Shiri by D.S. Page A

anger. He held the man’s gaze, allowing his fingers to slide to the hilt of his sword. The stranger’s eyes followed the movement and suddenly he grinned. The tension passed. “Aye, well, if ever your situation changes, seek Yuya of Heliopolis. I’ll see you get all you deserve.”
    Narmer’s eyes widened. “Ah, so you’re the one everybody’s been talking about! The slayer of the Shepherd Prince! They say Pharaoh was impressed by your tale, if not your jester’s rags. How much gold did he reward you for your services then?”
    The man shrugged. “Enough.” He tossed a handful of coins on the ground next to Narmer and went to the girl. He offered her an outstretched hand and a smile that under other circumstances would have seemed kindly. He saw only hatred in her eyes.

XV
    Solon mopped his brow. Blood was on his hands. Blood was on his clothes. Blood was in his hair and under his fingernails, but still the wounded kept coming. It was ever thus when Pharaoh donned the Blue Crown. Songs told tales of victory and glory. Legend spoke of mighty deeds and heroic death by sword or spear, experience told of tears, whimpers and pain. He shook his head. Easier to close your eyes and sing, than open them and weep.
    He bound their wounds and treated them with all manner of herbs. Oft as not it was the same procedure, there was little time for subtleties. A broth of coriander to reduce fever, honey to resist Sekhmet’s foul vapours, and henna , most commonly found on breast and cheek of great ladies to seal their wounds. Then he would move onto the next. But it was not always so. Fifty times this day he’d sighed and called for a mouthful of belladonna or hemlock to help put an end to a man’s pain.
    He’d tended hundreds so far. Some would live and return to the Two Lands short arm, leg or spirit. Those he accounted lucky. Too many would remain in Jezreel and rest forever beside the folk they had slain. Solon rose from his latest charge. The stretcher bearers had left him in a pretty fix. The man was a rebel plain as day, but they’d bungled him into the carts along with the rest, and it wasn’t until Solon himself had come across him that the mistake had been realised.
    Rebel or not, Solon had tended him all the same. The broken arm had been set with due skill and would mend in time, but his ribs were crushed, his leg twisted and deformed. A moment Solon contemplated the hemlock. But the man had opened his eyes and the surgeon saw strength there. Holding a damp cloth to the man’s brow, he called for a broth of coriander. His patient’s eyes flicked open a second time. “You ... save Aretas ... Aretas thank you.”
    “You best be keeping your mouth shut or the only thing I’ll have saved you for is Amenhotep’s dogs.”
    The man looked confused, but Solon’s herbal concoction seemed to be bringing his senses back. “You trouble now?”
    “‘Tis not my place to haul in the wound ed or recognise friend from foe. I’m just here to tend those put before me. I shouldn’t even be here truth be told, this old man’s a bowyer by trade, but ‘tis my curse to be master of more than one art.”
    “You good man.”
    “A foolish man more like,” he grinned. “Your Egyptian is a deal better than most in these parts.”
    “Prince Josef teach me some word, he good man too.”
    “He was a good man.” Solon corrected. “And a more foolish one than me at that – fancy thinking he could play at war when young master Tuthmosis is about? Now there’s a rare form of lunacy and no mistake.” He shrugged, “Well, he got a knife in the neck for his troubles.”
    Aretas slumped back on the stretcher , but Solon imagined he saw a thin smile on his lips. Aretas closed his eyes. He’d dragged his broken body for nearly a mile through death and blood until finally he came to where Prince Josef had been impaled. The Gypto’s had meant the display to be a warning to any who would dare dream of freedom.
    Aretas had sworn to