The Amarnan Kings, Book 2: Scarab - Smenkhkare

by Overton, Max

  Ephras looked round, pleasure and anticipation on his face. "That'd be all right, General?"

  Jebu nodded. "Go and have fun." He watched as Ephras stumbled over to the Kemetu girl and they ran from the hall together. "What offer?"

  "I find that in my line of business I visit many places, talk to many people. Kings even. Why, just last month I was talking to Shubbiluliuma, the Hittite."

  "So you said before. Get on with it."

  "Patience, Jebu. I'm coming to it." Ashraz glanced around again, waiting a few moments for a servant to pass. "The Assyrians seek an experienced officer to lead an attack against certain hill tribes on the border of Assyria and Amurru."

  "Surely they have experienced officers of their own?"

  "One would think so," Ashraz agreed. "However, your name was mentioned in the same breath as rather an intriguing amount of gold." He watched Jebu carefully and, after a few minutes when he got no reply, frowned. "You do not want to know how much gold?"

  "And for this gold I must leave Amurru and fight for the king of Assyria against hill tribes who may well be allied to Aziru?"

  "Well, perhaps. But at least you would be exercising your talents for soldiering."

  "If I agree, you will carry word back to Assyria, where no doubt you will be paid."

  "Of course. It is only reasonable that I get a fee for all my hard work. So, you agree?"

  Jebu whirled and caught Ashraz, pinioning one arm and slamming the smaller man against the stone wall. He slipped his eating dagger from his belt and held it to the spy's throat. "Guards!" he yelled. "Guards, treason!"

  The hubbub in the hall vanished as if hewn by an axe. Heads swung round and the soldiers around the king started across the hall at a run. The chamberlain followed more slowly, his face thoughtful.

  Jebu released Ashraz as the soldiers surrounded them, the press of the crowd jostling the guards. He grabbed a sword from a guard and held it to the spy's chest. Ashraz said nothing, just massaged his arm and smiled.

  "What is the meaning of this, General?" the chamberlain asked. "Have you had too much to drink that you must assault the guests?"

  "This man offered me gold to fight for my king's enemies. He is a traitor."

  The chamberlain looked at the slight figure standing with his back to the wall, the point of a bronze sword pricking his robes. "This man?" He glanced at Ashraz's clothing and looked in vain for jewelry. "He does not look rich enough to offer anyone gold."

  "Not his own gold, you fool. Assyrian gold."

  The chamberlain bristled. "Remember yourself, General. You have seen this gold?"

  "No, I..."

  "What is happening here?" King Aziru walked up behind Jebu, the soldiers parting to let him through.

  "Your majesty." Jebu bowed awkwardly, trying not to take his eyes off Ashraz, nor let the sword point waver. "This man is a traitor. He offered me Assyrian gold to war against your allies."

  "Indeed? Then you have done well to apprehend him...what is your name?"

  "Jebu. I was once a general in your army."

  "Ah. I remember a Jebu, but that Jebu would have killed a traitor, not captured him."

  "You wish me to kill him, your majesty?" the point of the sword rose slightly to prick the base of Ashraz's neck.

  Aziru stood in silence for several minutes, drawing the tension out. "No, ex-general Jebu. Bring him to the chamberlain's room, I will have him questioned." The king turned and walked away, the crowd parting in silence before him.

  Jebu jerked his head and stood aside, pushing the spy after the king, the squad of soldiers falling in around them. "For the sake of an old friendship, Ashraz," he murmured. "Admit your guilt at once and I will petition the king to grant you a swift death."

  "Yours would be the hand with the sword, old friend?" Ashraz smiled and sauntered on, displaying no signs of fear.

  The chamberlain's rooms off the great hall were small and cramped; being dominated by a large table covered in papyrus and clay tablets. The king pulled out a sturdy chair from behind the desk and after inspecting the seat, sat down.

  "Dismiss the guards, Jebu. I will talk with you and this man alone."

  "Your majesty, that would not be wise...this man is a traitor and dangerous."

  "Can you not protect me?"

  "Yes," Jebu agreed grimly. He moved slightly, positioning himself between Aziru and the spy.

  "Good." Aziru stared at the small man and nodded. "Why did you talk to ex-General Jebu, Ashraz?"

  Jebu's head swung round, though the sword did not waver. "You know this man?"

  "Do not interrupt me again. Go on, Ashraz."

  "Yes, your majesty. I talked with General Jebu to determine whether I could buy his services for the Assyrian king. I offered him a large but indeterminate amount of gold. He refused, drawing a knife on me."

  "I told you he would."

  Ashraz opened his mouth to protest then wisely kept quiet. Instead he bowed. "Indeed you did majesty."

  "Now tell him why you did it. You can put that sword away, Jebu," Aziru added.

  Jebu lowered the sword a fraction, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "You meant to test me? Test my loyalty?"

  Ashraz grinned. "No hard feelings Jebu? We had to be sure."

  "We?"

  "General Jebu," Aziru gestured at Ashraz, smiling gently. "Meet my spy-master. I have need of you, Jebu. I have need of an experienced general."

  "You had one three years ago, Aziru, yet you dismissed me."

  Aziru's smile slipped. "It is not wise to remind kings of their...well, shall we say...not fully thought out actions." The king sat in silence for a few minutes. "War is coming, Jebu, real war with Kemet. Now that we have sufficient gold I mean to raise a proper army, a professional one. I cannot think of anyone I would rather have lead it. Will you accept?"

  Jebu nodded, his mind suddenly racing. "Yes, my lord, I will."

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  Chapter Seven

  The king's barge pulled out of the current, heeling over slightly as the river tugged at it, and into the lee of the great wharf that ran out from the harbor at Djeba. The master rapped out a command and the rowers shipped their great red-tipped oars, water streaming off in rivers of crimson-gold in the early morning sunlight. The slightest of impacts and naked men leapt aboard from the wharf, hauling heavy ropes with them, rapidly securing the barge in place.

  Smenkhkare, resplendent in a pleated kilt of finest linen with a blue and gold cloth tied around the waist and hanging down in front, stepped from under the awning set up in the middle of the barge and looked up at the small city of Djeba on the west side of the river. Around his shoulders and covering his chest almost to his nipples was a heavy gold pectoral, inlaid with semi-precious stones--red, yellow, green--and blue glass paste. The centerpiece was a carved topaz scarab, wings outstretched as if folding the king in its protective embrace. The double crown of Kemet, surmounted by the royal uraeus, raised the king's stature from middling height to regal proportions. A heavy gold ring, carved with the cartouche of his royal names, glinted on his right hand as he strode to the gangplank, accompanied by several young courtiers from Waset.

  On the wharf to greet his king, stood the mayor of the city, the chief of the Medjay and the senior priests of Heru, whose temple dominated the mud brick town. Behind them, crowding the riverbank and the closest streets of the city, stood throngs of people, chanting and waving, all overjoyed to be in the presence of their god-king.

  Smenkhkare greeted the officials briefly before walking over to the closest citizens and greeting them warmly. Most stared open-mouthed at such an unprecedented move, but a few plucked up the courage to offer blessings or prayers for the king's health and long life. One young woman timidly reached out and touched Smenkhkare's arm. He turned to her and smiled, at which she covered her face with her headdress scarf, blushing furiously. After a few minutes, he returned to the priests and walked with them up the short incline of t
he lower city toward the small temple of Heru.

  The temple was oriented East and West and as he entered through the narrow gate between the two entrance pylons, the morning sun threw his shadow ahead of him, as if he raced to meet the god in his sanctuary. A great black granite statue of Heru as a falcon, wearing the double crown of Kemet, stood in the great open-aired peristyle court, just at the entrance to the first hypostyle hall. Smenkhkare stopped and contemplated the god basking in the rays of the rising sun.

  "Heru is the sun reborn to the dying sun of Asar," the high priest intoned. "It is fitting that he greets himself rising anew each day."

  Smenkhkare nodded and passed through the first hypostyle hall with its lotus-topped columns bearing up the weight of the roof, then into the much smaller second hall before he reached the sanctuary of the god. Here, the light of the new day scarcely lit their way and bright torches smoked and guttered, shadows making the dim halls come alive. The priests reverently opened the great doors and revealed the god worked in gold, standing on the great bark of the sun as it sailed through the heavens. Bowing to both Heru and the god on earth, the priests withdrew, leaving the king alone.

  Smenkhkare exited the temple before the sun reached midway to its zenith. Bidding farewell to the priests and promising to gift gold to them, the king gathered his friends and courtiers and headed for the mayor's residence. A great crowd of people accompanied them, a happy throng content to be in the presence of their monarch.

  At the residence, Smenkhkare waited patiently while the mayor organized refreshments, though he refused to allow a feast to be prepared.

  "When we return," the king said. "First we must do what we came here to do--kill the lion that has become a cattle killer."

  "What, er...Oh, er, yes, your majesty," the mayor stuttered. "In that case I will, with your permission, withdraw and allow you to prepare." He bowed and hurried off, mopping his brow with a small cloth.

  Smenkhkare picked up a small flask of beer as a dozen slaves brought food and drink. Turning to his friends, he raised his beer high. "May the gods grant a successful hunt."

  A slim young man with a full head of his own black hair grinned and downed his beer in a single gulp, snatching up a bunch of plump red grapes. "What's the plan then, Djeser? When do we leave?"

  One of the courtiers hissed with displeasure at hearing his king addressed in such a familiar fashion and with a contraction of his holy prenomen as well. Smenkhkare just frowned slightly but let the slip pass.

  "As soon as the guides get here, Psamtek. I'm told the village in question is about two hours away, south and west on the borders of the great desert."

  "How are we going to hunt it? On foot or by chariot?"

  "That depends on the nature of the terrain. Really Siwadj, how can I tell when I've never seen the place? And before you ask, Merybast..." Smenkhkare forestalled a small sallow-complexioned youth. "Yes, we can hunt other things beside the lion. The lion is a necessity but if the hunting is good, we can stay a few days and try for some antelope and ibex. If not," he shrugged. "We can always return to the river and hunt wild fowl."

  The guides arrived, a surly-looking man who claimed to have lived near the village in question all his life, and a taller quiet man who just bowed to the king and his nobles. The party set out, the king being accompanied by Menkure, Siwadj and Merybast, as well as Psamtek, son of the Keeper of the King's Furniture and Raia, son of the Controller of the King's Funeral artists. They had all, at one time or another, been students of Waset' foremost scribe, Kensthoth, now a King's Councillor. Several prominent men of Djeba had asked permission to hunt with their king and, with the guides and servants, nearly thirty men sped out of the city in a cloud of dust just after noon.

  Smenkhkare led, driving the royal hunting chariot unloaded from the barge during the morning. With him rode Raia and Merybast, the rest of the party following by pairs in heavier ceremonial chariots. The baggage, of which there was a considerable amount, for one cannot expect a king to be without his comforts, trundled at the rear in a large wagon.

  Two hours became four and the king fretted, forcing himself to travel at the pace of the slowest chariot. Already, the supply wagon lagged at least an hour behind. The rich farmland of the river plains dried out, a margin of trees giving way to sparse scrub and thorn thicket. Patches of sand showed through the vegetation, presaging the great desert to the west. Raia pointed out a pair of ostriches picking their way slowly through the scrub and Smenkhkare immediately turned off the track, urging his horses into a gallop as he raced over rough ground to cut them off from the open desert. The chariot bounced and slid, threatening to tip them off, but the horses, full of the joy of running after the enforced idleness of the boat voyage from Waset, gave their hearts to the chase. Another lurch over stones then they were into an open patch and closing with their prey. The great birds accelerated, stepping high, kicking up puffs of dust with each enormous stride. Passing the reins to Merybast, Smenkhkare braced himself against the swaying sides of the chariot and picked up his bow.

  The first arrow winged its way toward the male bird just as the ostriches reached the open ground, the striding birds starting to pull away from their pursuers. The shaft entered the straining chest beneath the left wing and, between one stride and the next, the cock bird fell dead, tumbling and somersaulting in a spray of feathers and sand. The drab hen bird veered sharply and the second arrow missed, but as she turned back, the next struck her in the upper thigh. She slowed abruptly and fell, then struggled up again and limped slowly away, uttering cries of distress. The chariot came up alongside and Smenkhkare leapt to the ground, pulling out a short bronze dagger. Avoiding the half-hearted kicks of the wounded bird, he grabbed the long neck and slashed it nearly through, jumping back as the animal collapsed in a welter of blood. They left the corpses for the servants to collect and joined the others on the distant track, grinning and waving as the men cheered the king's hunting prowess.

  The track to the village ran in a southerly direction for a while longer then curved round to the west, running parallel with a large dry sandy stream bed. Another hundred paces or so and one of the guides ran up alongside the royal chariot and shouted out, waving toward a stand of trees. Merybast, who was still managing the horses, pulled them to a halt.

  "A good place ter camp, yer majesty," the guide explained. "There's shade an' a bit a water." He smiled ingratiatingly, exposing rotten teeth. "The lion's 'ereabahts too."

  The site lay on the edge of the old stream, where water at some stage had undercut the bank, bringing an old acacia tree down and effectively blocking what had once been a rushing flow. The debris and rocks trapped by the fallen tree had accumulated on the upstream side and now, long after the rains had disappeared; a pool of water lay hard up against the steep bank, a scum of green slime around the edges.

  Smenkhkare left the servants to await the wagon and set up camp, taking his friends and the guides apart to discuss the lay of the land and the plans for the next day.

  "All right, relax and take your time," Smenkhkare said. "We will have no formality out here." He pointed at the guides. "What are your names?"

  The two men looked at each other, and the taller one nudged his companion who said "Bey, sir." The man pointed at the taller man. "An' 'es Baki...sir."

  "Very well, then Bey. Tell me about this lion."

  Bey screwed up his face in puzzlement. "'Es a lion, sir. I means, what else could 'e be?"

  "Sorry, sir," Baki broke in. "Bey is a little dim-witted at times. He means well though. The lion is a large one, with a black mane. He favours his left front paw on account of a wound."

  Smenkhkare regarded Baki with interest. "You are not from around here, are you? There's a hint of city in your voice, and educated too."

  "That's right, sir. I was a servant to a scribe in Djeba but I came back home when my mother died." Baki shaded his eyes from the setting sun and pointed almost due west. "The old river bed runs down there, maybe fi
ve thousand paces or so, and passes between two patches of dense scrub thicket."

  "How big are these patches of thicket?"

  "The one to the north is many thousands of paces long sir, running between here and the river. The smaller one to the south is shaped like...like a radish, maybe fifty paces across and a hundred or so in length. It is where the lion always lies up."

  "Always?" Merybast asked, "You seem to know a lot about this lion."

  Baki nodded. "That's true, sir. My village has lost eight cows and three bulls in the last two months. Last week, a nephew of mine, six years old, was mauled." Baki looked down at the ground and scuffed a bare foot in the sand. "He died. So yes, I know a lot about this lion. I've made it my business to."

  Smenkhkare clapped Baki gently on one shoulder. "Do not be despondent, Baki. Tomorrow we shall kill the beast that robbed you of your nephew."

  "So what's the plan?" Menkure asked.

  Baki looked at his king. "If your majesty will permit me?" Smenkhkare nodded and the guide continued. "We tried to hunt the beast once before when he lay in his lair during the heat of the day. We beat drums and rattled sticks and shouted, hoping to drive him down to where three men with spears stood waiting." Baki shrugged. "He scattered them and escaped into the northern thickets. There we would not follow."

  "Why not?" Raia asked.

  "We are not huntsmen," Baki replied simply. "Whereas the lion hunts to live."

  "So what are we going to do?" Menkure asked again. "Organize another drive?"

  "I would recommend it, sirs. The thickets are too dense to resist the lion if it should attack, but brave and resolute men could take it as it crosses between the south and the north."

  "That would be me," Menkure said modestly.

  "And I," added Siwadj.

  The others joined in, clamoring for the positions of honour.

  "Enough," Smenkhkare interrupted with a laugh. "I shall take the honour. It is mine by right." He looked round at crestfallen faces. "However, I shall have two companions to share the danger. Menkure? Merybast? Will you protect my flanks?"