Egyptians of this era made those Manchu mandarins look like web junkie change-aholics. There were times when he daydreamed about sailing a gunboat up the Water of Ra-the Canoptic branch of the Nile-and blowing the vizier's residence sky-high with a few shells from an eighteen-pounder, himself. Lately that had replaced strangling William Walker as his favorite fantasy.
The chariot trotted out of the high, blank, whitewashed wall that surrounded the palace complex and onto a long avenue lined with sphinxes; most bore the head of Ramses, although some had that of a curl-horned ram, the symbol of Amun, with little statues of Ramses tucked under their chins.
Yeah, the symbolism runs from I am God to God Really Likes Me. Hot shit.
Pi-Ramses was a planned city, and only about forty years old; it had many processional ways like this, as well as plenty of twisting, slimy alleys in the poorer quarters. The streets here were quiet; now and then a noble lady with her parasol-bearer sheltering her from the sun, a shaven-headed priest with a leopardskin over his shoulder, a Libyan mercenary in cloak and penis sheath, a Syrian merchant with curled beard and long striped wool robe and train of porters, or slaves from as far away as Punt or Alba on errands. Sometimes a unit of spearmen or archers or musketeers marched along to the beat of a drum. Those were like a horizontal bongo slung around the musician's neck, beaten with the hands; a glittering fan-shaped standard on a pole went before.
McAndrews's own town villa wasn't far from the palace, a mark of favor. It had a perimeter wall, too, enclosing stables, gardens, ornamental pools, pillared halls-all on a smaller scale than the palace, of course, but that must be like living in a monster hotel. This was something altogether more civilized, once he'd installed Achaean-made water filters, shower, bath, and flush Johns. And given everyone a dose for worms.
He'd almost gotten used to the lack of privacy a great man had to endure in this era. It was still a relief when he was alone in the north loggia-alone except for Miw-Sherri. She smiled and handed him a cup of pomegranate juice, a slender brown girl in a long sheath dress banded in bright colors. That and the gold necklace set off skin one shade darker than his. She was a daughter of Ramses himself, not by a Great Wife or even acknowledged concubine, of course; informally, by a harem attendant. It was still a major honor, another sign of Pharaoh's favor…
"What I hadn't expected was to actually like her," he said to himself-again in English.
He hadn't had one woman around for long since Ygwaina died in childbirth, just before they got chased out of Alba. Even now, he shuddered at that memory. Could Hong have saved her, if she'd given a damn? Walker had told him Captain Alston was raising the daughter he'd never seen-told him with that goddamn half smile, half sneer…
His son by Miw-Sherri was going on nine months now, and both were doing fine.
"My husband?" Miw-Sherri-the name meant "kitten"-said.
"Just thanking the Gods for you, Sherri," he said, and she snuggled in against him. Egyptians didn't have the Achaean taboo on public displays of affection.
"And thinking deep thoughts," she said, poking a finger into his midriff. "Forgetting that Djehuty and Takushet are coming to dinner."
He slapped his forehead and grinned at her. "I leave all that to you," he said. "Like the wise man in the tale, I 'watch and am silent, recognizing your talents.''
"Go then, go," she said, laughing. At seventeen she was young but a woman by Egyptian standards, and proud of her skill at managing a great nobleman's household.
He went, out into the private garden near the villa's chapel. There he stripped to his loincloth and took up the bokken, looking forward to burning off some of the frustration of a meeting at the palace. He'd gotten into the iajutsu habit during the years with Walker-relaxing, and healthy, and occasionally horribly useful. The household staff knew better than to disturb the master. He lost himself in the movements, patterned choreography of breath and will, until he looked up two hours later, running with sweat and chest heaving deep and slow. Something teased at his awareness-
Blank-faced, he took up Marlins's dai-katana, sliding the long steel free of the sheath and raising it in both hands, right hand over left on the long hilt.
"I'll be with you in a minute," he said, without looking over his shoulder. Then:
"Disssaaaaa!"
The blade swept down, right to left, and the shoulder and arm of the papyrus-reed man-shape before him fell in a clump, the tough springy reeds sheered clear away. Another kia, and the return sweep bisected the whole figure.
He turned. The man leaning on his spear watching him was so black that he almost vanished in the shadow of the painted wooden pillars that upbore the portico, like a statue carved in ebony; as tall as McAndrews but a little more lightly built. His kilt was the skin of lions, and a swath of the mane lay on his shoulders; his face was marked by three parallel sets of gouges on each cheek, and by a lion's steady stare from dark eyes. Raw gold circled his arms, a necklace of lion fangs and gold around his neck, and a light bronze Egyptian army-issue fighting ax was tucked into his belt.
"You speak this language?" McAndrews said in Egyptian, going through the ritual of cleaning and sheathing the blade, his hands and face steady as rock despite the hammering of his heart.
"I learn it from traders," the other man said, and nodded. Ocher-dyed braids moved, and the ostrich plumes they carried. "And to fight the Horse Masters, the men of Khem. I am Ghejo, chief among the Marazwe, whom your messenger gave safe-conduct over the border and north to this place."
Suddenly he grinned, teeth very white. "I knew that you were rich, Mek-Andrus. I had heard that you were a wizard, and believed it, from the weapons you gave the Horse Masters. I had heard also that you were a warrior… and now I believe that, too."
McAndrews nodded curtly; he had a fair collection of battle scars now. Yeah, this is a dude you wouldn't disrespect. But so am I, these days.
"You are my guest," McAndrews said, conferring semisacred status on his visitor.
He turned and dived into the tile-edged pool, swam a length, then hauled himself out. Attendants brought a towel and a fresh kilt, set out a table in the shade of the portico, loaded it with roast duck, fresh wheat bread, a salad, steamed vegetables, and a bowl of fruit. Ghejo ate the duck and bread with enthusiasm and looked at the greens as if his host were eating weeds. McAndrews hid a shudder as the Kushite smacked his lips over a jug of Egyptian beer. The stuff was brewed from a fermented mash of barley bread, and tasted like it.
"So," Ghejo said at last. "You are a warrior, a wizard, and have great wealth."
He looked around, obviously determined to be unimpressed and equally obviously awe-smitten.
"What do you wish with us poor desert dwellers?" he went on, a sardonic note in his voice.
"Because you don't build temples like the Egyptians, or write on papyrus, I don't imagine you're a fool," McAndrews said. "I'm not an Egyptian myself."
"Yes," the chief's son said, considering him. "You look more like us-and your voice is not quite a Khemite's. Tales reach us from Elephantine, at the first cataract, where you build your wizard weapons, that you are from a far, strange land. I still ask my question."
McAndrews ate a fig. "Your spear is a good weapon," he said. It was-seven feet of ironwood, with a bronze butt-spike and a long bronze head. "Have your people many like it?"
Ghejo scowled. "You know we do not," he said. "The Horse Masters take our ivory, ebony, plumes, gold dust, slaves, and give us a pittance. When we fight them, we have spears with heads of bone or stone against their bronze, and no chariots. Now we face your thunder-death-makers as well."