Khu: A Tale of Ancient Egypt

by Jocelyn Murray

  Ankhtifi had been King Khety’s ally for many years. Ankhtifi’s own father had once served Khety’s predecessor in the House of Khety that ruled Lower Egypt in Nen-nesu on the west bank of the Nile. Although Ankhtifi had outwardly remained neutral in the political schism between the thrones of Lower and Upper Egypt, his loyalty lay with Khety. Ankhtifi’s neutral pretense was critical to the preservation of his township in Nekhen, especially given Nekhen’s close proximity to Thebes. He did not wish to turn King Mentuhotep against him.

  Khety pondered the news he received today as he stepped outside the pavilion to wander through the walled gardens of his palace. It was his favorite place to think. The jasmine was in full bloom, and it filled the air with its heady perfume from where it crept possessively over the thick limestone columns supporting the pergola above him. Grapevines wove through the overhead beams, shading the walkways that were framed by flower beds next to one of several ponds stocked with ornamental fish. An orchard grew beyond that.

  Filled with a blend of anxiety and anticipation, Khety paused to pluck a sprig of the jasmine by one of the columns. He could not help wondering if he had made the right decision in summoning Ankhtifi to Abdju. But he knew that if he had not done so, nothing would ever change. And it was time to expand the House of Khety which had been left to him by his father, and by his father’s father before him. It was time to push south and capture the throne of Upper Egypt from his nemesis Mentuhotep.

  Khety thought of the Theban king as he twirled the stem of the jasmine sprig between his fingers. The milky sap left a sticky residue on his skin which he ignored as his thoughts turned to his rival in Upper Egypt. He envied Mentuhotep. He begrudged everything about him: his kingdom, his wives, his children, his gold mines in Kush… the list was endless. He knew Mentuhotep was wealthy—far wealthier than he certainly was. Khety’s spies had told him so, and the prosperous state of the Upper Kingdom’s lands was proof enough of this. But it was more than his wealth that Khety desired. Mentuhotep seemed happy. Khety’s spies often mentioned the Theban king’s contented and satisfied demeanor—something which came from having everything he had ever wanted. Yes, it was his happiness that Khety mostly envied.

  Khety had no heirs of his own. His first two wives had died in childbirth many years before, when he was a young man. After a long period of mourning, he had finally taken another wife at the insistence of his advisors. Shani—his third wife—had proved strong and fertile, and had borne him four children in quick succession: two boys, followed by two girls.

  Khety inhaled the fragrance of the sprig of jasmine as he braced himself against the painful memories that flooded his being like the Nile waters during the Season of Inundation. He could still remember the delighted squeals of his young children as they ran playing through the gardens; the very same gardens where he now stood. He could almost catch a glimpse of them hiding among the trees, or chasing each other through the shaded paths, or frolicking and tumbling on the soft velvety grasses. Those happy shrieks had ceased shortly after his eldest son had celebrated his seventh Season of Inundation.

  His son’s sudden illness had left the child immobile. It had begun with a sore throat accompanied by a high fever, which grew very painful so that he could no longer eat nor drink. Then all of his joints became painfully inflamed—his elbows, knees, wrists and ankles—so he could not walk. He was breathless and extremely fatigued. After that, he had quickly withered into a shrunken sack of bones in less than the course of a moon. Then his younger siblings fell ill just as suddenly, and all of them died of the same mysterious ailment which left them so weak, their hearts simply stopped beating.

  Shani had been heavy with child at the time, expecting their fifth baby. Khety remembered the haunted look in her eyes as she struggled night and day by her children’s bedsides, willing them to regain their health. Her beautiful eyes were sunken with dread, as she moved about in a harrowing daze of angst and disbelief. She refused to leave them, even after he had ordered her to get some rest in her own private quarters. She had stayed put in their room, trying to get them to sip warmly brewed infusions, placing compresses on their swollen throats and limbs, lighting incense in the room, and encircling their beds with amulets to ward off the evil ravaging their little bodies. Priests and doctors from near and far had come with every imaginable remedy, chanting endless spells and invocations known to bring healing. But nothing anyone did had made a difference. The tragedy had caused Shani to miscarry before her time, and she died along with the child she had been carrying.

  Cursed. It was as though he had been cursed.

  Khety shut his eyes tightly against the anguish that was always present, just beneath the surface of his forced composure. Why else would death come to smite all those whom he had dearly loved? It had been hard enough to lose his first two wives. He had not wanted to remarry after their deaths, and had closed himself off to any relationships for years. But with the passing of time, the scars of his wounds had faded from an angry red into something less caustic, so that he had allowed himself to be talked into taking another wife.

  Shani had been a dream come true. In a time when marriages were formed as dynastic alliances, theirs had unexpectedly blossomed into love. They had been immensely happy together. And with the birth of each of their children, their love had only grown stronger.

  Perhaps the gods had been jealous of him. All Khety knew was that when death ripped Shani and his children from his bosom, he had nearly lost his mind. Something within him died along with them; something loving and tender and kind. And when the doors to their tombs had been shut and sealed, echoing loudly through his ravaged soul, a door within his heart slammed shut like the bars of an iron cage.

  The king was staring into the past with his brow furrowed, the jasmine still held under his nose. These gardens had become his private sanctuary after their deaths, and were strictly off-limits to anyone other than the servants who tended them.

  But nothing had ever been the same again.

  He no longer celebrated any festivals other than making a perfunctory appearance to the holiest high feasts. He no longer ate, drank or socialized with others, outside of those diplomatic meetings demanding his presence. Khety had grown very bitter. All the anguish he had tried to repress, twisted inside him, infected his soul, and hardened his heart into a kind of imposing granite obelisk which struck fear into those who stood before him.

  He was a very handsome man before the tragedy; strikingly handsome with kind gray eyes, a high forehead, straight nose, sensual mouth, and a tall, sculpted physique which drew appreciative stares from those around him. But the grief had imbued his masculine beauty with a glacial edge. It had contorted his handsome face into something harsh and almost feral, thinning his mouth into a dour and rigid line, and replacing the warmth of his eyes with an icy glare. And from the depths of the misery which had destroyed all that was kind and compassionate within him, emerged a cold and ruthless ruler driven by ambition, by conquest, and by a senseless retribution that could never be avenged in a thousand lifetimes.

  The capital of Nen-nesu had grown stronger under Khety’s rule. It was largely due to his ability to swiftly crush the sporadic rebellions of the would-be kings from other districts who had tried to overthrow him. Khety was well aware of the many divisions within his realm. Each of the cult centers subsisting along the banks of the Nile between Upper and Lower Egypt had been largely independent since the unified powers of old had split. But their independence had left them vulnerable to raiders, turmoil, and subsequent famine due to the breakdown of the political and economic infrastructure which had fallen into decay. And like the ruins buried by the shifting sands rippling under a searing desert sun, their ephemeral rulers would rise and fall with the fickleness of time.

  But not the House of Khety.

  The king was determined to soar above them all. But he had to continue growing his empire for it to remain strong. Otherwise one of his opponents would swoop in like a falcon o
ver a nest of fledglings to usurp the throne from him. Nevertheless, Khety did not worry about that now. He felt confident because he had well-placed emissaries in the most important townships, testing the waters and garnering support for his cause. He had promised them wealth and power in return for their allegiance; riches which he planned to take from the kingdom of Thebes. He wanted Mentuhotep’s gold mines to fill his own coffers. But he had to first get rid of the king of Upper Egypt. And Abdju was one of the important townships which would help him achieve his ambition. So tomorrow morning he would set out for Abdju to join Ankhtifi in preparation for realizing his long-awaited dream of placing all of Egypt under the House of Khety’s rule.

  ***

  Ankhtifi had taken a small fleet with him to Abdju from his settlement in Nekhen under the pretense of trade. It was a believable ruse because Nekhen was a thriving trade center with access to mineral resources in the eastern desert, and was known for its skilled craftsmen which included potters, masons, weavers and bronzesmiths. It was also a major cult center for the falcon-god Horus.

  Ankhtifi’s fleet carried many craft items aboard its ships to prevent any suspicions from arising. But beneath the bolts of cloth, crates of pottery and exotic goods, a cache of weapons remained hidden. And the men aboard the vessels were trained warriors disguised as craftsmen.

  Ankhtifi handed a scroll to an official who had boarded his lead ship when they arrived at Abdju—the main cult center of Osiris, who was god of the dead and the Afterlife. The portly man took the scroll with the casual authority of one used to being in command. He slid off the thin strip of leather binding, and then unrolled it with a show of boredom and patience, as though he had nothing better to do and all the time in which do it. The bill of lading enumerated the details of the goods on board.

  Ankhtifi held his breath and tightened his grip around the handle of a weapon hanging discreetly at his side, as the official lifted a linen cloth to cast a cursory glance over the merchandise packed in one of several large crates. The only sign betraying Ankhtifi’s tension was a slight involuntary twitching of his clenched jaw—a tic he had had since childhood. He regarded the official quietly with deeply set hooded eyes, before forcing himself to breathe.

  “Thirty cubits?” the official questioned casually, reading from the scroll as he prodded one of the bolts of cloth with a stick.

  “Yes,” Ankhtifi said, “each bolt is thirty cubits long.”

  The official looked impressed but said nothing for a moment. He was not a rich man, but knew from Ankhtifi’s fleet and position as chieftain of Nekhen that Ankhtifi was wealthy. But chieftain or not, Ankhtifi had to answer to him now. The official obviously enjoyed this part of his job, and how people stood aside to wait on his every word. He strutted about with his head held high, flaunting his power.

  “Life must be good in Nekhen,” he told Ankhtifi as he ran his beady eyes over the crates on the ship. There was an envious note to his tone. “But it could take a long time to make a thorough check of everything,” he said without looking at the chieftain. “Procedures are procedures, after all.”

  Ankhtifi just watched him silently with narrowed eyes, the tic in his jaw twitching of its own accord. The official took his time, seemingly oblivious to everything going on around him.

  The port at Abdju was bustling with activity, and there were people everywhere. It was far busier than usual due to the preparations for the annual festival that took place here. Boats and ships of all sizes were arriving to the major cult center of Osiris. They brought pilgrims coming to honor the god of the Afterlife, and all sorts of food and other goods that would be bought, sold and consumed during the high feast celebrations.

  Some people had come from as far north as the Nile Delta lying just beyond Inebou-Hedjou and the pyramids of old. A few had traveled from as far south as Abu Simbel in Kush where the great rocky mountainside would one day—centuries later in the nineteenth dynasty of Egypt’s New Kingdom—be carved into two massive temple monuments honoring Ramesses the Great and his principle wife Queen Nefertari. But most people were arriving from settlements lying somewhere in between, the majority of which were near and north of Abdju. They were eager to abandon the tedium of their hard lives in order to lose themselves in the celebration of the festivities, if only for a few glorious days.

  Oxen and donkeys pulled wooden carts or were laden with heavy burdens which were unpacked from the boats and transported into town. Some people balanced large baskets over their heads or on each shoulder as they trod carefully, weaving through the crowds. Others moved along with nothing but the simple linen clothes they wore, as they clutched the hands of their children and relatives, and headed toward the festival.

  The port was accessible from a kind of inlet formed where the Nile branched off into a creek. It was protected from the rising floodwaters by a strip of land growing thick with date and doum palms, sycamore figs, and acacia trees. One side of the land strip was a dark earthen mass which had been carved out by the water over time. It rose high and muddy in parts before disappearing below the copse of trees, and then sloping back down beneath the reeds on the opposite side of the bank. Pelicans, grebes and wild geese waded by the reeds in search of fish, while others neared the port where they hoped to snag some of the discarded offal tossed into the water by the fishermen cleaning their catch. The port itself had long ago been cleared away of vegetation and paved with large blocks of stone where the boats were dragged ashore.

  Abdju was largely a temple-town set deeper into the dry desert beyond the western bank of the River Nile, where stone shrines and chapels rose from the sedimentary rock out of which they were carved. It was also home to a large royal necropolis where past monarchs of the early dynasties were entombed. The ancient mastaba tombs were rectangular-based, flat-roofed stone structures, resembling a wide bench with sloping sides from far. Deep, hidden chambers housed the dead, while above-ground rooms kept items such as clothing, furniture and food, believed to be useful to the deceased in the Afterlife.

  Beyond the sprawling temple complex was a town where the craftsmen and other workers lived. The streets hummed with visiting pilgrims and local workers readying for the great Festival of Osiris. Everywhere the excitement of the annual celebration was felt as musicians tuned their instruments, acrobats practiced their dances, merchants set up their stalls, and priests readied the temples.

  But the man checking Ankhtifi’s ships behaved as though nothing special were happening, and he took his time with his work. It was just a show of his power, for he had no real interest in the items Ankhtifi carried, which he checked with a passing glance of one with little curiosity for the things around him. He behaved as though they were beneath his concern, which was fine by Ankhtifi who was eager to get on with his work.

  “You are staying for the festival, yes?” the official asked nonchalantly.

  “We are.”

  “Things are busy as you can see for yourself,” the man swept a hand over the port, indicating the crowds. “As I mentioned, it could take a long time to make a thorough inspection of everything,” he shrugged and shook his head as though disappointed. “A long time,” he repeated with emphasis. Then he stopped to look Ankhtifi in the eye as he lifted a single kohl-elongated eyebrow in an unspoken message.

  Ankhtifi took the bait and stepped closer to the man, the urge to clobber him barely kept in check. “Perhaps this might speed things up a little,” Ankhtifi said as he handed the man a gold piece.

  The official’s eyebrows shot up greedily, and he snatched the gold and tucked it away into a pocket. “Of course, of course. It most certainly will speed things along,” he smiled to Ankhtifi, and scratched a mark on the scroll before handing it back to him. “In fact, we are finished here. Everything looks satisfactory and has passed inspection. Welcome to Abdju. You may proceed with your business. Enjoy the festival,” he gave a curt bow and then left the ship.

  “Thank you sir,” Ankhtifi replied tightly. He forced a smile
that did not reach his dark eyes. He was relieved that this part of his mission was complete.

  This was not the first time Ankhtifi had been on a clandestine mission for Khety. He had built himself a fearsome reputation over the many years of his service to the king who wore Lower Egypt’s Deshret Red Crown. Ankhtifi had come to be known as He Who Wields Death: an informal title bestowed upon him by enemies who uttered it behind his back. His favorite weapon was a copper-headed mace which he carried with him wherever he went. It hung from his sword belt by its elaborately carved wooden handle overlaid in bronze, and reinforced with interwoven strips of sinew.

  Ankhtifi had been instrumental in helping Khety flush out many of the traitors conspiring to take Khety’s throne in Nen-nesu. One of them had been a pretender who had claimed the defunct throne of Inebou-Hedjou, which had once been the old capital of the unified lands of Egypt during the Old Kingdom before its subsequent division. The would-be ruler was captured, questioned, and then put to a shameful death as a public example of the terrible consequences that would befall anyone who opposed Khety’s rule.

  Before the traitor was executed, Ankhtifi had coerced him into revealing all of his allies. One by one, each of his supporters was apprehended and brought before Ankhtifi. Some of them had broken into a fetid sweat at the intimidating sight of Khety’s enforcer, as he towered above them by the length of a head. His implacable expression was made more menacing by dark hooded eyes whose irises were the same color as his pupils. He had a long skull with a wolfish face, high cheekbones, a long thin nose, and prominent elongated chin. And as he circled around each of the men with the deliberate grace of a leopard, the spiderlike fingers of his hand resting on the hilt of his mace, most of the men had broken down and confessed to their share in the conspiracy. But before being beaten and put to death, they had pleaded for a mercy they would never receive.