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Authors: Jill Rubalcaba

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BOOK: The Wadjet Eye
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NINETEEN

Damon breathed deep the incense Cleopatra burned. It smelled of Egypt. It smelled of home. He missed home.

"Cicero has a voice that would charm the snake." Cleopatra clapped her hands. Charmion appeared with wine.

Damon plucked a fig from the platter of dried fruits. "He told me to protect my ears."

"And well you should."

Artemas refused the wine. "I don't trust him."

"Then you are wiser than Caesar himself." Cleopatra sent a lotus blossom, floating in a bowl, spinning with a flick of her finger. "Caesar is too forgiving. His trust will be his downfall. Did you hear what he said of Cicero? That it is better to have extended the frontiers of the mind than to have pushed back the boundaries of the Republic. He put Cicero above himself!" Cleopatra shook her head. "I owe you horses."

Artemas knelt before Cleopatra. "But we have learned nothing."

"You will have your horses." Cleopatra signaled a servant. "You found out as much as any of my paid spies. It is as I suspected. Cicero watches Caesar closely."

The world watches Caesar closely,
Damon thought.
Why should Cicero be any different?

Damon cleared his throat and looked at Artemas. They had agreed that Artemas should warn her of the real danger even if it angered her. Now was the time.

Artemas stood and bowed his head. "I fear you have more to fear from Cicero than Caesar does, O Great One. Cicero's dislike for you goes beyond rational thought. It seems personal. He blames you for all that is wrong with Caesar."

"Cicero can't harm me. It is Caesar I worry about."

"I thought you should know."

"I appreciate your candor. Not many would say so."

"If you don't want to give us the horses now, I would understand."

"You have earned them. Even more so with your honesty. But I do ask you one more favor."

Artemas was on one knee in an instant. "Anything, my Pharaoh."

"Take this to Caesar." She handed him a scroll, sealed with the royal emblem. "Trust it to no one else—his hands or none."

Artemas took the scroll and held it to his heart.

Damon realized this meant Artemas would see the great Caesar himself. Artemas would ride like a man possessed. How would Damon keep up?

Cleopatra held out both hands. Cupped in the palm of each hand was a small stone. "An amulet, for your safety"

Damon felt the warmth of the stone that must have come from her own hand. The Great One's own heat. He closed his hand around the amulet and felt it radiate. He opened his hand again to study it. The small oval turquoise was carved with the Eye of Horus, the wadjet eye. He felt its protection just as surely as he had felt the heat. He bowed to Cleopatra and remained with his forehead to the limestone floor even after her scent of lavender had left the room.

TWENTY

At the first milestone they came to, Artemas reined in his horse. The horse, energized by the early morning chill, pranced in an arc around the column. Although the distance in miles to many towns was carved into the stone, the mileage to Munda was not. Damon was glad. He knew it must be more than a thousand miles. To see that number etched in stone might make him reconsider the journey ahead.

They kept a good pace all morning. By noon they found themselves at the thirtieth-mile marker, facing the mouth of a gaping hole in the hill before them. The horses pranced backward and sidestepped.

Damon struggled to keep his mount still. "What do you make of it?" he asked Artemas.

"It must be part of the road. Look how the stones fit together. It's paved right on through."

"It's dark in there. I can't see to the other side." Damon squinted into the darkness. "How do we know the earth doesn't just open up, with the Devourer waiting at the bottom?"

"The road leads here. It must go through."

Damon heard tortured creaking coming from the mouth of the gaping hole in the earth. Had he conjured the Devourer by speaking his name? A dull thud, like the heartbeat of a giant beast, came steadily. Damon's horse backed farther away from the dark opening.

Damon was about to turn and flee when two oxen came into the light. They slowly plodded forward, pulling a wagon. The driver flicked a whip back and forth in time with the beat of the hooves on the stone.

The driver guided the oxen to a stop by the side of the road near a statue of Mercury. The old man climbed down from his perch and searched the ground, prodding it with his whip handle until he loosened a small stone. He tossed it onto a large pile of stones in front of the statue.

The driver saluted Damon and Artemas. "You might want to add a stone to the Mercury heap. Protector of travelers, you know. Never hurts to have a bit of luck."

Artemas nodded. "How goes the road ahead?"

"Never seen a tunnel, I wager."

"A tunnel?"

"Army dug right through the hill. You can't say the Romans don't build their roads straight. Paved all the way through too."

"How deep?" Damon asked.

"It doesn't go down. Just think of it as a road with a canopy." The driver pulled himself up onto the wagon. "May Mercury be at your heels." The wagon began to move.

"How far to the nearest inn?" Artemas shouted over the creaking of the wheels.

The driver cupped his hand to his ear. "Eh?"

"The nearest inn?"

"The fourth stone."

Damon and Artemas watched the man's back until he disappeared from view. Then it couldn't be avoided. They turned to the gaping hole. Damon was sure they were entering a tomb. So many lined the roads—could this be one with a gateway to the otherworld?

Artemas gathered in his horse's reins. "I'll go first. If I slip out of sight, turn and run for it. Don't worry about the horse's feet on the stone. Just go for all she's got."

Artemas entered the tunnel. Damon followed. It was dark, but he could still see the outline of Artemas in front of him. The clopping hooves echoed, making it sound as if a dozen horses had come in with them.

"I can't understand why this isn't marked on the map." Artemas's voice boomed in the narrow space. It sounded oddly hollow, as if it were coming from the walls instead of from Artemas.

Damon's eyes began to adjust to the dim light. He could make out the walls of the tunnel and the ceiling overhead, covered in moss. He prodded his horse on with his heels to her belly, but the mare ignored him and only reluctantly moved forward. "You don't suppose that old man was..."

"Who?" Artemas turned to look over his shoulder, resting his hand on his horse's rump.

"Nobody." Damon shrugged. He was a man of science, by Thoth. Why was he thinking about demons? He wasn't a little boy afraid of the dark. Why did he feel like one? He'd escaped a vortex, even a shark attack. He squared his shoulders and rode on.

Light struck the sides of the tunnel. The horses picked up their pace.

The sunlight seemed brighter when they emerged. Damon and Artemas looked all around them, marveling at the light on the leaves.

"I believe I'm starving," Artemas said over his shoulder.

Damon trotted to catch up. "The next stone is up ahead, only three miles to go."

The two rode in the sunshine, hungry and tired. Damon's legs were sore. He wondered how well he would be able to walk when he finally got off his fat mare.

When they rounded a wide bend in the road, Damon saw the inn ahead. He was surprised at how crowded it appeared. Several wagons were pulled up in front.

"Must be good food here," Damon said. "It looks busy."

Artemas leaned forward. "Soldiers."

Damon and Artemas brought their horses to a stop between two chariots. Several soldiers milled around a wagon. They all wore red cloaks. The plumes on their helmets were of the same red. They were Roman.

As Artemas and Damon led their horses to the water trough, Damon smelled something all too familiar. Artemas must have smelled it, too. But either he didn't know what he was smelling or he was too taken with the soldiers to put it together. Damon suspected the latter.

"Any news from Caesar and Spain?" Artemas asked the soldier nearest him.

"The battle continues at Munda. Caesar has pushed the enemy back."

"Even outnumbered, Caesar triumphs."

"Yes, but we lost many men." The soldier pointed to the wagon. "We carry news to the magistrate, and a wounded man to his family on the way."

"My friend here is a physician," Artemas said.

"His wound worsens. The doctor in Munda dressed it, but the dressing should be changed." The soldier looked at Damon hopefully.

Damon undid his cloak and passed it to Artemas. "Certainly, I'll do what I can." He stepped forward. With each step the unmistakable odor of decaying flesh grew stronger. It overpowered even the rankness of the unwashed soldiers.

Artemas looked uneasy.

The wounded man lay on a bed of straw. Damon climbed into the open wagon next to him. The bandages were stiff with dried blood. This close, the stench was overwhelming. Damon gagged. He breathed through his mouth.

He knew what he would find when he peeled back the bandages. There was no mistaking this fetid odor. "Have you fresh bandages?"

One of the soldiers volunteered to get some from the inn.

"And water to bathe him and give him to drink," Damon called after the soldier.

The man lay feverish, tossing his head from side to side and muttering in Latin, words unfamiliar to Damon. "Could someone translate, please?"

"He calls to his wife," a soldier told Damon in Greek.

Damon clenched his jaw, breathing through his teeth, fighting back the spasms and the bile that rose in the back of his throat. He cut the bandages free with his knife. He peeled back the cloth. A writhing mass of pale yellow maggots fell away from the rotting flesh, dropping like rice from a stalk. On the wagon floor they curled first one way and then the other, protesting the light. One soldier retched beside the wagon wheel. Another turned ashen but stayed near. Artemas fainted.

"Shall I bring your friend to?" a soldier asked Damon.

"No, leave him. It's good he fell in the brush. He'll get a few scratches, but at least he didn't crack his skull open on the road." Damon worked quickly now. "You'll need to keep the maggots in darkness."

"You're not going to remove them?"

"Most likely the physician in Munda put them there. They eat away at the dead flesh that poisons the leg. It is good."

"Not so good to look at."

"No," Damon agreed. "Not so good to look at."

The man's leg had angry red streaks up into the thigh from the wound below the knee. The flesh was gray and spongy.

"You'll need to get him to his family—quickly."

"Can't anything be done?"

"Just make him as comfortable as possible." Damon packed the maggots back into the fresh linen. "And travel with speed."

The soldiers nodded grimly. Damon knew they had expected as much.

He jumped out of the wagon. "See if you can get him to take some water."

Damon crouched beside Artemas and slapped him lightly on the cheek. Artemas rolled his head from side to side, dazed. He looked at Damon as if he were having difficulty keeping him in focus. His eyes lost their dull look, then widened. He pulled back from Damon, staring horrified at Damon's shoulder.

Damon tucked in his chin to see what Artemas was looking at, then flicked a maggot from his shoulder into the dirt. "Are you ready for some lunch?"

"I'm not very hungry," Artemas answered weakly.

"Then let's get back on the road." Damon felt a sense of urgency. What if his father were wounded like this man?

TWENTY-ONE

They saw the smoke in the distance. Wagons piled with the dead and wounded clattered past them. At first Damon searched every soldier's face, looking for his father, but then there were too many. Now a steady stream of men flowed against them, the faces smudged with dirt.

Damon looked down at his own spattered cloak. It was stiff with mud. His legs were caked with it. His face must look like those they passed—eyes too big and sunken from lack of sleep, staring out from a black mask. His horse stumbled on a stone. The roads built by Roman soldiers had ended days ago.

Damon twisted from the waist to look back at Artemas. "We must be near."

Artemas nodded, his face grim.

Damon's aches were old from so many days on horseback. Some were so deep they were just memories of earlier pains. His hands were calloused from the abrasive rope reins. His buttocks were numb. He felt as if he had been beaten with a club.

Artemas cupped a hand and hollered forward to Damon. "Look ahead. A standard."

A pole rose from behind an outcropping far ahead. A banner tied to it flapped in the breeze. Damon could see only the colors, but he guessed it marked the hospital tent. They headed for it.

Looking east, they were blinded by the sun as it rose over the top of the makeshift hospital tent. A canopy had been hastily erected, with curtains too light to keep out the weather, should it turn bad.

Damon parted the curtains. Soldiers groaned. Every cot was filled. Many men lay on the floor. "Can we be of service?"

A lone doctor stood over a patient. The apron tied over the doctor's tunic was spattered with blood. "Do you have a wagon?" he asked without more than glancing at them.

"No, I'm afraid not," Damon answered.

"The last of the wagons has left. Some of the more able are carrying the wounded here from the field. What we need is a wagon. They'll bleed to death out there." He tossed his head in the direction of the smoke. "If the enemy doesn't get them first."

Damon threw off his cloak and dipped his hands in the basin. The mud turned the water black. "I can help. I'm a physician. No training in battle wounds, but if you show me what to do..."

"There's fresh water just outside."

Damon had forgotten about Artemas until he saw him just inside the entrance. He stood like some giant statue. But he stood. He hadn't fainted. "I can help carry the wounded to you," he said.

"There's no wagon," Damon said.

Til carry them, one at a time."

BOOK: The Wadjet Eye
11.58Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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