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  FELIDAE

  An Ellora’s Cave Publication, August 2004

  Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.

  PO Box 787

  Hudson, OH 44236-0787

  ISBN MS Reader (LIT) ISBN # 1-4199-0012-9

  Other available formats (no ISBNs are assigned):

  Adobe (PDF), Rocketbook (RB), Mobipocket (PRC) HTML

  FELIDAE © 2004 CIARRA SIMS

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without permission.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. They are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

  Edited by Pamela Cohen.

  Cover art by Syneca.

  Felidae

  Ciarra Sims

  Prologue

  Egypt 30 BC

  The Beginning

  Kiya was cresting the slight rise leading from the river when she heard the creak of leather and the muted clang of metal, as if someone trying to be stealthy had failed.

  The water urn she carried was heavy, and the precious liquid sloshed and soaked her ankles as she fought the loosely packed sand to gain the summit and vantage point overlooking Meneion. The compact city was usually a picturesque example of tranquility and harmony this time of day. The field laborers could be seen in the distance threshing wheat, chanting rhythmically in low melodic tones, the sound reassuring to the otherwise sleepy city. An occasional sound of a cough or laughter could be heard coming from the various temples and domiciles.

  Kiya was out on this hot afternoon to fetch enough water for her mistress’ demanding tastes. Nitetis was the wife of a very important nobleman and advisor to the Queen. She treated Kiya just as she was…a slave. Pretty Kiya was old enough to be married, but her mistress forbade it of her slaves and therefore Kiya faced a life of servitude and nothing more. Nitetis was a hard mistress. Kiya’s back bore the evidence of this. The fresh rushes that Nitetis used as whipping tools, hurt like fire, but left no deep scars. Kiya had received her latest beating only hours before when she had dropped a jug of water as she filled a shallow basin used to dampen a cloth to soothe her mistress’ brow. But it was her lot and she accepted her place in the city’s caste system.

  Therefore, when Kiya glanced at the sandy hills surrounding Meneion and saw the lines of Roman soldiers sitting like impatient carrion birds, waiting to swoop down and commit carnage, she let out a cry of horror and warning. At the same moment a Roman General raised his lance and signaled for the charge. Kiya could only watch in horror as hundreds upon hundreds of the soldiers swarmed over the city.

  The field laborers did what they could, but their scythes were no match for trained killers and they soon lay in heaps, their bodies cleaved and stabbed into final submission. The rest of the city became alive with the cries of surprised citizens awakened from their noonday sleep or were partaking in light meals. No one was given the chance to surrender. No one would survive.

  For Meneion had received the Roman demand for subjugation weeks earlier. They had scoffed at the rumor of the soldiers who threatened to claim one city after another. Meneion’s citizens were arrogant enough to believe they could withstand the Romans. Their gods would never allow the interlopers to have the upper hand. The most able-bodied, important men were attending a quorum to decide how best to fend off the marauding intruders. Days away, they would return to find the city burned, in ruins, and their wives and children slain. Not to mention, the laborers and fields destroyed. The city would perish.

  Kiya could only watch helplessly as soldiers rode on armor-protected horses, and lanced fleeing unarmed Meneion citizens. They showed no mercy and killed without remorse. A woman carrying a baby dashed from her home, her legs no match for a soldier’s war steed. He wasted not even a lance as he ran her down, trampling her and the baby beneath sharp hooves.

  It did not take long. In an amazingly short time the sound of havoc ceased. Only the sound of the wounded and cries of the bereaved echoed down the streets and across the hill to where Kiya stood in shock. Even those noises were soon silenced by harsh means, as foot soldiers dispatched the wounded and looted the city, emptying the amply stocked coffers, and ferreting out any that tried to hide.

  A girl no older than Kiya was dragged forth to the fountain in the town square. How beautiful the water was, the sun shining on its depths, reflecting like fine sparkling jewels. Kiya always loved the fountain. It had been a constant source of comforting calm in her otherwise mundane, repetitive life.

  But today Kiya could only watch stunned as the girl’s loose gown was torn, bodice to knees, and a soldier stripped off his light armor before lifting his own garment to expose his lower torso. Kiya had never seen a man’s organ, though she knew by the other servants’ talk and whispers what a man did to a woman. Her mistress forbade the act of love and so Kiya had never given it much thought, knowing the penalty for such willful disobedience would be far worse than a thrashing. Therefore, she would remain a maiden all her life, serving her mistress ‘til the day one of them died.

  But now as she watched the soldier mount the girl and jab his swollen flesh into her, Kiya realized Nitetis was probably dead and without her protection, such a thing was very likely to happen to her.

  The distance made it hard to tell what else was happening, but the girl’s cries were enough that Kiya knew she was in pain and frightened. No doubt she was a poor servant girl, an untried maiden, much like Kiya.

  When the soldier climbed off, another took his place and another. Each mounted the girl like a rutting bull, his loins heaving against hers in a frenzy of vengeful copulation. The girl grew silent and when the soldiers were done, one casually drew a knife from the sheath at his side, and slit the despondent girl’s throat, throwing her body into the fountain. The stain of inky blood spread throughout the water and even at that distance Kiya could see the water turning as red as an angry sun in a sandstorm. She thought she would never forget the sight as long as she lived. The town square littered with bodies, the fountain running with blood and the soldiers standing uncaring, not even bothering to pull down their garments, leaving their shriveled manhoods dangling limply without shame.

  The shock of the events was wearing off and Kiya’s trembling knees gave way. She dropped, sitting in a stupor on the crest of the rise. The movement drew a soldier’s eye and he pointed upward in her direction. Another soldier laughed and made a lewd gesture with his hips, simulating what he had done to the servant girl. The three men turned as one and headed towards the rise where she slumped.

  Kiya’s heart pounded and her hands gripped the sand, feeling the sun-scorched granules burn her palms. The sudden pain brought back her senses. The soldiers were fast gaining the rise. Kiya leapt to her feet and took off down the slope towards the river. The soldiers quickened their pace and Kiya knew she had little chance without stealth and luck.

  She headed for the shifting dunes, where the sand was deep and the soldiers might flounder. She herself knew this land, just as she knew her place in it, and with that knowledge came the certainty the fickle dunes were her salvation. She pumped her short, stocky legs and drew breath as she approached the hilly, bare dunes. A half-mile of silt and sand, they shifted at whim and the wind could change them overnight.

  Kiya ran until her lungs felt they would burst. She raced in a choppy, sprinting gait, heel first, to gain headway. The dunes rose and fell in a sea of sand, consistently ascending in stair-step fashion, as if leading to heaven.

  Daring to look back, Kiya saw the soldiers trying to climb, their sandal toes sinking deep as they scrabbled to keep their balance. Overcome by emotion, Kiya turned and in her native tongue yelled, “I curse you! You are murderers and thie
ves and I curse you into the afterlife. Know this and rot in your tombs like the rat vermin you are!”

  One of the soldiers must have understood as he hurled back words. “Pretty speech for a girl about to feel my staff and my blade within her. Run, my pretty Egyptian harlot, run! The gutting of the prey is so much more exhilarating after a chase.” He found his foothold and began to climb.

  Kiya trembled and took off. Her passionate outcry about tombs formed as an idea. The Valley of the Dead was on the other side of the dunes. For centuries, kings and honored noblemen had been buried and entombed in great pyramids and vaults; their possessions and favorite animals and servants buried within, to sustain them in the afterlife. Perhaps Kiya could find shelter in the valley, or gain divine guidance by praying to the gods at one of the temples erected for such a purpose.

  By the time Kiya reached the last dune bordering the valley, she was worn out. The Roman soldiers must be in the lower dip of a dune, still headed her way. When she looked back, before entering the steep slope down into the Valley of the Dead, she could see nothing behind her. But she could sense the danger. And it was close.

  It was rumored the valley held great healing powers, and if one could gain the protection of its interior, they could be cured of affliction. This would not have been such a lofty goal to obtain, except the sickly or maimed had to venture into the valley on their own momentum and bring a sacrifice, or at minimum, an offering to appease the gods. Anything less would have been deemed an insult, payable by self-sacrifice as forfeit.

  Even healthy, Kiya was having a hard time of it, as she scrabbled for a hold to ease down the steep embankment into the valley. The sand was transformed into pure rock, slippery and loosely covered with temperamental granules that rolled unstably under her feet. She slipped countless times and grasped for holds, her nails chipping away and bleeding as she slid gracelessly.

  Halfway down she turned to look up, checking on her progress and the Romans. It was her downfall as her thin-soled already worn-through slippers slid out from under her and she pitched forward. The descent was a mix of a roll and a slide, Kiya’s arms flailing helplessly, unable to stop the momentum. She reached the bottom and hit hard. She groaned and lay quietly. Above she heard voices.

  Kiya forced her eyes open and ignored the shooting pain through her body and the stab in her wrist. A sharp rock had opened a deep cut and blood flowed freely. She tried to stanch the wound with the hemline of the light blue tunic she wore. But, it was ridiculously apparent as she daubed at the slash in her wrist and the blood ran in rivulets, the effort was futile. The cut was too deep.

  There was no time to further worry on her injury. Death came in many forms and the ones above were foremost on her mind. To punctuate these thoughts, rocks from above began rolling around her, bouncing off the face of the valley wall as the soldiers began their dogged descent.

  Kiya forced herself to her feet and half-raced, half-hobbled down the valley floor. In front of her stood the awe-inspiring daunting pyramids that invoked reverent approach and silence. But Kiya could not take the chance of slowing and prayed her ancestors would not take offense. She approached the tomb of Ahhotep and bowed her head humbly as she raced by. She hoped to lose herself somewhere in the middle of the tombs. The vast size of these death temples made her bow down, afraid lest she waken spirits long dead and at rest.

  The second tomb was smaller, signifying a Prince. It was Ahhotep’s son. All around were smaller vaults where revered noblemen had been buried, but these held no sanctuary for a living body. Then twin pyramids jutted to the sky and Kiya darted between these, her head swiveling back and forth, looking furtively for somewhere she could hide. The temples set up outside these monstrosities of stone blocks were small in comparison to the tombs. They were simple one-room buildings holding an altar for offerings, beads, jewels, or food. They offered no shelter and Kiya could not hope for asylum, as no one attended these shrines. The worshipping and personal sacrifices were a sacred, private affair and not to be witnessed by others.

  Kiya felt blood from her wrist spattering her feet as she hobbled on between the rows of sun-scorched blocks, piled high into the sky. The geometric shapes were so perfect it was as if the gods themselves had a hand in their creation.

  The last pyramid in the valley was the largest. Kiya had not meant to go this far. She did not want to approach Taharqa’s final resting place. It was rumored Taharqa still walked the valley on moonless nights, restless over his brutal murder by his wife and her lover, Taharqa’s very own brother, who usurped the throne after his death.

  Legend said Taharqa cursed his brother and vowed he would invoke the gods to seek vengeance not only on him, but also his progeny, until the line died out. Even if it meant walking as a creature of the night for eternity and never claiming his place in the afterworld, Taharqa vowed to take his revenge.

  It was said Taharqa was made a god of vengeance and betrayal and demanded a high price for his summoning. The pyramid itself was dark, quarried of black stone that cast a funereal shadow over the end of the valley. Kiya could not help the shiver that coursed through her body as she stood in the dark pall where the sun could not reach, contemplating the sacrilege she was about to commit.

  Taharqa’s temple was a dark affair of the same black stone as his pyramidal tomb. It never wore or chipped, as did the other temples and pyramids, despite the gale force winds and sandstorms that could shred a human’s skin to ribbons, and blew through the valley without warning. The temple had stood for centuries, alongside the pyramid, somber and brooding. Two obelisks signaled the entrance, but did not offer succor.

  The twin tower-like structures stood guard and dared interlopers to breach their confines and cross the threshold into the temple’s darkness. Unlike the other temples in the valley, Taharqa’s was composed of only one room with no courtyard to encourage tranquil composure before entering the hall of worship, no simple shrine to make an offering of material goods.

  Instead, the black temple was a cavern, backing up to the pyramid. The only offerings Taharqa received were sacrifices, as few souls had the courage to approach the ebony pyramid, and only the most desperate dared to. If the sacrifice were not worthy, legend said the dark pyramid’s inhabitant would devour the offerer in its place. Since one could never be sure which sacrifices would be deemed worthy, the ritual sacrifices to Taharqa had stopped a few centuries past.

  The sound of the Romans’ voices bounced around the valley, making it hard for Kiya to judge where they came from and how close. She looked anxiously at the entrance to the Temple of Taharqa and quivered in fear. But her head swam and she knew she had to find a place to hide quickly. She crept inside the temple and the darkness swallowed her. Could she remain here undetected? The light blue tunic she wore was a danger in itself, as it showed even in the darkness. Without hesitation Kiya disrobed and threw the tunic behind the strange altar that rose up in the middle of the room. From somewhere above, a weak shaft of light shone down onto the black slab of stone that waited solemnly for its next blood offering.

  Kiya thought she might indeed be safe and breathed deep before exhaling her ragged breath. Just to be certain she crept forward and in the near black of the temple, approached the altar. “Oh, Great Taharqa, I apologize for breaching your dark world and disturbing your rest. Please forgive me and take my humble offering. It is all I have in the world.” Kiya reached up to her neck. Her fingers were sticky and she realized the blood from her wrist wound was thickening as it slowed. The gold collar she wore that symbolized her stature as a servant from the house of Ramboul was hard to take off. It was suppose to be forged in place, but last week Kiya had caught it while cutting palm fronds to trim as fans for her mistress and it had been yanked off. The penalty for taking off the collar was death and Kiya had little choice but to tie it together until she figured an alternative out. Nitetis had been too self-absorbed to notice her servant’s collar was loose.

  The collar came off streaked with bl
ood. Even now Kiya hesitated before offering it. But what was the use in keeping it? She had no family, no mistress left alive. Her entire city was massacred. She had little hope of a future and the offering of the collar enforced this thricefold.

  The collar rested awkwardly on the offering slab. It looked so small and inconsequential that Kiya sobbed as she realized she was lost. It was futile to ask for help when one had nothing to offer and even if she did, not all the gold in Egypt would tempt a god.

  Kiya drew a deep, shaky breath, just as a pair of hands clamped over her mouth and she was forced back against a body that stank of blood and destruction. Sweat she was used to, but this smell was as vile as an animal’s entrails lying in the sun.

  The Roman soldier laughed as his hand roved down her body. “I got you. And you’re primed for me. You knew I was coming.” He ran a hand over her naked form, squeezing and kneading roughly. He spoke in her tongue to further humiliate her. “You are a fine woman by the feel of you.” His hand painfully grabbed her breast and twisted the small nipple ‘til Kiya cried out. He felt down and jabbed a filthy finger between her legs. “You’re tight. I’m gonna be your first and your last. No need to even let the others have a go at you. Yeah, I like that. I’ll be your only man in this life, pretty Egyptian bitch.”

  He looked around the temple, his eyes adjusting to the blackness. “What have we here? This flat rock is perfect for a fuck you’ll never forget.”

  Just as he hoisted her onto the crude sacrificial altar, his companions crowded into the entry of the temple. “Sul, you got her? Why didn’t you yell, you greedy bastard? I think I should fuck her first as your penalty and lack of fealty.”

  “Shut up, Gnaeus, and hold her arms. Cicero, get a hold of her leg.”

  Kiya’s arms were grasped over her head and her leg clamped at the ankle, leaving her other to be forced wide by Sul. She heard the sound of clothing rustling; then felt something press against her, where she never thought she’d feel anything so awful. The burning was intense and something mashed against her opening.