Time Meddlers on the Nile Page 4

  “Eat,” he said. “You need strength, since we’ll be travelling a long way.”

  “Thanks,” said Matt. “I didn’t think you would feed us.”

  The boy frowned and tilted his head. “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s just, well, we’re prisoners. Slaves. I thought you’d make us suffer.”

  The boy looked more perplexed, or even offended. “Now why would we do that?” he asked, and scampered back to the fire as another man called him away.

  Matt didn’t hesitate but tore into the food. Sarah sniffed at the meat and grimaced, but at Matt’s encouragement she gnawed at it too. The meat was tough and stringy, something like the moose meat that Matt had tried once on a trip to Algonquin Park with Sarah’s father. It certainly wasn’t the tastiest meat, but it filled the emptiness in his stomach.

  “I don’t get how we understand their language, and we can even speak it,” said Matt after he’d devoured most of his food.

  “Don’t ask me,” said Sarah, focusing on nibbling a date.

  “But you always have ideas.”

  “Ideas, right.” She snorted. “A lot of good my ideas are in this mess.”

  “They’ve gotten us out of rough spots before. Think about it. At least if we can understand some of this, we might, you know, survive.”

  “Fine. I’ll give it a shot. We understand them because we don’t exist anymore in our own time. Now we only exist here, so we’ve become part of history, part of this corner of the world. So of course we can understand and speak Nubian, although not exactly the way they do—we fit the role of foreigners or traders. We might know all kinds of languages. A lot of good it does us, though, if the Nubians don’t trust us and use us or trade us as slaves.”

  Matt grunted. It made sense, but he didn’t want to agree. Maybe there was still hope they could restore the timeline. After all, his dad hadn’t come here yet. Even as slaves, they might still be able to prevent the catastrophe his dad would trigger.

  The afternoon wore on, hot and dry, as the men finished skinning the elephants. Finally they were ready to move on. Their guard ushered Matt and Sarah out from under the palm tree, bound their wrists again, and mounted his horse, the ropes tightly wound around his hands. He forced them to trudge behind, urging them on with sharp tugs on the ropes. The other men prodded their mounts forward and they set out, marching across the plains to the north. Matt tried to keep his eyes focused on the general—the tall, young Nubian who had an air of command and extremely well-developed biceps, likely from drawing his bow. He directed the other men, keeping them in tight formation, their weapons at the ready, as if they were expecting trouble.

  Now that Matt had eaten a substantial amount of food, strength was flowing back into his legs, but his bare feet still stung from lack of footwear, and so far he’d failed to loosen the ropes around his hands. Escape, or further plans to fix the timeline, was out of the question. All he could manage was to keep trudging forward.

  After travelling tens of kilometres, the terrain began shifting ominously. The grass and trees had thinned out, giving way to rocky earth, dry gullies, and sand dunes. The sand sizzled under Matt’s feet. The skin on his soles expanded, bubbled up, and blistered. All the fluid they’d absorbed from drinking at the stream began to leach away. He stumbled and panted. He licked his dry, cracked lips. Just when he felt on the verge of passing out from thirst, the guard shoved a canteen at him, made of some kind of animal skin. Matt guzzled the water and handed the canteen to Sarah. She gave him a bleak smile and upended the container, drinking deeply.

  Sarah handed the canteen back to the horseman and mumbled a thank you. The man nodded, a slanted smile now lighting his face.

  “You are unlike other foreigners I’ve met,” he said. “Of course most of them were invaders, or greedy traders, only interested in our ivory and gold. The general thinks you are Medjay, but I am not convinced.”

  “General?” repeated Matt, trying to discover more about this mysterious general.

  “Yes, our commander.” He pointed to the young leader, still shouting instructions to his men every so often. “He’s a great general, and so he forces his men on the hunt to keep them sharp. We must always be vigilant against the Medjay, who like to ambush our troops, and the Lower Egyptians, who often rebel, but most especially against the Assyrians. You’re not Assyrian, are you?” he asked with a grin.

  “Not last time I checked,” said Matt.

  “Tyrian, perhaps? They’re always trading.”

  Sarah nodded.

  “And you became lost in the desert?”

  “Yes. We stumbled away from our camp,” she explained.

  “Then why tell the commander you were travelling on the Nile?”

  “He seemed to think we were raiders,” said Sarah. “We did try to swim in the Nile, to cool off.”

  “And we were attacked by crocodiles,” said Matt.

  The guard chuckled. “That I believe. But I seriously doubt that you’re a danger to us. The general is extremely intelligent, but he sometimes makes snap judgements about others. He cannot allow strangers to wander about who might jeopardize our kingdom. We reign to keep the peace, and that peace is fragile. Right now, we need warriors more than we need slaves. I think I’ll speak to him about you. You would willingly come with us to Napata, wouldn’t you, without ropes or chains? Perhaps you would even help us.”

  “Yes,” said Matt.

  “We certainly would,” said Sarah.

  The guard reined in and waved at the general, still marching his troops forward, still eyeing the surrounding dunes.

  “General Taharqa!” he called. “I’d like to speak with you.”

  Matt turned to Sarah and met her wide blinking eyes. “Taharqa?” they both said.

  The elephant meat Matt had eaten earlier churned and plummeted to the pit of his stomach. Taharqa? The young Nubian prince? The one who would become a pharaoh? He had to be a person of great importance in this time period. If anything, this was the last person they should have made contact with. First crocodiles, then elephants, now this.

  What else could go wrong?

  Chapter 6

  Taharqa

  Sarah gaped at the guard’s revelation. This couldn’t be a good thing. Taharqa was definitely someone they should avoid.

  The prince wheeled his chariot and rode up to the guard, hauling back on the reins to bring the vehicle in line with him.

  “We’d best continue a few more leagues, Senkamon, before we stop for the night,” he said. “This valley is an ideal location for a raid.”

  “So we continue,” said Senkamon. “But I’d like to discuss with you these young . . . strangers. I’ve spoken to them and they do not seem the type to be connected with the Medjay. Perhaps it would be better if they were.” He paused and met the prince’s eyes.

  “Someone to deliver a message would be welcome. If only they wouldn’t kill our messengers,” said Taharqa.

  “Indeed. Regardless, these people here, they seem a gentle sort and they have no weapons. They say they’re Tyrians and became lost in the desert, separated from their camp. I believe them. I think we can persuade them to join us rather than harness them as slaves. What do we need more slaves for, anyway?”

  Taharqa swept Matt and Sarah with a narrow gaze. “If they’re not with the Medjay, what are they doing in southern Kush? Why wouldn’t they have come through Egypt, from the north, if they’re the simple traders they claim to be?”

  “Others have taken the Red Sea route,” said Senkamon. “And others have become hopelessly lost in the desert. Question them some more before you judge them. And treat them as guests, not as slaves. It’s what your father would have done.”

  Taharqa winced when the guard mentioned his father, but it seemed to have struck the right chord. He waved his hand imperiously. “All right. Release them from their bindings. But they’re your responsibility, Senkamon. Watch them carefully. Enough trouble threatens us from the outside with
out having rats scurry between our feet.”

  Sarah couldn’t suppress a sigh as Senkamon slashed the ropes and released her and Matt. It hadn’t taken them long to gain an ally, and she had a feeling these people would be easier to deal with than the dictatorial Nazis. They trudged a few more kilometres before Taharqa called the march to a halt and instructed his men to set up camp. They distributed the thorny wood they’d carried with them, along with some other lumpy brown material. Matt stood watching Senkamon arrange circular slabs of this material and ignite it with a piece of flint and iron. The fire released a strange smell, strong and sort of . . . yucky.

  “Here, let me help,” said Matt, grabbing more of the dark material and spreading it evenly on the fire.

  “Matt,” whispered Sarah with a grin.

  Senkamon looked up when she spoke Matt’s name and eyed Matt with a slanted brow. What was that all about? But he bent over the fire again and laid out another slab.

  “What?” asked Matt.

  “That’s probably dried horse or elephant dung,” she said.

  “Oh,” said Matt, dropping the dung as if he’d been burnt. “No wonder it smells like that.”

  “Ma’at? That is your name?” asked Senkamon, still coaxing the fire.

  Matt nodded. “Matt,” he corrected the man’s pronunciation.

  “Interesting,” he murmured, but didn’t say another word.

  Sarah peaked an eyebrow. Interesting why? She knew Matt was itching to ask too, but he clenched his jaw and refrained. Maybe he was afraid if he became too pesky, Senkamon would make him eat the dung.

  Senkamon called out to the young boy in charge of the elephant meat and asked him for a small supply. The boy hurried over to one of the loaded wraps and brought back a portion of fresh meat. Senkamon strung the meat from a spit over the fire and soon the sharper, richer smell of cooking meat overpowered the sickly sweet aroma of burning dung.

  Matt and Sarah sat beside Senkamon at the fire as he passed the canteen around again. They happily guzzled, but as Sarah passed the container on, she couldn’t help but notice that her feet were throbbing. The sun had now set and the only light came from the fire, a weak stuttering blush, but it was enough to illuminate the bruises, cuts, and blisters that speckled her soles. She tried to massage them, but that only seemed to inflame them further, as if she’d been walking on burning coals.

  “Hmm,” said a deep voice behind her. “That doesn’t look good.”

  Sarah spun around. What? Who? Taharqa was leaning over her, his almond-shaped eyes focused on her feet.

  “Did you also lose your sandals to the crocodiles?”

  “Well . . . yes,” said Sarah. “They got stuck in the mud.”

  Taharqa came closer and squatted down beside her. “We should do something about that.”

  Senkamon smiled, but said nothing.

  The general’s eyes glittered and Sarah wondered if he was teasing her. After all, he’d just released them from slavery. Would he really care about her feet?

  Taharqa waved over one of his men and muttered instructions into his ear. The man’s eyes grew wide, but he nodded and raced off to another section of the camp. In seconds he returned, holding two pairs of sandals. As he approached, Sarah blinked at the sight of them. They were made of leather, but they also had tiny animals—gazelles, elephants, lions—stitched to the straps, fashioned from ivory and a glittery substance that could only be gold. They didn’t look like slaves’ sandals, or farmers’, or soldiers’, or even priests’ or sculptors’. They looked like they belonged to a prince.

  The servant had his eyebrows raised, but Taharqa nodded at Sarah and Matt. Sarah nearly shook her head as Matt accepted the gift with his usual Sherlock-like perceptiveness.

  “Thanks,” he said. “These are cool.”

  But when the servant handed a pair to Sarah, she said, “This gift is too much. What do you want from us in return?”

  Taharqa chuckled. “Return? I ask for nothing but your loyalty . . . to me and to the land. If you’re with the Medjay, ride out to them tomorrow and tell them I’d like to speak to them, without fear of attack on either side. But if I find you’ve slithered off into the night to let them know where we’re camped, and set up a raid instead of a meeting, I’ll send a dozen arrows into your bodies and then I’ll slice off your heads.”

  Matt grimaced. Sarah gulped.

  “How many times do we have to tell you, we’re not with these Medjay,” said Sarah. “We don’t even know who they are. And we’d never betray you.”

  “So you say,” said Taharqa. “But I don’t know you either. And it’s much easier to destroy a kingdom from the inside than the outside. Look at the Lower Egyptians, the Delta dwellers. They constantly bicker and make themselves weak, open for an Assyrian attack. That is why my uncle must stay in the Delta and keep the peace. Always, we must keep the peace or the empire will crumble.”

  “Keep the peace,” said Matt. “Interesting.”

  “You find our troubles interesting?”

  “Well, not the way you mean. It’s just, that’s always been what I’ve wanted to do. Stop stupid fights, keep the peace, you know. Or at least stop as much of the killing as I can.”

  Sarah nodded. Great idea, Matt. Trying to find something in common with this prince. That’s something you’re good at.

  But the prince didn’t seem to catch his meaning. Taharqa glared at Matt, his eyes tightening and taking on a fierce quality.

  “Peacekeeping doesn’t mean the killing stops or I stop killing. It means I have to be the best killer—a master with the bow and arrow, a swordsman, a general of troops, an expert fighter. What do you know of peacekeeping?”

  “Easy,” said Senkamon, holding up his hand. “The boy does not understand our role. He’s foreign. If he were educated, then perhaps he’d be a peacekeeper too.”

  Taharqa snorted and shook his head. “Foreigners never understand.”

  “And his name is Ma’at,” said Senkamon.

  “Indeed?” The prince raised an eyebrow and perused Matt up and down until he fidgeted. “Regardless, he’s still just a boy, and I see nothing of his name in him.” He stood abruptly and stomped away, the men instantly clearing a path for him.

  Sarah massaged her temple. Why all the fuss about Matt’s name? So bizarre. But at least the prince was gone now. The tension in the air ebbed and Senkamon resumed tending the fire. Despite the eager flames, there was a bite to the desert air. A chill crept over the dunes, and the north wind blew more savagely. But a greater chill penetrated her heart. This warrior prince was almost too passionate and far too suspicious of them. Of course he had a great deal of responsibility, training troops at his age, fighting in wars she couldn’t imagine. That he saw himself as a peacekeeper intrigued her, and that he seemed to understand that role far better than Matt did impressed her.

  Peacekeepers were always soldiers, trying to stop two groups from killing each other or preventing one group from taking over another’s land. They had to be trained in war. She didn’t understand how Nubia saw itself as a peacekeeper, though. It was an occupying force—ruling Egypt just like Egypt had once ruled it, not just trying to keep it civil. That much she’d read in the time they’d been waiting for Matt’s dad. They had a king—Shabaqo—on the throne. A dictator. Maybe the role of peacekeeping was a little different in this day and age. Whatever the prince meant, she needed to figure it out, and quickly, so she’d know what they had to stop Matt’s father from doing.

  The night drew a dark curtain on the world. Sarah shivered in her tattered clothes, her jeans and blouse ripped and torn after their ride through the rapids and their flight through the savannah, not to mention being tackled by irate Nubians. She was surprised when Senkamon offered her his leopard skin blanket while he himself went without. She draped it over her shoulders and tossed a corner over Matt, who was already snoring. How could he sleep so easily when their very existence hung in the balance and the only world they might see from
now on was a starry African sky? Eventually, though, the weariness of their forced march overcame her and her eyelashes drifted downward. The comforting world of dreams enveloped her until—

  Screams! Yells! Arrows falling from the sky! And the last warning call of a dying patrolman: “Medjay!”

  Chapter 7

  Raiders

  Sarah sat bolt upright, watching in horror as horses dashed through their camp, mounted by tall men with great crowns of curly hair and long linen robes. The men slashed at the Nubian troops with swords and threw iron-tipped spears, injuring and killing many of them. In seconds they’d rounded up a number of horses.

  The Nubians weren’t entirely defenceless, though. They leaped up from their blankets, bows drawn, arrows nocked, in a flash unleashing clouds of arrows at the raiders.

  Matt sat up, blinking and furrowing his brow.

  “What do we do?” he asked.

  “What can we do?” she replied. “Keep ourselves as small and invisible as possible. And hope Senkamon . . .”

  She looked at the guard, thinking of rushing over and huddling next to him, but shrank back at what she saw. Senkamon lay prone on the ground, a spear jutting from his chest, his mouth parted in a silent scream. Senkamon was dead.

  “Matt!” she shrieked and clutched his arm.

  “I know. There’s no help here, Sarah. Maybe if we get to Taharqa.”

  Sarah looked over to where the royal general was camped and saw him engaged in battle. His bow twanged repeatedly as he sent arrow after arrow towards the raiders tearing through the camp. His skill was phenomenal and he struck half a dozen horses and riders, but one Medjay managed to leap from his horse as it buckled beneath him. The raider was skyscraper-tall, almost twice the prince’s height, with a tuft of ebony hair and a large muscled chest. He swung a sword at Taharqa, but the general leaped back just in time. He snapped his own sword from a leather scabbard at his waist and met his opponent’s with a clang.