E-Book, Englisch, 304 Seiten
Krug Pharaoh's Gold
1. Auflage 2024
ISBN: 978-1-80336-621-0
Verlag: Titan Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
E-Book, Englisch, 304 Seiten
ISBN: 978-1-80336-621-0
Verlag: Titan Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
Thomas Krug lives in Schwenksville, Pennsylvania. He studied newswriting at the University of Scranton, only to quickly realize the futility of a career in the press, instead choosing to devote his writing skills to novels. When not whittling away at manuscripts, he can be found gluing together model tanks (but more often his fingers) while he listens to history podcasts. He previously saw service in Afghanistan as an officer in the United States Army.
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THE DUPLICITOUS PEACE
WE OUGHT TO make a habit of this,” said Kalab.
Tariq cracked his eyes, then shut them again and settled deeper into his cushioned couch. “Compelling argument.”
Middling and pastoral as the Judeans may have been, they weren’t stingy about their luxuries. The idea, Kalab had gathered, was not to flaunt it. Glory belonged to the gods alone. Not that he quite understood that himself; he’d grown up in the shadow of gargantuan temple complexes, their sides etched with the triumphs of Egypt’s great men. Still—he was of the priestly class. He appreciated the Judean sentiment.
The acolyte shifted slightly and repositioned the pillow behind his back. His weight caused the bowl to skid beneath his feet, squeaking on the mosaic floor and sloshing an appreciable amount of warm water onto the servant girl’s lap. With a gasp, she rose and fled, holding her wet skirt away from her body.
“Oh stop, it’s just a bit of water,” he called after her, though he knew she wouldn’t understand a word.
“What’d you do now?” said Tariq.
Kalab raised his eyebrows at Yesbokhe. “Look. Tariq’s speaking in sentences again.”
The scout, as usual, made no remark. He lifted his grail amiably and resumed watching a second girl rinse his feet, apparently just as bemused by the local custom as they all were.
Tariq shook his head. His red braids wagged. “Only because I’m finished watching how you torture the women.”
“I’m not torturing them, I’m neglecting them.”
“Is it truly that big a difference?”
“As someone who knows how to read: yes. Yes, it is.” Kalab regretted the barb the moment it left his mouth, but Tariq fortunately chose not to respond. Relieved to be rid of the topic, Kalab turned to Nawidemaq and asked, “What do the gods have to say this afternoon, medicine man?”
Nawidemaq didn’t look up from the trinkets spread in an arc between his stuck-out legs. No servant girl for him, despite the vinegary foot odor that permeated the palace room allotted them. Nawidemaq had no time for such trifling things as basic hygiene. He was always busy with his little bag of gods. Bits of them, in any event. An ivory toe, a knot of copper rods, a seashell amulet, a clay eyeball—scraps of local divinities filched from seemingly every corner of the world.
“In Jerusalem, there is only one god,” Nawidemaq piped.
“I have it on good authority that they had a collection of gods to rival yours, up until recently,” said Tariq.
“No. Only one. He does not speak to foreigners. Other gods are quiet. Bad sign.” Apparently deciding the conversation was over, Nawidemaq returned to his whispered—and one-way—consultations.
“That’s so vague, the man may as well have not said anything at all,” whined Kalab.
“You’re in fine form today,” snapped Tariq. “Mistreating everybody, friends and strangers alike.”
“Are you still stewing over the spilled bowl? It was an accident.”
“Not just the bowl. Everything you’ve just said! We’ve all been through enough without you flinging shit about! These women, most of all.”
Kalab leaned down for a better look at the girl who was now dabbing Tariq’s feet dry. She noticed his scrutiny and hid behind her black curls. “I could use some fun, now that you mention it. Do they have whores in this prudish city, you think?”
“I don’t bother with brothels,” shrugged Tariq. “I’m good with girls. You, on the other hand…”
Now it was Kalab’s turn to be indignant. “That is simply false. You remember how it was with Amani before.”
Tariq made a scoffing sound. “You’re in the right. I do remember. She thought even less of your whoring than I do.”
Nawidemaq said, unbidden, “In eastern lands, priests do not…” He searched for a word, and finding none, made an obscene motion. “Not allowed. Gods do not like.”
Kalab frowned. “Being a priest is a job. You say the words, you make the offerings. I don’t see what fucking people in brothels has to do with it.”
Tariq pressed his hands together in thanks as his servant girl rose. She offered a fleeting smile and left with her bowl. “Pakheme would have been able to tell you. He was good.”
“Are you saying I’m not?”
“I’m starting to doubt it,” admitted Tariq. He turned toward the door at the instant Amani came through it. She looked almost instinctively to Kalab first, but her face pinched in self-reproach, and she said to Tariq instead, “The Assyrians are gone.”
They all jumped up at once.
“They lifted the siege!” the redhead exclaimed. “We beat the bastards!”
Kalab exchanged a hug with Yesbokhe, then a more reluctant one with Tariq. Amani folded her arms to ward off the acolyte’s approach. Pretending he hadn’t noticed the slight, he announced, “We’ll need to finish all this wine straight away. There won’t be much to go around once Taharqa brings his whole damned army through the gate.”
“I can’t think of a worse priest,” said Tariq, this time without the bite. “Amun gives us victory, and the first thing you can think of is getting drunk. Let’s find a lamb to sacrifice. We’ll eat it after.”
Amani’s whistle cut through their banter. “If you idiots would let me get a fucking word in, that’s the second piece of news. Taharqa is leaving too.”
“Without us,” Kalab said in growing dismay.
“Did his runner tell you that?” asked Tariq.
The thief shook her head. “He didn’t send us one.”
Yesbokhe broke the stretching silence by repeating the medicine man’s prognosis. “Bad sign.”
* * *
Pisaqar stood with poise that was altogether forced. Inauspicious as this day had proven, he’d never seen much advantage in displaying anything but ready capability. It was projection of strength that had won him his first plaudits as a soldier of Khemet, elevated him to the ranks of the medjay, and finally to the pharaoh’s court itself, teaching his deadly trade to the sons of greater men than he. None of his achievements had come by way of bluster. He was a proven artisan of his craft.
Yet I failed.
The ruined city before him was hardly his fault, but it seemed appropriate testament to the futility of his supposed accomplishment. Foiled at Jerusalem, the foul Assyrians had chosen to spend their wrath on poor Lacish instead. They had pulled down the walls and cast them down the hill, leaving the city itself naked before their fury. Pillars of black smoke rose from the crumbled piles of bricks and combined into a great pillar so high that the gods themselves could have choked on ash. As for the people of Lacish, King Sennacherib flaunted the punishment he’d inflicted on them. He’d executed every man and piled their corpses against the sundered gatehouse, leaving an opening just large enough for their women, children, and aged to pass through into captivity. If Pisaqar squinted, he could just make out the heads of the city elders spiked above the gate.
It was an ominous backdrop to the peace negotiations. Pisaqar had always taught his students to bargain from a position of strength. The Assyrian king, Sennacherib, also knew that lesson well. And in case the awful fate of Lacish hadn’t made his ascendancy clear, he’d arrayed the balance of his army on the plain before it. This was his main force, the one that had smashed Crown Prince Shebitku’s vanguard at Eltekeh and fanned out across the breadth of Judah, pillaging—he had heard it claimed—no less than two score towns and villages.
But not Jerusalem.
In truth, Sennacherib’s show of strength was merely that. Jerusalem had been the capstone to his entire campaign, the glittering prize, and the Assyrian king had failed to grasp it. The force he’d entrusted with its capture—deprived first of water, then its bows, engineers, siege engines, trumpets, and officers—had finally been forced to break their siege. Now, Taharqa had brought the full weight of Pharaoh Shabaku’s army to Judah to fight a battle that Sennacherib could not afford to lose.
Pisaqar would have gladly reminded the general of all this—except his former student hadn’t sought out his counsel. In fact, he’d been omitted. Left behind at Jerusalem in the apparent hope that he would simply stay there.
Pisaqar had not obliged. He’d followed. Now he stood anonymous amid the tense ranks of Taharqa’s great army. He couldn’t help but shudder at the thought of Taharqa—headstrong, irascible Taharqa, with his bellicose tongue and his ever rapid glare—attempting to broker peace with another young man who was every bit as volatile.
Murdered Lacish would attest to that.
The mercenary captain waited beneath the shrouded sun, breathing shallowly of the corpse-tainted air. He prayed.
When King Sennacherib and General Taharqa finally emerged, they were hand in hand. The two men could hardly have been starker opposites. Taharqa was bare-chested with a leopard-skin cloak, a golden skull cap, and a pleated kilt. He was an imposing giant of a man, his body swollen to encompass his vast pride.
Sennacherib, in turn, looked every bit the part of a warrior king. He moved with grace, untroubled by the weight of the armored bands encircling his chest. He held his head at a regal tilt to display a square-cut beard that was at odds with...
