Over his crunching footsteps, Saar heard the yip-yapping call of a desert fox. Though the lights of the city were small and distant, the sky was clear enough that Saar had no need of the torch he held. It remained unlit at his side, the moon’s white glow more than enough to light his way along the Hepastadion. The long line of piled earth stretched from the mainland to Pharos Island where the lighthouse watched the ocean.
Waves from the Nile washed over his path, showering his feet with cool droplets. Half way along he turned and trotted back towards the mainland. He shook his head, hands shaking as he cursed himself for a fool. After three steps he stopped. Looked back at the island.
It took every piece of strength he possessed to once more angle his feet towards the Pharos. As he did, his insides squirmed, a peculiar mix of fear and excitement.
He walked on.
At the tall stone wall surrounding the tower, he took a deep breath and approached the gate. Though late, two guards stood before it, there to defend the tower, but also to maintain the fire at the top of the third level. Saar looked up, marvelling at the incredible height. He could think of no other building as tall as this one and a fierce rush of pride swelled his chest.
‘Stop!’ The voice came from ahead of him. ‘Who approaches the tower?’
He raised his hand. ‘Saar, son of Yafeu, of Cleopatra’s guard.’
The men at the gate straightened their shoulders. ‘Forgive me, Captain. We didn’t recognise you.’
‘There’s nothing to forgive. Let me pass, and return to your duties.’
The young pair, fresh and unscarred by battle, exchanged nervous looks.
‘What?’
‘None but Pharos attendants may enter the tower at night.’
Saar chewed his thumbnail. ‘Strange. I’ve never heard this order, though I longed to give it.’
The second of the pair looked down at his feet. ‘Lord Antony sent word at dusk, the light is an important guide to our ships and must be protected at all times.’
‘I agree, but surely I’m not included in that order.’
‘Anyone, Captain. Including soldiers unless they present Antony’s token or seal. Other delicate or vulnerable points through Brucheum have received the same orders.’
Saar gritted his teeth, pondering if he felt able to lie. Finally he said, ‘Antony’s orders are sound and I’m happy to follow them. However I have urgent business within that cannot wait.’ He thought again of Kazemde, with his withered hands, mottled skin and frightening insight into palace politics. ‘Let me pass.’
With another of those shared glances the men shook their heads. ‘Sorry, Captain.’
Stepping back from the gate Saar studied the walls. The pale stone was smooth and the gaps between them lined with molten lead to withstand the pounding action of the sea. There would be no climbing that way.
‘Men,’ he said, ‘you do a fine job in protecting the Pharos, but my mission must go forth. Step aside.’
‘If the mission is so important, why not return to the city? Obtain a seal and we will let you through.’
The idea of having anything further to do with Antony put Saar’s teeth on edge. Desperation over the Roman’s sudden return had fuelled this mad mission in the first place.
‘No time. It must be now.’
The soldiers stood firm.
Saar sighed, levelled his torch and held it like a club. ‘Please move.’
The younger of the men looked alarmed. His hand tightened on the shaft of his spear. ‘Captain?’
He bit his lip. Thoughts of Kiya strayed through his mind. Of his mother. Of the latest limestone monstrosity built to honour Cleopatra, the self-styled ‘new Isis.’ He saw Antony and the gleeful expression in the eyes of the queen as she agreed to marry him.
Within hours, Antony had already made his presence known by issuing orders to the military over Saar’s head. What else would he change if given the opportunity? If there was even the smallest chance that Kazemde had the answer, Saar couldn’t afford to let it go.
‘Re, forgive me,’ he murmured. He stepped forward, thrusting up with the torch as he went. It cut a sharp arc through the air, and struck the first soldier in the face. Blood burst from his split lip and nose, almost black in the moonlight.
The man screamed and dropped his spear, falling against the gates to clutch his face. The second, though clearly alarmed, recovered quickly and advanced to parry. Saar struck at his spear shaft, snapping it. Then he kicked the man in the stomach, a powerful blow that sent him reeling.
Both men writhed on the ground. The second guard would recover in time, but the first looked pale and frightened.
Saar bent down to him, tugging off his overtunic as he did so. He wadded it up and put it beneath the moaning man’s head. ‘Your bones may be broken,’ he said after a glance. ‘Don’t move until help arrives. Try not to speak.’
‘Captain, why?’ The winded man gave a wheezing gasp.
‘To save us all. Please believe that.’ Pausing long enough to swap his torch for the remaining functional spear, he stepped over the two men and through the gate.
It was quiet within, civilian residents having long retired for the night. Soldiers walking the perimeter kept watch for any intruder quick, sly or crazy enough to scale the walls. Hugging the inside wall, Saar searched the stones beneath his feet, seeking a mark in the shape of a bared sword.
Despite the brightness of the moon on the Hepastadion, the area inside the Pharos lay beneath the shadow of the tower, with patches of deep black amongst the paler ones. He heard approaching footsteps and hurried on, keen to keep a blind corner between himself and pursuit.
Only when he heard raised voices did he realise that the patrolling men would have to be blind not to see the injured pair at the gate.
Saar cursed and moved faster, bent double and straining his sight. The stones beneath his feet bore no marks, bared sword or otherwise, having been trampled flat and smooth by the passage of hundreds of feet.
The voices behind him became shouts and the sound of running feet cut the air. Saar gripped his stolen spear and turned to face them. Men he had trained with. Fought with. Laughed with.
His shoulders slumped. He couldn’t harm them. Not for doing their sworn duty. It didn’t matter that his mission was the same as theirs.
Dropping the spear he ran on, watching the stones as he went. On the second corner he ran into another soldier. Literally. Bouncing off his wide, thick chest, Saar stumbled back several steps.
‘Wasret.’ He steadied himself and took another step back.
‘Captain! Why are you here?’
He hesitated.
‘I heard shouts. Help me defend the tower.’
Saar backed further away, his gaze darting to and fro.
Wasret gaped. ‘You?’ He drew his sword and, though his shoulders shook, his grip was firm. ‘What have you done?’
‘Nothing. This is for the good of us all.’
Wasret’s sword never wavered. ‘What could possibly be so important that you flout the king’s orders?’
Rage bubbled through Saar’s attempts to reason. ‘He is not king.’
‘He will be, second only to the queen in the line of command.’
‘Antony isn’t fit for any command. Cleopatra has no need of him.’
‘You’ve finally lost your senses. Age has dulled your mind, no soldier should live as long as you have.’
‘I don’t have time for this, let me by. This is for the good of the city.’
‘You know I can’t do that.’
Though Wasret was bigger, stronger and younger, Saar had the skill and experience on his side. He knocked aside the advancing sword with the flat of his hand and took a large step forward. Grabbing Wasret about the shoulders, he drove his forehead into the larger man’s nose. Wasret grunted but didn’t fall, angling his sword for a back slice. The blade bit flesh and Saar caged a cry of pain behind clenched teeth.
‘Here!’ Wasret bellowed. ‘He’s he
re!’
‘You don’t know what you’re doing.’ Saar winced as he spoke.
‘I know Antony will have you killed for this.’
With a jolt Saar realised Wasret was right. His hatred for the Roman interloper paled in comparison to the smouldering fury he received in return. If caught, there would be no safety.
A smile widened Wasret’s lips. ‘Yes . . . you understand. Antony will kill you. Cleopatra will do as she pleases and this strange quest will come to nothing.’
‘Then I mustn’t fail.’
Diving between Wasret’s widespread legs, Saar flipped on to his back and kicked at the backs of the taller man’s knees.
The screams filled his ears, stabbing his brain like knives. Nausea boiled through his gut and threatened to paralyse him, but the image of Antony’s leering face spurred him forward. Saar scrambled away from Wasret’s shrieks and ran on.
The sound of shouts and tramping feet grew louder. Rounding the third corner of the outer square, Saar saw more men approaching and clenched his fists. He cut right. An arrow whistled through the air near his cheek. Double doors loomed before him, leading into the lower section of the tower itself. Sand scuffed beneath him as he dived through. Inside, Saar spun about and slammed the doors shut, pulling the shaft which lowered the locking bar.
The core of the tower was formed of limestone, sparsely decorated. A set of steps led to the next level, just visible in the shadows cast by torches hanging from the walls. He heard pounding on the doors and knew that men stationed in the octagonal second level would soon arrive to help. Grabbing one of the torches, he carried it around the walls, watching the floor as he went.
Three circuits later, with no sign of a curved sword anywhere, Saar wiped sweat off his face. He tried to stop his fingers shaking, but the true implications of his actions made it difficult. If caught, he would never see his mother again. Nor Kiya.
Saar bit his lip as he considered the possibility that Antony himself had sent Kazemde to find him. It would be just like the man to choose such an underhanded method of removing obstacles.
The air seemed hot. Sticky. Close. He rolled his shoulders, conscious of the ache in his back from Wasret’s lucky sword strike. More sand shifted beneath his feet. His skin tingled as fear crawled over him, making the hairs on his neck stand on end.
‘No . . . it has to be here.’
On his hands and knees, Saar crawled across the floor, nose scraping the dust. One hand held the torch aloft, giving his gait a painful rolling quality as he neared the bottom of the steps. Heavy pounding rocked the main doors. The wood whined beneath the impact. His hand brushed a jagged peak in the stone, slicing his palm and staining the cold surface with red. A faint scratch appeared on the stone, picked out by a smear of blood. Small. About the length of his finger.
Dry air caught in his lungs. Saar dropped the torch and scraped the stone with both hands, smearing his blood all over it until he could see the rest of the scratch marks. A curve like a scimitar and a shorter straight mark. Like a handle. Or a hilt.
Saar laughed. His breath flooded out in a great rush. ‘It’s real!’ Grabbing the torch again, he jabbed around the edges of the stone slab, alternately working his fingers into the tiny gap.
Nothing.
‘No!’ He beat the stone with his fists. Stamped on it. Struck the sword mark with the butt of the torch.
‘Please, no!’
The shadows of men descending the stairs began to flicker across the room. Their shouts grew louder.
‘I’m Saar! Kazemde sent me.’ He beat it again with both fists and leaned on one corner. ‘Please help me.’
The slab began to rumble.
He had the vague impression of soldiers arriving at the bottom of the stairs before the slab tipped up and dropped Saar into darkness.
He screamed as he fell; relief, fear and desperation mingled into one. He fell until he imagined he might land in the belly of the earth, never again to see sun or stars.
Then his feet hit water and he plunged into a pool of salty, icy cold. Using hands and feet he struck out for the surface, but it never seemed to come. The current tugged him on, spinning him, twirling him, twisting him round. He floundered in darkness so deep, he no longer knew which way was up. Pain filled his chest, rushing through his lungs like the stale air he longed to release. He let it go, then fought back a rush of panic knowing he needed to replace it.
Gold stars swam across his vision. His skin grew numb all over except for the wound on his back that burned in the chilly salt water. Terrible thudding filled his ears, the desperate racing of his own heart.
His fingers struck sand. Fighting waves of nausea, Saar flipped round. Both feet kicked off the solid surface and he pushed himself through the darkness. Salty water squeezed through his lips. The ocean flooded into his mouth and Saar screamed with the last scraps of breath left to him.
Cold air touched his face.
Gasping, Saar floundered in the water, his hands clutching at nothing. Echoes of splashing water and his own ragged breathing bounced back at him.
Something hard knocked his head. Under once more. This time Saar led with his hands, feeling above his head until his fingers flexed in the open air again.
The bobbing water lifted him up and down and with each movement his palms brushed stone. With one arm extended to feel the roof, the other groping for the sides, Saar caught his breath and let the water carry him on.
His gasps continued to echo around him, like the sinister whispers of an invisible watcher hanging over his shoulder.
Chapter Twenty-Four