Mentuhotep was with a group of his men, while Khety was alone with only two soldiers who had stayed faithfully by his side. Everyone else had been killed, wounded, or captured in battle or when they had tried to flee.
The two monarchs said nothing at first. They stopped and stared at each other silently, as one appraises a foe for his strengths and weaknesses. The air was charged with a current of apprehension, as though the very gods themselves were watching the events unfold.
Khety’s shaven head was bare, and he was armed with only a dagger. Although he was cut and bruised with minor injuries and lacerations, and his kilt was torn, dirty and stained with blood, his bearing was as regal as always.
Mentuhotep wore his blue war crown over his shaven head, and had an aura of authority radiating from him. The difference in their ages was made more obvious now that the two rulers stood several paces across from each other. The strain of the last decade had taken its toll on Khety, and he looked worn and tired. But he remained poised like an aged lion whose glorious mane has thinned and faded with time. An aged lion facing a younger foe in his prime, during a territorial claim.
“So it has come to this,” Khety finally spoke after he neared Mentuhotep’s group. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly through his nose.
Mentuhotep just watched the Nen-nesian king, his expression guarded. Even now Khety still possessed an undeniable aura that commanded respect, and Mentuhotep could not help feeling momentarily awed by his presence.
“You are a formidable adversary,” Khety said, a note of admiration in his tone.
A moment of silence passed between them before Mentuhotep cautiously acknowledged, “As are you.”
Mentuhotep’s men were restless and watchful as they stood near their regent. The encounter left them tense, and they stared at the northern king with a kind of uneasy regard.
A hawk screeched from somewhere high above the province, and Khety glanced thoughtfully at the sky. He closed his eyes briefly before looking at Mentuhotep once again. There was a look of determination in his piercing gaze, as though he had arrived at a decision.
“Do not harm them,” Khety said about the two men at his side.
No one replied as his men looked at him in confusion, frowning as they glanced around uncertainly, wondering why their sovereign would say such a thing. They tightened the grips on their weapons, as they stood tense and alert to the danger they faced.
Khety had done his best to ward off all the attacks up until now. He had fought long and hard to protect his troops and defeat the men who attacked them. He had witnessed many of his men die, including a man who was killed by one of Mentuhotep’s warriors only moments earlier before entering the abandoned marketplace, as they fought on the dirt roads that were now stained with blood.
“Wait,” Mentuhotep raised a hand for his men to stop as two of them made to approach the Nen-nesian king. He watched Khety with a kind of suspicion mingled with a grudging respect. And although he couldn’t help his feelings of curiosity, wariness and awe, he knew that the Seven Hathors sided with him rather than the northern ruler, and he knew that it was time for the Prophecy of Neferti to be fulfilled. “What do you mean?” Mentuhotep asked, narrowing his eyes.
“Let them go,” Khety said in a calm yet authoritative tone. He glanced at his two men who were looking perplexed and anxious. “There is no need to slay them. They are good and loyal men, and will serve you well.” He ordered the two men at his side to put down their weapons and surrender.
One of them looked at the other in confusion, unwilling to leave Khety’s side. He opened his mouth, but then said nothing, closing it again and swallowing hard. After a moment’s hesitation he squared his shoulders and nodded, as he resigned himself to Khety’s intentions. Then both men bowed solemnly to their regent one last time before leaving his side. They gave themselves up to Mentuhotep’s men, and were treated respectfully for surrendering with courage.
Khety remained standing with his dagger in hand. A strange calm befell him as he waited for Mentuhotep to speak. He had been a deeply superstitious man long ago, and believed that this moment was a fitting end to the wretched life he had been dealt. A life of heartache, pain, and misery.
He thought of his father who had died in his own bed in what seemed like so many lifetimes ago. His father had been surrounded by loved ones.
He was surrounded by enemies.
He thought of his first two wives who had died many years ago, when he was a young ruler. He thought of his third and dearest wife Shani who had been snatched from him by death, and the terrible grief over the loss of their precious children.
He was no stranger to death. No stranger to the profound ache, misery and loneliness it bequeathed upon survivors. Death had followed him like a dark shadow throughout his cursed life, and the pain and sorrow it inflicted had hardened his heart.
But at this moment that changed a little.
Something softened within him. Something inside him yielded so that he felt no resistance to his fate.
“The Seven Hathors have been kind to you,” Khety said, his gray eyes glittering in the light of the sun. “You know this, do you not?”
“Yes,” Mentuhotep said.
“You are like your father,” Khety continued, remembering King Intef III whom he had met with so many years before when they had forged a transitory peace. “Even as a young boy in your father’s court,” Khety nodded as he stared at the memory from long ago, “you were like him. Even then.”
Mentuhotep said nothing. He was surprised that Khety had noticed him at all at that time, and was somehow touched by his archenemy’s words. He regarded him quietly with a kind of sympathetic admiration.
“You are courageous,” Mentuhotep told the northern king.
“Then send me to the Field of Reeds,” Khety spoke softly, “where my loved ones await.”
Before Mentuhotep could say anything, Khety advanced swiftly, raising his dagger high, its blade flashing in the sun. Several of Mentuhotep’s men made to step forward and defend the Theban king against Khety, but Mentuhotep shouted, “NO!”
There was no real threat in Khety’s attack. No true danger in the assault. It was just a ruse to get Mentuhotep to do what he had to do. Khety admired Mentuhotep despite his own ambitions for the Theban throne. And at that moment, all the hate within him dissolved. All resistance to fate and its cruel twists and turns vanished, as he let go of the last traces of pride that made him cling with a fierce tenacity to this strange, fleeting life. He knew the battle had been lost. He knew it after Mentuhotep’s men had broken through the blockade, rushed into the harbor, and flooded the streets of the town. And he had fought all the harder for it. But that did not matter now. Only universal order as dictated by the principles of maat mattered now, despite the apparent unfairness of it all. And as Khety neared the Theban king, opening himself to Mentuhotep’s assault, Mentuhotep thrust with a quick uppercut strike, burying his own dagger in Khety’s belly.
Khety dropped his dagger, sinking to his knees as he gripped the hilt of Mentuhotep’s weapon. He pulled it out from his body, then fell to his side and rolled onto his back. He was perspiring heavily, and he grit his teeth from the pain as his wound bled freely onto the ground. His breathing was labored and quickly grew shallow as he tried to catch his breath. His abdominal aorta had been severed, and he only had moments to live.
Mentuhotep knelt down by Khety’s side. He felt a combination of deep relief and a strange sadness for the fallen king; a strange, profound sadness for the ruler who had lost everything but what was left of his honor. It could have been him, Mentuhotep thought for an instant, but then thanked the gods that it wasn’t.
“Go to the Field of Reeds,” he told the dying man as he took one of Khety’s hands into his own. He reached for Khety’s dagger, placed Khety’s hands over its hilt, and let it rest upon his chest respectfully, so that he would die with honor. “Go to your family.”
Khety nodded and closed
his eyes for the last time.
King Wakhare Khety III, from the lineage of Akhtoy, Ruler of Lower Egypt, was dead.
***
Zawty was finally captured and secured shortly after that. Word of Khety’s death spread over the settlement like the winds of a sandstorm, and any last traces of rebellion were quickly snuffed out. Many of the surviving forces who had supported the Nen-nesian ruler surrendered, begging for mercy, and pledging their loyalty to Mentuhotep. Women and children of the settlement, who had remained hidden within their mud-brick homes throughout the fighting, were placed under guard of the Theban-controlled province for their own protection. Prisoners of war were bound and restrained, while the enemy’s dead were scattered in the desert for the wild animals to ravage. Their right hands had been severed before their corpses were heaped on the parched ground to keep a careful accounting of their numbers, and to take their strength from them in the Afterlife—strength that would be useless to them in the Slaughtering Place.
The Theban king was sitting on a raised platform in an expansive outside court which was customarily used to accommodate the large number of people attending the annual festivals, ceremonial feasts, and ritual celebrations held in the province. He was passing judgment on the prisoners assembled there, condemning some to die, and flogging or beating others. Those who were not executed or punished for any form of gross misconduct, would later be assimilated into his army, before which they would undergo rigorous training to prove their loyalty and worth.
Khu was not with Mentuhotep, but was on his way to join his father with a group of his own men. He had seen Khety’s lifeless body for himself, where the northern ruler had been laid before he would be properly embalmed and buried as his rank and station befitted, thanks to Mentuhotep’s benevolence and compassion towards his former enemy.
It was not until Khu neared the court where his father was occupied that the sense of alarm returned. He slowed his steps as the feeling awakened his primordial instincts.
“What is it?” one of his men asked him.
But Khu shook his head and did not reply. They turned a corner and then walked down another street before it opened up into the large court where Mentuhotep was seated. Qeb and Nakhti were by the king’s side, along with a handful of advisors and generals. Nakhti looked very pleased, and had a new scar to show for his fighting. It was a shallow cut that ran the length of a hand, on the upper right portion of his chest. His injured friend was receiving the medical care he needed, and the prospects for surviving his wounds were good.
“Brother!” he called out above the noise, but Khu did not hear him. Every one of his senses was on alert for the danger in their midst.
The king had just pardoned some men when Khu neared the platform at the court’s center. Khu swept his gaze over the many men gathered in various clusters around the court, until his eyes came to rest on a group of priests standing off to one side. They were dressed in their simple linen garments worn for daily, non-ceremonial work in the temples, with little difference between them and the other men, including the soldiers gathered about. And while many of the soldiers wore their hair cropped in regimental fashion, the higher ranking officers and officials shaved their heads like the temple priests. The most distinguishing difference between the priests and the rest of the men was their cloaks, which the priests had drawn over their shaven heads.
But there was something strange about one of the men.
From outward appearances he looked no different than the others, drawing no attention to himself as he blended seamlessly with the group. No one even glanced his way as he stood quietly among the cloaked men, his posture stooped and his head bowed and covered. Nevertheless, Khu sensed a wickedness radiating from him like the heat of the desert, and he recognized him at once.
It was Ankhtifi.
The cunning reprobate had disguised himself as one of the temple priests. He had carefully hidden his features so that he would not be recognized by anyone. With all the fighting and chaos, the other priests had been too afraid for themselves—too wrapped up in their own fear—to even notice him. No one had noticed him.
Ankhtifi might easily have gotten away with the ruse if it had not been for Khu. He might have easily escaped attention and eluded capture for good. But Khu saw through the disguise plainly enough. And he saw into Ankhtifi’s blackened soul, as though the stench of all his deeds rose like fetid vapors from an unembalmed corpse.
Khu froze for an uncertain moment as his eyes landed on Ankhtifi’s form. Although Ankhtifi had aged since he last saw him, the savage within him remained as feral and calloused as ever. But Khu had grown in the ensuing years, and he was stronger than his blood enemy.
Khu glanced at the guards stationed all around the courtyard who were oblivious of the threat, and they seemed relaxed now that the apparent danger was behind them. Ankhtifi’s hands were tied in front of him, though the bindings were loose. He and the priests had not posed any real threat to Mentuhotep’s army, so he was left alone.
Ankhtifi wasn’t worried. He knew that no one recognized him as he waited with the other priests. He remained very calm knowing he had no choice but to be patient for now. He was a very patient man after all. Cold, calculating and composed. He was biding his time to make an escape after nightfall.
“Ankhtifi is here,” Khu finally whispered in Mentuhotep’s ear, after reaching the platform where the king was seated.
Mentuhotep frowned. He had not given any thought to Ankhtifi since Khety’s death. He had simply assumed that the former chieftain of Nekhen was dead as well.
“Where?” the king asked.
Khu gave a slight nod to where Ankhtifi was standing on one side of the court.
“One of the priests.”
At that moment the vicious killer raised his eyes, locking gazes with Khu. He pulled off the loose bonds from his wrists and snatched a dagger that had been strapped to his thigh, hidden beneath his kilt. He grabbed one of the priests, locking his arm around the startled man’s neck, and dragging him backwards as he stepped away with the dagger poised at the helpless man’s throat.
Ankhtifi was edging farther away from the court with no intention of letting his hostage free. His eyes grew wild when he saw that he had been discovered, and he panicked in his rage. His plan had been foolproof. It had been going so well, and he was certain he would have gotten away with it all, until now. His eerily calm composure had snapped, and he darted furtive glances about him, looking as though he were about to pounce and kill anyone hindering his path.
Mentuhotep stood up at once, the blue war crown still on his head. “Seize him!” he shouted, pointing to Ankhtifi while stepping down from the platform.
Two guards immediately moved to grab Ankhtifi but he kicked them away, using the priest as a shield.
Khu ran across the courtyard and tackled Ankhtifi just before the wolf-man would have slit the priest’s throat.
Ankhtifi dropped his dagger, and it fell to the ground before another guard kicked it away. When Khu saw that Ankhtifi was no longer armed, he left his own dagger sheathed by his thigh. Then he punched Ankhtifi hard, squarely in the face, breaking his long nose, and the priest scrambled away free.
“That’s for my father,” Khu said before Ankhtifi fell and rolled on the ground.
Ankhtifi scowled, wiping the blood from his nose with the back of his hand. He had no idea what Khu was talking about, nor did he care. His plans had been thwarted, and he was enraged. He was crouched on the ground with his black eyes fixed on Khu.
“No, not yet!” Mentuhotep shouted, raising a hand to stop some men who were readying to help Khu by attacking Ankhtifi. “Let them fight.”
Mentuhotep was well aware of Ankhtifi’s many crimes, especially of the massacring of Khu’s family and entire village so many years before. Every time he looked at his son and saw the jagged scar on his head he was reminded of the monster that almost took Khu’s life.
“Do not interfere. Let them be,” the k
ing ordered again.
He wanted Khu to avenge the deaths of his family. He wanted vengeance for his beloved son. And although the retribution could never right the wrongs of the past, nor bring back the loved ones he had lost, it would be a reckoning of all Ankhtifi’s deeds according to the divine principles of maat, so that the serving of justice would last for all eternity in the inextinguishable Lake of Fire that waited in the Slaughtering Place.
The Theban king furrowed his brow and set his jaw as he ascended the platform once more, so that nothing would block the view of his son, and of his son’s mortal enemy.
The army crowding the courtyard closed in, forming a circle around the two fighting men. They watched with eyes riveted to the scene, murmuring nervously amongst themselves.
Mentuhotep knew that fortune favored his son, and that Khu needed to face and defeat this demon by himself once and for all.
Khu gripped Ankhtifi by the shoulders, lifting him up to his feet, before thrusting his knee into the man’s groin. “That’s for my mother and my little sister,” he hissed.
Ankhtifi doubled over, wheezing from the assault.
Khu paced around him, giving Ankhtifi a moment to catch his breath. But in an unexpected instant, Ankhtifi lunged for the dagger belonging to one of the men standing nearby. He pulled it from its sheath, and then whipped back around on Khu. And as he sprung toward Khu with the blade, Khu parried and snatched the weapon away, gripping Ankhtifi’s arm and breaking it with a brutal twist, before ramming the blade in his belly, just above the groin.
Ankhtifi’s mouth twisted into a rictus of savagery, camouflaging his pain beneath a fiendish mask. But his black eyes showed nothing. No emotion, no remorse, no life in their fathomless depths that reached as two pits into an abyss.
As the wolf-man sank to the ground, Khu ripped the blade upwards, slitting his belly as he whispered, “And that’s for every innocent life you ever took,” his gold eyes were shining brightly. “Burn in the slayers’ cauldrons,” he added just before Ankhtifi died, “burn in the Slaughtering Place.”
Khu: A Tale of Ancient Egypt Page 27