Reflections in the Nile (52 page)

“You cannot leave without them.”

“What is it?”

“Drawings. Silence: they are awakening.” They both slumped in a parody of sleep, but a few moments later they heard the even breathing of the guard.

“Whose?” Chloe barely breathed.

“A fourteenth-century friend. I knew him as Alemelek. I did not know he was a traveler until his deathbed.”

“What made it obvious then?”

“He began to pray … in Latin.” The corner of Cheftu's mouth turned up. “You could say it was a dead giveaway.”

Chloe digested this. “What should be done with them?”

“Hide them They are a clue for those who would study Egypt after us.”

“I love you, Cheftu,” she murmured through the heat and exhaustion.

“Je vous aime,
Chloe,” he whispered back. He stretched one sandaled foot to her, caressing the side of her leg with the edge of his foot. Chloe closed her eyes as she felt his callused toes, the amazingly soft top of his foot, and the wiry hair of his ankle and calf. She looked up and saw Cheftu's half smile. “We will survive. Rest now.”

The creaking of chariot wheels brought them around, and Chloe noticed that the sun's fingers of light were coming from the west. The guards gave them each a few swallows of water, men the two chariots were hitched up and Chloe was walked behind one, Cheftu behind the other. They started off at a strong pace, and Chloe felt her arms ripped from their sockets as her feet sought the rhythm of the horses. A breeze whistled across the sandy dirt as Chloe kept pace. They were headed due west, into the rocky mountains of the Sinai.

The soldiers were tired, wanting to get home to their families. Chloe knew that she and Cheftu were considered insignificant prisoners and that each chariot held only two people. As the sun set and the
henti
unraveled, the journey became a wad of pain in her chest and abdomen, and Chloe cursed them. She glanced around once and saw the other chariot parallel, Cheftu lurching behind it, his arms outstretched.

Fortunately, at night the horses had to step carefully in the pockmarked dirt, wary of snakes, scorpions, wadis, and stones, so Chloe could walk more slowly in the cold night air, feeling it burn in her chest. The moon was waning, casting a sickly glow across the desert night, deceiving her about its rocks and ridges. Chloe heard the heart-wrenching cries of jackals in the hills about them. The soldiers heard too and decided to camp for the night. The other chariot grew near, and Chloe saw that Cheftu was as exhausted as she.

There was some debate as to how the guards would keep watch. The captain concluded that if Chloe were held, Cheftu would stay. So she was gathered into the overzealous embrace of a young soldier, one hand on her breast, the other holding a knife to her throat. He couldn't have been more than seventeen, but in the twentieth century he would have been the starting fullback of any championship football team. Cheftu was shackled to the spoke of one of the chariots, directly opposite Chloe.

His face was expressionless as he watched her twist away from the obnoxious advances of the young soldier, who did it for sport. He embraced Chloe like a snake, his blade reflecting the moon, and Cheftu had to force his eyes closed. To be falling down exhausted on the morrow would not help them much. To see Chloe cowed by the soldiers tore at his heart. He knew if she were alone, she would fight, the same as he would, but together they were too vulnerable. He tensed the muscles in his arms, aching to stretch, when he felt a presence behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and swallowed in fear at the reflected gold eyes. Then he choked back a cry of delight when he recognized the rumbling purr from the cat's throat.

Thief butted his head against Cheftu's shoulder. Though he was still a cub, he was growing larger every day.
“Va t'en,
” Cheftu whispered, afraid the monumental purring would waken the soldiers. Thief butted his head on Cheftu's thigh, his big paws outstretched as he nuzzled like an overdeveloped kitten. “Go away,” Cheftu said again, pushing away the cat with his tied hands.

Thief stretched and lay back, waiting for his adoptive father to scratch his belly. Sighing, Cheftu did. “I will do this, then you must leave. Agreed, Thief?” He looked up and saw Chloe's eyes were open and glassy with tears. Cheftu petted Thief absently as he tried to speak across the distance to his wife, captured in a death embrace by another man.

She was beautiful, carved in moonlight. All the world was faded to gray, except her eyes, Cheftu thought. They blazed with a green fire, alive and defiant of the position they were in. They trusted him, despite his ineptitude this afternoon. Despite the danger he had put her in. His eyes burned with, tears his body had no moisture to shed, and he felt Thief settle down to sleep.

Chloe's eyes also closed, and Cheftu rolled to his side, careful not to make any noise, then rested his head on the lion cub's sturdy rib cage and slept.

Chloe lost all sense of time. They traveled sometimes in the day and sometimes at night. She was guarded by a different soldier each night, and only dehydration and exhaustion had prevented rape. She'd not had another chance to speak to Cheftu, but when their eyes would meet before she was assigned her guard for the night, he would speak of his love for her with a quick wink and smile. Once he'd written a note for her in the sand, words she'd found the next morning as they were breaking camp.
“Je vous aime et je espère.
” I love you and I hope.

They both were haggard. Cheftu's beard was unkempt and his hair lank and greasy. His broad shoulders were blistered and peeling, and Chloe could count the ribs in his back. They were fed enough water; Pharaoh wanted any survivors kept alive, he just hadn't specified how close to dead alive was. Fortunately everyone was too tired at day's end to try to prod answers from them.

Chloe felt sand in every ridge and hollow of her body. Her? breasts and buttocks were bruised from rough handling, and her shirt and kilt were in tatters, affording little protection. They stumbled on. Cheftu watched their meager belongings, and Chloe knew in her heart they would get a chance to run; they just had to be ready.

The sun was scorching. Chloe felt her skin sizzling in the arid air. Her nose had been bleeding from dryness, and even the soldiers, with their healing oils and fatty diet, had been showing wear. The water supply was running short, and so were tempers. Then the wheel of Cheftu's chariot cracked. It would take at least two soldiers to fix it, so Chloe's group was to head through the deep canyons, toward the oasis with the horses, and meet up with another band of soldiers, then send them back—no more than a day and a half in travel.

Cheftu was tied beside her to the sole chariot, and the soldiers also walked because the horses were dying. Suddenly the bay collapsed with a pitiful cry and the whole chariot lurched to a halt, leaving one horse.

Chloe and Cheftu stared at each other, this was their chance! The sergeant and his soldier ran forward, swearing in common Egyptian. For a few moments Cheftu and Chloe were forgotten. The slack rope allowed Cheftu to slip free and wound a soldier with a spear.

The sergeant yelled: Chloe looked over her shoulder as the other two soldiers stumbled toward them, clumsy in the rock-strewn wadi. Cheftu handed her a knife and she knelt, cutting herself free. She heard sounds of struggle as she took their gear and the soldiers’ remaining water. With Cheftu's quiver and her bow strapped across her breast she crept behind the horse, who was nervous, shying away from her dead companion. The sounds of snapping bone and impacted flesh surrounded her.

Cheftu and the sergeant were rolling on the sand, punches flying. The other soldiers had started running to the rescue. She nocked her arrow, aimed, and released. One fell, dead, the other dropped for safety. Cheftu screamed, and Chloe saw the sergeant had stabbed him in the thigh and blood was staining them both. Cheftu was losing, the days of near starvation and forced marching having eaten away his strength. She shrieked, distracting the sergeant for just a moment, allowing Cheftu to put all his remaining energy into a knockout blow. Chloe cut the horse's traces and pulled herself up. The horse reared, trampling the wounded soldier. Cheftu was pale as he ran toward them. With a groan he pulled himself up behind her, and they rode through the twisting, rocky valley, west toward the sun.

The sun sapped the color from the Sinai, and the horse stumbled. They had no food and little water, and their only advantage would be riding the horse until she died. Mountains rose to their west, towering thousands upon thousands of feet into the sky. Soon they would cast a shadow stretching
henti
across the desert. Shadow, Chloe thought, and we'll be in it.

They dozed as the horse panted, her steps slower and slower. At dawn the next day she fell, collapsing in on herself almost like a camel. They had to move quickly to avoid being pinned. Vultures circled above them, and Cheftu, pale and sweating, made quick work of butchering her. A scroungy bush provided flame, and they tore at the tough meat.

“Where are we?” Chloe asked, slightly more coherent with protein flowing through her veins.

Cheftu indicated the huge mountain. “Gebel Musa.”

“It's not Moses’ mountain, though. We didn't even go through the desert.” She thought for a moment. “Where does he get the Ten Commandments?”

“On a mountain across the sea, I would suppose,” Cheftu said, his voice slurred.

“That's the Arabian peninsula … and that is major irony,” she said with a scratchy laugh.

“We must walk while we have food,” he said, rising. “These birds aren't going to wait much longer… and you don't want to see that.”

They strapped on their baskets, winding their cloaks tightly for protection.

“Where do we go?”

“Oasis. Ahead.” Cheftu stumbled, and they walked on.

Chloe's lungs felt as if they were on fire. She'd been walking since she was born, and she hated it. Heat made her vision wobbly. She saw spots. Cheftu, his sweaty hand in hers, wrenched her up when she stumbled. They walked farther into the searing, rocky wasteland. Chloe fell again and Cheftu stopped beside her, resting his hands on his bare knees, gasping for air. The silence around them was immense. No other sounds marred the heated afternoon. Cheftu raised his head, the reflected glare of kohl protecting his vision. “Need a cave. Rest.”

Chloe looked up; the dark holes in the surrounding mountains promised cool shelter. She licked a few drops of water off the end of her waterskin. It evaporated almost before it touched her lips. Hands shaking, she tucked it into her sash. Cheftu was gray under his mahogany skin. The wound in his thigh was black with flies: a living bandage.

“We rest. Then head northwest.”

How far? How many days? She knew that if they were off even so much as a half mile, they could be lost forever. They slept in the shade of an overhang, and Cheftu grilled a snake for dinner. They walked under a canopy of stars. Silent.

The next day merged into decades for Chloe. Her throat was so dry, it seemed to crack when she swallowed. Her tongue was swollen with thirst When she rubbed her nose her hand came away bloody from the cracked skin inside. She pulled her ragged white robe closer around her, trying to deflect some of the numbing sun.

Cheftu's wound was angry, swelling. He limped and staggered, plodding forward, his head nodding as he walked in a semiconscious sleep. Chloe could feel the sun's claws tear at her skin, heavy on her eyelids, even as she moved her feet from scorching, rocky sand to more of the same.

Her body had become a prison of heat and pain, and she felt a draw upward, as if she could fly skyward and be free of the broken, battered flesh with which she was cloaked. Cheftu dropped to his knees, dragging her down. Chloe panicked when she felt his burning flesh; his eyes were closed and his pulse thready. Another rest; another cave. They needed a cave.

She stood and looked around. The terrain was changing, the towering, rocky cliffs becoming softer, the ground sandier. She saw an overhang and grasped Cheftu around his waist, dragging him up what looked like a goat path. She laid him against the stone, shading his body, fanning his face halfheartedly with the edge of her cloak.

They needed water—not just the little bit that was left in her waterskin, but much more, to soak his burning flesh in. And his leg… the stench was stomach churning. She put her head in her hands. Please God, help! Her eyelids closed over her burning orbs, and she felt the gentlest breeze stir her clothing.

White rock,
a voice whispered in her consciousness. She jerked awake. White Rock? It was a lake in Dallas, but why would she think of it now?

Remember Moses. Not the man, but the stories. White rock.

Chloe pressed trembling fingers to her temples. Was she going insane? Suddenly, in her mind's eye, she saw Joseph seated at a table, arguing about the Tanakh. Moses wasn't allowed into the Promised Land because he
struck the rock!
Joseph had said there was no need for Moses to strike the rock. Dig below limestone and one could find water.

Dazedly she pulled herself to her feet. Cheftu slept on in the heat-saturated afternoon, his leg a bloody mess, his skin scratched, bruised, and blistered. Chloe looked out from her perch in the hills, shading her eyes to see any white rocks. After tucking both waterskins in her belt and grabbing her cloak, she crept down from their overhang, sliding the last few feet. Oh, God, she thought, help me to recognize the right white rock.

B
LESSED COOLNESS SURROUNDED HIM
, enveloped him. It smelled like goat. Cheftu stirred, shivered, and relaxed as he felt long-fingered hands touching his body. They soothed, petted, relieved. The blackness around him intensified, and he collapsed into it.

C
HLOE TIGHTENED THE WET CLOAK AROUND
Cheftu, though the evening wind was beginning to blow through the wadi and she needed to take it off him soon in case he became chilled. He was scorched with fever, his body heat drying the cloth within minutes. He'd flinched when she'd tried to clean the skin around his leg wound and then had fallen unconscious. The wound was rotting; something would have to be done immediately or blood poisoning would set in. She had no antiseptic, no tools, no antibiotics. The only other thing she could think of was barbaric.