Khu: A Tale of Ancient Egypt

by Jocelyn Murray

  Qeb was still crouched on the ground when the king arrived by his side. All was quiet except for the angry flies that had been disturbed from their bloody feasting. Even the buzzards waited patiently, biding their time in the tree, which cast a fragmented shadow on the uneven ground strewn with sand, rocks and brush.

  Mentuhotep said nothing as he approached the grisly scene with caution. Nakhti and Khu had followed, curious to see what was there. Khu heard his brother’s sharp intake of breath as Nakhti stifled his shock. It was not the first time the boys had seen a mutilated body. They had witnessed prisoners punished, men whipped and caned, and others put to death for high crimes against the king that included treason and attempted grave robbing among other offenses. But they had never seen a body torn apart with such savagery, it almost seemed inhuman.

  Khu cast a sidelong glance at his father. The king’s face remained stoic. Only a barely discernible flexing of a muscle in his neck betrayed an implacable fury seething behind his eyes, which were fixed on what was left of the face of one of the men he had sent ahead to Abdju with Sudi, to spy on Ankhtifi.

  “It is Pili,” Qeb said in a low voice, mindful of the dead man’s spirit which probably roamed restlessly nearby.

  Mentuhotep just lowered his head, closing his eyes as he slowly exhaled. Then he turned away to stare at the horizon, waiting beyond the limestone bluffs, that shone pink in the glow of the dying day.

  ***

  Pili had inadvertently discovered King Khety staying at the home of an official in Abdju, when he had split up from his other two partners to comb the town for information. He lingered near some of the more lavish residences of the town, in an attempt to find out more about the Nen-nesian ruler’s plans. It had been three days before the Going Forth of Osiris commemoration that would culminate the religious proceedings of the annual festival, before the people lost themselves in the reveling.

  Khety had been biding his time to make his appearance after the effigy of Osiris had been laid to rest in his mastaba tomb. He had been partaking in secret meetings to perfectly orchestrate the last touches of the events, which were unfolding just as he had planned for so long. The king of Lower Egypt was talking with someone in the courtyard, beyond the gardens near the official’s residence where he was staying, when Pili happened by. Pili quickly ducked and hid behind one of the thick columns supporting a pergola, under which a small shrine dedicated to Isis stood. He thought he recognized King Khety from his striking presence, though he could not be sure since he had never actually seen him from up close before. It was the response of the king’s companion, and how the man had addressed the king, that pricked Pili’s ears and removed all doubt as to Khety’s identity.

  “Yes, Lord King,” the man had said. “Everything is ready for you.”

  “Good,” King Khety gave a curt nod. His kohl-lined eyes sparkled a pale shade of slate. It was hard to look into those eyes without feeling discomfited. He was not wearing his ceremonial wig, and his smooth-shaven head shone golden in the dappled light filtering through the leaves of a sycamore fig tree. The tree’s wide-spreading branches bore thick clusters of fruit in varying stages of ripeness. It was the sacred tree of life connecting the two worlds of life and death. Khety picked a small cluster of the figs which had ripened into red succulent orbs. He blew the dust off one of them and popped the whole thing into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully for a while as his mind continued to work. “Have the priests agreed to support us then?”

  “Some of them, Sire. We just need a little more time to convince the others.” The man looked a bit nervous. He knew Khety would not be happy to hear this.

  “Hmm,” the king looked away as he thought of the stubborn priests who refused to pledge their loyalty to him. If he could not have their allegiance willingly, he would take it by force. “Tell Ankhtifi to join me when he is finished for today,” he looked back at the man who was eager to leave.

  But the man did not need to tell Ankhtifi anything. The chieftain of Nekhen had overheard them speaking as he made his way over from the town’s center. He saw Pili listening in the shadow of a column, like a mongoose eyeing a snake. Ankhtifi gripped the handle of his mace and ducked behind another column. He moved without a sound, inching closer to the man he knew instinctively was an enemy. And as he moved from behind one column to another, Khety spotted him from across the courtyard.

  “Ankhtifi!” he greeted approvingly, unaware that Pili was there.

  Pili whipped his head around in time to see Ankhtifi bearing down on him like a wolf closing in for the kill. The dark, lupine eyes of the chieftain were fixed on the smaller man, who did not stand a chance. Pili backed into a column as his panicked eyes darted around frantically, but there was no place for him to go. He could not outrun him. A terrible fear and indecision immobilized his limbs.

  The last thing Pili saw before dying, was the wolf-man’s baleful glare, and the copper-headed mace shining in the light before crushing his skull.

  ***

  “We cannot leave him here,” Mentuhotep said of Pili.

  Khu and Nakhti had stepped away from the gruesome scene after staring wide-eyed at the carnage. Blood stained the ground where the buzzards had been tearing at the flesh of the dead man. The boys glanced at each other, wondering what the king had in mind. They knew the buzzards and other wild animals would only finish what they had started, leaving nothing but his thin, brittle bones and a thatch of blood-matted hair, to bleach in the sun. The man’s remains had to be buried in order to free his spirit.

  “I could take him back to the ship, Lord King,” one of the soldiers offered.

  “Very well,” Mentuhotep nodded as he touched his amulet. “At least take what is left. And go with someone else.” He looked up at the tree where the buzzards waited patiently. A few of them were preening their dark feathers, some of which were stained with Pili’s blood. “I wonder…” the king let the words trail off.

  “Wonder what, Lord King?” Qeb asked. He had stepped out of the way of the two men who were gently wrapping Pili’s remains in a plain linen cloth. It would have to do for now, at least until his body could be taken back to Thebes where it would be cleansed, purified, and receive all the necessary ablutions before a proper burial could take place, so that his spirit could be sent to the Afterlife to rest for all eternity.

  But the king just shook his head and kept his thoughts to himself. He waved at the flies landing on the ground that was sticky with congealed blood.

  “Cover this with sand,” he pointed to the blood, “so the flies go away.”

  But nothing could mask the stench of death that had fouled the day, foreshadowing the battle lying ahead.

  Mentuhotep divided his army so they could infiltrate Abdju in smaller groups without drawing much attention to themselves. Some had gone to wait close to the west bank of the Nile, so they could block the enemy from attempting to escape by way of the river. The king sent more men over to the temple complex dominating the town’s center. They were barely able to get through the mass of people who were vying to get closer to King Khety, as he captivated the mob with his larger-than-life persona. Mentuhotep split up the rest of his men into smaller bands surrounding the town, while he, Qeb, Nakhti, Khu and several other men positioned themselves at a shrine which stood more than 150 paces from the Temple of Osiris.

  Nobody thought it strange that soldiers moved among the crowd. The temple priests had their own soldiers positioned to keep over-zealous pilgrims from getting too close to the temple. Those men stood on bare, thickly calloused feet, watching the crowd impassively with their large ox-hide shields stretched over wooden frames, and their bronze-tipped spears glinting in the sun. With so many people flooding the town for the annual celebration, more soldiers had been employed to keep the peace, maintain harmony, and be on the lookout against the inevitable parasites which followed the pilgrims in hopes of profiting from the festival by less than honorable means.

  Khu was not able to see Ankhtifi
’s face from this distance. All he saw was the group of men standing with their three hooded prisoners in front of the Temple of Osiris, where King Khety was speaking to the crowd.

  The torch fires threw long, skulking shadows that undulated in the dry breeze. Khu narrowed his eyes at the king of Lower Egypt who was bewitching the mob with lies. He had never seen him before this night. And although he could not make out the features of Ankhtifi and the other men guarding the Nen-nesian king, he felt the malevolence seeping from Ankhtifi’s soul like the foul secretion of an infected pustule. A strange tingling sensation spread through Khu’s fingers and toes, and his heart beat faster. He watched, transfixed, as the captive priest was forced to his knees before the king. Qeb had already drawn the string of his bow, with the bronze arrow tip aiming at the northern king.

  In the chaos unleashed by the fiery arrows, Mentuhotep’s army infiltrated the crowd with a single purpose: to crush King Khety’s supporters. People were running and screaming as the opposing armies withdrew their weapons and began slashing at each other in the maelstrom. But Mentuhotep wanted to face Khety on his own terms. Qeb’s arrow had barely missed the northern king, who had quickly disappeared into the temple with his entourage.

  This was not the first uprising staged by the House of Khety from Lower Egypt’s Akhtoy lineage in Nen-nesu. After the last of the Inebou-Hedjou kings died childless, the provincial leader of Nen-nesu jumped on the opportunity to declare himself god-king of Egypt.

  But he had not been the only one.

  The Theban leaders also staked their claim, as did other governors in the ensuing chaos which led to civil war between all the opposing powers. Like a pack of wolves, they all competed for power after the alpha male god-king had deceased and left his supreme position open.

  King Khety’s father had attacked Mentuhotep’s grandfather King Wah-ankh Intef II, in an attempt to crush his enemies and eliminate the rest of the competition that also vied for the Pschent Double Crown of Upper and Lower Egypt. Their bloody battle had occurred in the city of Tjeny—just north of Abdju. And just as Abdju would suffer much ruin from King Khety’s revolt, the battle at Tjeny had also resulted in the desecration of its tombs and utter ruin of its city.

  It was after a subsequent skirmish years later, that Mentuhotep saw Khety for the very first time in his life. Mentuhotep was about nine years old when Khety—a grown man about fourteen years his senior—had met with Mentuhotep’s father briefly on a diplomatic mission. By that time Khety was already king of Lower Egypt, and Mentuhotep’s father—King Nakhtnebtepnefer Intef III—occupied the Theban throne. The meeting took place shortly after Intef III successfully defended one of his territories north of Thebes, where he had quickly quashed the beginnings of a small rebellion, and in doing so, managed to keep the duration of his short reign peaceful.

  Mentuhotep recalled seeing Khety step inside the room where his father waited with his advisors. Young Mentuhotep was standing off to one side with a tutor, from where he quietly observed the proceedings, as was required of the crown prince who would one day follow to take his father’s place as king.

  Neither of the kings had bowed to each other, but they had behaved courteously, treating each other with the respect and dignity their positions warranted. Mentuhotep was struck by King Khety’s tall, regal bearing and handsome looks. There was a casual grace and confidence to the way he moved.

  A hush claimed the room the moment Khety had stepped inside, and all eyes turned to him. He stood out from the crowd like something shining in the desert sand. From the way the two kings had spoken together, it almost seemed as though they might have been friends if their kingdoms had not opposed each other.

  “It is a pity he occupies the northern throne,” Intef had later said, long after their meeting was over.

  “Why Father?” young Mentuhotep had asked.

  “Because he is not a bad man,” Intef replied with a nod.

  That had been long before Khety’s features were hardened by the tragedies that would come later in Khety’s life. Even then, he was the kind of person with a strong presence and a magnetic aura which attracted attention. His sharp gray eyes sparkled with intelligence as he took in his surroundings. Wherever he went, people stopped what they were doing to turn and stare at him. They couldn’t help it, for he had that effect on others.

  What struck Mentuhotep most at the time was that Khety actually looked like a god—a god with perfectly proportioned features, exquisitely carved in granite, limestone and alabaster, with pale slate eyes. It was an impression that stayed with Mentuhotep all these years.

  And it was intimidating.

  The peace forged by Khety and Intef III on that day long ago had been transitory; for after Intef’s death, Mentuhotep had to crush a few small skirmishes which erupted along the southern perimeter of Middle Egypt, though he did not come face-to-face with Khety again.

  Mentuhotep wondered how much Khety had changed over the years. He wondered how much his father’s opinion would have changed as well. He still imagined the Nen-nesian king to be the very same as he had last seen him so many years ago. But he knew that that had been the impression of a young child, and that Khety would have changed since then.

  Mentuhotep had heard of the king’s tragedies, and had also kept abreast of his activities over the years. But he could not help feeling apprehensive about meeting him in person. And for all his childhood impressions of the godlike man who claimed Lower Egypt’s Deshret Red Crown in the north, Mentuhotep had to remind himself that Khety was just another pretender who had risen to power from a transitory lineage—a lineage he intended on crushing for good.

  Mentuhotep hoped that would happen today.

  ***

  Khu and Nakhti had jumped into the frantic churning mass along with the rest of Mentuhotep’s men. They fought side by side, guarding each other’s backs as they defended themselves against Ankhtifi and Khety’s men, who showed no fear in their blazing eyes. Some of the enemy had been lulled by the festivities, which had been going on for many days, while Mentuhotep’s army was still fresh, having arrived only a few hours before. And although Ankhtifi’s men had been warned that the Theban king might be surprising them with a visit, their initial caution melted away during the long ceremonial processions, and with the heqet they drank to keep from dehydrating under the glaring sun.

  Nakhti was eager to draw blood. All his natural impulsiveness gave him a courage he might otherwise not have felt. But Khu could not shake the malevolence he had sensed earlier. There was something disturbingly familiar about it. He tried burying those thoughts as he scanned the large public square in front of the temple. He saw people huddling under tables whose contents had spilled on the ground. Others were limping away, or trying to drag off loved ones into safer surroundings. Some people had been trampled to death in the havoc, while others lay unconscious from their wounds. All about the town, skirmishes had broken out between groups of his father’s soldiers and the enemy.

  Khety had long disappeared within the confines of the massive temple structure, along with his entourage. His guards had warned him of Mentuhotep’s men scouring the streets. They had seen the Theban army rounding up or killing anyone involved in the revolt. They had seen the priest’s guards also join in the battle, siding along with the Theban soldiers.

  Regardless of Khety and Ankhtifi’s combined forces, they were still outnumbered by Mentuhotep’s troops. Without the support from the pilgrims and general public, Khety knew he did not stand a chance. He needed the people’s support to help him push south and take the Theban crown by force. He had counted on their sheer numbers to overcome resistance from Upper Egypt’s ruler. And since the people had panicked, he had no choice but to flee.

  If he wanted to get out of Abdju alive.

  Khety and Ankhtifi’s soldiers were a mismatched assortment of solitary, masterless men from all over Egypt and the foreign lands lying to the east. They were hungry for power and plunder. Especially Ankhtifi’s
men. Like the lean jackals hunting in the shadows, the men under Ankhtifi’s command were opportunistic marauders and ruffians whose experience was largely drawn from raiding small settlements. Many of them were not battle-hardened warriors, but rather bullies whose strength lay in their penchant to trample innocent, unarmed men, women and children.

  Mentuhotep’s men were skilled soldiers, and Khu and Nakhti had the agility and speed of youth. The adrenaline coursing through their blood, flooded their veins with an indestructible mettle. All their years of training had led up to this point. So as they were weaving their way through the scattering crowd in search of the radical supporters of the northern king, one man stepped out from behind a column to lunge at Khu with a dagger meant to split him open.

  Khu did not think twice before parrying and pivoting away. He slashed back at the man who had someone else’s blood smeared across his broad chest, but the man sidestepped and hissed, baring his teeth in a growl.

  Khu lost all his initial reserve. Any last traces of nervousness had evaporated like water from the scorching desert. He moved with the lethal grace of the blade, his face a taut mask of concentration, as he traded strikes with his opponent. Then he stepped to one side, tricking the man into thinking he was trying to catch his breath. And that was when Khu delivered the deadly strike to the man’s neck. The man clutched his throat as blood poured down through his fingers. He sputtered and gargled a final protest as he slashed feebly at the air one last time before going down like a felled ox.

  Khu darted a glance at Nakhti just in time to see two men approaching his brother. One was armed with a battle ax dripping with fresh blood, from someone he had killed moments before. The other held a dagger in each of this fisted hands. Seeing the young warriors made the men grin.