Ben Bova: Vengeance of Orion

I took a deep breath. There were six of them, wiry little Egyptians with deep-brown skins and even darker eyes, their chests protected by armor, conical bronze helmets on their heads, and swords in their hands.

“Osiris dies each year,” I said, “and each time the sun goes down. I am no stranger to death. But I will not be killed at the hands of mortals.”

Before he could react I snatched the sword from his hand and threw it toward the river in a high arc. Its bronze blade caught the last rays of the dying sun. They stared as it arced high overhead. Before they could react I threw their leader to the ground and reached the next man. He went down with a blow to his head. By the time their leader had risen to his hands and knees I had decked all the rest of them.

I pointed at their leader, recalling the imperious tones that the Golden One had often used on me. “Stay on your knees, mortal, when you face a god! And be glad that I have spared your lives.”

All six of them pressed their foreheads to the dust, trembling visibly.

“Forgive me, O powerful Osiris…”

“Stand watch faithfully and you will be forgiven,” I said. “Remember that to tempt the wrath of the gods is to court painful death.”

Into the temple I strode, wondering in the back of my mind if a god ever ran. Not in front of worshipers, I supposed. Not bad for a man sent to this time as a mindless tool, a servant bereft of memory. I had risen to a maker of kings and a pretender of godhood.

Now I was bent on vengeance once more, this time not for myself but for an innocent fat priest and a faithful old bureaucrat, both murdered because they stood between Nekoptah and the power of the kingdom. I drew my sword and hunted the chief priest of Ptah in the temple of Osiris.

Through courtyards lit by the newly risen moon and past colonnaded halls lined with statues of the gods I strode, sword in hand. I came upon a row of small chambers, sanctuaries for various gods. Nekoptah was not in the shrine of Ptah, where I looked first. Then I saw that the shrine of Osiris had a small doorway at its rear. I went to it and pushed it open.

The three of them were there, standing beside the altar of Osiris, lit by the flames of lamps set into the walls: Nekoptah, Helen, and Menalaos.

The erstwhile King of Sparta was in full bronze armor, his heavy spear gripped tightly in his right hand. Helen, in a shimmering gown of silver-blue, stood slightly behind him.

“I told you!” shouted Nekoptah. “I told you he would come seeking the woman.”

The priest’s face was unpainted and his resemblance to Hetepamon was uncanny. Yet where the brother was smiling and amiable, Nekoptah was snarling and vicious. I noticed that his hands were bare, except for the three fingers where rings were imbedded too deeply in flesh ever to come off.

“Yes,” I said, more to Menalaos than Nekoptah. “I seek the woman — to return her to her husband.”

Helen’s eyes flared at me, but she said nothing.

“You took her away from me,” Menalaos growled.

“He slept with her,” said Nekoptah. “They have made a cuckold of you.”

I answered, “You drove her away, Menalaos, with your brutal ways. She is willing to be your wife now, but only if you treat her with love and respect.”

“You make demands of me?” he snapped, hefting his spear.

I sheathed my sword. Softly, I said, “Menalaos, we have faced each other in combat before…”

“The gods will not always favor you, Orion.”

I took a quick glance at the intricate carvings on the temple walls. Sure enough, there was Osiris, and Aset — my Anya, I realized — and all the other gods and goddesses of the Egyptian pantheon.

“Look at my likeness, Menalaos.” I pointed to the portrait of Osiris. “And you, too, false priest of Ptah. See who truly faces you.”

The three of them looked up to the carving of Osiris. I watched Menalaos’s eyes widen, his mouth drop open.

“I am Osiris,” I said, and I felt it to be the absolute truth. “The gods will always favor me, because I am one of them.”

Helen was gaping, but Menalaos was goggle-eyed. Only Nekoptah saw through my words.

“It’s not true!” he screamed. “It’s a trick! There are no gods and there never have been. It’s all a lie!”

I smiled at his twisted, enraged face. So in his heart of hearts Nekoptah had no belief at all. He was the worst kind of cynic.

“Helen,” I said. “Menalaos is your husband, and no matter what has transpired between us, it is to him that you must now cling.”

Nodding, she answered, “I understand, Orion… or should I call you Lord Osiris?”

She asked with a slight smile that made me wonder how much she believed me. No matter; she saw what I was trying to accomplish and she accepted it. We both knew we would never see each other again.

Ignoring her question, I turned to her husband. “And you, Menalaos. You have torn down the walls of Troy and searched half the world for this woman; she is yours now, won by the valor of your arms. Cherish her and protect her. Forget about the past.”

Menalaos straightened to his full height and glanced at Helen almost boyishly.

“Fools!” spat Nekoptah. “I’ll have you all slaughtered.”

“Your troops will not raise their swords against a god, fat priest,” I told him. “Whether you believe me or not, they do.”

He knew that I intended to kill him. His tiny pig’s eyes darted wildly back and forth as I stepped toward him.

Suddenly Nekoptah threw a fat arm around Helen’s neck. A slim dagger appeared in his other hand, and he raised it to her face.

“She dies unless you do as I say!” he screeched.

He was too far away for me to reach him before he could slice her throat open the way he had killed his twin. Menalaos stood frozen beside them, his spear gripped in his right hand.

“Kill him!” Nekoptah commanded Menalaos. “Drive your spear through the dog’s heart.”

“I cannot kill a god.”

“He’s no more a god than you or I. Kill him, or she dies.”

Menalaos turned toward me and lifted his spear. I stood unmoving. In Menalaos’s eyes I saw confusion, fear, not hate or even anger. Nekoptah’s face was a seething map of hatred, his eyes burning. Helen stared at her husband, then looked at me.

“Do what you must, Menalaos,” I said. “Save your wife. I have died many times. A final death does not frighten me.”

The Achaian king raised his long spear high above his head, then whirled and sank it into the fat neck of the priest. Nekoptah gave a strangled grunt; his body spasmed, the knife fell from his numbed fingers, and he released Helen as he clawed at the spear haft with his other hand.

His face contorted in a fierce frown, Menalaos yanked the spear from Nekoptah’s neck and the fat priest collapsed in a heap on the stone floor of the temple, blood gushing over his huge body.

Throwing the spear to the floor, Menalaos reached for Helen. She fled to his arms gladly and rested her head against his chest.

“You saved me,” she said. “You saved me from that horrible monster.”

Menalaos smiled. In the flickering light from the wall lamps, it seemed to me that his swarthy face reddened slightly.

“You have done well,” I said to him. “That took courage.”

He ran a finger across his dark beard, a gesture that made him seem almost shy. “I am no stranger to battle, my lord. Many times I have seen what happens when a spear strikes a man’s flesh. The body freezes with shock.”

“You have rid this kingdom of its greatest danger. Take your wife and return to the capital. Serve Prince Aramset well. The burdens of the kingdom will be on his shoulders now. And one day he will be king in fact, as well as in duty.”