Shiri (6 page)

XI

All about her
Megiddo burned.
Something had gone wrong, terribly wrong.
From the battlements she’d seen the dust and smoke of battle on the horizon, heard the rumble of horses’ hooves and clash of arms as it seemed to draw nearer and nearer until at last she could see them; a mass of surging Gypto chariots, a ragged band of beaten rebels retreating before them. She watched them run for the scant cover of the battered walls of Megiddo. Watched them briefly hold the enemy at the gates. And then the Gypto’s were through.

Simeon grabbed her by the hand and led her to the square. Shiri followed in muted horror as it all happened again. Gypto’s were tearing through the streets, women and children were screaming.
Not again, not again.

She l
ooked at the soldiers about her.
There are
so few – the last holdouts of a failed rebellion
. Ten thousand had marched, not two hundred had returned. In the fortified town square they gathered about the cart that held the broken body of their King. There was an arrow in his chest, blood oozing from his lips. But still he lived. Shiri felt drawn to him and ran to his side

A moment she looked back and stared beyond the barricades. She caught her breath at what she saw
. The monster!
He was astride his chariot looking pleased with himself. He was laughing and pointing at something on the street in front of him. Shiri couldn’t see what, but screams told her all she needed to know. She turned back to the King, taking a damp rag to his brow as his cart was dragged away from the line of fire.

“Josef?” His voice was weak, “I ... saw your ... chariots ... I knew you would come.”

Simeon looked at Shiri then back to the King. He shook his head. “He has not come, Sire. I ... I know not why, he must have seen the smoke of battle, our scouts spotted outriders from Aratama’s host not two miles distant and yet ... as best we can tell, neither he nor Prince Josef has joined battle.”

The King’s eyes opened and for a moment he looked confused. His head lolled back, “Josef will not ... fail me. He will ... come.”

There was a crash behind them. A few remaining stalwarts were still holding it up, but the barricade would not last much longer. Simeon grabbed her, his eyes frantic. “You can do no more for him.”

“I can hold his hand.” She took Jacobaam’s beefy paw in hers. His other hand was shut in a tight fist. He was grasping something there, but she couldn’t see what. Blood came in bubbles about his mouth and his breathing was laboured, but something in her touch opened his eyes. She saw recognition there. He offered her a faint and sad smile before heavy lids closed once more. His fingers clasped around hers and squeezed. That was enough for her.
No man wanted to die alone.
I will not leave him.

Simeon looked pained.
“Will you not run?”

“I’ve run long enough,” Shiri said.
“Besides, there’s nowhere else to run to.”

Simeon sighed, took her rough-spun shawl and attempted to wrap it around her head. She shrugged him off, but in this at least he would not be denied, “Put it on,” he commanded. “If ... if you escape their attention on this first night…” He looked away, he couldn’t bare look in those eyes as he said it, “It ...
might not be so rough after.”

Shiri paid him no heed. Her eyes could see only Jacobaam. She’d done nothing when her father breathed his last. She’d closed her ears to her mother’s dying screams.
I can’t abandon him too.
Abruptly Simeon turned her about. He slipped an eating knife into the leather cord about her waist and ignoring her protestations, forcefully wrapped her shawl tightly about her head, tucking her hair inside. “If a Gypto captures you … it would be best if he thinks you a boy,” he said with a cheerless smile.

Briefly Sh
iri met his eye, “No,” she said. She took the small knife in hand. “It would be best if he died. It would be best if he died and burned in hell.”

XII

Amenhotep was grinning broadly. His father had turned with the bulk of their force to deal with the approaching force from Mitanni leaving him to mop up the last of the rebel holdouts in Megiddo.

The attack on the town had been faltering when he’d arrived. Or at least that’s what his report to Pharaoh would claim. He pondered the wording for a moment. ‘
I led a well timed counterstroke ... I led a masterful counterstroke as the Shepherds attempted to hold ... as the Shepherds attempted to drive us back, and that finally did for them’.

In truth he had little to do other than watch as his hounds ripped through the streets. The desperate defence, mounted by the few rebels that had made it back to Megiddo, barely slowed the oncoming tide. Now, with little more than two hundred held up behind their barricades, Amenhotep decided the time was ripe. He signalled. A ram’s horn sounded and his men came to a halt. With a grin he turned to his
ghaffir;
his personal bodyguard, “Narmer, send a man under a flag of truce to the shepherds. Tell them they have fought well this day, and the great Prince of the Two Lands is willing to show them mercy, if they lay down their arms.”

The Prince’s
ghaffir
furrowed his brow in a surprised expression. “But ... Pharaoh has ordered that no prisoners be taken from amongst those that fought. Only women, children and those men without courage enough to fight are to be taken for the slave caravans.”

A flash of anger cro
ssed Amenhotep’s features. “Who is it that commands here, me or my father?”

Narmer looked confused.
“Aye, but, Your Grace, it’s pointless, alive or dead, they will not give up their king.”

“Then tell them the heir to the Red
Deshret
Crown promises them their king will not be harmed. Tell them I will be merciful to all that have stood so gallantly over him even when all was lost. Tell them if they surrender now we will go easy on their women.”

Narmer seemed unhappy but bowed and went to personally convey the message. The response from the rebels was slow in coming. Arguments and raised voices could be heard amongst them. But soon word came that they agreed to the terms imposed upon them. The Prince’s men forced their way through the barricades unopposed, and dejectedly the rebels gave up their arms.

Amenhotep paraded confidently into the square atop his gleaming chariot. He lashed the reins and circled about it, passing close by the King’s wagon. “Line up the prisoners.”

The rebels were forced to kneel in a long line, hands bound behind their backs. The Prince jumped from the chariot and approached their leader. He adjusted those golden bracelets and his grin grew broader as he drew his sword. It was a fine piece. He’d liberated it from a barbarian in that mountain village a few days past. He’d been the first man the Prince had killed by his own hand, fitting then that he should have his sword.

A boy was at the King’s side, holding his hand. Amenhotep pushed the runt aside. A moment the boy glared at him. Sad eyes found the Prince’s sword and there was a sudden burst of anger in them. The wretch screamed and drew a concealed knife. He lunged forward with an even higher pitched scream.

The Prince was ready for just such an act of foolishness. A deft little side step and he caught the boy’s arm under his. A fist to the side of the face sent him to the ground. He was skilled at fighting younglings. The Prince barely glanced at the peasant as he lay in a heap at his feet. Narmer grabbed the boy by the arm and dragged him a few yards away. One of the prisoners in the line up cried out and attempted to struggle from his knees, but was met with the butt of a spear.

The usurper lay on a cart in the centre of the square. Amenhotep pointed the tip of his blade at the man’s throat. Suddenly there was uproar behind him. The prisoners began shouting and crying treachery. The Prince turned to Narmer, jerking his head in their direction. “Kill those fools.”

“You promised them mercy, Sire … it would not be
fitting to…”

Amenhotep e
xhaled. “Well kill them quickly then, that’s mercy enough for them. Anyhow, what does it matter? A pact between civilised men and barbarians carries no weight.”

“And what of the boy here?
” Narmer said. “He’s too young and scrawny to do any harm and may fetch me a few coins.”

The Prince shrugged.
“Yes, yes whatever you please, Narmer, whatever you please.”

Shiri raised her woozy head.
Lady! He’d stolen Lady.
Of everything he’d done, in that brief moment, stealing Lady stupidly seemed his greatest crime of all. He had all the gold in the world, why did he have to steal from them? “Thief!” She roared it in Egyptian. Old Dathan had taught her a few words and she could speak the odd phrase or two at need. She struggled to her hands and knees, “You thief!” She shouted again. The monster didn’t even bother turning to look at her.

She felt a man grab her and lift her to a standing position. He said something but she ignored him. She looked across the square and could see Simeon kneeling as his Egyptian executioner raised a great curved sword above his head. He stared across at her with an almost apologetic look on his face as the blade sliced his throat.
My turn to die next …
so be it
. She didn’t care anymore, everybody else was dead.
Just let them do it quickly.

Narmer hit her hard across her cheek, “Answer me
, boy.” He spoke in her own tongue but still she said nothing. She simply stared back at him without fear or emotion. He struck her again, harder this time, her lip split open and her legs went weak under the weight of the blow. She’d have fallen if he hadn’t held her up. “How are you named damn it?”

She raised her head and again met his eyes. Her lips and chin were a mess of free flowing blood. Again she simply stared at him, refusing to answer.

Narmer threw her to the ground in disgust. “Damn it to
Apeth
,” it was half a laugh. “Eight thousand new won slaves in Megiddo and I’ve gone and got myself a lackwit.”

Shiri looked past him. The monster had dragged her King off the cart and held him by the hair. He pulled off his crown and placed it carefully on the cart before grasping Lady in both hands and taking a step back. One stroke was enough to cleave the crown in two, the soft gold no match for Lady’s kiss. He laughed and t
ossed one half at Narmer’s feet. “Worth more than your runt I’d wager.” He turned back to the King who had slumped to all fours.

“Give him your sword, Narmer.”

Narmer tossed his still bloody
Kophesh
at the King. Jacobaam made no move to grasp it.

Amenhotep danced into a fighting pose. He was skilled at fighting dying men, “Up King of slaves! Let us see who’s the better man!” He swung Lady in a few practiced patterns and flitted from left to right in front of his foe. Jacobaam coughed up dark sticky liquid and collapsed to his stomach, much to the Prince’s annoyance. He grunted to Narmer. His
ghaffir
moved forward and tried to help him to his feet. He could do little more than sit him upright. He attempted to pry open the King’s right hand and place the sword in his grasp, but Jacobaam’s fingers wouldn’t part. Narmer settled for the left.

Amenhotep grew curious at that.
“What have you got there?” He pointed to the clenched fist with his sword but got no response. “What is it, old man?” He stared at the fist questioningly and then there was a sudden grin. He’d heard the tales. “It’s from your whore isn’t it!” He laughed, “The one that ran off with the governor!” He stepped forward and went to grasp it. He turned to Narmer, his sides almost splitting with the laughter. “The Shepherd King keeps whore hair!” Narmer grinned obligingly as the Prince leaned in. “Give it to me.” He grabbed the fist and tried to pry the fingers apart.

Jacobaam’s eyes shot open. Without warning and with terrific speed his sword swung at the Prince’s chest. With a shriek Amenhotep raised Lady. But he was too slow. Jacobaam’s blade caught him right at the hilt. Lady flew from the Prince’s hands. She landed at Narmer’s feet and two of Amenhotep’s fingers with her.

Amenhotep fell to the ground howling and writhing frantically. Suddenly Jacobaam was on him. “Get him off! GET HIM OFF!” The Prince screamed, struggled, and shrieked like a crazed beast but he couldn’t win free. His bloodied fist struck at the barbarian’s jaw, his fingers clawed and gouged at face and eyes, his legs kicked and thrust at groin and stomach, but all with no noticeable effect. Jacobaam’s vision was blurry, his sword arm faltering, but he went for the kill. With one last surge of power before his strength left him he thrust his blade down.

Lady blocked his strike. Narmer stepped in and cleaved upwards taking the King under the arm. Jacobaam’s sword fell and he collapsed backwards. Instantly Narmer was on top of him and with a grunt he plunged Lady deep into the Shepherd King’s heart. Slowly, Narmer rose and turned to his Prince. Amenhotep was rocking backwards and forwards, clutching his bleeding hand and the Prince’s
ghaffir
thought what he dare not say.

Best stick to women and younglings in future, Your Grace.

XIII

Aratama’s nerve broke the moment his messenger carrying a flag of truce was shot and Pharaoh’s chariots surged forward. The old King turned and fled, his supposedly elite
Maryannu
at his side. His foot soldiers were left leaderless and defenceless, cowering behind their shields as Egyptian arrows rained relentlessly down on them. Soon enough men began to turn and run, and when they did, the Godking’s rampaging chariots charged them down.

Whether his guards had been slain or had simply fled with the rest Josef didn’t know. All he knew was, that wincing with the pain in his ribs, he was running, stumbling for the mountains alongside hundreds more. It was every man for himself, and none of those routing with him were concerned with trying to recapture the Shepherd Prince. They thought only of themselves, only of escape. The mass of men resembled a panicked flock of sheep, fleeing and crowding together under the belief that by doing so, they could save themselves from a pack of rabid hounds intent on slaughter.

Josef risked a backward glance towards the oncoming chariots as he ran. Out of the corner of his eye he saw two giant black stallions, nostrils steaming as they churned the earth beneath their hooves. Almost in slow motion, he saw the flash of a tall blue crown atop a fierce looking warrior whose jaw was wide, teeth bared in maniacal laughter. The warrior swung his sword at his neck, but in the same moment Josef stumbled and fell before him. The sword caught the top of his helmet, cleaving straight through to the scalp, bringing forth an eruption of blood, but it was not a fatal blow.

Josef raised his head, spitting red sticky earth from his mouth. Blood was pouring down his face, blurring his vision. The chariot was a hundred yards ahead now, cleaving a bloody path through the fleeing masses before it. Josef groaned. The world around him was spinning. He stumbled to his feet and staggered his way drunkenly forward, still heading towards the mountains. He passed over a carpet of bodies some dead, some dying, some pretending to be dead. As his senses began to return he started to run once more. Then he saw them; a panicked mass of men running back towards him. The chariots had cut them off.
There is no escape.

Josef turned, looking desperately towards the now burning hill of Megiddo. Beneath the towering black smoke an advancing line of Egyptian foot soldiers filled the horizon. They were still some distance off, but they were drawing nearer with every beat of his heart. They were finishing off the dead and the wounded, spearing everybody and cutting off their hands for the death count. Those that were already dead were speared to make sure of their passing. Those that were wounded were hurried on their way.

Suddenly he was struck from behind. He felt powerful hands grab him and wrestle him to the ground. Struggling wildly Josef managed to twist and came face to face with Yuya. Desperately, Josef grabbed Yuya’s wrist as the Egyptian tried to plunge his knife into his neck.

“Why don’t you just give up, master?” Yuya spat the words at Josef through straining lip
s. “I’ll let you live if you give up.” Yuya had both hands on the knife now. “I’m sure your father is not dead yet. I promise I’ll allow you to watch as he is executed ... return the favour as it were.”

Yuya shifted ever so slightly as he gloated and Josef saw his opportunity. He slammed his armoured thigh into Yuya’s groin. Yuya howled in pain, his grip on the knife momentarily weakened. Josef wrenched it from him. And suddenly it was Josef on top, his knife to Yuya’s throat.

“No! Please ... Please mercy!” Yuya’s eyes were wide with panic. “Please I ... I meant to let you go free! It ... it was just a ruse to trick that old fool Aratama! He’d wanted you dead!” He squirmed and wriggled desperately but Josef held him. “And ... I didn’t mean it ... I never touched her! I ... I swear it!”

A moment Josef paused. He remembered something in his father’s hand
. All that was left of her
. “You squirm well ... master,” he plunged the blade into Yuya’s neck and stared unfeeling into his panicked eyes as the shadow of death slowly clouded them. He heard Egyptian war horns sound and looked in their direction. The Gypto chariots were wheeling off, heading for the burning hulk of Megiddo.

Josef slumped where he was, tired, exhausted, broken. The day was lost, his father dead
or captured. His people would be enslaved and dragged in chains to serve in Egypt. The knife felt heavy in his grasp. Slowly he brought it to his throat.
Better to die by my own hands.

He pressed the blade against his skin, staring silently at the multi-coloured robe that Yuya still wore.
No doubt it was his slave colours that saved him from the Gyptos.
He glanced again to the line of approaching soldiers.
They are not on me yet.
An idea, a desperate, impossible idea began to form in his mind. Slowly, ever so slowly Josef lowered the blade.