by Overton, Max
"But you'd still take my sword."
"Yes, but you'd have your life."
"Go to Hades."
Shail bent suddenly and scooped up a handful of dust and gravel, throwing it in Jezrah's face as he straightened. Jezrah ducked but the dirt still struck him in the face, blinding him for a moment. He dropped his sword and leapt backward and to one side, holding his long blade out in front of him as he wiped frantically at his face. He felt his blade struck to one side and he forced his eyes open. Shail's blade flashed in the sunlight and Jezrah desperately parried it once and again, his eyes streaming with tears. Jezrah stumbled and almost fell onto Shail's sword. He knocked his opponent's blade up and threw himself forward, under the other man's guard. They grappled, each striving to turn their blades inward or throw the other to the ground. They fell, and Shail grunted in pain as a rock caught him in the back. His grip loosened and Jezrah swung his long blade. He could get no force behind it though and the base thumped into Shail's shoulder without injury.
Shail cursed and strove to turn his own blade, probing blindly for his opponent's side. Jezrah grabbed for the other man's wrist to keep him at bay while he swung impotently with his own weapon. The bearded man decided he could bear the blows for he did not seek to restrain Jezrah, but instead concentrated his efforts on bringing his sword into play.
Jezrah cursed and tried to wriggle out from underneath the other man but Shail's weight pinned him to the ground. For the first time since he had adopted the spike months ago, he found its length hindered him in a fight instead of aiding him. He could not pull the blade close enough to do any damage. Jezrah could feel his strength slipping away as Shail's sword tip inched closer to his side. He glanced to the side seeking a way out of the danger and saw his men gathered watching. For a moment, he considered calling for assistance but knew they would not help him. Even if they did and he survived this fight, his authority would be shattered irrevocably.
As his strength faded, Jezrah found his attention wandering. He could feel death creeping up on him and wondered whether it mattered. His eyes roamed over his band of men, their patched clothing and gaunt physiques and he realised he had been wrong to limit his efforts toward revenge alone. We should have taken the Hittite noble, I should have ...A horse fly landed on Yesha's leg and bit. The man yelled and slapped at the offending insect. Jezrah stared at the red spot on Yesha's leg and his eyes widened.
He ceased belabouring Shail's back and shoulders with the stump of his weapon and dropped it down; stretching out as far as his arm would reach. Momentarily, his attention slipped and Shail pushed with his sword and the tip entered Jezrah's side. Jezrah attempted to ignore the pain and stabbed the length of his opponent's body with his spike. He felt resistance, then Shail screamed and bucked. The pressure in his side lessened and Jezrah thrust again, opening a new wound in Shail's leg.
Jezrah heaved upward, bringing his knees up between their bodies and pushed. Shail fell sideways, his sword pulling free of the other man. He rolled and pushed himself upright only to fall again as his leg collapsed under him. Groaning with pain, he got to one knee held his sword out defensively. Jezrah rolled the other way and got more slowly to his feet, the wound in his side cascading blood down him, soaking his clothing. He advanced on the bearded man, knocking his sword aside with a savage blow and kicking him onto his back.
The point of the spike hovered over Shail's chest. "What is it to be, Shail?"
Defeat clouded the bearded man's eyes. He let go of his sword and the bronze clattered onto the rocks. "Let me live and I will leave," Shail mumbled.
Jezrah hesitated and looked over at the other men. "Does anyone else dispute my judgment? My leadership? Yesha?"
The goat herder shook his head, refusing to meet Jezrah's eyes. From the other men came a chorus of denial. "We were following Shail's lead," said one of the men.
Jezrah prodded Shail with his spike. "You would not have let me live had you won. Why should I?" The bearded man said nothing. "Give me a reason to let you live."
"Do what you must," Shail whispered. "You have beaten me."
Jezrah increased the pressure on the spike. The tip dimpled the skin over the fallen man's heart and then broke through, blood welling out and staining the man's tunic. Abruptly, Jezrah stepped back and lifted the spike. "Take your sword and go. I give you your life."
Shail stared and then slowly got to his knees, not taking his eyes off the other man. "You are letting me go?" He picked up his sword, hefting the weight. "With my sword? Why?"
Jezrah shrugged. "I feel generous."
"I cannot walk. You have severed a tendon in my leg."
"That is not my concern. Cut a staff, find someone to help you. I don't care." Jezrah turned his back and started walking toward his men.
Natan's eyes widened and he opened his mouth. "Jez..."
Jezrah whirled, his right arm shooting out. Shail crashed into him, sword upraised, his face contorted in agony. They stared into each other's eyes, less than a hand span apart, until Shail's eyes lost their focus. Bronze range on the rocks and blood oozed from the bearded man's lips, trickling into the black beard. He coughed, spattering Jezrah's face, and slid backward, dragging Jezrah with him until the bronze spike pulled out of the body with a wet sucking sound.
Jezrah clambered to his feet and smeared the blood on his face with his left hand. "Treacherous, fornicating bastard." He kicked the corpse viciously and turned back to his waiting men. "Right," he said. "Things are going to change around here."
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Chapter Six
"I am to be king after you?" Nakhtmin sat up straight in his chair and looked across the room at his father, his eyes sparkling. "How?"
"In thirty days we bury the king. I will perform the opening of the mouth ceremony and three days later I will marry his widow and then be crowned King of the Two Lands. You, as my heir, will be made Crown Prince the next day."
"The Queen has agreed to marry you? Her own grandfather?"
"Not yet, but she will. She has no choice in the matter." Ay shifted in his chair and looked down at the floor, avoiding his adopted son's eyes. "The morals of it do not concern me. It will be a form marriage only. I will only bed her once, to consummate the marriage in the eyes of the people."
"She is beautiful," Nakhtmin observed. "Like her mother."
"I know, her mother was my daughter, if you remember. Now, let us change the subject. Marrying into the royal family is necessary but it will never come to that unless we control the other factors. You have news for me?"
"Indeed I have, father." Nakhtmin looked up at the ceiling for a few moments to order his mind. He committed nothing to writing so no others could know his thoughts. "The first imponderable is Tjaty Horemheb. He disappeared with his legions into the wilds of Nubia. My spies in Sitweh tell me he has fought a battle with the rebels and defeated them but has not returned. This tells me he is still pursuing the remnants. I have couriers with swift horses and boatmen at Ta-senet, ready to bring word to me as soon as he is sighted."
Ay nodded. "Good. With luck he will not return until after my coronation."
"And if he does? Horemheb will not just stand by and see you crowned."
"If he will not see reason he must be disposed of." Ay held up a hand to forestall his son's questions. "Go on with your report."
"The second threat is the princess Beketaten, known to her followers as Scarab..."
"A foolishly romantic name. How much of a threat is she really?"
"Hard to say. She is close...was close...to her brother Djeserkheperu and was no doubt in his counsels. As you know, she was a Councillor when he was king. She is young but intelligent and seems to attract great devotion from her followers."
"Yes," Ay sneered. "I seem to remember she had a farm boy, a physician and a few shopkeepers following her around like puppies. Hardly dangerous."
"I would agree if that was as far as it went. Your brother
Aanen, Second Priest of Amun, also follows her and General Paramessu was once her lover."
"Is there any evidence that Paramessu will change sides?"
"None. The affair finished about six years ago when she fled south to join her brother in Nubia."
"Nonetheless, have Paramessu watched."
Nakhtmin nodded. "To continue, Scarab spirited her brother's body from the battlefield and no doubt seeks to bury it. This could have serious ramifications."
"Oh? How?"
"Djeserkheperu Smenkhkare was anointed king. You may have supplanted him with Nebkheperure Tutankhamen, but he was still king in the eyes of many people. When a king dies, you bury him and crown his successor. Who will succeed Djeserkheperu?"
"Does it matter? Whoever it is, he will have no standing. He cannot be of the royal family and he cannot marry Ankhesenamen, so he will have no legitimacy. I hope you are not spending too much time and money on this unlikely event."
"Father, have you forgotten who Scarab is? She is a daughter of Nebmaetre Amenhotep and sister to the last three kings. Anyone who marries her has a very good claim to the throne."
Ay scowled. "So find her."
"Yes. There are two possibilities I am pursuing," went on Nakhtmin. "In order to bury Djeserkheperu as a king, she must have his body prepared in a House of the Dead. I am having these searched."
"There must be dozens."
"Fifty in Waset alone. Over a hundred if you include towns within a few days sail. However, very few have the facilities to treat a king. I have started with those."
"Very good. And the other avenue of investigation?"
"Where will she bury him? You cannot just shove a king in a hole in the ground. He must be buried with due custom and with the grave goods that befit his station. The king--even a supplanted one--cannot face the gods as a beggar."
"You have been thinking about this, my son. Good. Where will you search for the grave site? The Great Valley in the West?"
"It would be the logical place for one of the sons of Nebmaetre, but there are other places. The caves behind Akhet-Aten are a possibility. There are several half-prepared tombs there."
"Really? He was never an ardent Atenist. He strove to restore Amun."
"Did he indeed? That is not what I heard, nor what you once told me."
Ay smiled. "Do not believe everything you hear. It served my purpose for Djeserkheperu Smenkhkare to be known as a heretic, so he became one. Go on with your report."
"Perhaps Akhet-Aten is not so favourable then, but I will have it searched anyway. It pays to be thorough. The desert is another option."
"Buried beneath the sand? Unlikely. A beggar might be buried there but not a king. His body must last for eternity and one could not guarantee that under shifting sands."
"That was my thought too. I mentioned it only so you would know I had not overlooked it. That leaves us with Nubia..."
"Too far."
"...or the cliffs on the West Bank upriver from Waset. There are caves there."
Ay considered Nakhtmin's report, running over the details in his mind, for many minutes. Nakhtmin wandered over to the window and looked out at the bustling life of the city from this vantage point high in the old palace. Dust rose into the heat-rippled air from the streets where crowds jostled, shouted and plied their trades, where children ran and played, and where animals--dogs, donkeys and cattle--added their cries to that of the human population. The city stank of ordure, sweat and acrid desert dust, baked by the hot Kemet sun and the light blazed from limestone and white-washed sandstone. The coloured flags of the many temples hung listlessly in the stifling air and even the swallows that nested under the eaves of the palace were cowed by the fierce eye of Re.
Nakhtmin leaned out of the window, shading his eyes to watch a group of young women walk giggling down one of the streets, flirting with the young men who lounged in doorways. Behind him, his father spoke but he paid no attention, his mind elsewhere.
"Nakhtmin."
"Eh? Oh, sorry father, you said something?"
Ay walked over to the window and glanced down into the street. "Focus your mind, son. If you want a woman, send for one, but for now I need your full attention. Do I have it?"
Nakhtmin was once again an attentive officer. He straightened his back and faced Lord Ay. "Yes, father."
"I want you to scour the embalming houses again. Concentrate on the city Houses. If Scarab believes her brother to be a legitimate king, he will have to be prepared in one of the better ones. Get identification for every body in every House. While this is going on you will conduct a house-to-house search of the city looking for Scarab. I want her found and captured. You can also send out teams looking for tomb-building activity, though I think this will be harder to find."
"That will take a lot of men," Nakhtmin said doubtfully. "I only have my personal retainers."
"Use the Amun legion. I will send you warrants to enlist anyone you need. Also the Medjay. Organise them into patrols to do sweeps of the city."
"I'll get started immediately." Nakhtmin saluted and turned to leave.
"Son," Ay said quietly, stopping Nakhtmin at the door. "The next forty days are critical for the future of Kemet. It is imperative that there is a calm and orderly transfer of power. Do not let me down."
Nakhtmin nodded and withdrew. He immediately proceeded to his own quarters in the city and called his lieutenants Djau and Userhet to him. Armed with the warrants that arrived from Tjaty Ay within the hour, the two men turned the Amun legion and the Medjay on their heads. Soon, bands of men were cordoning off the districts of the city and seeking identification from everyone they found.
Nakhtmin led his own men to re-examine the many Houses of Death. They started with the Royal House that catered for the royal court. Khnumhotep, the Overseer of the Dead, guided them through the several rooms and chambers. The late king lay in his natron bath, steadily drying out. Khnumhotep lifted the lid of the bath and stirred the fine salt crystals, exposing a limb already shrunken and darkened like polished wood.
"You would not recognise him if I showed you his face," Khnumhotep said.
"How do we know who he is then?" Nakhtmin asked.
Khnumhotep pointed to the marks on the end of the bench holding the bath. "You must rely on the cartouche identifying him, or the name in the case of a commoner." The Overseer looked at the faces of the men in front of him. "You are wondering whether another name could be substituted to hide the identity of the body. In theory, it could, but such an action would be unthinkable. No worker in any reputable House of Death would countenance such a thing. The name of a person is the only thing that identifies him to the gods. Hide a name, obliterate it, and you risk that person's eternal afterlife."
"Yet it could happen," Nakhtmin persisted. "If the stakes are high enough and the reward large enough, any man can be bought."
"Not in this House. Come, I will show you every body we have and identify it--unless you think I have been bought already."
Nakhtmin inclined his head graciously. "I am sure that is not the case." But how can I possibly tell ? he asked himself as he followed the overseer from room to room.
The Overseer showed them seventeen bodies and put names to all of them. Nakhtmin had a scribe take the names down and handed the list to one of his officers, telling him to track down the families of every corpse and verify there had indeed been a death in the family.
"You are very thorough," Khnumhotep observed. "But you will find that every one of my charges is identified."
"I do not doubt it, but I must be sure."
Nakhtmin led his men out of the Royal House of Death. "That is how I want it done," he told them. "Make sure you see every corpse, copy down the identification and follow up with the families."
"Even the children sir? And the women? Surely the rebel leader could not be passed off as one of them?"
"Probably not, but do it anyway. Everyone. I do not want to find out our quarry slipped through our f
ingers because one of you got lazy."
Nakhtmin sent his men off with a list of the Houses they were to visit in the city. He took three men with him to check on the Houses that catered to the nobility. The Amun Temple House proved fruitless, as did the House of Auset. One of his men left him after each visit, with a list of names to check with the noble families. The only other establishment on his list that he thought capable of treating the body of a king in a suitable manner was the East Gate House of Death.
"Who is the Overseer here?" Nakhtmin asked the pleasant-faced young man who answered the door. He passed over his warrant from the Tjaty.
"I am Rekhmire," said the man. "I have the honour to be the Overseer of this House of Death."
"You are very young to hold such a position."
"That is because I took over from my father Ipuwer. He still advises me."
Nakhtmin nodded and moved inside with his man. "I am here to check on the bodies you are treating."
"We do not 'treat' bodies, Lord Nakhtmin. We preserve the Khat which is to be the eternal abode of the Ka." Rekhmire pursed his lips and frowned. "The common people may be 'treated' as you put it, before being buried in a simple sand grave, but here at East Gate we take pride in our work."
"Of course. My apologies. I desire then to examine the fine work you do here and make sure that all the paperwork is in order. How many...Khats do you have at present?"
"We have twenty-one bodies in residence, Lord Nakhtmin." The Overseer saw Nakhtmin's eyebrows rise quizzically and he went on to explain. "It is the word 'treat' I object to, not the word 'body'. A physician treats a living person--a temporary solution in a short life; but ours is a far more important task--that of preparing a person for eternity." Rekhmire gestured down the dimly lit hallway. "Please come with me."
The young Overseer led Nakhtmin and his assistant to the first of the rooms that held the great stone natron baths. He signalled to the workers in the room to lift aside the lid of one of the baths. "This is a young lady by the name of Kemisi of the family of Djedefre. She has been in the natron for five days." Rekhmire gently brushed aside the fine crystals with his hand, exposing a pale foot. "With your permission, Kemisi," he muttered. "As you can see, the process of preservation has barely started." He swept salt over the limb again.