Silk Over Razor Blades

Saar’s numb fingers slipped away from the wall. The impact with the water splashed his face and brought him back to full consciousness though opening his eyes made no difference to what he could see.

  The water carried him on, with no way of knowing how far. Gentle sloshing filled his ears with a rhythmic quality he equated to marching drills outside the palace. The comparison soothed him, but not enough to ignore the shivers in his limbs. Though head and shoulders above the surface, everything else felt numb and thick in the water.

  He licked his cracked lips and turned slowly, facing back up the tunnel. Still nothing.

  When the ceiling dipped suddenly and cracked the back of his head, Saar found comfort in the fact that it hadn’t hit his face. Regardless, as the lapping water closed over his head again, he felt a chill that had nothing to do with the damp around him. What if he continued underground forever? What if the ceiling dipped and prevented him from snatching another breath of air? Would he be cast out to sea?

  Breaking the surface, he blinked the droplets from his eyes and concentrated on staying afloat, this time with one hand feeling ahead.

  His fingers waved through the darkness.

  Saar gasped and waved his hand again. Hope made him shout aloud and the sound bounced back at him, over and over until it filled his head. He didn’t care . . . he could see his fingers.

  Encouraged by the thought of light and an exit, he pushed off from the wall and began to swim, aiding the current in taking him forward. With each stroke he saw his hands plunge in and out of the water. Around him the walls began to glitter, tiny mineral deposits lined the rough surface. The ceiling lifted away gradually, until the sound of his breathing echoed around him. Saar had just the time to recognise the difference before the water fell away and he plunged into another pool.

  Shafts of silver light stretched across his face and high above long spikes of jagged rock pierced down from the rocky ceiling. Between them he saw flashes of night sky, dotted with stars. To the left, the walls of the tunnel stretched back and widened, a large opening with a flat, sandy floor. Beyond that, a flickering orange glow made Saar cry out again. Twisting in the water he swam towards the torch light.

  A lifetime later he dragged himself on to the sand, squeezing the damp grains beneath his fingers. It hurt his skin, but Saar didn’t care, clinging to the earth like he once grasped his mother.

  Gradually his breathing slowed. Muscles relaxed. His teeth chattered and though Saar could see his fingers digging into the sand he could no longer feel them. Reaching his feet took several attempts but when he did, he inched towards the golden light. Another tunnel. But for the single torch at its entrance, no light fell here. Though dry, flat and straight, Saar could see nothing once it angled away.

  Another tremble from his legs convinced him that an attempt to climb through one of the holes in the ceiling would be foolhardy. So he took the torch from the wall, put his free hand on the wall and walked on. Brisk walking soon chased away the goosebumps and dried his clothing. Eventually his shivers lessened, then stopped completely. A bead of sweat slipped down his back.

  So soon after the fear of drowning, Saar pondered the depth of his new course. The distance from his home. The stillness weighed on him like three layers of armour until his steps became slow and shuffling.

  The tunnel began to curve. Beneath his fingers, the walls changed from rough-hewn rock, littered with jagged edges, to smooth stone with faint ridges. Seconds later, he realised that his fingers traced not the natural contours of rock, but the man-made etches of carved glyphs. They arced up then down, a constant stream he could just see vanishing beyond the nimbus of light thrown by the torch. Beyond that light he might well have stood on the edge of the Underworld and never known it.

  ‘I knew you would come.’

  Saar yelped when he heard the voice. He dropped the torch. The flame died, plunging him into darkness.

  Shame rose quickly to mingle with fear and he placed both hands over his chest. They were clammy, the fingers trembling as he flattened them to his skin. He heard panting, and several seconds passed until he understood it was his. Until that moment, he hadn’t fully understood the silence of the tunnel. ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘Come closer.’

  From the direction of the voice came a new glow, just visible as Saar’s eyes adjusted to the loss of his torch. He hurried towards it, telling himself that the haste in his steps was to do with impatience, not fear.

  As he left the mouth of the tunnel, he saw a circle of waist-high torches with purple flames grouped around a vast stone altar. He gazed at the stone slab, mentally measuring it as at least his own height in width. Twice that in length. On the altar lay a dagger. The blade was long, perhaps a foot in length with an edge that formed a sinuous wave on both sides. The flats of the blade were marked with curious shapes and spirals, perhaps a dialect, but not one Saar knew. Smooth gold formed the handle, studded with gems of white and blue with a pommel at the end in the shape of a skull. From its jaws a long tongue protruded, a thin coil of silver.

  Tearing his gaze from the weapon, Saar took in the rest of the chamber. Smooth walls, built in a domed shape with a small hole at the top through which more stars were visible.

  Proof of the outside world eased some of the tightness in his chest. After so long below ground in such deep, thick silence, it was easy to doubt the existence of a world beyond that immediately around him. When cool air breezed through the hole in the ceiling, Saar inhaled deeply and reminded himself of home.

  In the middle of it all, behind the altar, stood a figure he recognised well.

  ‘Kazemde.’

  The old man smiled. He approached from the far side of the altar, both hands hidden within his voluminous sleeves. With the hood thrown back he looked as he had in the market place, though darker. Colder. More . . .

  Saar shivered.

  ‘Power. That’s what you feel.’

  ‘You know my thoughts?’

  ‘I read your body. Reading minds is for higher creatures.’

  He stepped closer. ‘You tried to kill me. You sent me to fall to my death.’

  Kazemde spread his hands. ‘And yet here you are.’

  ‘I almost drowned.’

  ‘But you didn’t. You survived. As always. The gods favour you.’

  ‘Luck favours me.’

  ‘Few men have the “luck” you have. All these years, so many battles. But you need more than luck to save your city.’

  Talk of Alexandria reminded Saar of why he had made this terrible journey in the first place. He chewed his thumbnail.

  ‘Antony has returned. He plans to marry the queen.’

  ‘Of course and in so doing he will become king at her side.’ Kazemde appeared unconcerned.

  ‘He’s already married to Octavia. Do you think her brother will let such a slight go unpunished? But Cleopatra is besotted, she’ll do anything Antony asks, even if it means war.’

  ‘A delicate situation.’

  Saar pounded his fists against the altar. ‘Then help me.’

  Kazemde bared his teeth. ‘What do you know of Horus?’

  ‘You insult me. Horus is the god of the sky. The sun. The moon. God of war. He watches me above all others. Why?’

  ‘What of his relationship with Set?’

  Saar’s eyes narrowed. ‘Even the smallest child knows the tale. Set killed his father, Osiris, and scattered the bloodied remains. What does that have to do with what you offer?’

  ‘Everything.’ Kazemde bent and retrieved a large stone bowl from behind the altar. The sides were etched with pictures, symbols Saar recognised as those for both Horus and Set. In the dim light, he struggled to see what liquid it held but for the fact it was black and thick.

  ‘Horus attacked Set and sliced from him those dangling sacs with which he might one day bear a child of his own. In retaliation, Set pierced and stole the left eye of the falcon-headed warrior and so their battle ended. From the last battlefield Set co
llected the spilled blood and kept it as a reminder of how jealousy can spiral out of control. How war between two can infect the lives of many.’ Kazemde set the bowl on the altar and stepped back. ‘This is his gift to you.’

  Saar snorted. ‘That bowl contains the blood of Horus?’

  ‘Blood of the gods, cherished over the years to be gifted to one worthy of its power. Look around you, read the messages on the walls. This was once a temple.’

  He shook his head. Unease lifted the hairs on the back of his neck as he gazed into those steady red eyes. ‘You mean to make a fool of me.’

  ‘Why would I stand before you and waste my time? Yours? Though I have many years’ claim in this world, I’ve none to waste in bringing gifts such as these before weaklings and non-believers. Hundreds of men have died for this power. Others have killed to possess it. Only those strong enough to use it may do so. Many have tried, all failed.’

  ‘Many? Like who?’

  ‘Sensuret. Ramesses.’

  ‘Lies. These Pharaohs lived before your time.’

  ‘Really? How old am I?’

  Saar stiffened and looked more critically at the figure before him. ‘Forty summers. No more than that.’

  A laugh. Kazemde coughed, wheezed and beat his chest. ‘You flatter me.’

  ‘How many then?’

  ‘Two thousand.’

  The room seemed to pitch and dip. Fingers splayed, Saar clutched at the altar and held on, waiting for his knees to regain their strength. ‘Impossible.’

  ‘Believe what you wish, but I have seen many things. I know many things. And this,’ he nudged the bowl, ‘is your only hope.’

  ‘No.’ Yet even as he spoke, Saar remembered the startling accuracy in Kazemde’s words about Antony and his union to the queen. He licked his lips. ‘You’re a spy.’

  Kazemde smiled. ‘Would a spy know of the blemished skin beneath your seat shaped like the curve of a lion’s fang? The mark which convinced your mother to enlist you as a solider before you finished nuzzling at her breast?’

  Saar gripped his right thigh, high up beneath his buttocks. ‘Nobody knows of that mark.’

  ‘Just your slave-whore, Kiya?’ Kazemde smirked. ‘And Cleopatra, I suppose.’

  Growling, Saar lurched across the altar to grab the laughing figure. Eel-like, the old man wriggled out of range, with speed that belied his frail frame.

  ‘Now I know why you insisted “no weapons”, you knew I would kill you.’ He clutched his head with both hands. ‘Antony will kill me for what I’ve done today. I’ll never see my loved ones again. And for what? Lies, tricks and insults.’ Spinning on his heel, Saar walked to the mouth of the tunnel and back into the darkness.

  ‘And if you return to the city with no aid? Antony won’t let you defend the city, so how do you expect to save it?’

  He froze. ‘That was a private conversation.’ His steps dragging, Saar returned to the altar. He leaned over it, flinching back when his fingers touched sticky patches of blood. ‘What have you done?’

  Unconcerned, Kazemde shrugged. ‘Nothing is free. You of all men should understand that. The power of blood is bought with blood. Take it if you dare.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘The fact that you ask makes you a perfect candidate for such power. You’re strong. Kind. The good of the city is your only desire and that makes you pure. That purity gives you the power to use this gift. Imagine what you could do with the blessing of the gods.’

  Saar touched the bowl. So smooth beneath his fingers. Cool. The black liquid within clung to the sides like ichor and left dark smears in its wake.

  Over the faint crackle of torch flames he imagined the sound of whispers. A soft voice calling his name.

  He shuddered. ‘How does it work?’

  ‘Drink it.’

  The whispers intensified.

  Saar picked up the bowl and brought it close to his face. Rank waves rose from the liquid’s dull surface, bringing to mind rotten food and dead things baking in the sun.

  He gagged. ‘Why does it smell so foul?’

  ‘I’ve waited many years for a man suited to this gift. Even great things cannot last forever.’

  The whispers grew louder until they were no longer whispers but clear voices. Saar whirled as they called his name. Shivered as they demanded he drink.

  ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘The way to this temple is shut. It is but you and I here.’

  Again he turned. His gaze darted to and fro across the chamber. Shadows took on sinister shapes in the corner of his eye, but each time they shifted before he could face them. ‘I hear others. They tell me to drink.’

  Kazemde’s eyes widened. ‘Why do you resist?’

  ‘I fought my men to reach this place.’ His fingers trembled on the sides of the bowl. The dark liquid within sloshed up the sides. ‘I hurt one and crippled another. If not for the water their blood would stain my hands and face.’

  ‘Then you’ve already paid with blood. The gift is yours. Take it. Drink. Become all that you can be.’

  ‘What will it do to me?’

  ‘You’ll see like an owl, hear like a cat, smell like a wolf. Tastes will become stronger for you. Your body will be more attuned to the changes in the air. You’ll be sensitive. Faster. Stronger.’

  Saar straightened. ‘Stronger?’

  ‘Like no other man on earth. Touched by the blood of gods, their strength will mingle with yours.’

  Still he hesitated, staring into the dark depths of the stone bowl.

  ‘Drink the blood of the gods and you’ll be as close to them as one can be and yet remain human. You’ll be all powerful. Long-living.’

  ‘I just want to save my homeland.’

  Kazemde nodded. ‘Powerful men make the decisions. You know that better than anyone. With this gift you’ll be able to fight Antony with the gods at your back.’

  Cool stone touched Saar’s lips. He hadn’t noticed his hands rising until the gritty rim met his mouth. The smell grew worse, tangled with the scent of old blood on the battlefield. A smell he knew well.

  His hands shook. ‘Will I still be me?’

  Kazemde’s lips parted. His eyes widened. ‘No one else has ever asked that question.’

  ‘Will I?’

  ‘You’ll be as much yourself as you ever have been. With power comes freedom; nothing will stop you being your true self. Drink. Or else return to the city and face certain death.’

  Saar closed his eyes. Parting his lips, he tipped the bowl against his mouth and poured the foul-smelling fluid into his body.

  Chapter Twenty-Five