The Shepherd Kings (13 page)

The king smiled. “So. We are safe from one another. Will you
pay a price for our aid in your war?”

“Only ask,” Kemni said, “and if I can’t grant it, I can take
it back to my king, and he will decide.”

“You must grant it now,” said Minos. “Here, where the gods
have brought you.”

Kemni had not felt alone or terribly far from Egypt in some
considerable while. It had been a kind of mute endurance, and a refusal to fall
prey to the sickness that could fell a man far from home.

But now he felt it, in this court, in this audience that had
nothing of formality about it, and yet was everything to his embassy. Thebes
lay at the other end of the earth. Any choice that Kemni made, he made alone,
with the whole fate of Egypt resting on it.

Minos knew that. He might wish Kemni to end his embassy now,
to confess that he lacked the power or the will to speak for his king. Kemni
was young, with little wisdom and less skill in the arts of princes. Perhaps
his presence was an insult—gods, dreams, and all.

He must not waver. He must trust to the gods who had brought
him here, and to the indulgence of his own king, that whatever bargain he
struck, Ahmose would honor it.

“Tell me your price,” he said levelly.

Minos might be amused. He was not struck dumb with
admiration, Kemni could see that. He stroked his beard as he seemed to like to
do when he would draw out a moment. “This is not my price,” he said after a
while. “You should know that. I am king in Crete, but there are others higher
than I. They ask this of Egypt, if Egypt is to have our aid in its war.”

Who asks?
Kemni
almost asked aloud.
Your gods?
But he
was silent.

“You are asked,” said Minos, “to confirm this alliance with
blood as well as gold. To make a marriage, man of Egypt, between your king and
a royal daughter of Crete. Will he do that? Can he do it?”

For a long moment Kemni could not answer, nor think of an
answer. He had been envisioning terrible prices: mountains of gold, armies of
hostages, blood of princes poured out in the court of the bulls. But this—he
almost laughed aloud.

“Lord king,” he said, “royal marriages are a frequent
consummation of great alliances. If that is all the price you ask, my king will
pay it gladly.”

“Ah,” said Minos, “but will he pay it as we ask him to pay?
This will be no concubine, no last or least of a flock of wives. If he takes to
wife one of our royal ladies, she must be a queen. She will accept no lesser
rank.”

That was perhaps difficult. But still, not impossible.
Unless . . .

“She cannot be the first of the queens, the Great Royal
Wife. That office belongs to a lady of Egypt.”

“Queen Nefertari,” said Minos. Which proved that he knew
sufficient of Egypt and its rulers, and could pronounce that great lady’s name
with a reasonable accent, too. “Yes, we know of her. Our lady will not ask to
displace her. But to be second to her—that, she will expect. Will your king
allow it? Will his Great Royal Wife?”

“That truly is a choice that they should make,” Kemni said.

“We ask you to make it for them.”

Minos was not going to yield in this. That was all too
clear. If Kemni agreed, he might face the wrath of his king—but worse by far,
that of the Great Royal Wife.

He had seen Queen Nefertari, of course; she sat beside her
husband, who was also her brother, in court and at festivals, and shared in the
ruling of the Upper Kingdom. But he had never spoken to her, nor had she singled
him out for her attention. She took little notice of the crowd of young men around
the princes.

Now he feared, if he chose wrongly, she would fix him with
the terrible and burning sun of her regard. Stronger men than he had withered
in it, and even, people whispered, died of it.

He had a sudden, vivid recollection of her face as he had
seen it once, caught in the lamplight of a banquet, in an expression as close
to unguarded as a queen might ever permit herself. She had been a little weary,
perhaps a little ill. In the distraction of a troupe of fire dancers, she had
let her head droop somewhat, and rested her cheek on her palm. She was
beautiful as royal ladies were expected to be, in the perfection of paint and
wig, gown and jewels, that befit a queen. And yet, in that moment, she seemed
almost mortal.

The memory did not comfort him. Queen Nefertari was a great
force in Egypt, some said greater than the king—whispered, even, that Ahmose
wore the crown, but Nefertari ruled the kingdom.

Whatever Kemni agreed to now, she would judge. This more
than any was a woman’s matter: the bringing of a rival queen into the palace
over which she ruled.

Nevertheless, her lord—and therefore, Kemni realized with a
small, chill shock, she herself—had sent him here. He had been given the power
of an envoy, and the discretion to make such bargains as he might. They should
have sent a wiser man, or one more fit to decide such matters. But they had
not. He was all they had.

He drew a breath, steadying himself. “Very well,” he said.
“I speak for my king, and for my king’s Great Wife. I accept that price for
your aid in our war.”

Minos inclined his head. Kemni could not tell whether he was
relieved or dismayed. “Then it is done. My clerks will write it as it should be
written, and those will witness it who properly should. In the morning on the
third day from now, you sail for Egypt.”

So sudden. So complete. Kemni should have expected it, and
yet it took him by surprise. He had come to think that he would live out his
life in this foreign country, speaking a language not his own, even coming to
forget the accents and the cadences of his native Egyptian. Foolish, but he did
not have to be wise just now; only obedient. He bowed to the king as to a lord
of Egypt, and accepted his dismissal with suitable grace.

But before Kemni took his leave, Minos raised a hand.
“Wait,” he said.

Kemni paused.

“Come to dinner tonight,” Minos said. “A servant will fetch
you when it’s time.”

Kemni bowed again. This was an honor, but no less than he deserved.
He was allowed to leave then, to claim the day for himself—to cherish the knowledge
that, in three days’ time, he would be sailing back to Egypt.

~~~

Kemni dined with the king that night, and with the queen,
and with the great ones of the court. But Ariana was not there, nor was
Iphikleia.

Kemni did not know why he should care that either was
absent. Nor, after he had been so honored, did any new Ariana come to his bed.
For the first time since he had arrived in Crete, he slept alone.

He wondered if he was being punished for some infraction.
Perhaps for failing to appear for his morning in the chariot, because he had
been summoned to the king instead? Surely Ariana had known of that. Ariana
appeared to know everything that passed in the palace.

Somewhat out of pique, but also because he was expected in
the clerks’ court for the signing and witnessing of the agreement between Egypt
and Crete, Kemni did not go the next morning, either. And again he slept alone,
without message or explanation.

The next morning, the morning before he was to take ship for
Egypt, he went out as he had so often. He did not expect to find anyone in the
horses’ field, not by then. But he wanted to see the horses one last time. He
had brought a packet of honey sweets for the pair of bays, who had learned long
since to come to him for their tribute. He had grown fond of them.

They were waiting for him as he came up the path into the
field, with an air of having waited excessively long. He laughed through a
startling catch of tears, rubbed their ears and noses, and fed them the sweets
that he had brought. Not until his palms were empty and licked clean did he see
who sat beyond them, perched on a jut of stone, knees clasped to
leather-tunicked chest.

She had not brought out the chariot, though she was dressed
to drive it. Nor did she greet him, or seem to see him at all, until he set
himself in front of her. “Good morning,” he said civilly.

She regarded him almost without recognition. He had never
seen her so remote. Even Iphikleia was warmer toward him than this—and this was
Ariana, his bright companion and his instructor in the art of chariotry.

Maybe it was the bulldancing that had done it, the death of
the boy who had tried to be as reckless as she. Kemni did not flatter himself
that she grieved for his departure. He was a diversion, no more. When he was
gone, she would find another.

He told her so, with boldness that he hoped would make her
smile.

She frowned as if he had spoken in Egyptian, which she knew
nothing of. “Diversion? Another? Why would I want to do that?”

“To amuse you,” he said. “To give you pleasure.”

“Ah,” she said, and slid into her reverie again.

He wondered if he dared shake her. But she had already made
it clear that a man did not touch her—not without her leave. He settled for a
shrug, an audible sigh, withdrawal in the horses’ company. They were glad
enough that he was there, and they acknowledged his existence, too. They were,
at the moment, better companions than Ariana.

When he came back from visiting the whole of the herd, she
was gone. She had never explained the oddity of her mood, nor had she waited to
say goodbye. He told himself that he should not be disappointed. She was a princess
and a great priestess. It had been more than he ever dared expect, that she had
given him so much of herself.

Now, as he had said to her, she would go on. She would find
herself another occupation to while away her mornings. Or maybe it would be
enough that she drove her chariot alone, racing the wind in that high green pasture.

The rest of his farewells were easier, perhaps because that
one had been so unexpectedly difficult. He would not be sorry to go, because he
was going home. But he had been happier here than he would ever have expected,
more at ease and more—yes, more at home. He was proud of that.

~~~

One more lonely night, sleeping fitfully in a bed that
seemed suddenly strange, and then, at last, it was time. A fair dawn, a brisk
wind blowing southward to carry him home. His few belongings were packed and
taken away to the ship. He put on his best clothes, his gold of honor, and the
blue mantle that had been given as a gift, to keep him warm against the chill
of the morning.

He had come in with little attendance but great honor, with
Ariana as his guide. He left in a surprising crowd. Most were faces he knew,
people he had dined with, drunk with, hunted and played and danced with. They
were his guides and his companions on the long steep way to the harbor. They
sang; they played on drums and pipes and the stringed instrument that they
called the lyre. They gave him a royal leavetaking.

The ship was waiting for him—familiar, faded yet strong
beneath: Naukrates’ swift
Dancer
.
Kemni caught himself grinning at the sight of her. And yes, there was the
captain himself on the deck, regarding the crowd with lifted brow. When his eye
caught Kemni, it brightened. Glad, no doubt, that at last his ship could catch
the tide.

But they were not to leave quite yet. As Kemni boarded the
ship, a further disturbance brought him about. An even greater crowd was
coming, with even more noise. People were blowing the sea-horns, long moaning
cries, and singing, and clapping their hands. They danced as they came,
tumbling like bulldancers, wheeling and spinning, dizzying the eye.

Kemni had never seen such a procession. Everyone in it
seemed to be a bulldancer or a priestess, or both. He half expected to see a
bull among them, but the god’s great servants were safe in their high pastures
now that they had performed their office.

The center of that uproar was resplendent in gold, aglitter
with precious stones. She came in the wealth of a kingdom, high-crowned with
gold, stepping lightly, delicately down to the water. So brilliant was she, and
so potent in her presence, that one almost failed to see who rode behind her in
gilded chairs borne on the shoulders of strong young men: the king and the
queen themselves, come to bid farewell.

But not, or not only, to Kemni. Ariana, and Iphikleia all
but unnoticed in her shadow, boarded the ship with the air of one who did a
great and courageous thing, and who wished that everyone would stop remarking
on it.

The king and the queen stayed on the shore. Kemni was still
not certain what was happening, though he knew he should have been. Ariana was
sailing on the
Dancer
. That much he
could see. She must be going on a pilgrimage.

She was even more abstracted than she had been in the
horses’ field. Kemni might almost have thought that she was drugged. Her face
was white, her eyes all but blind.

And yet, as she mounted to the deck, with Naukrates reaching
to lift her up, and Iphikleia supporting her from behind, she came alive. She
looked down at the people on the shore, and round about at those on the ship.
She shuddered just visibly, or shook herself. The life flooded back into her
face. She held out her arms, then spread them wide.

The people cried aloud. There were words in it, mingled
almost out of comprehension. But from them Kemni gained a sort of meaning.

Indeed, she was going away. She was going to Egypt. She was
going—

He could not speak here. Not now. He bit his tongue till it
bled.

At last the farewells were done. At last, with grinding
reluctance, the Cretan king and his people would let their princess go. The
ship cast off, men from shore and sailors from the ship setting hand and
shoulder to the hull, sliding it smoothly into the water. Kemni clearly felt
the shift from earth to sea.
Dancer
was alive beneath him. The water bore her up. The oars bit, pulling her out
into the harbor.