And yet Sakir did not move towards him.

  ‘Seth has given me powers beyond that of men,’ Sakir breathed. ‘I am a warrior but I am also a prophet. I see things, little man. I see the days yet to come and the road to my destiny unfold across the baking desert sands. I can survive without food or water longer than any. I never tire. My thoughts run cold, even in the heat of battle. And I feel no pain. Perhaps it is true what my men believe – that I cannot die. What do you say to that?’

  ‘I would happily put your notion to the test.’

  Sakir smiled at Hannu. Even from that distance, Piay could see that dreamlike nature seemed to have lifted from him, as if Seth, for now, had departed. Once again he was merely the dangerous leader of a barbarian band.

  ‘Your friend is too much of a coward to come to this place to confront me,’ Sakir growled. ‘I have seen his kind before. They swagger and they boast and they flounce like temple dancers. But when they are called on to put their necks on the line, they vanish like the morning mist.’

  ‘Piay is no coward,’ Hannu spat. ‘But he is not a fool. He will not gamble his life for a wretch like me, not when he has work to do.’

  Sakir laughed. ‘Your hopes lie in ruins, little man. King Hurotas has already acceded to my request. The Spartan army will never become the ally of the Pharaoh, whatever feeble excuses Hurotas now makes. You will find no one to join forces with you. The Hyksos are too powerful, too feared. Too wealthy.’

  If this news hit Hannu hard, he didn’t show it. His chin still pushed up, those black eyes stared.

  ‘One thing I have learned is that this world often grows dark, but there is always a flame of hope flickering somewhere.’

  Sakir smiled. ‘Not for you.’

  The barbarian captain’s sword sang as he drew it from its sheath. Streaks of lamplight flashed from the blade.

  ‘I gave your master the time to come here to try to save you,’ Sakir continued, ‘whatever good it would do, but now this dance is over.’

  Piay imagined that blade swinging down and Hannu’s head bouncing off the walkway and into the water. There was no more time to waste.

  Piay dragged the tip of his blade along the stone walkway. The grinding sound echoed off the walls.

  Sakir froze; his sword swung to one side. His head snapped in the direction of the sound. Piay watched the barbarian’s brow knit as he tried to decipher what he was hearing.

  ‘Go,’ he barked at the warrior nearest to him.

  Still swathed in shadows, Piay sheathed his sword and eased over the edge of the walkway. As he lowered himself into the cold water, his entire body numbed. Pushing his fingers into a crack in the masonry, he hung against the wall, kicking gently to stay afloat.

  In the dark, he would be invisible.

  Piay closed his eyes as the warrior raced along the walkway. The steps slowed as the barbarian moved further from the light. Finally he was creeping along one step at a time, afraid he might plunge off the edge before his eyes adjusted to the dark.

  The footsteps creaked closer.

  The warrior would be staring ahead along the walkway, not looking down.

  Closer.

  Now Piay could smell the warrior’s sweat, sense him looming above. Those leather soles tramped past him.

  Piay lunged from the water and grabbed his enemy’s ankle. Yanking with all his strength, he toppled the warrior off balance and dragged him over the edge. The barbarian cried out in shock before his head smashed against the edge of the stone walkway and dashed his wits away.

  The echoes of the splash ebbed away until there was silence once more. Piay held the warrior under, allowing the water to flood the man’s lungs. He unfurled his fingers and the body drifted away.

  ‘Croyant!’ Sakir called.

  ‘He’s fallen in the water,’ one of the other warriors mocked.

  Sakir whistled through his teeth and three sets of feet thundered along the walkway.

  Piay pushed himself beneath the surface and swam. In the dark depths, the cold stabbed into his bones. At the next cross-walkway, he pulled himself on to the stone and rolled over to the water on the other side before he could be seen.

  The calls and responses of the three warriors rang out as they searched in the dark, their tone growing more uneasy with each moment.

  Piay swam on until the light shimmered across the water above him. When his fingers brushed the next walkway he raised his head. The sweet aroma of the oil in the lamps, mingling with the iron tang of Hannu’s blood, wafted in the air.

  Piay could see Sakir prowling to the edge of the circle of light, peering in the dark.

  Stealth was still the best way. Piay slipped a short-bladed knife from his tunic and imagined slicing it across the Red Hawk’s neck before his foe even realised he was there. Sakir had his back to him, and so, without hesitating, Piay pulled himself up on to the walkway, taking care not to splash the water. He gripped his knife tight and prowled forwards. There was just time to strike before the other Hyksos warriors returned.

  He never made the slightest sound – he would have sworn to Khonsu that was true – but as Piay neared his enemy, Sakir stiffened as if he could sense Piay’s presence. Turning, the Red Hawk looked Piay up and down, seemingly unsurprised to see his prey there, and showing only contempt for the appearance of this drowned rat.

  ‘You came,’ Sakir said.

  Hannu wrenched his head round and scowled when he saw the man who would be his saviour.

  ‘Why are you here?’ he snarled.

  ‘The thanks I get,’ Piay replied.

  ‘Perhaps you are not as cowardly as I imagined.’ Sakir strode towards Piay. ‘Though this show of courage is a futile gesture.’

  Piay backed along the walkway, flexing the fingers of his left hand to beckon the Red Hawk on. His mind raced. He had lost the advantage of surprise and the knife in his hand seemed a feeble weapon when face to face with one so strong. As Piay considered tossing the knife aside and drawing his sword, Sakir sheathed his own blade. He pulled out his own short knife and rolled it in the fingers of his right hand.

  ‘Let us meet on the same terms,’ the Red Hawk said. ‘Then we will see who is the greater. I will take your life, then set your friend free. I have no grudge against him. But this thing between us will only end with the death of one of us, and it will not be me. I cannot be killed.’

  Piay felt the hairs on his neck prickle at the confidence in Sakir’s words. He hunched forwards, balancing on the balls of his feet, ready for any strike.

  ‘What, no boasts?’ Sakir said, raising an eyebrow. ‘Perhaps fear has stolen your tongue.’

  ‘Let us end this,’ Piay said.

  Sakir was bigger, stronger, with a longer reach. This would not end well. Only one strategy might even out this contest, Piay thought.

  With a roar, Piay hurled himself forwards. He dropped his head at the last, as the Red Hawk’s knife slashed in an arc. Under the blade he went, slamming into his opponent with all the force he could muster.

  Sakir flailed, knocked off balance, and the two of them plunged over the side of the walkway and deep into the chill water. Piay sucked in a breath of air just before the blackness closed over his head. He hoped it would be enough.

  In a tangle of writhing arms and legs, down they went, both of them fighting to gain the upper hand. Piay gripped the wrist of Sakir’s knife hand and stabbed and slashed in an unfocused attack of desperation. He felt the tip of his knife rip through flesh. Once it jammed deep into muscle. Sakir’s own furious attack did not abate, as if he felt not a flicker of pain.

  The last of his air burned in his lungs. How Sakir could continue to battle with such force, Piay did not know.

  And then he felt his entire body wrenched round in the water. Sakir heaved, smashed Piay against the stone side of the pool. Piay’s head cracked and his mouth jolted open. Water gushed in and all thoughts dashed aside as the sensation of drowning engulfed him.

  Again Sakir smashed his head against the stone, and again, until Piay felt those huge hands push his shoulders down into the depths.

  The terror of death rushed through him, but his attempts to claw himself free were pitiful.

  Fighting against that terrible dread, one last desperate ploy flooded his mind. Piay slackened, letting his limbs go limp as if the life had already been expunged from him.

  His trick worked. Sakir stopped fighting, and the next thing Piay knew was that his cold form was being rolled out on to the walkway.

  Unable to contain himself any longer, Piay spewed out the water he had swallowed and heaved in juddering gasps of air.

  When his vision cleared, he looked up at Sakir looming over him.

  ‘Still alive, then,’ the Red Hawk said. ‘But not for long.’

  Piay felt despair rush through him. Defeated. He had failed, and not only himself, but the Pharaoh and all of Egypt, too.

  Suddenly a tumult erupted on the edge of Piay’s senses. The Red Hawk wrenched himself round and stared into the dark. His men had returned and were hovering around Hannu, motionless.

  ‘Lower your weapons!’ a voice boomed.

  Piay glimpsed rapid movement in the shadows and Mennias strode into the faint light, his cape swirling around him. Behind him a band of soldiers clattered, spears clutched across their chests.

  ‘If anyone dares spill a drop of blood, I will take his head!’ Mennias roared. ‘Their standing be damned!’

  Sakir eyed Piay with contempt.

  Another figure hurried at the back of the Spartan Guard. It was Myssa. She must have raised the alarm when Piay had set off to confront Sakir. What other slave would have acted so independently? Now, perhaps, she had saved his life.

  As the soldiers slit Hannu’s bonds, Sakir showed a sly grin.

  ‘There is no need for force here. This was mere entertainment between friends.’ He eyed Piay. ‘Is this not right?’

  Piay said nothing.

  Mennias stepped in front of the Hyksos captain.

  ‘Your business in Lacedaemon is done. You will take your horses and leave immediately.’

  Sakir glanced back at Piay one final time – a warning that this was not yet over – then he pushed his way through the band of soldiers and strode along the walkway into the dark with his men behind.

  Sheathing his sword, Piay dashed to Hannu. Myssa kneeled beside him, examining his wounds.

  ‘You have my thanks,’ Piay said to her.

  Myssa nodded. No other words were necessary.

  Not so for Hannu.

  ‘I am supposed to thank you for trying to throw your life away?’

  Piay held out both hands. ‘As you can see, I am still here.’

  Hannu grunted. ‘Any thanks must go to Myssa, it seems, and to the gods.’

  Piay shrugged. ‘Think that if you must. We both know the truth.’

  He winked at Myssa and she grinned, but he knew in his own heart that his bravado was unwarranted. Sakir had beaten him. Next time he would have to be better.

  Hannu winced as he stood.

  ‘There was too much at stake. I am worthless. The Pharaoh . . . the fate of Egypt . . . all that hangs on you. And you risked throwing that away to save my neck.’

  Piay walked off. ‘All that is true. But if you were dead, I would have the burden of your work, and that can never be.’

  P

  iay thought how fragrant the balmy night smelled as he stepped out of the cistern door. His muscles ached from the fight and his wound stung, but none of that mattered. He could hear Hannu’s voice echoing up the well of the cistern and was pleased his assistant’s life had been saved and they had survived to fight another day. Despite their failure in Lacedaemon, there was still hope of a brighter tomorrow.

  Ahead, a woman waited in the shadows of the bay trees. She was wrapped in a purple cloak edged with gold, a hood pulled over her head so her features were obscured. As she moved towards him, she slipped the hood off and he saw it was Serrena.

  The king’s daughter glanced around as if she was afraid of being seen, then whispered, ‘Come with me.’

  Serrena weaved a path across the city, avoiding the main thoroughfares. Whenever Piay tried to question her on their destination, she pressed a finger to her lips and urged him on.

  Eventually the lamps of the River Gate glowed at the end of the broad street where goods were carted into the city. The gate hung open and the soldier guarding it turned away as they approached. Serrena must have prepared the way.

  They continued beyond the walls, among the dank river smells and the smoke from the sailors’ fires until they came to the largest barge moored there.

  At the foot of the gangplank, she turned to him and smiled.

  ‘I see something in you, Piay of Egypt, though I am not sure what. But I trust my heart in all things.’ She nodded as she searched his face. ‘There are many twists and turns in the road to destiny. Paths diverge and then they draw together. I feel we will see each other again one day, perhaps as allies in the great battles to come.’

  Serrena swept a hand towards the gangplank. Piay smiled, baffled, but he acceded to her request and stepped on the creaking wood.

  The benches of the oarsmen were deserted. Near the prow, Piay saw a lamp glimmering on the raised platform where the lookout watched the way ahead during voyages. In the light, a man peered up into the night sky, hands clasped behind his back. He was wearing the crimson cloak of the Spartan Guard, but no helmet covered the long grey hair that tumbled on to his shoulders.

  Serrena must have wanted him to meet this man, whoever he was. Piay strode along the deck and climbed the steps to the platform.

  Without turning to look at the new arrival, the man said, ‘When I was a boy my father pointed out to me the Four Sons of Horus. They have been my guide ever since. However dark the world gets – however much strife and bloodshed – those four stars look down. Unchanging. Eternal. The troubles of men come and go, but the Four Sons of Horus will always be there to show us the way.’ He indicated the milky constellation where four sparks glimmered. ‘There. See?’

  ‘The Four Sons of Horus,’ Piay repeated. ‘You are an Egyptian.’

  The man turned. He had a long grey beard to match his hair and his crinkled face had been leathered by the elements. His eyes twinkled in the moonlight and Piay thought he saw a sly wit there.

  ‘My home was Lahun, in the days before it fell during the Hyksos invasion. For many years now, I have called Lacedaemon my home. I am the admiral of King Hurotas’ fleet. My name is Hui.’

  ‘I know that name. You fought with the General Tanus against the barbarians and proved yourself in battle. Some say you taught Egyptians to ride the horse like the Hyksos. Taita speaks . . . of you.’

  Best not to say too much of what my master has said over the years, Piay thought.

  Hui chuckled. ‘Taita and I had our differences, that’s true. He thought me an unreliable boy, even after I killed the witch who threatened his Queen Lostris. I thought him an irritating curmudgeon, as much as I recognised his great wisdom and skill in many arts.’

  ‘I will remember you to him when I return to Egypt.’

  Hui’s eyes widened. ‘He still lives?’

  ‘Taita looks as youthful as when I was a boy – some say as young as when the Hyksos first came.’

  ‘A sorcerer, or blessed by the gods.’ Hui shook his head in disbelief. ‘Then I bow my head to him, for the years lie heavy on me. There are days when I am more ache than skin and bone.’

  ‘Why am I here?’ Piay asked.

  Hui pointed to a stool and Piay sat. The admiral pulled up another stool and poured two cups of wine from a jug he had set against the rail.

  ‘Serrena has told me about you and why you have journeyed to Lacedaemon. I would hear it from your own lips.’

  Piay related the quest that Taita had sent him on and the response he had received from Hurotas. Hui sipped his wine and listened intently.

  After Piay was done, Hui said, ‘I have known Hurotas for a great many years. He is a good man. I would not have served him so faithfully if he were not. But as a good ruler of a good people, he has many demands placed upon him. He must put the needs of Lacedaemon first, whatever he feels about coming to the aid of the land of his birth.’

  ‘That is the position that Mennias conveyed to me.’

  ‘But Hurotas is a man of reason and he can be swayed by good arguments, over time. Particularly if he favours those making the arguments, like his beloved daughter, and the most courageous and highly commended admiral this land has ever seen.’ Hui smiled. ‘I am crafty. I have always been that way. And I have a silver tongue, even if I do say so myself. I will never forget my days in Egypt, nor my father whom I loved more than the world itself and who taught me the value of that place and its people. I vow to you now that I will do what I can to persuade the king to change his mind, and to send an army to help you crush the Hyksos. I cannot say I will succeed. But Hurotas will know that the Hyksos cannot be trusted, and whatever promises they make now will vanish like the light at sunset if they decide there is more value in taking Lacedaemon for their own. And a wise man will know it is better to defeat an enemy before they decide to be an enemy, rather than wait until the bodies pile up and the fields run red with blood.’

  Piay raised his cup. ‘You have my thanks.’

  He didn’t want to say that by the time Hui had been able to persuade Hurotas to change his mind, it might be too late.

  ‘Now, tell me about this Sakir who was sent to sway the king,’ Hui said. ‘I have heard troubling things about him from Serrena.’

  Between sips of wine, Piay told all he knew about the barbarian captain, from that first encounter in the fields beside the Nile to the confrontation in the cistern. As he spoke, Hui’s face darkened.

  ‘This is a bad business,’ Hui said once Piay had finished.

  ‘He is good with a sword, that’s true,’ Piay said. ‘And fierce. And relentless. But he has not got the better of me yet. We are evenly matched.’