Time Meddlers on the Nile Page 18

  * * * *

  Sarah scrambled from the temple, blinking at the amber dawn light spreading through the sky. She heard the battle before she saw it. Echoing clangs from the meeting of sword blades, the dull twang and thud as hundreds of arrows were snapped from their bows and struck horses and men, but mostly screams and cries of fury and pain. She nearly flinched back into the hole she’d squeezed out of, but something stopped her. She stood on the periphery of the battlefield, close enough to see warriors clashing and killing. Deep in the scrum she glimpsed Qeskaant, weaving between the horses, struggling to reach the heart of the action. In the centre stood his main opponent—Taharqa—perched boldly on his chariot, spewing arrow after arrow into warrior after warrior. But none of these images stopped her. Rather, it was the boy standing beside Taharqa—pale bare chest, head capped with a leather helmet, a trickling of blond hair escaping and framing his gleaming, sweat-soaked cheeks. Matt.

  Not only was it Matt, but Matt with a bow fighting right alongside the prince. Matt in the middle of a hail of arrows, some directed at him from the Medjay, even, possibly, Qeskaant.

  Had she started a battle in which all these people could die? Would she be responsible for killing Matt? How could she have predicted it? But she’d known people would die and she’d encouraged Qeskaant until it was too late.

  She had to stop this battle somehow. Throw herself in the middle, maybe, like Matt would normally do. That puzzled her even more. Matt wasn’t trying to stop this war. He was even participating. Had the universe turned upside down?

  Sarah didn’t wait to think through her decision. There wasn’t time and there weren’t any other options. She had to reach Qeskaant and stop him from killing the prince. She had to reach Taharqa and stop him from killing Medjay. She had to reach Matt and stop him from killing or dying or both.

  Sarah sprang forward, picking up speed as she charged down the hill, with no sword and no spear, no bow and arrow, and no battle armour. The only weapons she possessed were her mind and heart—and the short little goat that trotted after her.

  * * * *

  Matt whipped an arrow at the nearest Medjay horse, piercing the animal’s haunch. It shrieked and collapsed, tossing the warrior from its back. Matt winced, turned, and fired at the next animal in his line of sight. This arrow buried itself in the horse’s front leg. The poor animal whinnied, snorted, and fell, dumping its rider on the ground. These nicks and scratches didn’t make much of a dent in the battle, but they did leave the Medjay warriors grounded and at a distinct disadvantage. It was easier for the mounted horsemen or charioteers to fight them.

  “At last you’re being useful,” said the prince. They were hardly glowing words, but Matt took heart from them anyway. He would be as useful as he was able to be.

  He turned to fire again, but paused and gasped. Had he seen what he thought he’d seen? A flash of ragged blue jeans and long dark tousled hair. Dodging horses and chariots, racing after a Medjay warrior. And trailed by a goat?

  “Sarah!” he yelled, and the prince swivelled to look in the same direction.

  “Where?” he shouted.

  Matt pointed to the tiny figure, streaking between hooves and clashing swords. It couldn’t be. He knew she was braver than he often gave her credit for, but had she gone insane? This was a battle, as bloody as it got, and she didn’t even carry a knife.

  But it was Sarah. He would know her anywhere. She was chasing a Medjay warrior, waving at him, gesticulating madly.

  “Qeskaant,” he heard her scream.

  The warrior wheeled and galloped towards her. When he reached her, he put down his hand and hoisted her onto the back of his horse.

  “Perhaps she’s not on our side anymore,” said the prince. He immediately pivoted and whipped up his sword to parry a blow hurled at him from a mounted Medjay. Taharqa slashed and thrust with such force he unbalanced the Medjay, sending him hurtling from his horse. At the same time an arrow spun through the air towards him. Matt threw up his shield and the arrow punctured the leather instead of the prince.

  “Good catch,” said Taharqa.

  Matt looked back to the south, to where he’d last seen Sarah, but she wasn’t there anymore. All he could see was a mass of colliding enemies, spurting blood, and swirling sand.

  Well, that did it. He couldn’t just wait here and hope she’d survive. He leaped over the sideboard of the chariot, dodging an arrow aimed for his head.

  “I have to find her,” he yelled at the prince.

  Taharqa slashed another man from his horse. He didn’t turn or take his eyes off the battle. He just said, “Yes, you do.”

  * * * *

  “You’re here?” said Qeskaant incredulously. “My father said you’d run off, but I couldn’t believe it.”

  “I didn’t run. Your father tied me up.”

  “He what?”

  “I deserved it. I was wrong to suggest this. You have to stop fighting. You need to talk to Taharqa. Matt isn’t his slave if he’s fighting on his chariot with him.”

  Qeskaant swung sideways on the horse and stared at her. At the same time an arrow came zinging over his stallion’s head. He instantly batted it away with his well-positioned shield.

  “Do you really think I can talk to him in the middle of this?”

  “Retreat, then. Withdraw your warriors. Let me talk to him. He probably won’t shoot me if I go alone.”

  Qeskaant shook his head. “No. It’s too risky.”

  “And this isn’t risky? People are dying. Do you really think you can win?”

  “We’re not losing,” he stated. But his eyes narrowed as he surveyed the ground, already knee-deep in Medjay and Nubian bodies alike. “If I can get to Taharqa . . .”

  “And what? Kill him? Kill Matt? You’ll only make everyone angry. This is my doing. Please, let me stop it.”

  Qeskaant slumped slightly, not in defeat, but in acceptance. “I’ll call a retreat.”

  Sarah sighed, waiting for the snap of fingers and a vanishing wisp of mysterious smoke, as her third wish was granted. But something even more magical happened. She was about to thank him, but the words stuck fast, still lodged in her throat. A tall boy raced through the battlefield, weaving in and out of converging horses and chariots, sidestepping bodies and slipping through puddles of blood. He looked up and caught her gaze.

  “Matt,” she breathed.

  She sprang from Qeskaant’s horse before he could stop her. She ran forward, feeling an arrow buzz her cheek, a horse’s flank rub past her, but hardly noticing anything. All she could see was Matt. Out there. Coming for her.

  * * * *

  They met in a clash, bodies slamming together, arms wrapping around each other. Matt looked at her, grabbed her head, kissed her, pulled back, and then kissed her again.

  “You’re alive,” he said.

  “Y-you’re okay,” she stuttered.

  A horse came whizzing past. A spear sizzled through the air. Matt flung up his shield and spun it sideways. “We have to get out of here.”

  “I have to talk to Taharqa,” she said.

  “Are you crazy? This is a battle.”

  “My battle. I caused this.”

  “How could you— It doesn’t matter,” he said through clenched teeth. “You can’t stay here or you’re going to die.”

  “Maybe it’s what I deserve.”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “What are you doing fighting? Why aren’t you stopping it?”

  “It can’t be stopped,” said Matt.

  “Let me try.”

  “Sarah.” He tipped his forehead to rest against hers. “I’ll let you try, but not here. We have to get clear of the battlefield.”

  “Qeskaant will pull back his men. Then let me talk to Taharqa. I saw you with him.”

  “Qeskaant—”

  “He’s not an evil raider, Matt. He just wants an end to—”

  “Slavery, I know.”

  Sarah looked up at him, her eyes glitte
ring and wide.

  A horse collapsed a metre from them, spilling a Medjay warrior from its back. The Medjay leaped to his feet, unharmed, but now enraged. Brandishing his spear, he charged at Matt. Matt threw Sarah to the ground and rebuffed the attack with his shield. But the Medjay retreated for only a second before he charged again. Matt gripped his sword, yanked it from the scabbard, and dodged the spear, bringing the sword down on the weapon’s midpoint, snapping it. The Medjay threw his useless spear to the ground and drew out a rapier.

  “Enough!” shouted Sarah, her face flushed. “Enough fighting!”

  The warrior ignored her and thrust the knife at Matt. Matt bared his teeth, parried the blow, and slashed the knife from the man’s hand. The Medjay stepped back, shocked. Matt raised the sword again as if to stab him in the chest, but then lowered it.

  “Go!” he screamed. “Get out of here! Sarah’s right. We have to stop.”

  The Medjay eyed Matt uncertainly, then nodded and backed away. Suddenly Matt saw Qeskaant out of the corner of his eye. He was watching them with his bow stretched backward, an arrow aimed at Matt’s chest. He’d been ready to kill Matt if Matt had harmed his warrior or Sarah, but he’d held back. Now his arm was relaxing, his fingers easing up on the string. Sarah was right. He likely planned to retreat.

  At the same instant something else tugged at Matt’s peripheral vision. A sight his mind refused to accept at first. Another man was racing through the battlefield—a man with shaggy blond hair and a pale, slim body wrapped in a Roman toga. He plunged headlong through thickets of spears and arrows, clinging to a bloodied spear.

  “Matt!” he screamed.

  He looked at Qeskaant, at the bow held taut, and snapped the spear up to his shoulder. He was going to save his son.

  This time he was wrong, though. Matt knew it. If that spear hit its mark there would be no chance of peace, and somehow everything hinged on that. The cycle would repeat again and again. This was the moment. Not back in Napata when the prince had made his decision to approach the Medjay, but here, and now.

  “Dad, stop!” he yelled.

  But he didn’t stop. Maybe he couldn’t stop. All he could see was the man threatening his son. His arm coiled back, prepared to launch the spear.

  Matt raised his bow, gulped down horror and agony, and fired.

  Chapter 29

  A Kingly Choice

  The arrow struck Matt’s dad in the shoulder, hurling him backward. He released the spear halfway through the throw and it sailed wide of its target. Nathan Barnes crumpled to the ground, his eyes bulging with pain and shock.

  Matt thought he heard Qeskaant trumpet a fallback order, but he wasn’t really listening. All he could see was his dad—shaking, bleeding, impaled. All he could hear was him moaning. He dropped his bow and shield and ran to him.

  Matt sank to his side and gathered him up in his arms.

  “I’m sorry, Dad. I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay— Matt.” He swallowed audibly. “Just a flesh wound. Didn’t even see it . . . coming.”

  He didn’t know. He thought some errant arrow had hit him. He didn’t know his own son had shot him.

  Matt felt, more than saw, Sarah kneel down beside him, her presence like an angel, both comforting and judgmental. “Matt, it’s your dad,” she said, her voice shivery and strange.

  “Yeah,” he answered. What else was there to say?

  Absently, she stripped a piece of tattered cloth from her blouse and wrapped it around the arrow.

  Matt felt a wave of dé jà vu. She’s done that before. For me.

  “Why?” she whispered.

  “He was going to throw the spear at Qeskaant. To protect me,” he choked out.

  His dad coughed and muttered, “The man meant to shoot you. He had his arrow aimed—”

  “But, even if—” She shook her head.

  “Qeskaant was going to pull back his warriors. You were going to talk to Taharqa. The battle was over, but if Qeskaant died—”

  “It would have continued until everyone was slaughtered, on one side or the other, or maybe both. But still, he’s your dad.”

  “I know,” said Matt.

  “Wh-what is she talking about?” his dad asked, his eyes bleary but still showing a glimmer of clarity.

  “Nothing,” Sarah murmured. “You just rest.” She patted his arm, and then frowned as if she’d noticed something. “It seems quiet. Qeskaant has pulled back.”

  Matt looked up. Bodies of men and horses littered the battlefield—a mass of moaning, pleading, screaming wounded and quiet dead—but the raging confrontation had ended. Beside the dead and injured, Nubian soldiers stared with blinking eyes after the Medjay’s retreating horses. Taharqa galloped through an open path and came alongside them on his chariot.

  “The Medjay are retreating. I’ll pursue.”

  “No!” Sarah and Matt cried in unison.

  “They’re withdrawing because I asked them to,” said Sarah. “I talked to their leader, Qeskaant, and he agreed. This battle is pointless. You should be able to talk through your differences. The Medjay are angry at you because of—”

  “Slavery. I know.”

  “If you know, then why the fighting?” asked Sarah. “Why couldn’t you just talk about it?”

  “I wanted to talk, but the Medjay provoked this battle.”

  Sarah flushed.

  “Besides, what they’re asking may be impossible. Slavery has been our way of life for hundreds of years.”

  “But isn’t there another way? Giving people choices? Offering wages, rewards for their services? Khufu convinced thousands of men to build the Great Pyramid, and rewarded them for their work. They weren’t slaves,” said Sarah.

  There she goes again. Matt shook his head. Sarah, the walking history book.

  The prince shrugged. “Something Matt has already suggested. But if I do as you ask, it will have to be on a smaller scale. The construction of the pyramids bankrupted the pharaohs of old, nearly collapsed their society.”

  “There has to be a way,” said Matt. “And wouldn’t it be better to have the Medjay fighting on your side again? To protect your borders and to help with the Assyrians?”

  Matt’s dad coughed and a fresh fount of blood gushed from his wound.

  “You should load your father on my chariot,” said the prince. “We’ll attend to the wounded first and then, perhaps, I will speak with the Medjay.”

  Matt gladly agreed and was surprised when Taharqa leaped off the chariot to help him lift his father from the ground. As they cradled him between them, Sarah tried to stabilize the wound.

  “Honestly,” said Taharqa. “You refuse to shoot any men during the entire battle, but then you shoot your own father.”

  Matt gulped and met his eyes. Taharqa hadn’t missed a thing.

  “What?” said his dad. “Matt didn’t shoot me. Did he? He couldn’t have.” He moaned as they placed him in the body of the chariot, sweeping away the nest of arrows. “What is he talking about, Matt?”

  “Dad, I didn’t want— I’d never want to hurt you.” He knelt beside his father and took his hand. “It had to do with the timeline—the first and worst mistake, remember? You were going to throw that spear at the one man who could stop the battle. A battle that may not have even happened if it weren’t for us. If you had hit him . . . I just felt that that was the moment. And maybe, if we’d gone through this before, that I hadn’t, I couldn’t . . . many, many times.”

  His dad met his eyes, and even through the tears of pain, his gaze softened. “You did what was necessary.”

  “It was cold,” said Matt.

  “It was brilliant.”

  “But if you die—”

  “The Nubians are quite skilled with medicine.”

  Taharqa wheeled the chariot around, but before he could slap the reins to urge the horses forward, he hauled back on them. The vehicle skidded to a halt.

  “Move! Clear the path!” he yelled.

 
Matt looked up. A stubborn goat stood in front of the chariot, blocking their exit.

  “Maa,” it said. “Maa.”

  “Can I take him with me?” Sarah asked Taharqa. “He rescued me, probably saved my life.”

  The prince rolled his eyes. “Very well,” he agreed.

  Sarah leaped from the chariot and grabbed the goat around his belly, hoisting him over the side. “In you go, Matt.”

  What had she called it? Matt looked from Sarah to the goat. Seriously? Then he heard a plaintive whinny coming from the far side of the battlefield. He turned and couldn’t believe his eyes. Sarah, his loyal bay mare, must have broken free from the stable, or his dad had ridden her here. She was now picking her way through the carnage, planting her hooves uncertainly.

  “Hey, Sarah,” he called.

  She stamped her excitement and shot forward, galloping across the field. Near the yoke of the chariot, she came to a stop and thrust her head over the sideboard, eagerly nuzzling Matt.

  “Sarah, old girl. Did you miss me?”

  Ice pricked Matt’s skin as eyes blazed into him. He sucked in his breath, his chest tightening as if a python had coiled around it.

  “You named a horse after me?”

  “Well,” he said. “That’s better than what you did. A goat, Sarah? A goat?”

  “He’s a good goat.”

  “She’s a great mare.”

  He met her gaze and, to his relief, the tautness in her face had dissolved. Her lips were even twitching. “I guess we really missed each other,” she said.

  “I guess we did.”

  He reached out and clutched her hand, tears blurring his vision. He blinked them away as Taharqa shook his head and flicked his reins to urge his horses forward. But, once again, he halted, yanking back on the reins to hold the chariot in place. What now? He was squinting at the far side of the battlefield where the dust was settling.

  “I believe talks may begin early. A Medjay warrior—I assume it’s your Qeskaant—is walking onto the battlefield with an old man. He walks with his palms open, a clear indication that he wishes to talk. You take the chariot to the fortress with your father, Matt. I will meet with the Medjay alone.”