“Take him to the pavilion,” Mentuhotep instructed, referring to a court near the Temple of Mut.
The Temple of Mut was a shrine built in honor of the goddess Mut—wife of the god Amun, and daughter of the sun-god Re. Mut was a mother goddess and queen of goddesses, portrayed wearing the double crowns of Lower and Upper Egypt to symbolize her authority over all of the lands. She was also depicted wearing the royal vulture headdress symbolizing her protective and loving bond with her husband Amun, and their son, the moon-god Khonsu. Together with Amun and Khonsu, the three gods formed the Theban Triad, and were worshiped and revered for their protection and patronage of Thebes.
Mut’s temple was situated next to the Temple of Khonsu, and by several smaller shrines and public buildings spreading out behind the village near the palace compound, including the pavilion used by the king for official public proceedings and judicial matters. The temple faced an open square ringed by shops catering to those visiting the temples. In the bustling daylight hours, and especially during the great festivals throughout the year, one could find stands laden with crates of vegetables and colorful fruit, heaps of freshly baked bread, clay pitchers brimming with brewed heqet, baskets of dried fish, pottery hanging on hooks or sitting on the ground, bolts of finely woven linen, carved amulets from semi-precious stones, and other items used in daily life. The temple complex paved the way leading to the larger Temple of Amun which honored the patron god of Thebes.
But now the square in front of the temple was deserted under a sullen moon, as two guards dragged away the injured man toward the pavilion where he would be tied to a pillar to await the serving of justice.
“There are more of them,” Khu told Mentuhotep in a soft voice, his golden eyes fixed on the trail of blood left by the injured thief.
Mentuhotep looked at Khu, the lines between his brows deepening, as he narrowed his gaze dubiously, wondering how the boy could know this. He ran a hand slowly over his smooth scalp before finally giving the boy a hesitating nod. Khu’s large eyes were completely without guile, and betrayed nothing but sincerity. The king then turned to his other guards. “Hurry,” he ordered them, “do not let the others escape!”
The boat waiting on the riverbank slipped quietly away in the darkness, whose tranquility had been disturbed by the commotion inland. Its four occupants dug their oars into the muddy shore and pushed with all their might. They bent low over the sides of the boat as they turned the vessel around and steered it north, away from Thebes. Only three of the five men who had disembarked earlier had returned.
The man who had stayed behind and waited with the boat was frustrated with the night’s outcome. He vented his anger with every heave and push of the oar grasped tightly in his hands. He tried to tamp down his disappointment by forcing his thoughts back to the successes he had met recently. But that did not help.
It had not been his idea to come to Thebes. One of the men in his band had convinced the others that it was a good plan. He had told them how Thebes had enjoyed a greater prosperity than its northern neighbors. It had not fallen into the state of disorder which had left chaos and famine in its wake. And although its good fortune had made it a worthy target, it had also made it more challenging to infiltrate than the scattered territories spread throughout Egypt.
“They have not been touched by famine,” one of the men had said. “Their fields have yielded immeasurable heqats of grain.”
“How do you know this?” the boatman asked doubtfully, his eyes narrowed and distrustful. “You are not among them, but here with us.” It was his boat they wished to use. It was always his boat. The others did not have two pieces of silver to call their own.
“Because I know someone there,” the man replied sourly, setting his jaw.
“Really,” was the flat response.
“Yes, and he happens to work for the king himself.”
The boatman’s eyes had widened at that, but he tried to hide his interest. He was the only one with something to lose in this bargain, after all. None of the others had any property of their own. Whatever loot they acquired had always been spent far quicker than the time it took to obtain it in the first place. It had disappeared like water evaporating from the hot desert sand. And after arranging further details, the man convinced all of them—including the boatman—of the plan. His promise of abundant grain spilling over the huge stone vats barely containing it within the storage houses, had been too much to resist.
And so they came.
They had planned to steal the grain, which was highly valued in the northern settlements that were afflicted by drought, and trade it for a profit. It had all sounded so easy. Too easy, in fact. And then everything that could have gone wrong, did go wrong.
“Cursed,” the boatman spat under his breath, his mood sulky and resentful.
But no one dared reply. They kept their eyes fixed on the river as they rowed.
“The night was cursed,” he grumbled louder as they moved farther away from Thebes. “We were cursed!”
The men continued to row, putting more and more distance between them and the scene of the foiled crime. What had gone wrong? What had caused them to fail? Their plans had been meticulously calculated. They had gone over the details countless times before this night. They had even studied a crudely drawn map, sketched by one of the men on a scroll. They had not made any noise, nor had anyone seen them when they arrived. And their spy who worked for the king—the same man who had been waiting for them by the riverbank—had assured them of their safety, and of the soundness of their plan.
“We were betrayed,” another man said. But by whom? None of them suspected anyone; certainly not each other.
“It was bad luck,” a third said as he touched his amulet.
“Cursed,” the boatman repeated again, nodding to himself with a frown. “We were cursed.”
A breeze picked up, stirring through the reeds, over the water, and drying the perspiration from the men’s bodies. The boatman dug harder with his oar, making the vessel lurch suddenly in the darkness. The other men adjusted their oars in time to the boatman’s lead, so that they kept moving in unison. A chorus of frogs sounded from the shore, and a nighthawk called out as it flew across the water.
The boatman exhaled his disappointment in a long and noisy breath, shaking his head in frustration as he rowed ahead. Nothing was guaranteed. He had known this—had known all the risks involved—but he had grown confident and brash after their previous successes. None of them had ever been caught before. No one had ever been hurt, and no one had been the wiser. But now their band had lost two men. Their streak of luck had broken, shattered under a Theban sky.
The gods watched, even in darkness. The gods always watched.
The moon had drifted west, glossing the lush valley and the desert hills rising in the distance. Its wan light left a pale glimmer on the water’s surface. The boatman touched a hand to the amulet encircling his wiry neck, and felt nothing but bitterness in the pit of his stomach. He stopped rowing to glance behind them once more, but saw that they were alone. No one was following.
Even the moon had lost interest and abandoned them in the dark.
Khu stared at the gatekeeper who hurried over with one of the guards. The man was perspiring heavily. His eyes darted around in the darkness, and he shifted from one foot to the other with a nervous energy. Even his shaved head glistened with sweat. But it was not that hot. The guards who had been running about were not perspiring as much as he.
“Odji,” Mentuhotep spoke to the gatekeeper as the man bowed before him, “did you find any others?”
“No, Lord King,” Odji uttered as he tried to compose himself.
“But you followed them?” the king frowned. “Is that not why you were away from your post?”
“Yes Sire. I heard a noise. But... but I did not see anyone,” he stuttered.
Two of the would-be thieves had been caught and were now tied to a pillar, awaiting justice. They would be flogged in
the morning for trespassing and attempting to steal that which did not belong to them. They had denied it, of course, but their guilt was obvious. They would not have run if they had been innocent. Tomorrow they would pay the price for their transgression and admit the guilt of their deeds. They were fortunate they had not been caught with any stolen property. The punishment would have been more severe.
“I do not think there are any more robbers, Lord King,” one of the guards said. “We have checked all the streets.” He seemed confident in his opinion, and the king believed him.
Mentuhotep glanced down at Khu. He saw the boy staring intently at the gatekeeper. “Khu,” the king touched the boy’s shoulder and Khu startled, but the boy kept his eyes fixed on Odji. Perhaps Khu was still afraid, thought the king. Maybe the events of the night triggered frightful memories of his past. The king gave the boy’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze, but Khu kept staring.
Odji felt the boy’s eyes on him. He tried to collect himself and steady the pace of his beating heart. How could things have gone so wrong this night? He frowned at Khu, wondering why the boy kept staring at him, and wondering what the boy was doing out here in the dead of night. He should be asleep with the rest of the children inside the palace.
What a strange night, Odji thought disappointedly. It had all been so carefully premeditated. It was supposed to have been an easy theft. There was no way anyone could have heard and discovered them. It was not possible. Especially someone from the palace, for they had not made any noise, nor been seen by anyone. Even if they had made noise, they had been far enough away from the palace for anyone there to hear them. And the villagers had been fast asleep.
The gatekeeper returned to his post where he guarded the entrance in the great wall surrounding the palace compound, along with two other subordinates who were away for the night. Odji had planned their shifts accordingly, purposely waiting until his assistants were away in order to avoid the possibility of having any witnesses. He shook his head in confusion as Mentuhotep, Khu and the rest of the group walked away and headed back to the palace grounds. Then he rubbed the back of his smooth-shaven scalp. It hurt from having knocked it against something hard. He had hit his head when he tripped and fell after trying to get away from one of the guards by scrambling up through a window into the bakery storage room. That had been a perilously close call, he thought with relief, as he remembered how the guard had nearly caught him. He felt something slick and brought his hand around to inspect it. Blood. He closed his eyes against the adrenaline giving him palpitations. It had been a narrow escape—a very narrow escape—at least for him.
Odji hoped that the two thieves who were caught would remember their bargain and keep their mouths shut. But that did not really matter now. They had only just met that night when he waited for them on the bank of the Nile. The only man who really knew him had gotten away on the boat, and was probably heading back north at that moment. And the apprehended men did not even know his name, he thought optimistically. His identity had been partly cloaked in the night’s darkness, and in the ignorance of the other men. He would make sure to stay far away from the prisoners tomorrow, in case they should recognize him and point their fingers in accusation.
Odji exhaled loudly against the anxiety churning in his stomach and making him drip with perspiration. So much for all their meticulous planning, he thought bitterly with a heavy sigh. It was all wasted. A chance like this would not come again, especially now that the king was alert to the danger. Odji braced himself against the disappointment carving a deep line between his brows, and he rubbed the back of his bleeding head once again. And closing his eyes in an effort to calm himself after the night’s precarious events, he brought his hand around and licked the blood clean off his fingers.
FOUR
King Mentuhotep II watched with pride as his sons Khu and Nakhti fought in the mock-battle exercises in a clearing which backed into the high palisade lying beyond the palace and deeper within the desert. The sun blazed over the reddish rock that climbed in a steep and jagged line toward the sky. A hawk was soaring through the air, climbing a thermal updraft with its broad wings and wide fanned tail, then gliding effortlessly as it rode the current against the vast blue sky. The bird screeched a high-pitched and haunting call as it eyed the parched landscape below, which lay east of the lush floodplains by the river. It was late in Shemu—the Season of Harvest—long after the crops had been picked, and the fields were cleared and left bare. The ensuing drought was warm and dry.
This year marked Khu’s fourteenth Season of Inundation, just as it did for Nakhti. The boys were the same age. Seven flood cycles of the Nile had passed since the time Khu was first discovered along the river’s bank. He was fourteen years old.
Khu had just parried a thrust of Nakhti’s spear. He ducked, leaping back in an easy motion before stepping forward with a succession of quick cuts with his dagger. Nakhti deflected the blows with the shaft of his spear, then withdrew his own dagger. He feigned a left while moving to the right, swinging the blade toward Khu’s belly. Without breaking his rhythm, Khu sidestepped out of Nakhti’s reach before driving his dagger in a smooth and unexpected lunge of his own. He stopped just short of Nakhti’s neck, resting the tip of the blade along his sun-darkened skin glistening with perspiration. Some of the other boys watching from the sidelines were calling out and cheering. Their trainer—a man by the name of Qeb—frowned. The battle exercise was over, the outcome clearly favoring Khu.
Mentuhotep smiled. He had watched his sons grow strong and upright over time. Although Nakhti was his firstborn, he was not heir to the throne. Nakhti was born of one of Mentuhotep’s lessor consorts, as were some of the younger children participating in the training exercises here. But there was no rivalry in Nakhti’s heart for his siblings. He had earned a place of respect within the hierarchy of his family, and he also knew he was one of his father’s favorites.
Yet of all of Mentuhotep’s children, it was Khu who had developed most in the years since the ruler had first claimed him as his own son. The king remembered when Tem first introduced him to the frail boy—a mere slip of a child who reminded him more of the slender papyrus reeds than anything else. The memory was a sharp contrast to the young man he had grown into since that time.
Mentuhotep thought of these things as he observed Khu and Nakhti drinking the thickly brewed heqet directly from an earthen jug handed to them by an attending servant. Made of barley and sweetened with honey, the herbed liquid ran down their chins, spilling onto their bare chests, and cooling their skin as it refreshed them. Nakhti wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as Khu grabbed the jug from him and drank his own fill of the nutritious beverage that was a staple in the people’s diet.
Khu was the tallest of the king’s children. Whereas Nakhti was built stocky, Khu’s muscular frame was lean and sinewy. He also possessed a natural grace and confidence, moving and speaking with the ease of one comfortable in his own skin.
Nakhti’s confidence had a cocky edge to it. He was the more impulsive and boisterous of the two brothers, who had been best friends since childhood. Nakhti was also always the first to throw down a challenge or jump into a fight. He was the kind who acted before thinking, while Khu proceeded more cautiously.
Like most of the women in the palace, Nakhti’s own mother had warned him to keep his distance from Khu when the strange boy had first come to live under their roof. Her fears were based on age-old superstitions passed from one generation to another, and there was little to change them now. But unlike Neferu who was jealous of Khu and the king’s affection for him, Nakhti’s mother did not feel threatened by the child. She just felt uncomfortable by his catlike eyes which almost seemed to look through people.
Despite the superstitions, fears and jealousies following the innocent child like the dust clouds kicked up by the beasts of burden on the dirt roads, it had not been long before Nakhti and Khu became fast friends. Like most children whose natural curiosity gets the be
tter of them and trumps their initial reserve, Nakhti’s own curiosity and interest in Khu drew them together. And their personalities—though opposite—suited and complimented each other well. They became inseparable.
Before long, the rest of the palace occupants and others who came into contact with the boy, let go of their doubts and suspicions when they saw no evil befall the young Nakhti, who could always be found playing with Khu. No strange illness claimed his body, no madness overtook his mind, and no injury of any kind incapacitated Nakhti. This was enough proof of the young Khu’s harmlessness, leading the others to accept Khu as one of their own.
Except for Neferu.
Although Neferu’s own infant son Sankhkare had grown into a healthy and inquisitive toddler in the first few years after Khu’s arrival, she still regarded Khu with tremendous jealousy. It most certainly must have been due at least in part to the great affection held for him by the king. Mentuhotep loved Khu.
Whenever the ruler’s gaze came to rest on the boy, it was as though someone had kindled a light within his eyes. His whole face seemed to glow with the warmth that filled him. Perhaps it was the timing of their introduction that played a significant role in their bond. It was like all the warmth and tenderness that Mentuhotep had felt for his third wife Henhenet and their unborn daughter had been transferred to Khu upon their deaths. And once that favor had been bestowed on the child, nothing could shake it. It was as strong and steadfast as the pyramids of Lower Egypt which dated back to the Old Kingdom.
It was this bond that Neferu envied. The rational part of her knew that nothing but death could take the kingdom’s future throne from her son. Sankhkare’s heirdom had been decided from the womb, conditional to his being born male. But another part of her feared for her son’s future, and wished to guard it jealously against any would-be usurpers. Although she despised the uncertainties that hardened her heart and filled her veins with poison, she could not stop the tension from gripping her whenever she saw the easy father-son relationship shared by Khu and the king.
Khu: A Tale of Ancient Egypt Page 5