City of the Dead

triumphant whisper.
    Tutankhamun’s heart leapt. If the news were true, then the omen had been good after all. Wild cattle! That would be a prize worthy of the great Tuthmosis himself. Only the pharaohs were allowed to hunt them, and if he could bring down a bull...!
    His ambitions raced ahead of him.
    ‘Waken the others. We must set off immediately.’
    Sherybin quietened him. For a moment they were two excited men, equals, eagerly discussing the merits of an important hunt. ‘No. Not the others. You know how nervous wild cattle are. If we go in a big group we might panic them and then they’d be gone before we could get one decent shot at them.’
    ‘But if we go alone we’ll have fewer chances of getting anything.’
    ‘More than a group would ever have. I know your shooting. You are the best in the Black Land.’
    Tutankhamun had trained himself to bite the metal of flattery to see if it was good. But coming from so experienced a hunter and charioteer as Sherybin, this was to be taken as a compliment without question.
    ‘We will leave word with one of the guards to say what direction we have taken,’ continued Sherybin, allaying the king’s other unspoken fear without being asked. ‘Come, if we delay we will miss our chance. They must be crossing the desert from oasis to oasis and they will not be caught in the open once the sun is high.’
    Convinced, the king rose, washing and dressing at speed, strapping on his leather armguard himself, and brushing aside the attentions of his body servant. He stepped out of the tent into the keen blue night and the cool silence of the desert. No one stirred, though not far from the encampment he was surprised to see his chariot ready harnessed, one of the trackers standing by the horses. Sherybin spoke swiftly and urgently to a guard as he came forward into the glow from the fire, and then helped the king on to the footplate of the chariot, where the right weapons were ranged ready. The long-limbed tracker ran ahead, soon barely visible in the gloom, taking a southerly direction. They followed at an unhurried trot, making as little noise as possible. The king took a last look at the sleeping camp, but the thought of wild cattle dispelled any lingering doubts in his heart. He turned his face to the wind and imagined brown-and-white hides, proud jet-black eyes, and long, crooked horns.
    The tracker was out of sight now. Clicking to the horses, Sherybin encouraged them to a canter. Tutankhamun grasped the leather handstrap more firmly, and cast his eye over the Weapons. A heavy throwing spear, a sturdier bow than he had used on the first day, and a bronze short-sword in a leather scabbard. The horses moved faster now across the featureless desert, but somehow the tracker must have kept ahead, for the king did not see him. Then, coldly, the thought came to him that Sherybin could not see him either, and if that were so, how did he know what direction to take? He looked covertly at his charioteer, who did not return the glance, even if he were aware of it, but kept his eyes ahead.
    ‘How much further?’ asked the king. A thin line of pale blue outlined the low hills near the coast away to the east and he knew that very soon there would be light enough to see for miles. He gauged the speed with which he could draw the sword. With the dawn came a gathering wind from the north.
    ‘Soon,’ came the reply. The voice was still warm and enthusiastic, even carrying with it some of the tension of the hunt. But the king’s belly told him what a fool he had been.
    ‘Where is the tracker?’
    ‘Ahead.’
    ‘No tracker could run that fast.’
    Sherybin drew the chariot up. ‘Listen.’
    At first, after the noise of the horses’ hooves and the clattering of the chariot, the silence seemed impenetrable. But then, out of it, distant at first, came the noise of other hooves. The king peered ahead into the gloaming from where the sounds came, and as he watched dark shapes began to detach themselves from it, crossing the path ahead. The king’s breath came faster. He felt himself becoming transfixed and forced himself to turn, to see what Sherybin was doing. He was just in time. His charioteer’s hand was on the haft of the sword.
    Without thinking, the king brought his own right fist smashing down. The three heavy gold rings crushed the bones of the thin brown hand beneath them, and the charioteer drew away with a hiss of pain. Tutankhamun brought the sword out of the