Excerpt of Dancer of the Nile by Veronica Scott

The chariot jounced over deep, hard ruts, and Nima had to
grip the railing tight with her bound hands to avoid
falling. As the ride smoothed out again, she tossed her
head to keep stray tendrils of hair out of her eyes and
squinted, glancing behind at her fellow Egyptian
prisoner. About an hour ago, a small unit had joined the
bigger column that held Nima, dragging this man with
them. The Hyksos had stripped him of his uniform and
weapons, leaving him clad only in his loincloth and
sandals as they forced him to march behind the chariot.

He was in a much worse state than she, beaten,
staggering, arms bound cruelly tight behind his back. A
black eye, cuts and spectacular bruises marred his tall,
muscular frame, but he held his head high, cursing their
captors as they prodded him to walk faster. The jaunty
young officer strutted with pride as he discussed his
successful capture of this soldier with the senior
officer in charge of the entire column.

Taking note of the strength the Egyptian soldier showed
as he strode along, she counted his old injuries and
scars. A handsome face, under the bruises. How had they
managed to capture such a seasoned warrior?

Nima flexed her hands, trying to ease the irritation from
the ropes restraining her wrists. Angry red welts burned
and itched where the hemp had chafed over the five long
days of her captivity. At least I’m allowed to ride in
the captain’s chariot, not trudging along in the dust and
heat like the new prisoner. Raising her head, she
contemplated the blazing sun. I’d have died the first
day.

The column halted, the soldiers and horses resting and
sharing water. Her portion was brought to her in a small
mug as she sat on the edge of the chariot. The soldier
who handed her the water took his chance to fondle her
breast for a moment through the thin, dusty, blue fabric
of her dress before striding away with a laugh.

“Son of a jackal,” she cursed as he cast another leering
glance over his shoulder. Nima lifted the cup to her lips
awkwardly then stopped, gazing over the edge of the
unglazed mug to where the other prisoner knelt in the
sand, head down, shoulders slumped. They don’t offer him
water?

How far can I push my status as Amarkash’s personal
prisoner? Inwardly quaking, Nima stood and took a few
tentative steps in the direction of her fellow
countryman. Most of the enemy soldiers were ignoring her
in their own efforts to relax or drink water. The few who
were facing in her direction didn’t seem to care what she
did, and the captain was at the end of the column,
conferring with the younger officer stationed there.
Hurrying the last few paces to the prisoner, Nima tried
not to spill any precious water.

“Here,” she whispered, holding the mug out to him. “Drink
quickly.”

When he raised his head, she recoiled from the intensity
in his eyes, an unusual hazel with glints of green.
However defeated he may appear, this man isn’t giving up.
Unsmiling, the warrior glanced at her bound wrists then
at her face, saying nothing.

Why doesn’t he trust me? Can’t he see I’m a prisoner
here, too? Nima placed the mug against his swollen, split
lips and tipped it up. Swallowing in greedy gulps, he
kept his eyes on her face.