They hurried to the pots beside the cold ashes of last night's fires.
Habari and the other captains stood to attention at the head of their troopers, all drawn up in review order. They beat their sword scabbards against their shields and cheered as though Taita were a victorious general taking possession of the battleground. 'Quiet!' Taita groused.
'You will split my skull.' But they cheered him all the louder.
The first three pots were filled with a nauseating black stew, but the water in the fourth was clear. He scooped out a handful and tasted it gingerly. It was not sweet, but redolent with the earthy flavour that had sustained them all since childhood: the familiar taste of Nile mud.
From then on, at each overnight camp, they boiled and limed the pots of river water, and in the mornings, before they set out, they filled the waterskins. No longer weakened by thirst, the horses recovered and the pace of the march quickened. Nine days later they reached Assoun.
Ahead lay the first of the six great cataracts. They were formidable obstacles for boats, but horses could take the caravan road round them.
In the town of Assoun, Meren rested the horses and men for three days, and replenished their grain bags at the royal granary. He allowed the troopers to fortify themselves against the rigours of the next long leg of the journey by recourse to the joy-houses along the waterfront.
Conscious of his new rank and responsibility, he himself greeted the blandishments and bold-eyed invitations of the local beauties with feigned indifference.
The pool below the first cataract had shrivelled to a puddle so Taita had no need of a boatman to row him to the tiny rock island on which
stood the great temple of Isis. Its walls were chiselled with gigantic images of the goddess, her husband, Osiris, and Horus, her son. Wind smoke carried Taita across to it, her hoofs ringing on the rocky riverbed.
All of the priests were assembled to greet him, and he spent the next three days with them.
They had little news for him of conditions in Nubia to the south. In the good times when the flood of the Nile had been reliable, strong and true there had been a large fleet of trading vessels plying the river up to Qebui, at the confluence of the two Niles. They returned with ivory, the dried meat and skins of wild animals, baulks of timber, bars of copper, and gold nuggets from the mines along the Atbara river, the principal tributary of the Nile. Now that the flood had failed and the waters that remained in the pools along the way had turned to blood, few travellers braved the dangerous road through the deserts on foot or horseback.
The priests warned that the southern road and the hills along its way had become the home of criminals and outcasts.
Once again he enquired after the preachers of the false goddess. They told him that it was rumoured Soe prophets had appeared from the wastes and made their way northwards towards Karnak and the delta, but none had had contact with them.
When night fell Taita retired to the inner sanctuary of the mother goddess Isis and, under her protection, felt at ease to meditate and pray.
Although he invoked his patron goddess, he received no direct response from her during the first two nights of his vigil. Nevertheless he felt stronger and better prepared to face the challenges that lay ahead on the road to Qebui and in the uncharted lands and swamps beyond. His inevitable confrontation with Eos seemed less daunting. His strengthened body and resolve might have been the result of hard riding in the company of young troopers and officers, and the spiritual disciplines he had observed since leaving Thebes, but it gave him pleasure to think that the close proximity of the goddess Lostris, or Fenn, as she now chose to be known, had armed him for the struggle.
On the last morning, as the first light of dawn roused him, he asked again for Isis's blessing and protection, and for those of any other gods who might be near. As he was about to leave the sanctuary he cast a last glance at the statue of Isis, which was hewn from a monolith of red granite. It towered to the roof and the head was shrouded in shadow, the stone eyes staring ahead implacably. He stooped to pick up his staff from beside the rug of plaited papyrus on which he had passed the night. Before he could straighten, the pulse started to beat softly in his
ears, but he experienced no chill on his naked upper body. He looked up to see that the statue was gazing down at him. The eyes had come alive and glowed a luminous green. They were Fenn's eyes and their expression was as gentle as that of a mother watching an infant asleep at her breast.
'Fenn,' he whispered. 'Lostris, are you here?' The echo of her laughter came from the stone vaulting high above his head, but he could see only the dark shape of bats flitting back to their roosts.
His eyes switched back to the statue. The stone head was alive now, and it was Fenn's. 'Remember, I am waiting for you,' she whispered.
'Where will I find you? Tell me where to look,' he begged.
'Where else would you search for a moon fish?' she teased him. 'You will find me hiding among the other fishes.'
'But where are the fishes?' he pleaded. Already her living features were hardening into stone, and the brilliant eyes dulling.
'Where?' he cried. 'When?'
'Beware the prophet of darkness. He carries a knife. He also waits for you,' she whispered sadly. 'Now I must go. She will not let me stay longer.'
'Who will not let you stay? Isis or another?' To utter the name of the witch in this holy place would be sacrilege. But the statue's lips had frozen.
Hands tugged at his upper arm. He started and looked around, expecting another apparition to materialize, but he saw only the anxious face of the high priest, who said, 'Magus, what ails you? Why do you cry out?'
'It was a dream, just a foolish dream.'
'Dreams are never foolish. You of all people should know that. They are warnings and messages from the gods.'
