Enslaved By The Desert Trader. Greta Gilbert
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believe otherwise, you are perhaps experiencing a feverish dream.’
Tahar shook his head, rolling up the addax hide. ‘I might be mistaken, but I believe it is you who has been recently stricken by a feverish dream.’ He lifted the packet and stood. ‘We leave at sunset.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘To find you a husband, of course. We are going to Nubia, where you don’t have to be a king to have many wives. You just have to have plenty of gold.’
His words were like daggers in her heart. ‘You are the worst kind of demon.’
‘And on our way to Nubia we will stop at the Isle of Abu. To prove you wrong.’
‘The Isle of Abu!’ the King shouted. His voice carried across the rooftops of Memphis, sending a hundred pigeons into flight. ‘We must go there now, Imhoter. It is the only way.’
Imhoter stood with his head bowed. ‘You would leave Memphis without its King?’ The long sleeves of Imhoter’s robe concealed his hands, which he squeezed together nervously.
After the Libu raid on the grain tent the King had ordered the remaining members of the King’s Guard into the desert. They were only a few dozen soldiers in search of hundreds of Redlanders who might as well have been ghosts. It had been a thoughtless decision, for it was well known that the desert tribes were highly dispersed. They came together only for raids, and could easily evade the Khemetian headhunters.
But such facts were meaningless to King Khufu. In his fury over the grain tent raid he had acted without thinking. He had sent the city’s defenders on a fool’s errand and left the city itself vulnerable to attack. And now he apparently wanted to abandon the city completely.
‘Abu is the only answer,’ the monarch ranted, thrusting his soft, thick finger at Imhoter’s chest. ‘I must go to Abu and appeal to Khnum, God of the Great River. If we do not have the flood soon, we all shall perish.’
Imhoter measured his response. ‘I would merely suggest that you consider the idea more closely, Your Majesty.’
Imhoter knew of several wealthy priests who had accumulated enough grain to support small armies of followers. One priest in particular—a wretched old man named Menis—seemed poised to usurp Khufu’s power. The King’s departure would be just the opportunity Menis needed to install his army and take the throne.
‘Abu is very far away. Let us think on the idea for a time.’
‘But there is no more time, old eunuch!’ The King barked. He paced across the shady terrace, his leather sandals slapping against the tiles. ‘The royal grain is gone; the people of Khemet grow desperate. If the waters of Hapi do not come the citizens of Memphis will unseat me soon.’
If you leave the city, they will unseat you sooner! Imhoter thought, though knew he could not speak his mind.
Like his father before him, King Khufu was prone to flights of rage, so Imhoter spoke calmly, keeping to the facts. ‘The upriver journey is long—four weeks at least, even with strong north winds. Your idea is brilliant, but I am sure you wish to think on it.’
‘There is no thinking, eunuch, only listening to the Gods—and what I hear is mighty Horus, whispering to me. He is telling me to go to the Isle of Abu, to beg for Hapi.’
King Khufu paced incessantly, but Imhoter remained still. He, too, yearned for Hapi, but not for the same reasons as the King. The farmers of Khemet suffered, and it tried the holy man’s soul. Their limbs grew lifeless, their bellies ballooned with want. To watch them wither and die was a punishment Imhoter did not know if he could endure.
What gives a King’s life more value than a farmer’s, or even a beggar’s? The question tickled the edges of Imhoter’s mind like an itch he could not scratch. It had been a long time since he had considered it, though it was perhaps, the most important question of his life. A woman had asked it of him in innocence long ago, and he had been unable to answer her. She had been a forgotten concubine of King Sneferu, and she had studied him with eyes as deep and endless as the night.
Now Khufu lifted his hands to the sky. ‘The Gods must verify that I am Khemet’s rightful ruler—that my great tomb was not erected in vain. I must bring the flood.’
Imhoter nodded obediently, hoping that the King’s reckless compulsion would pass. He closed his eyes and begged the Gods to send him a vision of the future—one of the river rising and the King seated safely on his throne. But no such vision came.
‘Advise both my queens,’ the King pronounced. ‘If Hapi does not arrive by the Feast of Hathor, we make for the Isle of Abu.’
Tahar had not planned on taking the woman to the Isle of Abu, so exceedingly far south. He had wanted to stay near the Big Green ports, where the boats were as plentiful as merchants in need of brides. He could have traded her for a fine vessel at some dock in Alexandria, for example, or at one of the marshland bazaars in Tanis.
Thanks to his own stubborn pride, however, they were headed for Abu, as far south as one could go in Khemet before passing into the tribal lands of Nubia. Instead of days, their journey would now take many weeks, travelling from oasis to oasis by night, paralleling the Great River as they moved ever southward through the desert.
Lands, he was a fool. It would be a long, difficult trek, made harder still by the fact that he was a wanted man. By now all of Khemet would have heard about the grain raid, and his Libu scar marked him as the enemy. It did not matter that he was Libu no more, that he had renounced the bloodthirsty thieves whom he had once called brothers. The Khemetians needed scapegoats as much as the Libu did, and Tahar made an easy target.
The morning sun lifted above the horizon, piercing Tahar’s eyes. They would arrive at the next oasis soon. He could see a small verdant patch in the distance, at the base of several low cliffs. Meanwhile, the woman had begun to doze in the saddle. He had not joined her there during the night’s journey, choosing instead to walk. He did not trust himself so close to her, though he knew he would have to ride with her soon. They had a long, dangerous journey ahead.
If they survived, however, Tahar stood to reap a fine reward. Though much of Nubia’s gold now lay buried in the tombs of Khemetian kings, the Nubians were no paupers. A wealthy Nubian chief would not pass up the opportunity to add a Khemetian bride to his harem, and he would pay well for her—in dozens of gold ingots.
The promise of a well-paying Nubian husband was not the only reason they journeyed south, however. Tahar’s purpose was also philosophical. The Isle of Abu was just that—an island—and he was determined to prove it to the obstinate woman. The Great River did not begin at Abu, as she so passionately believed. And an imaginary god did not dwell beneath the island, considering when to release his torrent.
But he did not only wish to educate her—he wanted to astound her. What would she think the moment she saw her Great River from the top of the Theban peak? Finally she would understand that her gods did not simply conjure the Great River from under their robes!
Not that she would likely appreciate the geography lesson, or any of his knowledge of the desert. The woman had pricked his nerves with her talk of gods and maat and the eternal, infernal land of Khemet. If he could just get one single Khemetian to understand that Khemet was not the centre of the world, and that their precious river was not controlled by gods, he would die a happy man.
But why was it so important for him to convince her? Perhaps it was her incredible obstinacy that had baited him. What had she called her people? The ‘chosen ones.’ The nerve of that!
‘We shall eat and take our rest at the oasis ahead,’ Tahar explained, attempting to rouse her.
She