Pharaoh's Gold E-Book

Thomas Krug

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 451

Beschreibung

A band of mercenaries fight deadly enemies and solve ancient riddles to plunder the tomb of Egypt's robber pharaoh in this break-neck historical adventure-thriller. In this fresh twist on the historical adventure genre, a band of misfit mercenaries trek across sandy desert to the Valley of the Kings in search for the gold owed to them by Egypt's long-dead pharaohs. In the year 701 BC, Assyria casts its eyes on the last stronghold of the upstart Hebrews: the Kingdom of Judah. The Desert Mice, a band of Kushite mercenaries led by the famous warrior Pisaqar, turn away the foreboding Assyrian army from the gates of Jerusalem in an audacious raid. But the Desert Mice are betrayed: the Egyptian general Taharqa denies them of their pay and disrespects his old tutor. Incensed, the mercenaries plot to recoup the debt owed to them by robbing a long-lost tomb of a forgotten pharaoh. Pisaqar and his Kushites set out on a daring journey down the Nile—toward the Valley of the Kings and the undiscovered resting place of the fabled Robber Pharaoh. But in crossing the long-dead tyrant, the misfit mercenaries unwittingly bring upon themselves an ancient curse—one that places them squarely in the middle of a dynastic power struggle, and under the wrathful gaze of an ambitious king. Pursued by scheming nobles and a malevolent torturer, the Desert Mice will discover that there are people and places far more perilous than the anarchy of battle.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Also from Alcon Publishing and Titan Books

Title Page

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Copyright

Dramatis Personae

Map

1 The Gnawing Mice

2 The Duplicitous Peace

3 The Black Pillar

4 Yahweh’s Gift

5 Crimson Sands

6 The Pits by the River

7 Osiris’s Due

8 The Mob Feasts

9 Babylon’s Gardens

10 The Place of Truth

11 Waterfalls

12 Best Laid Plans

13 Pakheme

14 The Pit

15 Apis

16 Shattered Doors

17 The River of Duat

18 The Hunt

19 Slither

20 A Copious Bounty

21 Betrayal

22 The Full Flame in Front of Them

23 The Falling Rain

Epilogue

About the Author

ALSO FROM ALCON PUBLISHINGAND TITAN BOOKS

SubOrbital 7 by John Shirley

Vertical by Cody Goodfellow

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Pharaoh’s Gold

Print edition ISBN: 9781803366203

E-book edition ISBN: 9781803366210

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

www.titanbooks.com

First edition: March 2024

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

© 2024 Alcon Publishing LLC. All Rights Reserved.

Typeset by Charlie Mann.

Map illustration by Cheryl Bowman.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

Once night had fallen, an army of field mice swarmed through the Assyrians’ camp and chewed up their quivers, bowstrings, and even the handles of their shields, so that the next day, the enemy found themselves deprived of their weapons and defenseless.

—Herodotus, Histories 2.141

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

THE DESERT MICE

Pisaqar –

The Captain

Nawidemaq –

The Medicine Man

Tariq –

The Redhead

Yesbokhe –

The Archer

Qorobar –

The Axe Man

Pakheme –

The Good One

Ermun –

The Priest

Apis –

The Beast of Burden

Kalab –

The Acolyte

Nibamon –

The Foreman

Amani –

The Thief

Eleazar –

The Traitor

THE KUSHITE LORDS OF EGYPT

Pharaoh Shabaku – King of Egypt

Shebitku – Crown Prince

Taharqa – General of the Army

THE HOUSE OF SAIS

Senanmuht – Saite Nobleman, Advisor to General Taharqa

Khaemon – Saite Nobleman

THE KINGDOM OF JUDAH

Hezekiah – King of Judah

Isaiah – Advisor

EGYPT

Senet – Sister to Nibamon

Rukhmire – Guardian of the Valley, Senet’s Husband

Sabef – Gangster

Pepy-Nakht – The Boatmaster

ASSYRIA

Sennacherib – King of Assyria

Ashurizkadain – The Flayer of Caleh

Nimrud – Office

THE GNAWING MICE

THE CART LURCHED and squealed as its wheel snagged on yet another jutting rock. “My apologies,” Eleazar winced at his passengers, though he heard no complaint from the clustered amphorae. The tall clay jugs rattled before resuming their quiet. He squinted at the climbing Judean road, or what little he could make out in the light of the quarter moon. What he saw was rocks. The whole country was made up of rocks, big and small, every one of them jagged sharp. He expected it wouldn’t be much longer before his pilfered cart simply disintegrated from Judah’s onslaught.

He caught scent of his destination before he sighted it. The breeze carried the sweet aroma of burning olive wood over the hills—and the uniquely hideous stench of a besieging army. The latter was almost enough to make him retch, no matter how many times he’d smelled it before.

As he rounded a bend, the Assyrian camp came into view. The enemy camp, he remembered with a quickening heart. The flickering orange light of dying campfires outlined its palisades, just enough illumination to make out the shapes of the rotting heads dangling by their ringlets from the archers’ perches. Slainhostages, Eleazar thought, or perhaps merely some unfortunates who hadn’t reached the city before it shut its gates to the enemy. A statement of intent, either way, for the Judean heads hung within sight of Jerusalem’s walls. Little doubt they’d been ritually decapitated as their countrymen looked on in horror.

No, my countrymen, he reminded himself. As if to accentuate the point, a sentry shouted from the wall, announcing the approach of a mysterious cart. There was no turning back now.

“Halt there!”

Eleazar yanked the reins until the ass lurched to a reluctant stop. Behind him, the amphorae rattled.

Forcing himself not to panic, he waved at the sentry atop the gate, fully cognizant of the arrowhead trained on his clenched grin. Surely the hollow noise had given him away. He was going to end the night spread-eagled between two stakes, skinless and howling.

“Who is your master?” demanded the sentry.

He replied in perfect Akkadian. “Sennacherib, the great king, the mighty king, king without rival, righteous shepherd, lover of justice, neck stock that bends the insubmiss—”

“Where did you come from?” the sentry interrupted, with a suppressed cough.

“From Lacish. Have you not heard of our king’s victory there? He sends water and loaves to aid your siege. I am the first in a great procession.”

He could practically hear the sentry running his tongue over his chapped lips. “A procession?” He turned and said to someone else, “Sennacherib has sent us water! Hilti, bring the quartermaster!”

After a brief exchange, the crossbar was lifted, and the gate ground open. Eleazar coaxed the laggard animal across the bridge and into the dim camp. A second soldier watched him pass with yellowed eyes before heaving the gate shut behind him.

“Greetings,” nodded Eleazar, “and to you as well. It is good to meet two new friends at the end of my long travels.”

“You have a queer way of speaking, friend,” said the first sentry as he got off his ladder. The two of them loped up with their spears on their shoulders, alternating their wary gazes between driver and cart.

“Forgive my weariness. Lacish is far away.”

The jaundiced one rapped his spear shaft on the stopper of one amphora. Eleazar just managed not to flinch. “Water, you say? This jar sounds empty.”

Eleazar forced out a laugh. “These Judean potters do such shoddy work. Why, I would be blessed if just a few of these vessels survived the journey.” He thought quickly. “Come, you both look thirsty. Let us water ourselves before your officers arrive to take it all. A few gulps would not be missed.”

They exchanged a glance. “Hilti is taking his time,” commented one.

“The bean counter must still be wrapped up in his bedroll.” They turned their mischievous faces on him. “Very well. Quickly!”

Eleazar hopped off the cart with a loud grunt and stomped around to the tailgate, flanked by the eager-faced soldiers. He made a great show of heaving one amphora to the edge of the flatbed. “Here, lend me your hands so we can lower this to the ground without smashing it.” The soldiers put down their spears. They braced their legs and began to lift the amphora together.

“This one barely weighs a thing!” protested the jaundiced one.

Eleazar cried, “Be careful, by Amun!”

“What?!”

At Eleazar’s last word, the cart came alive. Dark figures sprang up from the concealed space in the center of the cart bed, the tops of the false jugs still teetering on their heads. The soldiers gaped in astonishment with the empty amphora in their arms. The intruders raised longbows, and with a staccato of thwacking strings, drove half a dozen arrows into the Assyrians’ bodies. They crashed to the ground writhing. One of the figures leaped down and silenced their groans with deft slices across their throats.

Eleazar lay prone as his nine passengers wordlessly dismounted. He felt a nudge in his ribs and found an ebon-skinned hand offered to him. Shakily, he allowed himself to be pulled standing.

The Kushite nudged his bearded chin at the dead. “Conceal the bodies.”

A lumbering giant of a man dragged the limp corpses into the wall’s shadow, just as the sound of footsteps presaged company. From amid the tents, a quartet of Assyrians approached, three of them spearmen wearing the typical funnel helmets and scale armor, the last swathed in a long robe with a clay tablet cradled in his elbow.

Eleazar glanced around in rising panic, only to realize he was alone. The Kushites had vanished.

“Ashur keeps vigil,” greeted the clerk, stifling a yawn.

Bewildered as he was, Eleazar knew the response by rote. “He punishes the wicked.”

One of the soldiers slowed his pace. “Where are Ea and Saris?”

“Ah … they … have begun unloading the water.” Had the Kushites all simply gone off without him? Trying not to show his swelling anxiety, he flicked his gaze to the rows of conical tents a good stone’s throw away. He might be able to make that sprint. He wouldn’t elude capture for long, though. One shout was all it would take to awaken the camp around him.

The soldiers didn’t fail to see through the sham. They halted, dropping their spears to the ready. One grabbed the oblivious clerk’s robe to stop him. “They would not leave their posts,” he asserted. “What have you done?”

The Kushites spared Eleazar from devising another sorry lie. Their arrows hurtled out of the shadows, the well-aimed shots piercing the Assyrians’ necks. The enemies toppled with fine sprays of blood. A cluster of mercenaries descended on their shuddering forms, stabbed them into stillness, and then dragged them off. The Kushite girl slunk in and swiftly gathered up the fallen spears and helmets. Eleazar was left to contemplate the bloodstained dirt where living men had just stood.

He was still trying to adjust when the Kushites returned. The mercenaries—the Desert Mice, they called themselves—wore a motley assortment of Assyrian garb, none correctly. The smiling redheaded one, Tariq, had somehow managed to get his scales on backward. He seemed to have given his helmet to the big angry one, Qorobar, who was still bare-chested. The girl, Amani, hadn’t bothered to disguise herself at all. She still wore her mouse-skin vest. Neither had Nawidemaq, the medicine man, whose chalked skin made him so distinctly foreign that Eleazar was somewhat amazed they’d brought him at all. The pair of priests—Ermun, the elder, and Kalab, his acolyte—at least wore complete sets of armor, though the crescent swords slung at their belts gave them away. Eleazar felt another nudge. Yesbokhe, the scout, held the dead scribe’s clay tablet beneath his nose.

Eleazar took it. He added sheepishly, “It will not make sense without the hat.”

Yesbokhe merely shook his head, where the scribe’s pointed cap teetered precariously.

Pakheme patted his arm. “Don’t worry about the costumes too much, Eleazar. They don’t have to make sense.” He grinned reassuringly. “They just need to give the Assyrians pause.”

“He is an Assyrian,” Amani muttered. “The sooner we finish our business with him here, the better.”

“He is a friend to Egypt,” Pisaqar said, calm and firm. The mercenary captain stepped into the midst of their cluster. “He has done his part without complaint. Now we must do the same.” He pointed at the camp. “To it, all of you.”

The mercenaries needed no further encouragement. They darted off in singles and pairs, their drawn blades glinting in the moonlight, a last brief glimpse before they all vanished into the sleeping camp. Eleazar almost shuddered at the thought of the mayhem they were about to inflict on the army he had once served.

Only Pisaqar remained. “You know the rest, Eleazar?”

“I know it.”

“We are still counting on you. As are your people.” To the east lay the gleaming walls of Jerusalem. The Judeans didn’t know it yet, but their hour of deliverance had arrived—borne by the hands of nine Kushites and one nationless transplant.

“I will not fail,” promised Eleazar.

The mercenary gave a shallow nod, and with a glint of plundered armor, he vanished into the night.

*   *   *

There was no art to strangling a man.

Tariq hauled on the bowstring, its twisted cord biting deep into his palms. His victim kicked furiously, with strength enough to briefly propel their joined bodies into the air. The Assyrian’s full weight came down on him and drove the back of his head into the rocky soil. Silver sparkled at the edges of his vision, but he gritted his teeth and cinched the string even tighter.

That was the trick, really, not that it could be called a trick in full honesty. Persistence. And brute strength. And wanting it more.

That bothered Tariq. The fact that he’d done this any number of times, and he’d never found an easier way. Choking the life out of someone was always exhausting and ugly and sickening. He felt nauseous as the enemy soldier grasped at his face, his sweat-coated palms running over his cheeks and brows with slick noises. It sounded loud, the rasps too. He was sure the man’s tentmates would come out to investigate any instant.

He knew he’d won when the Assyrian quit driving his heels into his shins. The strength had gone out of him. The man made a last sluggish effort to worm his body free, but Tariq wrapped his legs around him and held him fast until his muscles went slack. Only then did the redheaded mercenary let the cord go.

He let himself pant there for a bit, too tired to roll the drooling corpse off. When his wits came back, he cast about for a place to dispose of the body. There—a circle of stones. A well. Huffing, he dragged his burden along the quiet rows of tents. He raised a cringeworthy racket. His sandals flung jagged pebbles in all directions, plinking against the leather tents lining the way. The Assyrians could be forgiven for sleeping through that—months in the Judean hills would have inured them to the sound of crunching stone—but the sound of dead weight scraping on gravel? He was somewhat amazed the dead man himself didn’t stir.

Coming to the well, he pushed the body to a sitting position and heaved it up onto the low wall. He unwound the cord from its neck, then added it to the bag with the other bowstrings he’d already collected. “Sorry for the trouble, friend,” he said. A gentle push sent the Assyrian toppling backward—only to land almost immediately with a dull smack, legs still dangling over the side.

Tariq grumbled to himself as he peeked into the well. The whole shaft had been filled up with rocks. “Shitting shit.”

“What’d you say to me?” whispered Amani.

He recoiled, followed by her amused gaze. “Fuck! Where’d you sneak in from?”

She held up a fistful of bowstrings. “I was working. I haven’t had to kill anyone yet, either.”

“Alright. But did you?”

“Maybe. Yes. Why’d you go through all the trouble of hiding this one?” She pointed to the protruding feet.

“He was coming out for a piss or something. Bumped into me. I can’t exactly lay him down with his tentmates again, can I?”

“So instead, you thought you’d just stuff him down a well.”

“That was my plan, except this one’s all filled up with rocks. Judeans must have done it to every well outside their city. Clever of them.”

“How’d you figure that?”

“Because these Assyrians are all dying of thirst.”

“Hmm.” She nodded. “Anyway. What do you want to do about this?”

“Well, I’m not pulling him back out, that’s for certain.” After a good deal of cursing, Tariq succeeded in shunting the dead Assyrian’s stiffening limbs below the lip of the well. He tossed some fistfuls of dirt on top as a passing attempt at concealment. “Good enough,” he pronounced.

“Now if we’re finished wasting time, we have a lot more bowstrings to steal.”

*   *   *

Qorobar and Pakheme squatted in the shadows, doing their best to ignore the sounds coming from the latrine—to say nothing of the smell. No, not even a smell. A flavor. Even holding his nose tight, Qorobar could feel the tang of fermented Assyrian sewage smearing itself onto his tongue.

Pakheme elbowed him lightly as the grunting in the walled latrine approached its crescendo. His grimace and lifted brows said it all. Is that shitting or fucking?

Qorobar lifted his free hand, equally appalled. On the other side of the wall, the noise ceased. A few moments later, an Assyrian stumbled out, pulling up his trousers. Another trailed behind. They stole wary glances around before slinking off in opposite directions.

The pair of Kushites rose from their hiding place.

“Balls of Amun,” said Qorobar. “Imagine having a go over a shit trench.”

“Ah, young love,” Pakheme chuckled. He pointed his sword at a domed tent that loomed above the rest. “Shall we?”

“For fuck’s sake, let’s.” Qorobar’s sack rustled as he hoisted it over one shoulder.

They crept along the rows of tents, pausing at the odd noise—a hacking cough, a feverish groan. As they approached the great tent, they spotted a soldier stationed at the entrance. He had his helmet tipped back on his head in order to doze with his brow against his spear, awakening every so often to scratch furiously at his balls. He must have been crawling with lice, just as all these Assyrian bastards were. Qorobar could feel the little pests skittering around the lining of his stolen helmet, which was bad enough, but he could only imagine the misery of wearing a full set of armor infested with the damn things.

Occupied as he was, the soldier didn’t fail to note their approach. His bronze helmet glinted in the moonlight as he straightened it. Qorobar willed himself not to reach for his axe as the soldier spoke to them. He didn’t know Akkadian, but the tone had that universal chummy quality of one soldier bitching to another. Both Qorobar and Pakheme played along. They chuckled heartily, closing the distance.

The Assyrian spoke again, this time in the interrogative. Qorobar made a grunt that he hoped sounded affirmative. Pakheme faked a laugh.

Now the soldier had grown suspicious. He lifted the butt of his spear out of the dirt, repeating his question.

Pakheme answered. In one expert motion, he unslung and drew his bow. The soldier gasped. He reached for the shield leaning against a tent pole, but too late. The arrow split his skull with a crack. The Assyrian went rigid and toppled over, wrists coiled like a dead insect.

“Nice shot,” muttered Qorobar.

“He didn’t feel it,” Pakheme said by way of agreement. Qorobar put an end to the man’s convulsions with a stroke of his axe. Then he put down his lumpy sack and shoved the fallen helmet inside, adding to his growing collection. Pakheme blew out his cheeks disapprovingly, at which Qorobar merely rolled his eyes. Bring proof of your deeds, Pisaqar had instructed them. What was he supposed to do, cut off their pricks like the old pharaohs used to? A man deserved a little more dignity in death than that, even if he was only a sandal-licking Assyrian.

They rolled the dead man out of sight. Deed done, they readied themselves at the tent flap. Inside, Qorobar could hear someone grunting in rhythm with the sigh of hay. Downright rude, interrupting a fellow’s stroke, but a tent of this size could only mean officer’s quarters. That changed things. Some impoliteness was in order.

Pakheme drew his sword while Qorobar hefted his axe. They exchanged nods, then swept through the flap.

No one was there to meet them. Just a dingy corridor lined with curtained stalls, the smell of sex and shame. Pakheme nudged one curtain aside with the point of his sword and recoiled with a silent hiss. A naked woman lay curled on the filthy straw, staring listlessly at her bound wrists. She didn’t seem to care about the fat lice slinking in and out of her curls. The only hint of awareness was the way she drew her knees in tighter against her chest as she felt their eyes on her.

Pakheme closed the curtain, his expression grim. He jutted his chin toward another closed stall, where the grunts were coming from. He whispered into Qorobar’s ear, “Don’t let her see it.”

Qorobar stomped up to the noisy stall and rapped on the crosspiece. Inside, a man snarled what must have been a strong oath. Dispensing with politeness, Qorobar barreled through the curtain and hooked his axe handle under the indisposed client’s jaw. The Assyrian warbled as he dragged him out kicking and, unfortunately for him, prematurely. Pakheme shut the curtain again to spare the cringing girl the sight of her rapist’s end. Qorobar didn’t see it either, but he did feel the man’s muscles go taut all at once as Pakheme opened him up. The earthy smell of entrails was added to the general awfulness. Pakheme didn’t draw out the suffering, though—just let the man feel the pain long enough to understand he was being punished, then ended his odious life with a thrust to the heart.

Qorobar let the corpse drop. “No helmet on this one,” he lamented.

“Take his prick.”

“Not interested.” He settled for chopping off the right hand. Holding the severed appendage gingerly by the small finger, he made for the exit.

“What about the women?”

“I don’t know. What about them?”

“We can’t just leave them.”

“We have to. There’s a job to do, Pakheme. There’s no time to be pulling strays along behind us.”

“Think about what the Assyrians will do to them after tonight.”

Qorobar was about to retort when he saw that the first stall was open again. The woman there had come out as far as her lead line would let her. Her dark eyes were fixed on him. She whispered something—in Akkadian, Babylonian, Median, they all sounded the same to his ears. But he understood her open palms. She was pleading with him.

He heard cloth ripping and whirled, axe coming up. Pakheme had torn a curtain off its pole and held it out to the second girl, his eyes averted. She took it and wrapped it shakily around herself, which was when Qorobar noticed Pakheme had already sliced her bonds. The other stall curtains were sliding open one by one. Just like that, they’d added half a dozen souls to their little escape plan.

“Pakheme, this is a mistake. This isn’t part of Pisaqar’s plan.”

“Pisaqar taught me I must always do what’s right. Not sometimes, not at my own convenience.” Pakheme went along the rows, sawing the women’s wrists free. “Always. Come, help them.”

Qorobar grumbled. There was a glow of pride that warmed his heart, no doubt of that—but mostly, he felt worry and consternation. Cursed foreign lands just like this one were pocked with the unmarked graves of Egyptians who’d died doing the right thing.

*   *   *

The horns of Yesbokhe’s bow clicked against the stones. He stopped dead and clung to the masonry, sucking air between his teeth. He watched the parapet, but no sentry appeared.

For a moment he was back in Siwa, hanging beneath Kasaqa’s window as she reassured her father that the strange, quiet boy had not been back. He wondered what she would think to see her husband now.

He rolled his shoulders to adjust the position of his slung bow. With a deep breath, he felt for the next handhold and continued his ascent.

The Assyrians had constructed the watchtower on a hill that surmounted their siege camp, which was nestled in a narrow valley with either end walled up. They had built it higher than they needed—a signal of their dominance over this approach to the city—although for a climber of Yesbokhe’s skill, the height was little obstacle. The porous stones sucked the moisture from his fingertips as he climbed, improving his grip, as if the Judean rocks were eager to undermine their occupiers.

Nearing the parapet, Yesbokhe paused once more. Just above him, he could hear a pair of men conversing in low voices. Two sentries, same as previous nights. Yesbokhe maneuvered into a comfortable position and let one arm dangle. His hand tingled as the blood flowed back in. Flexing his fingers, he switched grips, glancing over one shoulder as he did so.

Far below, the Israelite bobbed into view. Eleazar labored up the steps cut into the hill, a brace of waterskins slung over his shoulders. The sentries’ conversation quickened. Yesbokhe heard wood creak, then heavy steps as one of the soldiers descended a ladder. The remaining Assyrian called down to the visitor, apparently asking his business. Eleazar indicated his burden in reply. If he noticed Yesbokhe curled in the shadows near the apex of the tower, he gave no sign.

Yesbokhe drew his knife. He took a steadying breath. He rapped the blade on stone. The sentry’s follow-up question cut off, and he peeked over the edge. With a hard grunt, the scout lunged upward and delivered a rapid jab to the Assyrian’s neck. The bronze blade punched into his windpipe with an audible click. The man’s eyes bulged, and he fell out of view. Yesbokhe clambered up and over the parapet. He dropped onto the twisting Assyrian, who gargled horribly through the hole in his neck as the Kushite’s knee pressed the air from his lungs. Yesbokhe kept one hand over his mouth until the twitching stopped.

He supposed that Kasaqa would not be terribly pleased to witness him in this moment.

Shaking the blood from his hands, he took stock of his new position. A low fireplace cast the tower top in a dull orange glow, providing some warmth while preserving night vision. There were several urns, all stuffed with arrows. From this vantage, he could draw a line to any point on the palisades. He scanned the perches and noted approvingly that all were vacant. The Mice had done excellent work.

Below, Eleazar was speaking to the now lone sentry, who was happily emptying a waterskin down his gullet. It would have been the ideal moment to strike, but the Israelite’s sword remained sheathed. The moment stretched until, with some annoyance, Yesbokhe unslung his bow. Close to the tower as they were, the angle of the shot was not ideal. Yesbokhe had to sit backward on the edge and lean far over, aiming straight down. The arrow, when it came, went right down the sentry’s collar. Heart-shot, the man plummeted. Eleazar was left standing alone, shoulders drooped and staring glumly at one who he once would have called a comrade. He looked up at Yesbokhe, nodded—an apology, the scout surmised—and started back down the steps in search of other former comrades to betray.

Yesbokhe watched him. He found that he pitied the poor fellow.

With morning near, there was little time to spare. He drew an arrow from the urn, wadded its point in fabric cut from the slain Assyrian’s tunic, and held it in the fireplace until it caught light. With a snap of a bowstring, he sent his arrow arcing high into the air. A few moments later, he followed up with another.

From the walls of distant Jerusalem, a torch waved.

*   *   *

Eleazar was alarmed to discover that the horse pens were nearly all vacant. The remaining horses—four in all—peeked curiously over their gates, roused by noises in the camp that only their keen ears could detect. Like their Assyrian masters, the beasts were in a parlous state, at least judging by their dull hides. He suspected the other horses had wound up in the Assyrians’ kitchen pots.

The lone groom was still squinting at the tablet Eleazar had handed him, trying to make something of the jagged text stamped into the moist clay. “What did you claim this said?”

It said exactly nothing. The fact that the groom hadn’t picked up on the gibberish told Eleazar that he was merely pretending he knew how to read. “It orders you to make ready the horses.”

“Who orders this? To what end?”

Eleazar found that his well-rehearsed answer no longer applied. The Kushites had been certain there were enough horses to seat them all. Their escape was in jeopardy. Casting about for a solution, Eleazar spotted a roofed enclosure with a bulky object sitting beneath, draped with cloth.

He tamped down a rush of relief before telling the groom, “The Tartan has demanded you prepare his chariot. Why must you dare to question his reasons?”

“The Tartan orders this in writing?” the groom said doubtfully. “The bedridden Tartan.”

Eleazar smothered an upswell of sickly panic. “He does indeed. If you, a simple groom, opt the route of disobedience, I am content to inform him thus.”

The groom mulled this over, but didn’t take long. He passed the tablet back. “Stay here.”

Eleazar relaxed his grip on the dagger hidden up the sleeve of his stolen robe—but he didn’t let go. He knew, just as surely as the groom, the penalty for insubordination. And awful as that might have been, it was a stern spanking compared to the punishment Assyria reserved for traitors. The dagger was more for him than any of his one-time comrades.

The groom limped to the enclosure. With a flourish, he pulled off the cloth drape. A huge war chariot sat unveiled, its polished wood gleaming in the moonlight. Its wheels were easily the height of a man, and their studded rims and hook-bladed hubcaps made them weapons in themselves. More blades bristled beneath the bronze cab like diabolical coulters—an affectation, surely, because Eleazar couldn’t imagine anyone surviving the crushing hooves of the horses that preceded it. The cab itself, plated in bronze, had ample space for an equal number of men, and quivers enough for seemingly hundreds of arrows. It was a wondrous, horrible machine, which Eleazar didn’t have the faintest clue how to operate. Did the Kushites?

He kept throwing nervous glances to the east as the groom led the horses, one at a time, to their yokes. The constellation that the Kushites named “the Lion” gradually cleared the blackened walls of Jerusalem. Their god Ra would soon come charging up behind it on his own chariot, bringing the dawn sun with him. It was nearly time.

*   *   *

“Look at the things these people can build,” Ermun whispered, marveling at the massive siege engine. To humble Jerusalem, the Assyrians had built a terrible machine. Its slab-like sides were made of thick cedar planks paneled with wicker. Inside, an iron-shod battering ram hung on taut chains. Above it perched a domed siege tower tall enough to surmount Jerusalem’s walls. From the tower’s square windows, archers would be able to sweep the battlements of defenders while the gate was smashed open.

The artisans who had built the siege engine weren’t difficult to find. They had laid out their sleeping mats inside it. It didn’t take much campaigning to understand the luxury a solid shelter represented, and Ermun had been on far too many marches in his forty years. He knew well that any roof was preferable to a tent. Understanding bred empathy. He didn’t relish the thought of killing these men. Yet these engineers, when they were finished with Jerusalem, might one day set themselves against the walls of Egypt’s cities. This, he would not allow.

He positioned himself at the siege engine’s open rear while his acolyte scaled the tower, using the wicker covers as hand and footholds. Kalab had balanced a smoking pan on one shoulder. The embers cast a red glow over his handsome features. He was grimacing with the effort of climbing one-handed. Nearing the siege tower’s dome, he gripped the edge of a tiny square window and tipped the embers inside. A good number of them missed the window and tumbled down the side of the ram in a shower of orange sparks. Kalab propelled himself off his precarious perch and landed, catlike, swiping at the embers that had caught on his stolen armor.

Meanwhile, wisps of smoke began to spiral from the windows. Deep inside the tower, a flame burst into life. It spread quickly, gobbling through the wicker and cedarwood beams. By the time the engineers woke up, the front half of their siege engine was enveloped in fire. Alarmed cries competed to be heard above the crackling flames. In bleary panic, the men pushed for the exit.

The first one hopped to the ground and barely staggered two steps before Ermun’s khopesh lopped his head from his shoulders. The one following tried to stop, his eyes round as he tried to comprehend the nightmare he’d awoken to, but the desperate men behind pushed him straight into Kalab’s reach. The acolyte cleaved his crescent blade deep into the man’s collarbone, killing him amid a welter of crimson.

Ermun and Kalab had four decades of swordsmanship between them. The engineers died quickly and cleanly, as far as blades went. The last of them found himself trapped inside the burning tower, unable to decide which manner of death he preferred. Kalab ended the cowering man’s dilemma with an arrow through both lungs, sparing him a long agony.

“Sekhmet,” intoned Ermun as they faced the towering pyre, “forgive us the things we do for Egypt.”

Kalab shook the gore from his khopesh. “The Lioness watches. You see?” He pointed the blade to the east, where the lion constellation had just begun to peek over the hills. Just in time, and exactly as Pisaqar had intended. The fact that they’d managed to kill the siege-masters and fire their engines simultaneously was merely a fortunate coincidence. On the far side of the camp, where the Kushites had first infiltrated, drums had begun to beat.

“Taharqa has come,” Ermun told his acolyte. An enemy trumpet blew the alarm. The pair readied their swords and strode off, making straight for the trumpet as more added their notes to the cacophony. The Assyrians were mustering for battle.

*   *   *

The predawn air vibrated, thickened by the beating of war drums. Flint struck, sparks shot, fires caught and sprang alight. The flames danced, the Kushites too, their ululating battle whoops rising as they hopped in place, twirling their bows above their heads, arrows jangling in their quivers. With men such as these, Taharqa thought, how could war be anything but splendid?

“Sekhmet!” bellowed the general, lifting his arms to the Lion in the sky. “Witness my glory!” His archers howled their delight. “For the God-King! Spears, forward!”

All down the line, men echoed their general’s call. The ranks of spearmen bulged as those nearest Taharqa began to advance. These, though, were no Kushites, but sons of the old nobility from the Lower and Upper Nile—families whom the great Pharaoh Piye had brought to compliance in decades past. Now, Pharaoh Shabaku had given them a chance to demonstrate their loyalty to the remade Egypt.

Their enthusiasm, Taharqa judged, was somewhat lacking.

Four hundred men he had brought to end the siege of Jerusalem. Yesterday, he had thought that enough to finish the wasted Assyrians. But the way those spears wavered…

If not for the drums, he imagined he might hear their leatherbound shields creak, twisting in anxious hands. The chattering of their bared teeth was lost in the din.

Angrily, Taharqa chased away his dismal thoughts. The sacrifices had been made. The plan was sound. Pisaqar and his famous mercenaries had been at work in that camp for hours. Victory was promised. All that remained was for Taharqa to grasp it.

A servant hurried forward and bowed, holding out a longbow. Taharqa took it. He nocked an arrow, which the servant lit with a torch. He drew the bow, and with a thwack of string, his arrow ascended into the night. His elite archers dipped their own arrows into the bonfires. There came a chorus of snaps and hisses, and flights of burning shafts arced over the marching Egyptian spearmen. Before the first volley had begun to descend, the next was airborne. Shouting with glee, the Kushite archers made the sky itself into a fiery river, which emptied without remit into the enemy stronghold.

If Pisaqar had done as he promised, victory was but a scrape away.

*   *   *

The camp was a scene of bedlam. Men tumbled through the flaps of their smoldering tents, shunting on lousy armor. With practice born of ceaseless drill, they whisked spears from weapon racks, only to find their tips snapped off. Squads of archers frantically rifled through their satchels for spare strings, their useless bows lying in the dirt. Shouting junior officers charged into tents whose occupants had failed to rouse, then reappeared in a furor, adding their alarmed shouts to the din. Their men had gone west. They would awaken in Duat, the next world.

No one spared much thought for the pair of dark-skinned passersby. Tariq did his best to keep Amani’s mouse-skin vest in sight as they threaded through the confused swarm, not that she was making it easy for him. She kept darting away at a crouch every time something caught her interest, then would return to the sound of screams, her blackstone knife dripping. Tariq flung coiled gumtree branches in their wake, caltrops from the plains of Kush whose thumb-sized thorns could pierce a sandal with ease. Assyrians collapsed as they blundered over them, clutching their soles and yelping.

He and Amani wasted little time. They headed for the prize: a bearded officer and his trumpeter, furiously attempting to rally their soldiers. The officer’s gaze fell on the Kushites as they approached. The set of his shoulders spoke of relief. Finally, he must have thought, soldiers who moved with purpose! He raised his sword to greet them—

—just as Tariq caved his helmet in. The trumpeter stopped blowing and turned in surprise. Amani had already reached him. Her knife sliced the backs of his heels, and Kalab’s sword smote his neck mid-fall. Tariq grabbed the fallen trumpet and tucked it under his armpit before sweeping on after Amani, having barely broken stride. They left behind a scene of milling confusion. He scattered some more gum thorns to hamper any soldiers who tried to follow.

The horizon was just lightening to purple as Ra’s chariot drew near. The mayhem had scarcely begun. Across the camp, the trumpets were falling silent as the Desert Mice found them. Officers struggled to restore order, but there was little distinguishing their shouts from the uproar. Whenever Amani spotted one, she twirled her sling and cracked his skull with a whistling stone. Tariq, finding no officers near to hand, sliced through taut bowstrings wherever he saw them.

But the Assyrians were drilled professionals, and they could not miss the tattoo of war drums outside their main gate. Nor could they misplace the source of the flaming arrows falling among them, in quantities that only Kushite archers could provide. General Taharqa had come.

“Mitzrayim!”

The Assyrians were all taking up the same word. Tariq didn’t know much Akkadian, apart from a few choice obscenities, but he recognized their name for Egypt.

Although the nighttime raid had caught the Assyrians badly off guard, open battle was something they understood. The news of the Egyptian attack didn’t throw them into a panic, but instead focused their minds. In moments, the milling soldiers all pivoted on their heels and hurried for the gate to meet the attack. If it mattered to them that a not-insignificant number lacked usable shields or spears or bows, rising battle fever simply boiled their trepidation away. Their bellowing nearly drowned out Taharqa’s drums.

A pitched battle soon raged in the purple dawn. The palisades were burning. Through newly formed gaps, Tariq could see lines of Egyptian spearmen pressing through the open gate. They overcame the first sparse defenders, only to encounter a mass of Assyrian infantry that swelled with each passing moment. A cascade of Kushite arrows fell into the growing press, sowing carnage. The Assyrians could only reply with scattered volleys. The Desert Mice had done their work well.

With the enemy fully engaged, now was time to escape. Tariq and Amani wordlessly pushed on through the emptying camp, headed toward a large blaze near the sally gate—and beyond it, the battered walls of Jerusalem.

It wasn’t long before they bumped into company. Friendly company, gods be thanked. Qorobar’s bulk was unmistakable, and Tariq recognized Pakheme from the way he moved. The gaggle trailing after them was a bit of a mystery.

“Green balls of Osiris, I almost killed you,” snapped Qorobar, lowering his axe as Tariq’s whistle faded.

“Well, you’d have tried your best, anyway,” said Tariq, trading grins with Pakheme. He clapped his friend on the back.

Amani jutted her chin at the cluster of barefoot women and girls, all wrapped in threadbare fabric. “Who’re they?”

Pakheme’s expression turned bleak. “Judeans. We’re rescuing them.”

“Like fuck you are,” said Amani. “There isn’t time.”

“It’s not your decision to make,” said Pakheme.

“Neither was it yours!”

“We need to leave. Now,” snarled Qorobar. They followed his eyes. A group of Assyrians had taken notice. They were approaching at the double with lowered spears.

The Kushites ran. The Judean women scrambled after them, but they were in poor condition and struggling. Tariq and Pakheme stopped as often as they dared in order to loose arrows at their pursuers. Their shots forced the Assyrians to take cover behind their shields, punching through the rigid planks, but their efforts amounted to little. The starving women’s shambling pace ensured that any ground they gained was soon lost as the Assyrians resumed the chase.

Pakheme’s good heart, Tariq thought, was going to get everyone killed.

“There they are!” Qorobar yelled as they broke into a clearing. There were workshops and what looked to have been a battering ram, all ablaze. The air stank of charred meat.

“Where’d we get that thing from?” Tariq asked, baffled. The traitor, Eleazar, stood in the cab of an enormous chariot, grasping the reins of four rather scrawny chargers. Tariq had seen plenty of chariots before, especially the two-man machines Egyptian nobles preferred. But this monstrosity—bristling with pointy things—had the footprint of a large wagon and seemed capable of holding half a dozen soldiers. It might have even been an acceptable substitute for their planned horseback escape, if not for Pakheme’s bloody conscience.

The other mercenaries had already filtered in from around the camp. Yesbokhe, with longbow in hand and several quivers of filched Assyrian arrows. Ermun and Kalab, their priestly robes swapped for lice-ridden Assyrian scales, their khopeshes bloody from a night’s work. Nawidemaq, whose swarthy skin still carried hints of the chalk paste he hadn’t quite scrubbed off, his strutting gait like that of an over-tall heron.

Pisaqar hurried to meet them. The captain was clutching at a long scratch across the chest of his stolen armor, and his teeth were bloody. Clearly, he’d killed someone important, judging by the jeweled dagger pommel protruding from his belt.

He beckoned to the newcomers. “There is space enough for all of us if—” He stopped to take it all in—their expressions, their breathlessness, the women following. He immediately understood that the situation had changed drastically.

“Put them onto the chariot,” he said, pointing to the women.

As they brought the women forward, Eleazar studied them and let out a foreign oath. The women fixed their eyes on him, astonished to hear their own language from one who looked wholly Assyrian. They exchanged rapid words with him as he pulled them onto the chariot, though whatever they learned only seemed to add to their hopeless confusion. Had they been freed by Kushites, or Egyptians? Was this charioteer an Israelite, or an Assyrian?

The last woman clambered aboard the chariot, which creaked under its passengers’ combined weight. Even if there had been room for any of the Kushites, Tariq doubted those malnourished horses could pull them.

“What about us?” asked Amani.

“We run.”

Assyrians appeared from the tents just as the last of the Judeans was being pushed onto the chariot. A storm of arrows forced them to duck behind their shields. One shot slithered through a gap in a shield and left its owner writhing with an arrow driven beneath his cheekbone, a feat only Yesbokhe could have managed. Even then, the Assyrians kept up their advance.

“Go, Eleazar!” roared Pisaqar.

The Assyrian traitor held up the reins in confusion. “I have never driven a chariot!”

“It’s the same thing as driving a cart!” yelled Tariq.

Eleazar was apoplectic. “No! It is not the same! You mad Kushites!”

“Best learn quickly!” said Pisaqar.

Eleazar looked ready to argue more, but Pisaqar gave him no choice. He lashed one of the lead horses with the flat of his blade. The team pulled the rattling chariot through the sappers’ gate, leaving skittering rocks in its wake as its studded wheels tore them from the dirt. Waggling madly on its overburdened axle, the chariot disappeared amid the screams of its helpless passengers, Eleazar’s included.

Tariq’s bowstring was hot against his joints as he let fly his last few arrows in quick succession. More Assyrians fell, but reinforcements were pouring in, drawn to the flames and the noise. Judging by the lack of it on the far side of camp, Taharqa’s assault had been emphatically repelled.

Had the plan gone off, the Desert Mice would have been halfway to the gates of Jerusalem already—but now everything was coming undone.

Pisaqar grabbed Tariq’s arm. “Leave now!”

The other Kushites were sprinting for the sally gate, their quivers empty, casting off their various articles of pilfered Assyrian dress to distinguish themselves from the enemy. Tariq slung his bow and went after them. Qorobar and Pakheme were straining to haul the gate shut, but gave up and joined Tariq and Pisaqar as they hurtled past. Hot pain shot up Tariq’s leg. He stumbled, his foot suddenly numbed, but Pakheme grabbed him under the armpit.

“Cover your head!” he huffed as they resumed running. The Assyrians were throwing rocks at them.

Yellow dawn had begun to creep over the city walls. The gatehouse was scarcely recognizable, it was so blackened with soot. Evidently the Assyrians had set great fires at its foundation in an attempt to undermine it. Slumped at or near the gate were no less than three siege engines, all reduced to charred wrecks. In the midst of them sat Eleazar in his chariot. He was shaking his fists at the barred gate and gesticulating to the bronze-clad horde flooding out from the siege camp, bent on grinding the Kushite wrongdoers against the walls of the city they’d tried to save.

“They’re going to let us die,” Tariq uttered in disbelief.

With a boom, the Judeans opened their gate. A great indignant cry went up from the Assyrian ranks as their enemy revealed themselves at last. A herd of squat horses appeared. The riders’ crazed assortment of armor mocked Assyrian uniformity. With baying asses in tow, the Judean cavalry rode onto the valley road, making for their Kushite allies, who flapped and shouted to differentiate themselves as such. It worked. Sling stones whirred over Tariq’s head and thudded against enemy shields. Archers rose from the battlements and let loose at the limits of their range. The barrage was a mere gust of wind compared to the Egyptian storm the Assyrians had weathered earlier in the night, but they were caught in the open and unable to reply. Their ranks convulsed, caught between the urges to retreat or pursue.

Tariq waved his arms at an approaching Judean horse. The soldier atop it—a swarthy fellow with a mane of black ringlets protruding from his helmet—swept in as close as he dared before dropping the reins of the donkey he was towing. The Judean fled. Pakheme thrust Tariq ahead of him and turned toward the encroaching Assyrians, reaching for his quiver. Tariq grabbed the reins, then clambered onto the donkey’s back. To his dismay, the young animal tottered under his weight. It’d barely be able to carry him, much less two full-grown men.

He tried to wave down another Judean rider, but they were fully occupied with evading the advancing clusters of spearmen.

“Pakheme, I can run! Take the donkey!” Tariq swung his swelling leg back over the ass’s neck, but the Assyrians had closed in. Pakheme turned to run, only to take a spear in the side. He spun halfway around and fell to one knee, mouth hanging open in shock. Tariq watched in horror as his friend fought to rise again. He never managed it. A second Assyrian strode up. With a tremendous slash, he opened Pakheme’s body. Then the Assyrians closed around him, their swords falling and coming up red.

Tariq hauled on the reins and thrashed the donkey toward the gatehouse. He could barely see it through his tears. “No, no, no, no…” He could still see Pakheme’s wet pink guts coiled around his knees. He knew he always would. “Not like that, no no…”

The next he knew, he was surrounded by roaring men. Strong arms closed around him and dragged him to the ground. He screamed, eyes shut. He didn’t want to see them rip the intestines from his belly.

Someone slapped his cheek. “It is us, Tariq. You are safe.”

That persuaded him to quiet down. He cracked his eyelids and saw golden sunlight dappling through the branches of an olive grove. Walls. Soldiers. Horses. A gate, barred shut.

Pisaqar gripped his arms. “You are in Jerusalem.”

Qorobar shoved him aside and clasped Tariq’s head in his enormous hands. “Tariq, why is Pakheme not with you? Where is he?”

Tariq took a shuddering breath. “Gone.”

Qorobar went very still, his broad face etched with disbelief. Then his mouth twisted into a snarl. “You lie.” His fingertips dug into Tariq’s hair, gripping so tight that he could hear his skull creaking. “You lie!” he bellowed. “Where is he?”

“He’s dead!” Tariq cried. Through the agony, he was dimly aware of the others surrounding them as they tried to pull Qorobar off him. Their fingernails dug furrows in his arms, but he didn’t seem to feel the wounds.

Pisaqar lurched away. When he returned, he pressed the curve of Qorobar’s own axe against his neck. “Let him go! Let him go, or by Set, I will put an end to you!” Around them, the Judean defenders’ exultant cheers had gone quiet, leaving only Qorobar’s heaving sobs.

At last, the pressure relented. Qorobar lumbered off to sag against the sealed gate. The howls of his anguish reminded Tariq of a mortally wounded animal. In that awful moment, Tariq thought that killing the man would have been the kinder thing.

His friends lifted him to his feet, their faces somber. A crowd had gathered around the Kushites, curious to gaze on these black-skinned Egyptians who’d come to save them. Among them was Eleazar, his blue Assyrian tunic damp with blood, and at his side, an older man with a long white beard, decked in voluminous robes of multicolored wool. He murmured something into Eleazar’s ear before turning away. He walked toward the hill that dominated the city, and the tiered white temple surmounting it, gleaming anew in the morning sun.

“In King Hezekiah’s name, Isaiah thanks you for delivering Jerusalem from evil.”

THE DUPLICITOUS PEACE

WE OUGHT TO make a habit of this,” said Kalab.

Tariq cracked his eyes, then shut them again and settled deeper into his cushioned couch. “Compelling argument.”

Middling and pastoral as the Judeans may have been, they weren’t stingy about their luxuries. The idea, Kalab had gathered, was not to flaunt it. Glory belonged to the gods alone. Not that he quite understood that himself; he’d grown up in the shadow of gargantuan temple complexes, their sides etched with the triumphs of Egypt’s great men. Still—he was of the priestly class. He appreciated the Judean sentiment.

The acolyte shifted slightly and repositioned the pillow behind his back. His weight caused the bowl to skid beneath his feet, squeaking on the mosaic floor and sloshing an appreciable amount of warm water onto the servant girl’s lap. With a gasp, she rose and fled, holding her wet skirt away from her body.

“Oh stop, it’s just a bit of water,” he called after her, though he knew she wouldn’t understand a word.

“What’d you do now?” said Tariq.

Kalab raised his eyebrows at Yesbokhe. “Look. Tariq’s speaking in sentences again.”

The scout, as usual, made no remark. He lifted his grail amiably and resumed watching a second girl rinse his feet, apparently just as bemused by the local custom as they all were.

Tariq shook his head. His red braids wagged. “Only because I’m finished watching how you torture the women.”

“I’m not torturing them, I’m neglecting them.”

“Is it truly that big a difference?”