David Gemmell - Shield of Thunder

Just as the young man tensed for the attack, a commanding voice rang out. “Yeshua! Sheathe your blade! All of you stand back.”

Gershom saw a tall man standing in the doorway of the small temple, lamplight shining on a beard that was thick and white.

“This man is the enemy, holy one,” Yeshua called out. “It is Ahmose!”

“I know who it is, boy. I have been expecting him. Come through, Ahmose. Yeshua, bring food for our guest.”

Gershom sheathed his knife, though he noted the others still held their weapons in their hands.

“Do some of you yearn to be lepers?” the old man asked, his voice cold. Instantly the blades vanished, the men returning to the stone benches. Gershom walked past them. As he approached the Prophet, he saw that despite the white beard, the man was not so very old, probably in his middle to late forties. He, too, was wearing the long robes of the desert dweller. The width of his shoulders showed him to be a man of great strength. He was as tall as Gershom, his eyes dark beneath jutting gray brows. There was a glint in those eyes that was not welcoming. In the moment their gaze met Gershom knew he was not safe from danger, for there was a burning hatred in the man’s dark eyes. The Prophet gestured for Gershom to precede him. Gershom smiled.

“After you, holy one,” he said.

“Wise to be wary,” the man answered, turning on his heel and marching into the building. The room inside was circular and devoid of decoration. There were no statues, no mosaics, merely a few chairs and a small, plain rectangular altar of stone with blood channels at the corners. Several lamps were burning, but the light was not strong.

The Prophet moved to a simple rug before the altar and sat down cross-legged upon it. Gershom sat opposite him. Neither man spoke. Yeshua entered and laid a bowl of dried figs and nuts baked with honey in the space between them. The Prophet took a handful and began to eat. Gershom also dipped his hand into the bowl, taking only a single nut, which he ate swiftly.

“So,” the older man said. “You have a dying friend. Why do you think I can help him?”

“A follower of yours told me you were a great healer.”

“You speak of Cthosis. He spent too long in the halls of your grandfather. His mind is full of superstitions.” He shrugged. “Yet he is a good man in his own way. You saved him from Rameses, I recall. Why did you do that?”

“Must there always be reasons for our actions?” countered Gershom. “Perhaps I just didn’t want to see a slave killed for so small a slight. Perhaps I simply disliked Rameses. In truth I do not know. I have always been subject to whims.”

“And the royal guardsmen who attacked one of our women? You slew them. Also on a whim?”

“I was drunk. And I didn’t know she was a slave.”

“You would have acted differently?”

“Perhaps.”

The Prophet shook his head. “I think not, Ahmose.”

“I am called Gershom now.”

The older man laughed. “How apt that is. You chose a word known among the desert folk, a word for ‘stranger.’ A man with no home, no place in the world. No tribe, no nation. Why did you do that?”

“I did not come here to answer your questions. I came to ask for your help.”

“To save Helikaon.”

“Yes. I owe him my life. He plucked me from the sea, where I would have died. He gave me a place among his followers.”

“Do you not find it strange, Gershom, that the only two good deeds of your life should have been on behalf of my people and that the name you chose also comes from us?”

“More questions? Is this the price I must pay for your help?”

“No. The price I demand will be high.”

“I have little wealth.”

“I do not seek gold or trinkets.”

“What, then?”

“I will one day call for you, and you will come to me, wherever I am. You will then do as I bid for one year.”

“I will become your slave?”

The Prophet’s answer was softly spoken, and Gershom heard a subtle note of contempt in it. “Is the price too high, Prince Ahmose?”

Gershom swallowed hard. His pride swelled, urging him to shout out that yes, this price was too high. He was a prince of Egypte and no man’s slave. Yet he did not speak. He sat very quietly, scarcely able to breathe through his tension.

“I agree,” he said at last.

“Good. And fear not. You will not be any man’s slave. And the time is not yet when I shall call upon you.”

The Prophet ate some more dates. Gershom breathed more easily. Not a slave, at least.

“Could you truly have made your men lepers?” he asked.

“They believe that I can. Perhaps they are right.”

“Cthosis told me you once cured a Hittite prince of leprosy.”

“There are those who say that I did,” said the Prophet. “The Hittite prince would be among them. He came to me with his skin white and scaly, pus-filled sores on his body. When he left, his skin was pink and unmarked.”

“Then you did heal him?”

“No. I ordered him to bathe for seven days in the River Jordan.”

“So you are saying your god healed him after seven days.”

“My god created the river, so I expect you could say that.” The Prophet leaned forward. “There are many skin diseases, Gershom, and many treatments for them. In summer the Jordan can stink. The water and the mud are noxious. But there is goodness there, within the stench. My family has long known that many skin ailments are healed by scrubbing the body with mud from the Jordan. The Hittite prince did not have leprosy. Merely a skin ailment that the mud and the water washed from him.”

“No miracle, then,” Gershom said, unable to keep the disappointment from his voice.

The Prophet gave a cold smile. “I have discovered that miracles are merely events that happen just when they are needed. A man dying of thirst in the desert sees a bee flying through the air. He decides that Jehovah has sent him the bee and follows it to a glistening pool of cold, clear water. Is it a miracle?”

“It sounds like one,” Gershom said.

“A desert dweller will tell you that bees are never far from water. Of course this begets the question: ‘Who sent the bee?’ However, your friend is not dying of thirst. He was stabbed.”

“Yes, twice. The second wound has rotted deep within his body.”

“I can take away the putrefaction, but you will need to have great trust in me. For what I do will seem madness. Do you trust me?”

Gershom looked into the Prophet’s dark eyes. “I am a good judge of men,” he said. “I trust you.”

“Then I will come with you tonight, and we will begin the cure.”

“You will bring medicines and potions?”

“No, Gershom. I will bring that which feeds upon putrefaction and disease. I will bring maggots.”

The small lamp guttered and died, but Andromache scarcely noticed it. Sitting by the bedside, holding Helikaon’s hand, she gazed at his face, which was ghost-pale in the soft moonlight shining through the open window.

This night there had been no fever dreams, no calling out to lost loved ones.

Andromache sensed that the end was near. Anger, unfocused and raw, surged in her. She loathed this feeling of abject helplessness. All her life she had believed in the power of action, felt that she alone would determine her fate and the fate of those she loved. When Argurios had been attacked by assassins and could not regain his strength, she had coerced him into swimming in the sea, believing it would restore him. And it had. Back in Thebe, when little Salos had been stricken and had lain unconscious for many days, she had sat by his bedside, talking to him, calling gently to him. He had awoken and smiled at her. Always, in the past, she had found a way to bend events to her will.