by Overton, Max
"You do though, don't you, Tia?"
The old servant quailed, not looking up at the queen. "I...I only know of the Hittite king, your majesty. My knowledge is antique, outdated."
"Tell me again anyway. It is king Shubbiluliuma, is it not?"
"Yes, your majesty."
"And he has sons? Go on, tell me."
"Many sons, your majesty. The king is the bull of the Hittites and has sired sons on his many wives. It is said the sons are like the father."
"That is what I need, a man--a prince, who can sire sons. Imagine, the Royal House of Kemet overflowing with sons to make the Two Lands great once more, as in the days of my grandfather Nebmaetre."
"Divine One, you are talking about a Hittite," Meny said uneasily. "The Hittites are Kemet's vilest foes. Would you hand our lands to the enemy?"
"No. Kemet will always be ruled by a Kemetu. If I took a husband from the nations, he would rule with me, deferring always to me on matters that concern the well-being of my subjects. And my son--my sons--would be true Kings of Kemet."
Meny bowed to his queen. "Then your course is plain, Divine One."
"Except for such minor things as how I go about it."
"Hmm. Well, perhaps you should just ask."
A smile tugged at the corner of the queen's mouth. "How direct and like a man. No doubt you have asked many women to your bed and with some success I warrant. It would not be proper for me to do this."
"Women are not always submissive, Divine One," Meny said. "I have been approached by women--some were even married."
"That is a woman's right, isn't it? If I were to meet with a prince and desire him in my bed I could seduce him, but how am I to do this with a man I have never met? Indeed, with a man whose name I don't even know?"
Meny considered the problem. "You must send an ambassador to the Hittite king to negotiate on your behalf."
"And how long would that take, even if I had someone I trusted?" Ankhesenamen asked. "My husband will be put into his tomb in forty days and Ay will make his move shortly afterward to secure legitimacy for his usurpation. I can delay a little but only if there is a betrothal in place."
"You put no trust in the return of Lord Horemheb, Divine One?"
"I cannot be certain of his timely return, nor in truth, of his loyalty. What if he and Ay rend the Kingdoms between them? I cannot risk my unborn son's heritage." Ankhesenamen walked across to a camphorwood chest and took out fine white papyrus, a thin writing brush and scribe's palette. "I will write to Shubbiluliuma, but what should I say? Meny? Tia?"
"Address him as you would an equal," Meny advised.
"I would do that anyway. I have read the correspondence of the Kemetu court to many foreigners including the Hittites."
"Of course, Divine One, I was forgetting."
Ankhesenamen bent over the papyrus, forming the symbols of her message carefully. "There, that should do. I don't want to be effusive in my praise but I must be polite as I'm requesting a favour."
"Don't plead with him, Divine One. Explain your situation but stress that there are mutual benefits."
"Ask him for a son," Tipallil giggled. "A handsome, virile bull of a son."
"Hush Tia, you forget yourself," the queen said absently, chewing the end of the fine paint brush. She concentrated again and wrote for several minutes. "How do you write the king's name?"
"Shubbiluliuma? I don't know, Divine One. I cannot read or write."
"Well, no matter, I can get that from the correspondence." Ankhesenamen took a scrap of paper and covered it with a series of hieroglyphs. "Meny, take this to the scribe at the Hall of Records. He will give you a document. Bring it back here."
After Meny had hurried off on his errand, the queen turned back to her letter, trying out a variety of phrases, only to screw them up and throw them to the floor. "I sound like a love-sick girl, Tia, rather than a queen. It won't do."
Meny returned and handed over a scroll. "The scribe really did not want to part with this."
Ankhesenamen untied the cord and unrolled it. "This is a letter from Shubbiluliuma to my father Waenre concerning...well, it does not matter what it is about. The important thing is the notations..."
Meny peered over the queen's shoulder at the scroll and the indecipherable markings on them. "I recognise some of those pictures," he said. "I've seen them on the temple walls, but what are the marks that look like pigeon scratchings?"
"That is the Hittite script. I remember Shubbiluliuma being most arrogant and writing to my father in his own script rather than having it translated first. We had to have that done before we could read it."
"Will you have your letter translated into Hittite before you send it, Divine One?"
The queen stopped reading and looked up at the soldier. "Why would I do that? We write in the language of the gods. It is up to the nations to take up humility and learn our language."
"Uh, I was just wondering, Divine One. Can we be sure Shubbiluliuma has a translator?"
"Of course he has. How else could kings converse? Be quiet now, I have to think."
For several more minutes, Queen Ankhesenamen worked on her letter, slowly perfecting what she wanted to say. Finally, she leaned back and read over the letter carefully before nodding. "That should do. Listen...'To King Shubbiluliuma of the Hittites, from Queen Ankhesenamen of Kemet, greetings. I ...' No, that's not right." The queen chewed her lip and frowned. "He won't know who Queen Ankhesenamen is. He has only dealt with kings Waenre and Nebkheperure."
"Could you add in the phrase 'wife of Nebkheperure' after your name?" Meny asked.
"I suppose so, but I'd like the letter to be coming from me as Queen, rather than as the wife of the king." She thought about it for a few minutes before sighing. "I can't see any way round it. 'Great Wife' is the only title he would recognise. As my husband took no other wives I can do a little bit better though--I can call myself Tahemetnesu, 'The Great Wife'. That'll have to do." Ankhesenamen made a correction to the letter. "To continue...'from Tahemetnesu, greetings. My husband has died and I have no son to succeed him. I am told that you, on the other hand, have many sons. Give me one of your sons that I might make him my husband. I would not wish to take one of my own subjects as my husband as it would not be seemly. I am beset by enemies and need a husband by my side to rule Kemet. I am afraid. '"
Meny did not realise for a few seconds that the queen had finished and was waiting for a comment. "Ah, hmm, yes. It is...er, rather short, isn't it? I thought letters between kings were long and full of praise phrases."
Ankhesenamen shrugged. "I see no point in wasting words. This will do. Now, I will copy this out carefully and you will take it to Shubbiluliuma yourself, Meny. I must have someone I can trust as my messenger. You, Tia, will clean up and burn every piece of paper, stirring the ashes to make sure every bit is destroyed. No hint of this must come to my grandfather."
After the queen and Meny had left, Tipallil put away the queen's writing instruments and gathered up all the loose pieces of paper. She took these down to the kitchens and fed them, one at a time, into the cooking fires. When servants asked her what she was doing, she replied only that it was at the queen's bidding. All the pieces went into the flames except one. This one was the rough draft of Ankhesenamen's final letter and Tipallil spared it because it bore the symbols of King Shubbiluliuma. The talk of the Hittites and the many sons of the Great King had brought back memories of her youth, and the old servant found comfort in having a small piece of her former life, even if she could not read it. She folded it carefully and tucked it away in her dress. Later, she would look at it before she went to sleep and perhaps dream of her lost homeland.
Meny boarded a ship heading downriver that same afternoon and aided by the current and a stiff breeze filling the sails, arrived on the borders of Kemet only seven days later. He knew that he stood no chance of delivering the letter to Shubbiluliuma himself, despite, or indeed because of, his secret status as an unofficial envoy, b
ut he thought he knew how he could achieve his objective. Talking to the master of the ship during his passage downriver, he learned that the city of Byblos was currently independent of both Kingdoms. He formed the idea that he could contact the Hittite ambassador in Byblos and have his letter delivered for him. Then he could wait in that great city, enjoying the sights, until the king sent a reply. The queen had given him gold for his expenses, so he looked forward to drinking the good wine of the region and maybe enjoying the company of a young girl or three.
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Chapter Five
A lone man in threadbare clothing sat by the edge of the road and scratched himself with his left hand. His right arm ended in a stump and he cradled a clay bowl to his chest with it as he looked down the road toward the village. The man's hair was long and straggly and his beard matted and filthy, but the body beneath the unkempt exterior showed hints of muscle when he shifted his position.
Twenty paces away, in a parched field, a man tended a small flock of goats that scratched at the thin soil with dainty hooves, bleating their dissatisfaction at their meagre rations. Several low stone walls lay near the road, creating narrow strips of shade. The walls were roughly roofed with dry and leafless branches that had somehow escaped collection as fuel, and served as shelter for the goats at night. For now, the animals wanted nothing to do with the shelters and shied away if they found themselves straying too close. A little farther away, two boys stood throwing rocks at a boulder, chattering and laughing.
The blue inverted bowl of sky hung unmarked above them all, the hot sun drying what little moisture remained in the stony soil. Flies swarmed near the goat dung and tiny blue butterflies flitted between the patches of vegetation. Grasshoppers sang among the rocks of the hillsides and high above a kite hung as if painted on the dome of sky, its yellow eyes scanning the road and fields so far below.
The kite hung motionless in the still air, its wings and tail flicking minutely, constantly, as it rode the upwelling thermals rising from the baked ground beneath. It saw the man, the goats and the boys and dismissed them all as unimportant. In the noonday heat, little moved and the lizards and rodents that normally made up the hawk's diet remained in whatever shade they could find. The bird spilled air from its wings and sideslipped in a long shallow dive away from the waiting man toward the village. Foreshortened from the hawk's perspective, a small body of men marched out of the village, heading west toward the sea and the city of Byblos, oblivious to the watching eyes high above them.
Another pair of eyes saw the men march out along the road and these ones gleamed with anticipation. The man scrambled around the crest of the hill, being careful not to dislodge stones or raise dust, until he saw the goats and the beggar. He whistled, a thin piercing note that carried in the still air, echoing off the rocky crags.
If the beggar by the road heard the whistle, he gave no outward sign but his body tensed and he shifted his feet slightly, ready to move when the need arose. The sound of tramping feet broke the almost silence. The goats ceased their incessant bleating and looked around with curiosity, their jaws continuing to chew. Presently, a body of men appeared from around the bend in the road. There were no more than ten but they were armed and gave off an air of casual competence.
The beggar studied the approaching soldiers, noting the pair of men in the van. An odd pair , he mused. The tall one has the look of a Hittite noble and the other is obviously Kemetu and a soldier. Why do they travel together ? And with Byblos mercenaries ? He weighed up the odds and decided against any overt action. Instead, as the men walked past he shook his bowl, holding out the stump of his right arm. "Alms for an old soldier?" he whined.
The Hittite noble stopped unexpectedly and studied the beggar. Two of the mercenaries advanced a few paces and lowered their spears belligerently. The Hittite waved them back and stood looking down at the beggar. "Who did you fight for?" he asked.
"The army of Amurri, noble sir."
"Did you know General Jebu?"
"I knew of him, sir. A good man, I'm told."
The Hittite nodded. Taking out his wallet, he extracted a silver coin and flipped it into the dust at the beggar's feet. "In remembrance of a fine soldier. Drink a toast to his memory sometime." He turned away and the soldiers followed.
"I will, sir. Bless you sir," the beggar called out. He made no move to pick up the coin but watched the column of men until they dwindled in the distance.
The goat herder came over to the beggar, one or two of the goats following him for a few paces. He stooped and picked up the coin and pocketed it. "What's come over you Jezrah? We could have taken them easily."
"My quarrel is not with Hatti."
"This is not just about your grievance, you know. We have to eat."
"So kill one of your goats. I decide who we take and who we don't."
The herder walked away muttering and moved toward the tumbledown goat pens. "To Hades with the man," he grumbled aloud.
The shadows in the pens stirred and a half dozen dirty men clambered out, scratching and yawning.
"What's got you so upset, Yesha?" asked one of them. He lifted the edge of his tunic to reveal grimed flesh stained by the blotches of flea and lice bites. He scratched himself vigorously and looked over to where Jezrah was watching them.
"That was a fornicating Hittite nobleman. He had silver in his wallet at least, maybe even gold. We could have taken them but high and mighty here thinks his precious vendetta is more important. 'My quarrel is not with Hatti', he says."
"He does have a point," observed a small man with a weeping sore that had inflamed one eye. He dabbed at it with a filthy rag. "We don't want blasted Hittite soldiers hunting for us."
"And there was ten of those mercenaries," added a scrawny youth. "They coulda been a problem."
"Only to someone with your fighting skills," laughed a broad bearded man. "I agree; we could have taken them. Jezrah, why didn't we?" he called out. A couple of the other murmured their agreement.
"Because I said so." Jezrah rose to his feet and joined the others by the pens. "If you don't like the way I do things, you are free to leave."
"Maybe I will," Yesha said. "Who'll join me?"
Before anyone could answer, Jezrah spoke again. "Of course, you'll leave behind your sword and dagger."
"What?" Yesha's hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. "Nobody takes this off me."
"You got it from that Amorite soldier three months ago, Yesha. You got it while in my service. That makes it mine."
Yesha stared at the one-handed man, his nostrils flaring. "And I say you can go to Hades. The sword is mine."
"No."
"No? Are you going to take it from me?"
"Do you doubt I could?" Jezrah fixed Yesha with a cold stare.
Yesha looked away first. "Curse you Jezrah. I'm only saying we need a say in your decisions."
"I agree." The broad bearded man nodded and moved to Yesha's side. "I think we should have a talk about what our aims are. I think Yesha's got the right idea. Either let us have a say in the decisions or Yesha and I leave."
"You too, Shail?" Jezrah glanced around at the others. "What about it? Anyone else discontented?" Nobody said anything, one or two scuffed their sandals in the dust or suddenly discovered a louse that needed attention.
"They won't say anything," Shail said softly. "They're all too fornicating afraid of you."
"And you aren't?"
"No." Shail stared at the beggar's arm stump. "No. I don't think I am any longer."
"Yet a man who says he isn't afraid of me is taking the coward's way out by leaving. I was wrong about you, Shail. You aren't someone I want with me. You're free to leave--without your sword of course."
"Piss on you, Jezrah. This sword is my own. I had it when I joined you."
"And I fed and clothed you and gave you the opportunity to gain gold. I think I've earned your sword. You leave it behind."
"I'll le
ave it behind in your guts," Shail growled. "That's the only way you're getting it."
Jezrah grinned. "As you will." He dropped his tunic and revealed a strange metallic object hanging from his belt. As long as his arm, the bronze object displayed a sharp double-edged spike ending in a deep leather cup with cords hanging from it. "Natan, pull my arm-spike out and put it on me."
The scrawny youth moved to obey.
Yesha glanced at Shail and then at Jezrah's face. "I want none of this."
"I'm not fighting you if you wear that damned pig-sticker," Shail said. He fingered the hilt of his sword nervously and stepped back a pace or two.
"You'd rather fight a crippled man?" Jezrah sneered. "More your style." He held out his arm and Natan fitted the leather cup over the stump of his arm, drawing tight the laces. Jezrah flexed his arm and slashed at the air with the bright bronze blade. "Your choice of course. Accept my leadership, fight me, or leave without your sword."
"Damn you," Shail muttered. "This is my sword. Look, it still has the mark on it from when I was in the Assyrian army." He pulled out his blade slowly and held the metal sideways. The other men leaned closer to see.
Abruptly, Shail slashed out at Jezrah, but the bandit leader had been watching the bearded man's eyes, not his sword, and he swayed back, the tip of the blade passing a fingerbreadth from his chest.
Jezrah stabbed forward with his long blade and it was Shail's turn to step back. The leader took the opportunity to take out his sword with his left hand and press home his advantage. Bronze rang on bronze as Shail was pushed back, stumbling on the rocky hillside. The bearded man was sweating now but he fought doggedly, attacking Jezrah's left hand as much as he could, knowing his foe was still less skilful on that side. The long blade prevented him getting in close though, and Jezrah slowly pushed him back.
"Surrender and I'll let you live. You can walk away."
"Why would you do that?"
"Because I like you," Jezrah said with a small smile. He attacked fiercely, driving Shail back.