CHAPTER
THIRTY
Marty waited as the crew assembled on the east side of their encampment. Tafsut argued with Surjan about his going into the “enemy” camp without her. Surjan was wielding a seven-foot-long spear and despite his being the best fighter in the entire group, the tiny woman wasn’t having any of it. He calmly took the argument and then told her again that he was doing what he had to do.
As Tafsut stomped back into their camp, Surjan watched with a perplexed expression, shrugged, and walked over to where Marty was waiting. He hitched his thumb in her direction and said, “She’s just overly protective.”
“I think it’s adorable how you two get along.” Lowanna laughed. “If she gets any more protective, she might kill you in your sleep just to make sure no one else can.”
“You and Marty are adorable, too,” Surjan growled.
“What?” Lowanna ground her teeth.
Marty patted Surjan on the back and took inventory of their group. Kareem and Gunther were talking in hushed tones and so far, there was no sign of François. “Has anyone seen—”
“I’m here, I’m here . . .” François came jogging toward them, his pack slung over his shoulder. “Sorry I’m late, but I was making sure the other cooks didn’t screw up the midday meal.”
Marty motioned for everyone to walk a bit farther into the no-man’s-land between camps so that the crew could talk in private. “This is . . . this may be . . . where the vision takes us.”
“A road home?” Lowanna asked.
“A new enemy.” Surjan glared.
“A meeting with destiny.” Marty shrugged. “The time is now, and here is the army we’ve been marching toward. We need to meet with whoever is leading this group. Whatever happens, we can’t leave these people who’ve hitched their wagons to ours high and dry.” He shifted his gaze to Surjan. “Did you leave instructions with your guys?”
He nodded. “Usaden has overall command. He and Badis each command a platoon of spear-fighters. Idder commands the sharpshooters. They know that if we don’t return by nightfall, their priority is the safety of the group.”
Marty looked over the group. “We may need to show our talents once we’re inside there.”
“I will sniff like a madman.” Surjan snorted and shook his head.
Kareem rubbed his fingers and grinned.
“I can heal three of them, I think,” Gunther said. “And freeze one of them in his tracks. Not sure whether I have a limit on dropping rocks on people’s heads.”
Lowanna grinned mischievously. “Oh, I think I’ve got something that’ll make them think twice about messing around with us.”
Her expression gave Marty pause. “Are you going to give us a hint about what you have planned?”
“A flock of pigeons,” Gunther guessed, “to poop on everyone who gets in our way?”
“Gunther!” Lowanna feigned outrage. “I’d never do something like that. Besides, who poops on demand?” She turned to Marty and winked. “I think it’s best that I just keep it a secret for now. Most of the fun is being surprised, isn’t it?”
Marty shook his head and raked his fingers through his hair. “Just be ready, anything could happen.” He turned to François and wagged his finger. “Let’s keep your special voice in our back pocket, though. I don’t want to persuade this army . . . artificially . . . and then have them get angry with us later.”
“So I do nothing, then?”
“You carry the banner.”
As Marty led the crew across the quarter-mile gap between the two large groups, he felt a sense of inevitability. The vision he’d had from the beginning laid out a nearly two-month journey, and even with the unexpected delays along the way, somehow it all had managed to work out such that on the exact day they were supposed to encounter an army—the meeting had happened.
It gave him a feeling of confidence; it also bothered him. Marty had no idea what he was getting himself into. These people hadn’t attacked, which was great, but they could be waiting for him to go into the spider’s den and then set off their own trap. Might this be an army of Sethian vassals?
Might they be potential recruits for Marty’s struggle against the Sethians?
But there should be a man seated on a throne, and Marty believed he was supposed to meet him.
This king’s army had dug a ditch around their encampment and set wooden spikes into the bottom of it. The excavated dirt had been heaped up to make a bank on the inside of the ditch. Marty wished he’d done the same with his camp, though it wouldn’t matter if this encounter went well and peace was the result. And anyway, he didn’t have nearly the manpower.
Marty approached a gap in the ditch that had five spear-wielding soldiers on each side. He waved to them and they bowed. “Hail, King Marty.”
King Marty. It was ridiculous, but François had stuck him with it and it had obviously been communicated to the guards. “Hail, good men. I seek an audience with your king.”
The soldiers looked at one another and among them all, not a clue was available.
The soldier who’d attacked him had mentioned someone. “Is there a captain of the guard?”
The soldiers nodded and one of them pointed to the southwest. “The captain has a tent in the southwest corner, not too far from the king’s quarters. But he’s often walking the interior perimeter of the camp, inspecting his men. He could be anywhere in there.”
Marty nodded. “We will find him.”
The guard who’d spoken snapped his fingers, pointed at two warriors on each side of the entrance, and announced, “You will be provided an escort—for your protection, King Marty.”
Four spear-wielding warriors left the entrance and began shadowing the crew’s every movement.
Marty smiled at the soldiers. These men were following certainly not for his protection, but in order to keep an eye on the crew’s activities.
He walked into the king’s camp, with François at his side, carrying the banner of the Broken Ametsu. The rest of the crew followed, and behind them came four nervous-looking soldiers.
Within the perimeter, the tents were set up in blocks with evenly spaced alleys between them. He saw small ditches that looked like latrines under construction, and cooking fires.
“How does anyone find anything in this place?” Surjan whispered.
François motioned to one of the passing soldiers. “My good man, how can we find the captain of the guard?”
The soldier turned and pointed south. “I saw him on patrol not five minutes ago. Follow this path and you should encounter him.” The soldier then rushed in the opposite direction.
They walked through the grid toward the south. They found nothing but the outer barrier and some tents.
A soldier approached along the outer perimeter and Surjan turned to him. “Where is the captain?” the Sikh barked.
The soldier stared at the group and pointed in the direction he’d come from.
Marty and the crew traveled the path between the tents and found themselves in a clearing devoid of tents, a square plaza of packed dirt. Fighters sparred with long sticks as well as blunted swords.
A tall man approached. He wore a thick leather vest, a leather kilt, and sandals; sheathed at his waist was a long-handled bronze mace. He looked up at the banner.
“Strangers, which of you is King Marty?”
François pointed in Marty’s direction.
The man slammed his fist against his own chest. “I’m the captain of the king’s guards. A warrior named Senbi told me you want an audience with the king. No audience will be granted. We have met in peace, we will part in peace. It is enough.”
“I am King Marty. I am also known as Marty the Seer.” Marty drew his ankh and displayed it. The soldier took a step back, his eyes growing wider. “This has given me visions and led me to this place at this time. The gods have told me that I am to meet with your king.”
He had taken some theatrical license, but Marty didn’t feel he was actually lying.
“Nonsense!” A second man approached, shaking his head. His only weapon was a dagger on his belt, but he had a thin gold fillet encircling his forehead. His cape was long and his tunic had a blue fringe. “Stories are easy to come by, mere air. I am Prince Mesu-Ptah, Keeper of the Seal, Sole Companion to His Majesty. Who are you, King Marty, that we should respect your blood? What are your deeds? Who are these gods who cloud your mind? You will not see the king.”
“My good captain, my good prince . . . there must be something that can earn an audience with the king.” François’s voice flowed like warm honey through the clearing and Marty found himself focused on the Frenchman’s every word. “We believe that an audience with King Marty is what your king would want.”
“Prince . . .” Lowanna murmured. “Is this guy the heir?”
“No,” Marty whispered back. “There are lots of princes. He’s just a courtier.”
The captain turned to the prince and said, “Did you see the silver sigil he bears? It must mean something.”
Marty was mildly annoyed that François had gone ahead and used his voice hypnosis trick.
But maybe François couldn’t really help it. Marty couldn’t choose not to hear animals speaking.
The prince’s expression softened a bit. “The king is ill and needs his rest.”
“We can help with healing,” Gunther volunteered. “We have skills in that area.”
The captain shook his head. “Thank you, but we have the best healers. You cannot help.”
Lowanna stepped closer to the prince, put her hands on her hips, and gave the man a smoldering glare. She wore her long-sleeved Tool shirt, travel-stained and torn, and it gave the confrontation an unearthly appearance. “Our magicians are the greatest in the land, Sole Companion of the King. As our gods are the greatest. Turn away King Marty the Seer at your peril, Prince.”
The prince smirked. “I do not fear your gods, Cushite barbarian. Nor your magic tricks.”
Lowanna swept her open palm across the dirt plaza, pointing at all the soldiers who’d paused their sparring to watch their prince and captain interact with the foreigners. “Choose your champion.” She pointed at the center of the clearing. “We fight with our bare hands alone.”
The captain snorted. “Any of my men would kill you.”
“Now only will I defeat your champion,” Lowanna said, “but I will cause him to leave the ring without even touching him.”
Marty imagined boars charging the fighting ground.
“Madness,” the captain said.
Lowanna took two steps toward the captain and stared him in the eyes. “I take it you are the champion?”
Marty’s heart thudded in his chest.
The captain walked over to the sparring circle. The other soldiers fell back and Lowanna also stepped into the circle.
Surjan and the others on the crew shot one another sidelong glances. They looked at Marty and all he could do was shrug.
Lowanna had said and done some strange things on this journey, but she had always made good. Marty watched the encounter with as much apprehension and curiosity as anyone else.
It is warm and dark. Must we leave this nest?
We must do as we are told.
But I have been so comfortably asleep.
Marty looked around. Was he hearing camels talk? Groundhogs?
Lowanna pointed at the captain’s mace and made a flicking motion. “Remember, Captain, no weapons.”
The head of the king’s guard smiled and handed his mace to another soldier, along with a dagger from his belt. He showed his empty hands, spat, and grinned.
Lowanna showed her empty hands as well and took a step closer to the captain.
Did she know judo? But surely, she would have mentioned that to Marty before now.
“You said that I’ll leave this circle without you even having to touch me.” The captain took a step closer to Lowanna and shook his head. “I’m not leaving this circle before you.”
The dark-skinned woman gave the captain a warm smile and purred, “I love a boastful man.” She held her arms out as if she were looking to embrace him, palms up. “Come, give me a hug.”
From each of Lowanna’s sleeves a snake slithered into her outstretched hands. They reared up to show their hooded heads.
The man is frightened.
Do not bite him.
The captain let out a high-pitched yell and scrambled backward. The cobras hissed. The captain danced one way and then the other, and the snakes pivoted to watch him move.
What if he attacks?
He will not. He flees.
“Outside the circle, Captain!” Lowanna called.
He snarled but nodded, and she set the snakes gently on the ground. Marty guffawed at the sight of the captain standing outside the sparring circle while Lowanna’s reptilian friends slithered away.
Lowanna stepped closer to the captain and with a dulcet tone said, “We command the birds of the air and all the beasts of earth. We see all things and we sway the hearts of men. We can heal your king.”
The soldiers gathered in the open space all turned to the prince and the captain. Marty read surprise in their faces, but also uncertainty and hope.
The captain turned to look at the prince, arching his eyebrows.
Prince Mesu-Ptah shook his head at Lowanna and smiled. “Sorcery! But impressive sorcery. Perhaps you will indeed be able to heal the king.”
Marty and the crew stood in front of a tent that was easily five times the size of any of the others. The tent was guarded by four soldiers who were bigger than Surjan, standing beside a broad table. With them stood a short, thin man, clean-shaven and dressed in a light tunic threaded with gold. The short man held the pole of a banner; he must be a herald.
On the banner were painted two hieroglyphs, the same glyph repeated twice. The hieroglyph was the rectangle-and-three-dots sign for ta, meaning, the land. “The two lands” was an old way to refer to Egypt, which meant this had to be an Egyptian force.
But Marty didn’t know an Egyptian king who had used The Two Lands as a throne name.
The herald pointed at the table and motioned to the turbaned warrior. “No weapons inside the tent.” His voice was booming and sonorous.
The prince and captain bowed.
Surjan placed his spear on the table. The herald then opened the tent flap; the tent within was lit, but was darker than the space outside, so Marty saw it as shadow.
The herald announced, “King Marty of the . . .” He looked to Marty and whispered, “What is the name of your kingdom?”
Marty leaned over and whispered, “Connecticut.”
“King Marty of the Kingdom of Connecticut draws near the throne. King Marty is . . .” He looked at Marty, prompting more information.
Marty shrugged.
“The Seer,” François said, “master of many obscure lores.”
The herald repeated the words and looked at Marty again.
Marty shrugged.
“Victor of the battle of Two Shas,” François said, “Scourge of Bast, slayer of the Ametsu. Author of a very well-received monograph on uses of the subjunctive in Afroasiatic languages.”
The herald said the words, stumbling in the second half, then looked at Marty.
Marty looked at François.
“Famed healer,” François said, “freer of the oppressed, giver of food to the hungry, bringer of water. He commands the beasts and they obey. He knows the tongues of the dead. Favored of Thoth, he invents the written word. Wide is his kingdom, bold is his action, and gentle is his heart.”
“That should be enough, right?” Marty asked the herald.
The herald nodded and repeated François’s words.
Marty stepped forward to enter the tent, but the herald stopped him.
“King Marty, I give you the golden Horus, whose crown crushes enemies, whose tongue unites the land, whose word strengthens the weak of heart.”
Marty smiled politely.
“Who strikes foes dead with a mere glance, whose breath blows down kingdoms, the arrow of Sekhmet, the Only True King.”
Marty nodded.
François pushed the banner into the herald’s hands. The herald frowned, but took it.
“How excited are the gods by his presence in their temples! How fearful are the Nine Bows of his presence on their borders! How emboldened are the children of the land at the sound of his name!”
Marty forced himself to keep smiling. He felt he was listening to the introduction of a commencement speaker.
“The King of the Two Lands, he of the sedge and of the bee, Narmer.”
Marty’s heart stopped.
Narmer?
The time was right, but . . . Narmer?
He and the other members of the crew stumbled forward into the tent.
He saw now a throne, the same throne he had seen repeatedly in his vision. But the throne was empty. Beside the throne was a palanquin, and in the palanquin, tended by two priests, lay Narmer of Egypt.
Sick.
Dying.