Free Dragon Magic by Andre Norton Page B

the priests there had not slain it, but carefully tended it, planning to make its sacrifice the center of the great midyear ceremonies. Only, before that time had arrived, the Egyptians and the barbarian mercenaries had struck.
    After the taking of Napata, which he could not remember to the end, Sherkarer had found himself part of the booty along with the lau. Why the monster had been preserved, he did not know. It was a thing of ill omen.
    Look how Napata had fared after it was brought to that city, and how those who had borne it north had suffered.
    Sherkarer was captive; the rest, he thought, were all dead. Again Sherkarer snarled.
    But the lau and the Sherkarer had been bought by the merchant Cha-paz and now they were both in this city of white-skinned, crocodile-souled barbarians. Had the lion-god Apedemek disliked the monster so much that he arranged this defeat for his own people so that it might be gone from his temple?
    If so, was Sherkarer cursed because he had helped to take the monster to Napata? Yet he had only acted under orders, and those the orders of the Great One, Daughter of Apedemek, Lioness of the Land.
    His lips moved now, though he did not speak aloud, in that prayer he had heard each morning at sunrise:
    “Thou are greeted, Apedemek, Lord of Napata Splendid God, at the head of Nubia.
    Lion of the South, strong of arm.
    Great God, who comes to him and calls.
    Who is a companion for men and women,
    Who will not be hindered in heaven nor earth.”
    “You, black one, down!”
    That ever-ready lash curled about Sherkarer’s shoulders, shocking him into awareness of what was going on about him. The slaves who had been dragging the curtained lau cage were lying face down on the wharf. Other men, free-born, had fallen to their knees, their arms crossed over their breasts, their heads bowed. There was the sound of horns. A procession was coming.
    The lash licked painfully at Sherkarer’s shoulders.
    “Down, slave. You do not look upon the Great King’s Chamberlain!”
    Sherkarer knelt. It was that or be beaten senseless, as he had discovered the first time his captors had had their will of him.
    There was a saying of the peasants—the rat cannot call the cat to account. But it was also true that if the moon moves but slowly, still it crosses the city. Who holds the whip today may not curl his fingers about its butt tomorrow.
    Kneel he would, but they could not force him to measure his body on the bricks with those laboring slaves. And perhaps they dared not extract full punishment for his stubbornness in the presence of the lord who came, for he did not feel the whip again.
    The Nubian had learned enough of his owner’s tongue during the long trip from Napata to understand most of what was said to him. But the rush of chanted words he heard now was a meaningless gabble. First came a guard of soldiers, walking stiffly in their overlapping scale armor, their curled beards forming a second breastplate across their chests.
    Then followed a chariot with a driver and a passenger, and youthful men in rich dress flanking it on foot. Sherkarer peered sideways to see, though his head was bowed. There were two plumed fans held behind the man who rode in the chariot.
    But he was no fine figure of a warrior. Rather, he was small and fat, so that his bloated stomach was thrust out before him to make a mound of his rich robe. His beard had been carefully curled and shone with oil, as did the long ringlets which fell to touch his shoulders, held in order by a broad gold band. His robe was yellow, the shawl-like cloak over it red, fastened upon one shoulder with a brooch which flashed gem-fire.
    “A hundred lives to the favored of the King!” Sherkarer was now able to understand that. “May Ashpezaa, Favored of Mardek, live long!”
    The guardsmen spread out in a line as the chariot came to a halt, and the young men who had walked on foot beside it gathered in a close knot.
    Ashpezaa, the Chamberlain, made no move,