiting the inevitable. Runners from the south had brought the alarm at dawn: Anakronos and his legions had crossed north into Nubia and were steadily ravishing the tiny kingdom. Farmers, smiths, and peddlers were put to the sword along with their families; fields were burned and the land desecrated.

But the Nubians had begun as a nomadic people, and when the need arose, they could simply pack up and find a new home. Now they fled to Upper Egypt, where the great cities of Sodom, Gomorrah, and Thebes promised at least safety, if not the spacious freedom they had known in the south.

Behind the young mothers, the children, and the elderly, there waited everyone willing and able to fight; their own deaths only meant the invaders would be stalled long enough for their families to escape. Women left behind their husbands, children their fathers, old men their daughters, knowing they would never see their loved ones again.

So Nephthys left behind her sister. She knew Balthazar had warned Isis not to stay, but the woman's stubborn pride demanded it. And though Nephthys burned with the humiliation of retreat, something inside told her this was honor of a different sort--that the goddesses she and her sister had been named for would not be disgraced.

Her legs aching already in anticipation of the long march, Nephthys turned to look at the motley army of folk who had abandoned their pride along with all the rest of their belongings. Her people had become broken refugees.

* * *

At a low groan at the far end of the long chamber, Balthazar felt the hairs on the back of his neck prick. The massive double doors opened with a moan, spilling hot, white daylight through the pillared dusk of the sanctuary. A shadowed figure strode in.

Balthazar ripped his sword from its sheath, his lips curling in a feral snarl. The silhouette mirrored his movement, steel shrieking on leather, and the Nubian king grinned in anticipation.

"Anakronos," he growled. "Come on in and meet your death."

The figure raised its curved blade, then disappeared into the gloom.

Backing towards a carven pillar, Balthazar scanned the darkness for any hint of movement. His opponent was crafty, preferring to stalk him in the shadows rather than facing him in the central clearing. But two could play that particular game. Despite his bulk, the Nubian was far from clumsy, and he moved easily through the sheltering columns.

The rustle of boiled leather armor, the pad of running footsteps, and Balthazar spun toward the sound. But there was nothing but carven pillars. I have spoken no lies. I have caused no pain. The eerie acoustics of the sanctuary made it impossible to pinpoint the echoes.

The warrior king took a steadying breath and began the stalk.

* * *

Isis' feet churned up bloody mud, and she almost went down.

The first hundred or so enemy soldiers lay dead or dying at the feet of the Nubian defenders, but Isis' warriors had lost enough of their own that the next Ethiopian charge would likely wipe them out. She hadn't time enough even to mop the sweat and blood from her face before a second wave was upon them.

Strike, parry, shield up, strike again, ignore the pain from too many cuts and slashes to count. She knew she was shouting, screaming, but had no idea whether she yelled words or simple animal challenges. Her ranks were slowly thinning, being forced back toward a narrow pass at the head of the valley. At least that would provide some protection from flanking attacks.

The ground under her sandals turned from sucking mud to solid dirt, then to stone. The man next to her went down, but she had no time to think about him, much less help. There was only the enemy before her, killing and being killed.

They would mourn their fallen later. If any of them survived to mourn.

* * *

Arpid huddled among the papyrus reeds clustered on the bank of the sacred river. Home, I must get home. I must warn Mathayus.

He kicked himself mentally. Thief and spy that he was, he should have seen the truth behind the deception. It was too late for Nubia--but Arpid's cunning had at least let him escape Ethiopia in time to possibly save Gomorrah. There would be bad blood between Egypt and Nubia for generations to come, though. A man could not begin a blood feud and expect it to end quickly.

Don't do it, Mathayus, he prayed silently. Don't kill Balthazar.

* * *

If he'd had the time to think, Balthazar would probably have laughed. He felt, ridiculously, like a cat after its own tail. From past experience, he knew that Anakronos was not much smaller than himself, but the man could move like a ghost. Each hunted the other, like day chasing night chasing day.

He took a weaving path, starting and stopping at every stray sound, through the columnar forest near the southern wall of the temple chamber. Light spilled liquidly among the pillars, casting crazy shades and painting a labyrinth of shadows.

There was a flicker of movement to his left, a sudden stirring of stone dust, and Balthazar charged headlong toward it, eager to bring this game to an end. Blood thundered in his ears, an alarm shrieked up his spine, but he knew even before he saw the blade that it was too late to stop.

A flash of cold light on even colder steel. Gripping the scimitar, a broad and able hand. Massive chest and shoulders and a familiar face--a very much alive face--that held an alien rage.

Mathayus met Balthazar's rush with a fist, then a furious kick that knocked the giant to his knees. His sword ripped through air, then armor, then flesh. The Nubian sank back against a column with a look of shock and betrayal.

For my son, Mathayus thought as he watched Balthazar's slow collapse. For Menes.

"But..." Balthazar coughed.

"You understand, Balthazar," Mathayus said. "It's the nature of kingship."

Blood, black in the flat light, bubbled from Balthazar's lips. "But you were my brother."

"And there is no greater honor," Mathayus whispered, "than to die by your brother's blade."

Mathayus glanced up at the inscription on the pillar. I have committed no transgression. Steel rang against carven stone, and the Akkadian stalked away.