No Tribe. The title stung worse than the cut of any blade. Tahar had been with the Libu of the Meshwesh region since he was twelve years old—over twenty cycles of the sun now. He had led countless trade missions and brought great wealth to the tribe. He was well known along the caravan routes, and by merchants from Napata to Uruk. They called him the Blue Serpent, for his rare blue eyes and quiet, watchful manner. The men of his own tribe didn’t call him that, however. They had come to call him brother.
‘If I am not a Meshwesh Libu by now, Chief Bandir, then let the Gods bury me in the sands,’ Tahar said, meeting Dakka’s supportive gaze. ‘And I am partial to women, of course... But I am also partial to help!’
Tahar laughed lightly, but only Dakka laughed with him. Tahar stared out at the collection of men—herders, most of them—all taking their cue from the rich, unsmiling Chief.
Tahar turned to the woman. ‘Go fetch the horse,’ he commanded in Khemetian. ‘Do it now, boy!’
The woman made an obedient bow, then disappeared across the oasis. He realised suddenly that he had no way of knowing if she would return. Meanwhile, the men eyed Tahar sceptically. His mind raced. He had to convince them of his loyalty, and somehow alleviate their suspicions.
‘I was wrong to conceal myself in the pool,’ Tahar began in a feigned confessional tone. ‘In truth, I was being gluttonous. You see, I wished to consume all the wine myself.’
Tahar paused, letting the men absorb his statement. ‘Wine?’ repeated a barrel-chested man, his dark brows lifting. ‘You carry wine?’
A low murmur rippled through the crowd.
‘Not just wine, brother. Khemetian wine.’ Tahar flashed the party a roguish grin. ‘I procured two amphorae from the grain tent during the raid. I drained them into udder bags and hoped not be discovered.’ Tahar looked around at the dozen men sheepishly. ‘Will you forgive a greedy trader? There is certainly enough for everyone.’
Just then the sun vanished below the horizon and the heat loosened its grip on the land. One of the men let out a sigh. ‘A few drops of Khemetian wine would be most welcome,’ he said.
‘Aye,’ agreed another, his dust-reddened eyes brightening. ‘I have not tasted Khemetian wine since before the drought.’
As the stars began to appear above them, Tahar was transformed from dubious outsider to honoured guest.
‘Well, get the wine, then, Tahar,’ said Dakka. ‘Let us celebrate our success.’
Tahar turned to find that the woman had quickly and silently returned with his horse. She stood beside it holding the reins, her head bent in subservience, her legs spread and her toes pointing outward in a convincing male pose. She was a true imposter—a snake of many colours—and Tahar found himself admiring her.
‘Tahar, why do you tarry?’ said Dakka, coming to his side. ‘And why do you wear the smile of a fool?’
‘What?’
‘The wine!’
‘Oh, aye. The wine,’ Tahar said, fumbling in his saddlebags.
‘Yes, the wine,’ someone called. ‘Before we all perish.’
Tahar returned to the circle with two udder bags full of what was sure to be the most potent wine the men had ever tasted. Ceremoniously, he handed both of the bags to the Chief, aware that he had lied once again. Tahar had not stolen the wine from the grain tent, as he had claimed. Long ago he had discovered that wine could be a tool of his trade, and he carried it wherever he travelled.
The Chief placed both bags in his mouth and drank his fill. When he’d finished, a trail of red liquid dribbled down his chin. ‘Blood of Khemet,’ he said, and the men repeated it.
‘Blood of Khemet!’
Tahar was glad the woman could not understand the Libu tongue, for the Chief’s words would have surely destroyed her. The rich crimson liquid was indeed known as ‘Khemet’s blood’, but drunk so cheerfully, and held by a hand that still bore the stains of actual Khemetian blood, it seemed poisoned. Tahar did not wish even a sip.
‘The Khemetians are decadent,’ the Chief said, passing the bags to the men. ‘They deserved what we gave them this victorious day.’
‘Aye! Aye!’ the men cheered.
‘The arrogance of their Great Pyramid of Stone!’ continued the Chief. ‘The Gods do not approve. That is why we have this drought, why the people of the Red Land starve.’
Bandir did not mention the fact that the Khemetians, too, were starving. What he did note was that the Siwa Oasis—which Bandir himself controlled—had seen less than half of the trade caravan traffic of two years ago. He described his empty toll houses, his idle wells, his vacant brothels.
‘Today, the Libu tribes have taken back only a small part of what we are owed,’ he concluded.
Tahar felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. What was the purpose of this tirade? They had raided the Great Pyramid of Stone and taken hundreds of lives, along with a large haul of grain and three sacred bulls. Was that not enough?
The Libu raiders raved and howled, passing the wine bags between them as the full moon rose. When a bag was finally handed to Tahar he only feigned taking a draught. He had struggled his entire life to be accepted as Libu, but as he watched the men rally behind their bloodthirsty Chief he realised that he did not want to be. Nor did he have to be—thanks to the woman who stood silently in the shadows, pretending to watch the moon.
It felt almost pleasurable, at first—that flick of a tongue across her thigh. That cool, soft skin pressing against her calf. She tried not to move, tried not to breathe. Perhaps this was only a dream.
Then she heard it—a soft, almost imperceptible hiss, like the sound of fire consuming grass. She worked to free her hands, but she could not. Tahar had tied them before she had fallen asleep. Nor could she jump up—he had bound her ankles too. She felt the movement of the creature’s skin on her leg. This was no dream. This was the certainty of death, twisting up her body like a rope.
Another serpent.
Kiya lifted her head. There was Thoth, the Moon God, his face round and full. In his powerful light she could see all the men. They sprawled around the dying embers of the fire, sated with wine. Their cacophony of contented snores burned Kiya’s ears and filled her body with hatred.
Thieves. They did not deserve to rest so well—not with so many innocent lives on their hands. Yet as she watched the serpent disappear under her wrap, it seemed that it was Kiya whom the Gods wished to be punished.
This was not an accident, as she had believed the viper to be. This was her mother’s prophesy unfolding. Beware the three serpents, she had warned Kiya, so long ago.
If the viper had been the first serpent, then this asp was surely the second. Or was it? A water snake had swum by them in the oasis pool. It had veered towards her, then veered away, deterred by a brush of Tahar’s hand. If the water snake had been the second serpent, then this asp was the third. Perhaps this was not the continuance of her mother’s prophesy, but the fulfilment of it.
But why? Why did the Gods wish Kiya dead?
Suddenly it came to her. The tomb. She should have never heeded King Khufu’s call to service. She should have never gone to labour upon his Great Pyramid of Stone. Instead she should have listened to the priests, whose message was clear: no female should ever set foot upon a tomb. She had broken the taboo. Now the Gods were merely exacting their punishment upon her.
Kiya resolved not to fight the asp. She would face her death bravely, for it was the Gods’ will. She took the part of her headdress that she had placed under her head and stuffed it into her mouth. To cry out would mean to wake her