by N. L. Holmes
shendyt kilt: A particular kind of kilt worn by the king.
Siduna: Sidon, a town on the Phoenician coast south of Byblos.
Simurru (in Amurrite, Tsumur): A city in A’amu which will become the capital of the kingdom of Amurru.
Our Sun (God): A form of address of the king.
sycomore fig: Not the sycamore, or plane tree, but another African species (Ficus sycomorus) that bears edible fruit resembling figs.
Tale of Two Sailors, Si-nehat (Sinuhe): Two novels written during the Middle Kingdom that featured travels and adventures.
Temesheq: Damascus, an inland city in Amka, the southern part of Kharu.
Tunip: A city on the northern Orontes River opposite Hittite-held territory.
Tunip-ibri: A senior Mitannian diplomat.
Tushratta: king of Naharin.
Ugarit: A rich coastal city state at the northern edge of Kharu.
Ullaza: A small garrison town in A’amu, south of Simurru.
Urusalim: Jerusalem, a kingdom of Djahy where the Egyptians had a garrison.
wab priests: “Pure” priests, who, among their other duties, carried the images of the gods in procession. They were generally mid-level aristocrats, serving several months per year.
weshket collar: A broad, originally floral, necklace composed of rows of beads.
Waset: “City of the Scepter,” the city of Thebes, the capital of Upper (Southern) Egypt and seat of Amen-Ra’s worship.
Weighing of the Heart: The judgment of the soul after death, in which the person’s heart was put on a balance against the feather of Ma’at. If it was too light or too heavy, the soul was thrown to Ammi to devour.
CHAPTER 1
Beneath the prow of the little reed boats slipped the water, as bright as colored glass with the reflection of a cloudless dawn sky. Pearly mist still clung to the tall grasses, like the pristine light of the first morning of creation. Only the ripple of the servants’ paddles in the stream and the melodious distant call of a blackbird disturbed the resounding silence of the Great River. Hani breathed deeply, filling his lungs with the purity of the early hour. If only he were here alone and not in the company of his foreign visitor, who, like most men, loved nothing better than a fowling party. Hani was maybe unique in Kemet, the Black Land, in that he did not like to hunt. Not that he didn’t—perhaps hypocritically—relish a succulent roast fowl, and with his wife a chantress of Amen, he was well enough trained in theology that he understood the power to subdue chaos that a hunt in the marshes represented. But Hani loved birds. They fascinated him, awed him, evoked his tenderness, tickled his humor. The thought of the admirable and unsuspecting duck sitting out there in a wicker cage on the beach to lure its comrades down to roost filled him with a vague sense of shame.
Hani could hear the grumpy honking of a pair of storks even before he saw them through the tall marsh grass. “Not them, my lord,” he said quietly to his companion, who’d stirred beside him. “We don’t hunt them. They aren’t good eating. There will be ducks, I promise you.”
His guest, the hapiru leader Abdi-ashirta, nodded and hefted the throwing stick in his hand. He might look like an old man, but there was a predatory agelessness about the manner in which he weighed his weapon. Hani suspected that Abdi-ashirta was not so harmless as his gray beard and humor-crinkled eyes might lead one to believe. It was precisely Hani’s duty to watch him and observe. He couldn’t complain; a morning on the River—the Great River—was one of the pleasanter assignments he’d had while serving the Living Haru, Neb-ma’at-ra Amen-hotep Heqa-en-waset.
The boats silently breasted the water, nosing between the reeds that grew close together like a kind of curtain wall as the vessels slid nearer to the island. A hubbub of avian voices resounded from ahead. Sure enough, a great society of ducks of all kinds—black and brown and blue banded, striped and barred and dotted—gabbled and splashed beyond them where the grass opened out again. The islet’s sandy little beach was seething with their feathered bodies, and their quacking rose as loud as the streets of Waset on market day as the birds negotiated their places, mates, and share of the frogs. Others circled overhead like flies.
Without warning, Abdi-ashirta rose on his knees. His lean body arced, and he sent his stick slicing into the air. A bird plummeted heavily into the lapping water along the shore. The rest of the ducks ascended, flapping and squawking, awkwardly thundering into flight, betrayed by their cage-bound comrade. From the second boat, Hani’s servants hurled their sticks after the stragglers. Victims dropped with thunks onto the sand or splashed into the water.
Hani poled the boat up on the island’s beach with his paddle. “Well done, my lord. You’re a born fowler. We’ll eat well tonight.”
The servants splashed through the shallows and scrambled up onto the land, gathering the dead birds before the crocodiles got wind of them, then they held the first boat for Hani and the hapir to step ashore. Hani jumped out barefoot and waded up the strand. Abdi-ashirta didn’t seem to mind wetting his shoes or the fringed hem of his long tunic; he reached dry land in a few splashing strides. Squinting around at the ducks flapping their indignant way into the distance or settling out of range on the far bank of the river, he grinned. “You don’t hunt, Hani? Seems a shame to waste all this game.”
“Oh, it’s not wasted, my lord,” Hani assured him genially. “There are plenty of people to kill them. As for me, I watch these ducks come and go every year until I think of them as friends.”
“You’re an unusual fellow, aren’t you?” Abdi-ashirta shot Hani a sharp glance that seemed friendly enough, but the Egyptian suspected he missed nothing.
Hani nodded with a bland, amiable smile. He was a diplomat. This hunting party was an assignment from the vizier; Abdi-ashirta wasn’t Hani’s friend. Hani had no need to reveal anything of himself, and if the hapiru saw in this fact a revelation, it was what Hani chose to show him. Around the two men, the servants were loading onto the boats the pathetic carcasses of the dead birds. The caged decoy honked desolately after his flown fellows.
“The sun’s coming up, my lord. It’s going to be getting hotter. Do you want to continue, or shall we head home?”
“We can go back. I just wanted to see this famous River of yours up close.”
“Does it please you?” Hani asked with a smile.
“I think it does, yes. We certainly have nothing like it at home.” Abdi-ashirta nodded thoughtfully, casting his eyes around for a last look. Hani wondered exactly what might be going through his head.
In the water up to his ankles, Hani held the boat by its upturned prow while a servant steadied Abdi-ashirta with a hand until he had taken his place on the smooth, fat rolls of reed and sunk to his knees once more. Hani stepped on board a little awkwardly, for all that he had grown up on such boats, prowling the marshes in search of birds since childhood—at forty-one, he was no longer the slim little monkey he’d been in his youth. He pushed off with the paddle, and the boat slipped once more into the current, shouldering its way through the reeds.
Off on the east bank of the River, beyond the green fringe of palms and grasses, Hani saw the white cubes of the city drawing closer as the fast water caught their boats and drew them home. Above the houses of men, the walls of Ipet-isut—the mansion of Amen-Ra, the greatest temple in the world—seemed to be swept up into the very radiance of the rising sun, shimmering and unearthly, on a scale more than human. Fishing boats, cargo barges, and elegant barques passed them in increasing numbers as they drew toward the land, borne on the malachite shoulders of the River. Hani noticed the gilded prow of the royal yacht, the Dazzling Sun Disk, moored ahead.
I’m sorry, friend ducks, he said silently. Your sacrifice will serve the king.
⸎
That evening, Abdi-ashirta dined with Hani and his family in their garden pavilion. His wife, Lady Nub-nefer, had laid a lavish and perfectly arranged table as always. Fresh flowers garlanded the doorways and hung about the necks of the guests.
Platters of food in their hands, the naked serving girls circulated. Soft strains of music floated from the porch, where all the reed blinds were rolled up to welcome in the balmy evening air. Beyond the flickering lamplight, the garden beckoned, honeyed with jasmine and pulsing with cricket song.
Hani shot his wife a proud glance as she offered their guest a tray of sweets with her own hands. She was an ornament to the evening, her slim body graceful in snowy linen and a long, fashionable wig framing her face, still so beautiful at the age of forty. A fresh water lily hung through her headband over one ear; a cone of perfumed fat shimmered with fragrance atop her wig. Hani’s heart glowed like a coal. She was his golden treasure, his Nub-nefer, the most perfect of wives.
He observed that the hapir guest was duly impressed by the wealth and sophistication around him, yet Hani had made a point of keeping the evening’s celebration understated, familial. His younger children were all present; this invariably had the effect of keeping talk away from politics.
Amen-mes, the fifteen-year-old—called Pa-kiki, “Monkey”—recounted eagerly to Abdi-ashirta, “Yes, my lord. And that’s when the master said to me, ‘You’re ready to go to work at the Hall of Royal Correspondence, son. I’ve never seen such a fine hand.’ But I told him I really wanted to be a military scribe like my father and grandfather.”
Pa-kiki was home from scribal school and avid to impress everyone with what he had learned. No doubt Abdi-ashirta had asked him innocently about his school day, in the indulgent way of an older man, and Pa-kiki was holding forth in reply. The boy had a little of his grown brother’s self-importance, although it was leavened with a winsome smile. It’s not easy being so smart, thought Hani with affection. Monkey hasn’t figured out yet how to be proud of himself without looking pompous. Hani winked at him, and the boy grinned back self-consciously, his wide smile with its little gap between the front teeth so perfectly matching his father’s.
“Don’t let him hold you hostage, my lord,” Hani said to his guest. “He’ll talk as long as you’ll listen.”
“I have five boys myself, Hani,” Abdi-ashirta assured him, chuckling. “It takes a while for them to learn to stay silent. That may be the last portal of manhood they pass.”
Hani thought a little unhappily of his own firstborn and namesake, Amen-hotep—Aha—who served in the Hall of Royal Correspondence. Even he, at twenty-three, had trouble keeping his mouth shut. He was always determined that no one should misunderstand or underestimate him. It takes a while...
Hani turned his attention back to his guest. “Your sons are grown, are they not?”
“They are. The eldest, Aziru, is thirty-five. Pu-ba’alu’s seven months younger.” At Nub-nefer's surprised expression, Abdi-ashirta added, “Different mothers, of course. No, Hani, I don’t lack for successors.”
Successors to what, my lord? You’re no king, only the charismatic leader of a pack of outlaws and renegades. Perhaps Abdi-ashirta had himself just failed to keep his mouth shut when he should have. Or else the statement was a careful hint. The old man was canny. He’d been playing the Black Land masterfully for years. Whether he realized the extent to which the Egyptian king had played him in return, however, Hani couldn’t have said. Abdi-ashirta wanted to be recognized as king of A’amu, the region where his loosely associated hapiru gangs roamed along the northern boundary of the empire. To that end, he officiously meted out justice to neighboring cities, usurped functions of the Egyptian commissioners, and generally acted as the enforcer, alternately arrogant and ingratiating. Neb-ma’at-ra—life, prosperity, and health be to him—was willing to let him play the vigilante on his behalf as long as the Amurrite didn’t become too powerful. It was easier to deal with a single leader than with an amorphous band of misfits and malcontents.
And that was why the old man was in Kemet. The king wanted to take his measure. Lord Aper-el—the vizier of the Lower Kingdom—and the high commissioner of the northern vassal states, Lord Ptah-mes, were putting Abdi-ashirta through a series of observations cloaked in hospitality. No doubt, Abdi-ashirta was doing the same to them. Hani watched his guest helping himself to a piece of melon while a servant girl filled his cup with imported wine. The hapir caught his eye, and they smiled at one another, as bland as two melons themselves, through the perfumed air of a spring evening, with the sweet strains of song floating about them.
“Have you daughters as well, my lord?” asked Nub-nefer, always attuned to the least tension in her guests. She held out the tray of sweetmeats to Abdi-ashirta, who declined with an appreciative tilt of the head.
“Many, my dear lady. I look forward to making an alliance with families of your country. Your lad here is a little young, but—”
“And our eldest, alas, is married,” she finished with the perfect note of regret in her voice. She offered her husband the tray, and Hani took a cake, his mouth watering unashamedly at the sight of it.
He bit in and savored the honey and nuts in their rich, crumbly shell. “Superb, my dear.” To his guest, he said, “You’re missing something, Lord Abdi-ashirta. I recommend these highly.”
“Well, then,” said the old man, “perhaps I shall have to try one after all.” He stretched out a gnarled hand sparkling with rings, pinched a cake between his thumb and forefinger, and dropped it into his mouth. A dust of crumbs sprayed his beard. “You’re right, my friend. These are superb indeed. The whole evening has been perfection, my lady. It’s been extremely kind of you both to entertain an old beggar like myself.” His brown eyes crinkled appealingly under their bushy brows.
Hard to dislike the old fox. But just as he’s not the dotard he appears at first glance, neither is he quite as innocent as he seems. He’ll bear some watching.
“Because I am here to beg, you know,” Abdi-ashirta continued with a self-deprecating grin. “May our lord Nimmureya... er, Neb-ma’at-ra—forgive my defective pronunciation—bestow upon his servant the breath of life, eh.”
“Life, prosperity, and health to him.” Hani lifted his cup. “May he grant to each of us our deserts.”
They drank the king’s health. Hani couldn’t have said whether the old man caught the ambiguity of his toast, but Abdi-ashirta’s Egyptian, while mildly accented, seemed impeccable. Perhaps he understood quite well.
“And a toast to your children, my lord,” added the hapir, his eyes twinkling. “To your clever son”—he nodded to Pa-kiki—“and to your lovely daughters.”
The others turned, beaming, toward the two younger girls, who sat beside their mother, blushing at the attention, and to Baket-iset, his eldest girl, smiling but immobile upon her couch.
Hani was proud of Sat-hut-haru, the thirteen-year-old spat-out image of her mother, and Neferet—at nine, a blocky little tomboy with a space between her teeth. They were smart, accomplished, and good-hearted, a father’s joy. But the sight of Baket-iset never failed to melt him completely. His eldest daughter, in the flower of young womanhood, was forever paralyzed below the neck. Nub-nefer had made up her daughter’s face with her own hands and coiffed Baket-iset in a fashionable wig. With her gentle smile and soft, intelligent voice, she was as lovely a girl as any in the Black Land. But she couldn’t command a muscle. She couldn’t walk—indeed, couldn’t even sit—or lift a piece of food to her mouth. She would never embrace a husband, nurse a child, or dance for the Lord Amen as she had dreamed of doing. She was utterly dependent on her family for the least little function.
Hani’s nose burned with pity and tenderness. All because of a terrible freakish accident disembarking from a boat six years ago. Her life stopped at fifteen. Although he had the temerity to write down aphorisms for others, Hani had no wisdom to offer himself. He didn’t know what to think of his daughter’s misfortune. Where had the gods been? What words of platitudinous comfort could he, the girl’s father, mouth that would lessen the pain of a young life blighted? Nub-nefer, proving herself to be the pure gold her name implied, had rallied to her daughter, never left her side, nursed her back t
o a semblance of health, and kept her spirits high. Within the household, they all treated Baket-iset with the familiar teasing and banter of any normal sibling. Still, all you Great Ones, why, why, why? Why my beautiful daughter?
Hani had hesitated to expose Baket-iset to the rigors of a political dinner. He’d dreaded to see Abdi-ashirta’s eyes avoid the painful sight of the immobile girl with her wasted limbs—or, perhaps worse, to see them sneak back and back to her in morbid curiosity. But the old man had treated her with the same mix of respect and avuncular affection with which he listened to Pa-kiki’s endless effusions and the little girls’ giggling replies or exchanged polite formulas of guest and host with Hani.
Hani was well impressed. He was grateful. “My lord has meetings with the vizier and with the high commissioner tomorrow, as I understand,” he said once they’d licked the last of the sweets from their fingers.
The serving girls yet again topped up their cups. Abdi-ashirta took a sip before he answered. “That’s the plan. And I hope that Our Sun Nimmureya will consent to grant me an audience before I leave.”
“When are you returning to A’amu?”
“In three days. It’s a trip of some weeks, even by sea.” He brushed his beard with his knuckles as if to clear it of any driblets of wine. “It’s been a pleasant stay and, I’d like to think, a fruitful one.” The old man smiled, his eyes disappearing in a spray of warm creases. “I’m glad to get to know you better, Hani. I look forward to working with you in the future.”
You look forward to being a vassal king to whom the suzerain’s emissary is frequently sent with loads of gold and squadrons of supportive soldiers. Hani met Abdi-ashirta’s smile with one of his own, as if in recognition of a shared joke. In fact, he genuinely liked the hapir. But Abdi-ashirta was dangerous precisely in proportion to his charm. Hani would need more than a day and a night to take the man’s measure.