The Year of the Cobra by Paul C. Doherty

Author:Paul C. Doherty [Doherty, Paul C.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Egypt, historical, religious, military
ISBN: 9780755350452
Google: nZw1AgAAQBAJ
Amazon: B00GU38EO0
Publisher: Headline
Published: 2012-09-25T00:00:00+00:00

My beauty’s arms are soft and tender,

They draw me into her secret garden.

My beauty’s arms are golden cords.

They bind me . . .

Djarka and I, sitting outside the gorgeously decorated cabin, joined in so lustily even Horemheb and Rameses could not resist. We sang as we used to in our small choir of the Kap. The captain rattled out orders and the Hathor reached midstream, her great blue and white sail unfolding to the creak of ropes. The warship turned to catch the wind, and so we began our journey.

Nakhtimin, of course, joined us. Our relationship was formal but friendly. He knew that we had no choice but to accept his terms for the time being; the future was another matter. Nevertheless, it was glorious to be back in Egypt. The Inundation had just finished and the cool breeze made for delightful sailing. Ay must have been relieved, for the flooding was full and strong, deepening the rich black earth, soaking the ground, turning the fields either side of the Nile a delicious fresh green. The villages and towns we passed were busy and contented, their quaysides lined with barges, skiffs, grain boats and merchant craft stuffed to the rails with trade goods for Egypt: wood, resin, gum, ivory, skins, fruits and cereals. The Nile had broken its banks, pouring into the adjoining broad, low basins and canals so its freshness reached the very edge of the Redlands, where peasants, small black figures against an arching blue sky, pushed the thick mud as far as they could to extend their fields before sowing. Cows, sheep and goats stood in this fragrant freshness, lapping at the water, searching for succulent fresh shoots and roots, disturbing all kinds of birds which clustered to prod at the silt. Cranes and herons were plentiful; their harsh cries as they scattered evoked memories of my youth, when Aunt Isithia, that terrible woman, would take me down to the Nile to wait for the white ibis to arrive.

Our journey was serene, disturbed now and again by a child, or a peasant riding a cow at the river’s edge. They’d shout and scream as they glimpsed the majestic might of The Joy of Hathor. The river surface bobbed with the bloated carcasses of animals caught by the flood; vultures circled and swooped around these, only to be disturbed by the ever-present menace of the crocodiles who nosed in, drawn by easy plunder and fresh food. Such scenes were a welcome relief from the horrors of the desert.

When I wasn’t with Djarka, Horemheb or Rameses, I would stand by the rail, one hand clutching the polished wood, the other arm around Nabila, listening to her memories of her childhood in Thebes. It was a time of peace, of gentle recall, before we plunged into the morass of intrigue and treachery at Thebes. I informed Nabila exactly what dangers faced us and what choices we had to make. She, Djarka and myself made a pact with Horemheb and Rameses that we would not discuss what had happened or what was to be done.

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