Free Pharaoh by Jackie French Page B

never see Thinis again.
    Houses gave way to plots of grain and orchards. And then the rich moist floodlands were behind them. They climbed into the hills, dry and hot as the baker’s oven.
    They stopped at midday at a water seep: a thin film of surprisingly cool water that dripped from a rock into a pool no bigger than a cupped hand.
    Bast headed to the water and began to drink, then pounched on a lizard that had been unwise enough to try to drink there too. The porters put Narmer’s chair down in the shade of a rock, then went to replenish their water bags.
    Narmer leant against the cool stone and closed his eyes. He felt exhausted already. Even though he had been sitting up this past moon, even trying a few cautious steps, it was far more tiring to brace his body against the jiggling of the litter for hours at a time.
    This would be his life now, he thought dismally. Hobbling to his litter, leaning on someone’s shoulder. Crippled forever…
    ‘Hungry?’ Nitho squatted beside him, holding out a handful of dates. She had left off her scarf as soon as they were beyond Thinis, but she still wore the headdress. The Trader had insisted that Narmer wear one too. He was grateful now. The cloth at least kept off the worst of the sun.
    Narmer shook his head. ‘No, thank you.’
    Nitho no longer called him Prince, he realised. He supposed no one ever would again.
    ‘You’d better drink something, at least.’ This time she held out a damp water bag.
    Narmer drank from it. The water tasted of goatskin. He’d have liked to spill some of the cool water over his head, but water was precious now. Was this still River water? he wondered. Or had Nitho filled it from the pool? The River had given him everything he was—his food, his kingdom, his life’s blood. Now he would never drink its waters again.
    The Trader got up and barked out an order. The porters gathered their spears and began to pick up the baggage. Narmer struggled to his feet and started hobbling towards his chair.
    ‘No,’ the Trader said to him.
    Narmer stared. Had he misunderstood? Nitho had been teaching him the Trader’s language, but he still had a lot to learn.
    The Trader’s face showed no expression. ‘You will walk,’ he said firmly. ‘Not ride.’
    ‘But—but I can’t!’ He turned to Nitho, pleading, ‘Nitho, tell him! Explain to him!’
    Nitho’s face was impassive too. ‘He is your master now,’ she said quietly. ‘If he says walk, you walk.’
    ‘But there’s no way I can keep up with you!’
    Had the Trader really been serious when he’d said they’d leave him in the desert? Narmer tried to calculate. Thinis was still only a morning’s walk away. Surely he could make it back again! Limping, dusty, bedraggled, crawling perhaps…
    He would rather die, and have the crows pick out his eyes.
    ‘Walk,’ said the Trader again. He held out a walking stick. The dark eyes were kind, but the wrinkled face inscrutable.
    Narmer took the stick and began to hobble forward.
    It was agony. His good leg took half his weight, the stick the other half. His bad leg refused to move by itself. He had to swing his body every time he took a step, so it would force his leg to swing too.
    Step, swing, step, swing, step—it was as though fire played along his muscles. Step, step, step…
    The sand burnt his feet. They had lost their toughness during the months in bed. But sandals were too cumbersome for walking far.
    The others were getting further and further ahead. Narmer forced himself to go faster, his bare feet pushing frantically through the sand.
    Step, swing, step, swing, step…
    And slowly he realised that the agony had eased, just a little. That each time he swung his leg it moved a little more easily. That yes, he was finally walking…
    Step, swing, step, swing, step, swing…
    Sweat poured down his face. He didn’t dare look at the others now to see how far ahead they were. It didn’t matter, he thought grimly. If necessary he’d walk all