Soldier of Sidon, page 19
Their horses were better than ours, but the men of Parsa plied the bow well and kept them off for a time, turning in the saddle and shooting behind them. They were fine bowmen and dropped man after man until their last arrow had been spent.
I told them to ride hard and save the women, that I would fight and delay our pursuers. They would not obey, but followed me with their war axes while the rest rode away.
How much blood Falcata drank then! It is a terrible thing to kill a woman's son, I know. Yet it does not feel terrible to me when he has come to kill me. Falcata caught the arm as the great sword went up, again and again until my horse fell.
They came with bows and Myt-ser'eu when their dead lay thick before me.
I cannot write the horse's name. That is the thought that returns and returns, no matter how often I send it away. It is all around me, like the flies. The horse could not tell me his name. I feel sure I must once have known it, but I have forgotten it. Poor horse, with no one but me to grieve for him!
I wet the reed in my blood, hoping it makes good ink. So I will write of him.
He fell, and I knew it meant he was dead. He was a fine horse, brown with a black mane, like many horses, but spirited and eager to obey. I had ridden him to his death, and I could not save him or save myself.
I killed a great, strong man with many scars. It was like killing the night, but a man. The look of surprise as Falcata caught his shoulder and bit to the heart. He had fought many times, no doubt sometimes in great battles. Twenty-to-one now against we four soldiers, yet it was his last. He had never thought to die so. I would rather have had those broad shoulders and mighty arms for me than against me, but he fell to my sword, and I was glad of it.
Then my horse fell beneath me. What was his name? As it was for him, so it is for me. I had thought that horse would never fail me. Nor had he thought to fail me, I know, nor any rider. We had taken him from someone, I feel sure. I wish I knew from whom, and how we came to take him.
I recall the little house, and the household god squatting by the hearth, ugly and good. My father bringing dried vine dressings to feed our fire, my mother stirring soup. How did the boy become the man who rode beside the lovely brown woman in the black wig? When we turned to fight, she shouted, “Myt-ser'eu! I'm Kitten!” lingering too long before turning to flee as I had told her, turning to wave from the saddle, so slender and beautiful.
I told the soldiers from Parsa to protect her, but they would not obey me. Kakia was stirrup-to-stirrup with me when the arrow pierced his throat. Never did I trust his courage until the moment he died.
IF I WERE a god, my horse would live again, and speak to me. I would call him by name, and mount, and ride away. We would ride through the sky, far away to another, better land.
They held a knife to the kitten's throat, and I handed them Falcata.
Now my guard has cut my ropes, letting me write as I do. He could see I was too weak to stand. What danger am I to him now? To anyone? I thought to find no such kindness from his hard, dark face, no kindness from anyone. I do not believe I have ever been cruel, and wish I had been kinder.
If I had not surrendered Falcata, I would have been pierced by a score of arrows, long arrows with iron heads or stone ones. What harm in that? Am I better off as I tremble here, writing by firelight with a brush wet with my blood?
GEESE FLY OVERHEAD, flying by night, calling like new boots across the sky to their fellows. It may be the last sound I hear. Every man hears a last sound. For many it must be the clash of arms. That is a good last sound, but the shouts of geese in flight is a better one. We sink into the earth, down into the shadow lands of the dead, where I shall drink from Death's river to forget a life I cannot remember.
MY GUARD HAS been speaking to me. There is a tongue he speaks well that I barely understand. He can speak as I spoke to Myt-ser'eu, although less well, I think, than I. I asked him the name of my horse, but he did not know it. He said I must lie down and sleep so I may live. He tied my hand to his so he might sleep himself. The cord is long enough to let me spread this and write as I do. I would rather write than sleep tonight.
What if I die?
Soldiers fight, and kings take the spoil. What does a soldier get? A few coins, perhaps, a ring from a dead man's finger, and many scars. What does a horse get? Only death. We ride them, and they—our kings—ride us.
I remember the hot, bright sun, and others I hoped to save. These men have Myt-ser'eu. She was guarded when last I saw her.
This fire lights my scroll but does not warm me.
I told her to run. I wanted her to gallop away while I fought, wanted all of them to gallop away while I fought my last fight. How is it they have her? Are there two Kittens? I remember her smile and her eyes, so wide and so full of terror. The horse my legs held, his rippling muscles.
If a lion were to roar, I would be well, my wound healed. I told my guard this. There is no lion, only another flock of geese, geese flying by moonlight, tracing the distant river through the hot, still air. The Realm of Death is dark and cold—Mother told me. Death's name is Dis Pater, and he is the richest of all gods, with more subjects than any other, and still more arriving daily to people a dark, dank land so broad that it is never full.
Who will welcome me there? I have forgotten all the names, even the name of my horse. I sweat, and fear my sweat will make this ink run. Is it not my blood? Why should it not run now?
We saw them coming over the dry plain, riding hard behind us and faster than we. There was wind, a wind that stirred the dust and sent small white clouds scudding across the bright blue sky, hot clouds that never dimmed the sun. Can any sky be bluer than the sky here? Can any sun be harsher? More blinding? This sky never stretched above our little house. Ours is surely another sky, another sun.
“Ride!” I told the soldiers of Parsa. “Ride! Keep her safe. I'll kill the leaders and the rest will stop to kill me.”
I drew Falcata. Oh, her bright blade flashing in the sun! Who is the man with the silver sword? If my foes did not speak so, I did.
I reined up and swung the mount, my strong, brown, black-maned stallion, to face them. How bravely he answered to the reins, galloping to his death!
He reared with flashing hooves when I pulled him up. I waved Falcata aloft and charged them all. If he impaled himself upon a lance, he lived long afterward. How long does it take to reap men like grain? A dozen breaths? A hundred?
But first, oh, first how we roared across the plain, Baginu to one side, Kakia to the other, and I saw Kakia die. Had I a shield? I remember none, or only Baginu's.
I took a shield from a dead man when my horse fell. I remember that, ducking, dodging, Falcata biting deep into the legs, red blood on black skin, Falcata biting through the blanket and wounding the mount.
They drew off, save for one crippled man, a cripple for life now, who dragged himself toward me. I struck his hand with the back of my blade, and his long dagger went flying.
Then they brought Myt-ser'eu with the knife at her throat.
I AM WEAK and sick, and cold. So cold. The fire came. I spoke to so many others, a crone, a cow with the body of a woman, an eagle on a staff. “Follow me,” the eagle said. “Follow me!” But he has gone where I cannot follow. How I thirsted then, who shiver now in this cold!
There is no warmth in this fire. None. Only burning.
My wounds ache and bleed. Soon I will die. Tell Mother I fled no fight. Tell them in the Forum. I came and have gone. I am …
My name is …
PART II
28
A STRANGE AWAKENING!
A WHISPER IN my ear woke me: “Read this. …” No doubt I woke too slowly; by the time I sat up, there was no one there. I looked for the speaker and saw this case, which lay close beside me. It is of well-tanned leather, stout but scarred and worn. Beginning to crack. I would oil it, had I oil. In it were this scroll, papyrus reeds for brushes, this block of ink, and a small dagger with an eye in its grip. No one was in sight, and the men to my left and right slept soundly, if men so ill can be said to sleep at all.
The man on my left will surely die. I thought at first he might be dead, but he is only sleeping. O you merciful gods, let him sleep and cough and sleep again, never to wake. That would be kindest.
The day brightened and I could read this. “L” forgets, it said. I cannot remember who I am. Am I this “L”? I write as he did, and in truth our letters are much alike. It may be the reason this was left with me.
Here everyone is ill. Some cannot sit up—I feel sure the man on my left could not. There is blood each time he coughs. There is an old scar on my head, above the ear. I can feel it under my hair, but it cannot be the reason I am here. I am very thin; even so it was hard for me to stand, and I sat again almost before I rose.
I wish I could look out the window. My chain is too short for it. There is an iron ring about my right ankle. The chain ends at another ring in the floor. We are all so chained.
I HAVE BEEN trying to talk with the man on my right. I could understand a few words of his speech, but only a few. He showed me his wound, which is far from healed. He rode (two fingers forking one). He fought (his hands drawing a bow). He was wounded below the ribs, I suppose by an arrow of his enemy's. I asked whether I had shot that arrow. He laughed and shook his head.
He showed me how I had lain on my pallet, babbling and thrashing about, standing sometimes and shouting—all this in pantomime. So I have been mad. I think I must be sane this morning. If I am sane, why can I not remember? I cannot have been mad all my life. I can read this, and write as it is written. No one could teach a madman to read and—
THE MAN TO my right took my arm and told me to hide this. I did, and in a few moments more the man with the spear and the woman had reached my pallet. She is small and young. Her back and arms show the marks of the stick, and I would like to beat the man who did it.
As I will when I can.
A chain smaller and lighter than mine joins her hands. It is long enough for her to hold her tablet and stylus, and write. The tall man with the spear grinned at us, finding us most amusing. She did not grin, but smiled at me. I watched to see whether she smiled at the others, but she did not, looking at each and writing. I wish she had spoken. I wish I could hear her voice.
The man on my right says we are to be sold, I think as rowers. He pointed to us, and counted coins that were not there. I tried to tell him I am no one's slave. He did not understand, or perhaps only did not believe me; but I know I spoke truth.
I HID THIS and brought it with me. Here is what I did. A smith came early this morning and chained us by the neck, not all of us—only eleven others and I. Each of us has a ring about his neck, closed with a bronze pin the smith crimped to hold it shut. He cut the rings about our ankles, putting each upon a little anvil and striking it with a chisel.
When we left we rolled up our pallets and carried them out of the city on our heads. I had hidden this brown case as well as I could, putting it in the angle of the wall behind my pallet and sprinkling it with brown dust I scratched from the floor. Before we left, I rolled it into my pallet. We marched all day, guarded by four men with spears and shields or shields and clubs. There are women with us. They are chained as we are, but are kept from us. One smiled at me, and my heart flew to her. With my eyes I tried to say that we would soon be free together. I hope she understood. Now everyone sleeps, and I watch the stars and write by firelight.
I DO NOT know how long it has been since I last wrote. Perhaps it was only last night. I hope so. She I love waved and shouted when a ship passed, at a place where the road runs near the river. A guard beat her for it. I killed him, dragging the others after me, knocking him down, and breaking his neck. The other three with spears and clubs wanted to kill me, but she stood between us shrieking. Our owner came. He spoke to her, and she to me. He showed me his sword. Here is what she said, the first quickly.
“I'm Kitten—you're Latro.” More slowly now. “We belong to Master. He sees you're strong and brave. You must stand with him or against him. If you stand against him, he'll kill you. Will you stand with him?”
She nodded very slightly as she spoke, so I nodded as well.
He spoke and she said, “You are his. That does not change.”
I nodded again because she had.
“He will take your chain off and give you the dead man's shield and club, but you must swear to guard the others and obey him in everything.”
I swore, holding my left hand above the fire and pointing to the sun with the club he gave me. How am I to keep this oath if I forget all that I said? Will the gods by whom I swore condemn me for breaking an oath I will soon have forgotten?
Surely they will. That is the way of gods.
We have marched a long way since these things happened, leaving the dead man lying in the dust like a dead dog. The other guards hate me, but I am safe as long as they fear me.
NOW WE BELONG to the young priest who rides a white mule. He met us on the road this morning. I could understand some bits of the many things he said to our old master, though not everything. He wished to buy me. Our old master said he did not wish to sell me—that I was strong and brave and would fight for my owner. There is something he wants in the south. The people there will give him a piece as long as he is tall for me.
The priest said our old master offended his god in every way, that he was the stinking excrement of a depraved woman of no family. At last they agreed on a price, which the priest paid, and at once both began to smile. Only then did the priest speak to me, telling me to go with him.
I pretended not to understand, shaking my head and looking at the ground. Our old master spoke to the woman I love, and she to me, saying I must go. I told her truly that I would not go without her.
The priest struck me, and my eyes must have shown what I planned to do as soon as we were alone. I feel sure they did, because I saw the fear rush into his.
He spoke to the woman, saying he regretted striking me, and that he would be kind from this day forward. I pretended not to understand until the woman said it. I told her, “That's all very well, but I will not go without you.”
She explained to the priest, at which our old master grinned widely and began to praise her. She is lovely and obedient, can read and write, can sing and play the lute in her wooden case.
At last everything was arranged between them. This woman is called Myt-ser'eu, and she is my wife. She explained these things later, as we walked. I think it fortunate—I love her and am glad indeed to learn that I have already won her. We were traveling south on a fine large ship, but left the ship to fight the people here and were taken and sold.
MYT-SER'EU SAYS I must write so I will not forget. We are going to a place called Meröe. We do not belong to the priest who guides us, but to his temple. It is the last temple—I overheard him telling her this. There are no more temples south of his. She wept to hear it. She is under the protection of a goddess and says her goddess cannot see her here. I tried to comfort her.
A strange thing happened just before midday. A beetle struck my chest and clung there. I could not brush it away. She said it was a sacred beetle and should not be touched or harmed. I promised not to pluck it off, believing it would soon fly again. It did not, but seized the string around my neck and held on to it, swinging and tapping my chest as I walked. I examined it quite carefully a moment ago, and it is enameled gold. She says it is another I wore before we were taken, a seal. I must surely have hidden it in the case in which we keep this scroll. If I had hidden it, there or anywhere, would I not remember finding it today?
The young priest rides a fine white mule. His name is Holy Kashta. My wife rides a donkey. She says she walked at first, as I do, but could not keep pace with us all day in this heat. My wife's donkey also carries a little food and other things. My wife keeps this scroll case for me when we travel, so that I do not have to carry it. I hang my club in the loops on the back of my shield and sling my shield behind me. When the sun is high I carry it on my head for shade.
Here the road leaves the river, which roars over rocks. The people of this village say a ship was taken apart here and carried south over the road, then launched again, which seems to me nearly as strange as the sacred beetle that has become my necklace. They were well paid to help carry the ship, and gave us food freely. My Myt-ser'eu says we had to threaten the people at the place where we stopped last night. I do not recall it. Fresh fish and flat barley cakes are our food, with the dates and raisins her donkey carries. Holy Kashta has blessed this place.
He tells us of his god, Seth, whom he says is very great. All gods are very great, I think, when their priests speak of them. Four temples remain in his city, that of Seth to which we belong, that of Isis, that of Apedemak, and that of the Sun. That of Seth is the southernmost, the last temple in his city and in all the world. My wife fears this god greatly.
“THE ROAD GOES south, always south.” Myt-ser'eu says this, and weeps. Her home, she says, lies far to the north, near the Great Sea—each step carries her farther from it. Mine too lies on a shore of that sea, she says. She does not know where. I said I would bind the priest, beat him, and steal a boat. In it we could follow the river north to her home. She said we would be pursued and retaken long before we reached Kemet, and that its southern border was still whole months of travel from her home. Our best chance, she said, was to follow the ship we had left, on which are many strong friends. Or else to win our freedom from the temple.
“The last temple,” I said.
She agreed that it was the last—the priest says this—but wanted to know why I thought it important.
I did not know, nor do I know now. The answer may be in this scroll, as she says. But I could not find it tonight.
WE ARE IN Meröe, housed in the temple of Seth, the Great God of the South. Meröe is built on an island in the Great River. Our temple is at the southern end of this island, as is proper for Great Seth. Its door beholds the sun in winter—Holy Kashta says this.
