Day of the False King Read Online Free PDF Page B

shelter to Isin
traitors. Our brigade was sent here to…” The lieutenant paused to once
again search for the correct word. “…to
demand
that they turn
the Isins over to us, or be destroyed.”
    Semerket looked about. The citizens of Mari
evidently had not yielded to the Elamites’ request.
    “Is everyone dead, then?”
    “Eh.” The lieutenant shrugged
philosophically. “Most fled to swamps. Very disappointing. Mari is poor
city. No gold for soldiers, you know. No loot.”
    Stepping over fallen bricks and charred
lumber, Semerket turned to the lieutenant. “I don’t suppose there’s an
inn where I could take rooms? I’ve walked most of the day, and would be
glad of a bed.”
    “Priests of Bel-Marduk keep a hostel for
travelers — but they, too, flee to marshes.”
    “What about food?”
    The lieutenant shook his head, but then his
eyes brightened with joy. “You eat with us! With officers! We share our
rations with you and you tell us stories from Egypt. Come…come.”
    Just as the last rays of the sun deserted
them, they reached the Elamite headquarters. From a half-burned-out
building at the far end of the walkway, he heard a cacophony of voices
spilling into the courtyard, all speaking a gregarious Elamite.
    “This way,” said the lieutenant, pointing.
“We take our meals in the cooking shed, yonder.”
    As Semerket entered the ruined shed, the
soldiers gathered there turned to stare at him — twelve of them,
Semerket counted. Old instincts in him made him note all the doors and
exits. When he was sure of their location, he turned his attention
again to the men. They sat on the floor on a carpet, in the center of
which was a large steaming kettle.
    The lieutenant spoke rapidly to them in his
own tongue. Semerket could not follow most of it, but thought he
recognized
per-ah,
the Elamite word for “Pharaoh.”
Ramses
came out “Rah-may-seeyu” — at least, that is what Semerket assumed the
word meant.
    The commander was a short, thick plug of a
man with sinewy arms lavishly scarred from battle. Without rising, he
hailed Semerket from the carpet.
    “Egyptian!” he called in his gravelly voice,
speaking a more unintelligible Babylonian than even the lieutenant.
“Here! Come!” He indicated a seat of honor beside him.
    Semerket walked carefully around the
perimeter of men and took his place beside the commander. A slave
lingering near the hearths, a man of Semerket’s age, staggered forward,
gripping a ewer and a basin. Chains, Semerket noticed, bound the man’s
legs together.
    The slave placed the basin on Semerket’s
lap. In perfect Egyptian he said, “I am going to wash your hands now,
sir.”
    Semerket’s head shot up. His expression must
have been one of shock, for instantly the Elamite officers roared out
in protest, jumping to their feet and reaching for their swords. They
lunged at the slave as if they would hack him to pieces on the spot.
    “No!” said Semerket quickly. “No, I was just
surprised to hear him speak Egyptian. He only wanted to wash my hands!”
    As if debating whether Semerket spoke the
truth, the commander hesitated, then gave a shake of his head. The
officers sat back down on the rug, but kept their hands on the hilts of
their swords and menace in their expressions.
    “Slave is nothing,” said the commander.
“Only Dark Head we capture in battle. We kill later.” He drew his
finger across his throat, and laughed.
    The slave hurriedly dried Semerket’s hands
with a towel. With his back to the Elamites, he whispered so that only
Semerket could hear, again in Egyptian. “Help me, lord,” he said. “I’m
a dead man if you don’t prevent it.”
    Semerket’s expression did not change. The
soldier next to him passed him the basket of bread. Semerket took a
piece and dipped it into the pot of tasty stew. The meat was
surprisingly flavorful, though he was unfamiliar with the animal from
which it came. He only hoped it was not the flesh of some Dark