The Crook and Flail by L. M. Ironside & Libbie Hawker

Author:L. M. Ironside & Libbie Hawker [Ironside, L. M. & Hawker, Libbie]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Ancient, Historical Fiction, Egypt, Biographical, Middle Eastern, Historical, African, Literature & Fiction, Genre Fiction, History
Amazon: B00BSDZMT2
Publisher: Running Rabbit Press
Published: 2013-03-18T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY

“KA-KHEM! KA-KHEM SHORE AHEAD!” THE voice of the man high in the ship's rigging fell upon the deck thin and distorted. Hatshepsut had been sipping beer in her cabin, her women gossiping at her side; when she heard the man's words she leaped to her feet and strode into the open air. It was mid-day. The sky was bright, a high watery haze refracting the sun into a glow that made her blink tears from her eyes. The man in the rigging came shimmying down the mast. He had a dark cloth tied about his face; a small slit allowed his eyes to peek out at the bright world.

The captain came forward and slapped the man on the back. “Good! We'll moor before the sun is halfway to the horizon.”

She sighed with relief. Adventure was more exhausting than she had imagined. She had slept in a different bed each night, and though the nobles and governors who hosted her were suitably gracious – even in the most rural of sepats – she suspected it was the unfamiliar beds which had allowed the dreams of Hathor and her strange priestesses to haunt her. She expected to stay in Ka-Khem for several days. The regular rest should do her some good.

As the afternoon progressed, the sepat of Ka-Khem appeared on the gray northern horizon. It was a blur of golden green distorted by the haze. As Biddable Mare drew closer, Hatshepsut could pick out the low, blocky forms of buildings and the individual plumes of smoke where farmers burned refuse in preparation for the sowing to come. Before long the scents of the shoreline – cattle dung and fish offal, the dry, harsh smell of caulking lime – came drifting over the water. Sounds, too, at last could be made out beyond the splash of water against the prow. Men laughed and shouted as they worked along the shore. Children sang their chanting games. Intermittent and faint, the high reedy call of a flute crested above the rest, a bird calling high in a far-off tree. She had reached her destination. Perhaps the hardest part was already done. In a few days Nebseny would be in her hand, and she would remain God's Wife, unchallenged.

The tjati and his family greeted her at the shoreline, as each governor had done at each sepat she had visited these two weeks past. This time, though, she sized Ankhhor up with a wary eye. He was as unassuming a man as Hatshepsut had ever seen. His face was thin and dry with age, but he looked sturdy enough despite his years, with an unbent back and a smoothness to his shoulders that spoke of a confident strength. His eyes were deep-set and calm, his mouth firm but not hard. He wore a fine, long kilt of the southern style, elaborately wrapped and pleated at the front: a subtle concession to courtly fashion, no doubt intended to emphasize his loyalty to the throne. His wife, the Lady Iah, wore the round-cut Nubian wig that was so stylish amongst Waset's well-to-do wives.

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