Isis Wept

by Stephan Loy

  The Setim charged from the dark with more zeal than talent, six men with axes brandished above their heads. Qebera's guard met them, bringing them down with little effort.

  "Which way?" one of the guards asked, his chest heaving to catch his breath.

  “You, you," Qebera decided, not much thought to the effort. "Go through the palace gate and into the city. The rest of us will head through the courtyard to the quay.”

  “And what do we do if we find them?” one man asked. “Isn't it impossible to kill a god?”

  “The main thing to worry about is him killing you. Now, go!”

  The party split. Qebera dove into the black mass of shadows in search of his master's brother.

  Amnet shuddered. He shouldn't be where he stood at that moment, him a priest of Osiris. The queen’s rooms were forbidden to him; his presence polluted her faith. Still, the high priestess had sought him out, had compelled him to see the queen. Considering the circumstances, he could not refuse.

  Merferet ushered him into Isis’s front room. There he met another shock. On the floor lay scattered the ensigns of Osiris’s royal authority. Piles of his robes and kilts, piles of state jewelry, a plethora of state wigs. Even the king’s scepter-insignia, his glass-and-wood decorated crook and flail, lay like trash on the floor. The crook connoted the king’s shepherding influence, the flail his power to enforce his will. Where was that power, when its symbols had suffered such dishonor?

  Servants and priestesses rummaged through the stuff, jamming things into rough linen bags. A scribe drew on a papyrus scroll, cataloging what the servants bagged. They were all followers of Isis, all befoulers of the regalia they handled.

  The queen sat on a divan nearby, holding the seat as if she might swoon. She hunched within a heavy hooded cloak so as not to overwhelm the priest. Amnet was grateful, for no man withstood the power of her flesh.

  “Goddess, forgive me,” Amnet exclaimed, “but as high priest of Osiris, I must protest. These are my lord’s holy possessions. How did you--”

  “She went to his apartments and took them,” Merferet snapped, and hurried to kneel by her goddess. “Surely you won’t complain, with all that’s happened tonight.”

  Amnet couldn’t help the frustration in his voice. “All what’s happened? The palace is confused. Some say we're at war, others know nothing at all. Some say a number of nobles are murdered, that infiltrators--”

  “My husband is captured,” Isis moaned from within her robes. “Set intends to kill him.” She sagged at the announcement. Merferet caught her before she fell from the divan.

  Osiris? Killed? Amnet cringed from the thought. How does one commit such sacrilege? How does one kill a god?

  “Set intends to kill him,” the goddess said with a will. “He will kill my husband, take the throne of Abydos, then destroy my husband’s temple, murder you priests, and take me as his consort!”

  “Heaven forefend!” Amnet gasped, and quailed even deeper within himself.

  Isis gestured at the stuff scattered around her. “These are the ensigns of my husband’s reign. All are here but what he wears.” She paused. When her voice returned, it was but a whisper. “Take them.”

  “Goddess, I cannot! It is forbidden--”

  “Listen, you fool!” Merferet snapped. “She seeks to save your master, not offend him! Take the regalia, distribute it among your priests, and go quickly into hiding! Without these symbols, Set cannot rule with legitimacy. All will know he usurped the throne! Take these things, and defend them with your lives!”

  Amnet’s mouth opened and closed like that of a fish on land. For all his holy station, he was little more than a bureaucrat. This was beyond his experience. “I will have to consult my order...”

  Isis rose to her feet. Though her priestess poised to catch her should she faint, the queen projected a defiant, if battered, regality. “By the time you consult, you will all be dead.”

  She stepped to within inches of the priest. She reached out a hand and touched his chest. Immediately, he calmed. “Fear is natural,” she said, her voice quavering. “But your god needs you. Protect his name, if not his body. Even in disaster, you may still be of service.”

  Amnet willed strength to his soul. If this goddess could function in the midst of grief, then he, too, could act. “I will do it, goddess. But, what will become of you?” He bit his lip as the question escaped, for he knew the answer already. Set would want her. He might even take her by force. He would see her as property rightfully won.

  “I will endure,” Isis answered, and her voice cracked. “I must. Who else is there to avenge the name of Osiris?”

  An ax sparked chips from the gate’s brick frame. That strike failed, the ambusher threw himself onto Qebera. The two fell backwards into the courtyard, where Qebera immobilized the ax-wielding arm and battered the assailant with his sword’s heavy pommel. Still the Setim fought, thrashing for a few fateful moments, long enough for Qebera’s man to pass around them, through the gate and onto the palace quay.

  “Set!” the guardsman challenged. The storm god ignored him. He directed his crew as they loaded Osiris’s coffin onto a launch. The guard charged, his sword held high. Qebera dispatched his Setim nuisance in time to witness his comrade’s death.

  Set glanced up from his work. He gestured, then turned away.

  The sand along the quay burst from the ground and combined into a scouring stream that stripped the guard to his bones. His sword and skeleton clattered to the ground.

  Qebera almost fled. A part of him screamed to do so, to hide somewhere until it was safe. But the man in him defied that beast and pushed it down in the name of duty. He wiped his bloody hands on his grimy uniform, then stepped with his sword from the gate onto the quay.

  Set saw him, and frowned.

  The boatmen threw off mooring lines.

  Qebera gritted his teeth and stepped toward the boat. Another step. Another. He grew bolder the longer he lived. Soon he marched toward the launch.

  Set gestured again as his crew poled toward the river’s center.

  “Set! Come back here!”

  Qebera almost missed the thin dervish of sand. It whipped from the ground just to his right, thickened, solidified, and came to terrible life.

  A cobra swayed there, its hood flared. The beast was huge, as long and thick as a palm tree. It had a rough sand hide, sharp sand teeth, and dead sand eyes. It turned those unseeing eyes toward Qebera, and lunged.

  Qebera ducked, rolled, then came to his feet in time to recoil from a second strike. The snake missed him, reared, and shrieked.

  Set seemed not to notice the horror he had brought into being. He had his back to Qebera, ordering his boat to the river's midstream.

  The cobra struck again. Qebera dodged, escaping death by a scant measure. The monster’s gritty trunk lunged past in front of him, incredibly large, incredibly quick.

  Qebera hacked the snake with his sword. The blade flashed through the body, to no effect.

  The beast landed a good run away, coiled, turned, and glared at its prey.

  Qebera brandished his weapon without confidence. He would die in seconds. Without thinking, he backed toward the water.

  The snake flashed at him, a giant’s cracking whip. Qebera braced himself and screamed useless defiance.

  But he wasn’t enveloped by huge teeth or crushed by snapping jaws. The monster, mid-lunge, caught him in a neat loop of its body. Qebera felt a viselike squeeze. He felt himself fly through the air. He watched terrified as a colossal, gritty demon’s head turned to rip him to shreds. So, this is how the mouse feels, Qebera thought with despair, and gave himself up to fate.

  But the beast had poorly judged its lunge. Even as its mouth gaped for murder, the whole thing, Qebera included, tumbled into the Nile.

  Set had forgotten his human pest, if ever he had taken full notice of him. He fingered the ornate coffin in which his brother lay trapped, and listened to the faint cries muffled below the lid. He
still felt struggle vibrating through his fingers, but it grew weaker as the air fouled inside.

  “In time, brother,” he said, “all your struggles will cease. Then I will be king and rectify your dismal experiments. Civilization, hah! Let them return to the animals they were, and the land return to the gods who made it. I need no pets to enliven my existence. Your former wife will be pastime enough.”

  He stood at the coffin for long, satisfied minutes while the boat poled to the river’s heart. No one aboard looked at him; no one listened to his words. They knew what he was, what he had done and would likely do in the future. He was storms and chaos, fury personified. Only if they minded their business might they survive his company.

  At the correct time in the correct place, Set turned from his brother’s prison and raised his arms to the placid water. “Now, Hapi!” he shouted. “Come now, and seal our bargain!”

  The Nile ran silent, unaltered. Set remained with arms upraised, confident the river would heed his call.

  After a moment, its character changed. The current increased to left and right of the boat, almost roiling, an attitude of torture. A dull groan rose from the water’s depths. It was a curse, and a command.

  “Now,” Set ordered his crewmen. “Pitch it in.”

  Priests scurried to the coffin and set their muscles against its weight. They pushed the container up a ramp devised just for that purpose, straining contorted faces and quivering muscles. A final surge of effort, and the coffin plunged into the Nile. The water snatched it beneath the surface, then settled to glassy calm.

  “It is done!” Set crowed. “The magic's are satisfied! The throne of Abydos is mine!”

  Sanni jumped as her linen door flew wide and three men crashed into the dim, crowded house. All the children but Hordedev were arrayed about the family room floor, all on mats of rushes. It was bedtime; Sanni herself had been about to douse the light and join her children in sleep. One look at her husband drove that thought from her mind.

  “Qebera, what’s wrong?” she asked at once, and groped for a longer wick for the lamp.

  “Osiris is captured, and probably dead. I’ve failed him, Sanni. I’ve failed us all.” His voice hitched. Sanni flared the new wick and moved the lamp toward her husband. He and his companions were already past the outer chamber and in among the family. The two guardsmen held up their captain, an arm over each man's shoulder.

  “Gods, Qebera! What happened to you?”

  “I was struck by a snake,” her husband muttered. “Don’t worry. It didn’t hold up in the water.”

  “What?”

  “We fished him out of the river,” one of the two guards said. “He was delirious, and half drowned. He’s lucky to be alive, he is.”

  The guards eased their leader against a wall. Qebera was a fright of mud, blood, and grit. His eyes stared from dark hollows. “Rouse the children, Sanni. Take them north to Mahasna, to your mother’s house. Don’t use the river; Hapi’s in league with Set.”

  The children were already roused. One began to cry.

  “Qebera,” Sanni snapped. “Stop and make sense. Tell me what’s happened, and why we must flee to Mahasna. Calm down, and speak.”

  “I will speak in his place,” a new voice offered, and Sanni received a second shock as her door swung open once more.

  As soon as they recognized their newest arrival, the adults collapsed to their knees.

  “No,” Isis said past the hooded cloak that obscured her body. “We don’t have time for that.” She entered the cramped family room with three of her priestess-attendants. The men averted their eyes, for even though blurred through layers of cloth, her body screamed to their loins. Unencumbered by that spell, Sanni peered past the layered linens to see what otherwise she might not have dared. The goddess’s make-up had failed; her black kohl eyeliner ran down her cheeks. Tears smeared her face.

  “Your husband is correct,” Isis said. “Osiris is taken by Set. He will be killed unless Ra intervenes, and Ra sleeps until morning. By then, it will be too late. When Set kills my husband, he will also destroy all trace of his reign. He will raze my husband’s temple and murder his priests. He will execute what remains of the guard, and butcher their families. Gather your children and leave this place. Leave all of Abydos, or die in what will surely come.”

  For a moment, Sanni could not respond. She had never had a goddess in her house; the experience overwhelmed her. Even more unnerving was the queen’s deportment, which none of the men could appreciate. Perhaps they heard strength in that sharp voice from that imagined beauty. Sanni distinctly heard fear.

  Fear from a god was not lost on Sanni. She tried to adjust to this new, inexplicable reality. The queen waited while Qebera breathed in ragged gasps and one of the babies cried in a corner. A goat bleated from the front room. Finally, Sanni straightened her back and thrust out her jaw in an attitude of competence her family well understood. “Nefera,” she called, and her oldest daughter, a baby herself, appeared at her side. “Nefera, to the shaduf. Find Hordedev and bring him here.”

  “Yes, mama,” the child shrilled, then dodged through grownups and out of the house.

  “Hordedev is with the men,” Sanni explained to no one in particular. “They heard that something had happened at the palace. They gathered to gossip, as men will do.” She watched Isis, her face stone. “We have few possessions, little to carry. We will leave this place as you instruct. As soon as Hordedev arrives.” She turned to her husband. “You won’t be coming, I suppose?”

  Qebera slowly shook his head. “I must seek my king. I must fight for him until he is freed, or die in his service--”

  “No,” Isis interjected. “Many will die, but you, Captain Qebera, must not be one of them.”

  “But, goddess, my duty--”

  “Is to serve your lord, not die for him.” Isis took something from one of her silent priestesses. She held it up by a rough linen lanyard, a leather bag about the size of a fist and stuffed with wadded linen. “I’ve hidden the royal ensigns with Osiris’s fleeing priests. Set will rule uneasily without them.” She placed the necklace of linen over Qebera’s bent head and onto his shoulders. She pressed its hanging bag against his chest.

  To Sanni, her husband grew taller, even there on his knees. His grief receded a step.

  No one in the house moved or spoke. Even the crying stopped.

  When Isis removed her hand, she, too, seemed taller. “Within this pouch lies the greatest prize of Abydos. It's a shadow in ivory of the Wadjit Eye of Ra. Never open the bag. Never touch or look upon the amulet inside. To do so, for a mortal, would surely mean death. But, please, wear it always, and defend it with your life. This amulet is the signet of the king, assigned by Ra himself.”

  “Goddess,” Qebera moaned. “Why? The priests--”

  “I won't leave this power to Amnet. You were my husband’s most trusted vassal. The burden is rightfully yours.”

  Qebera’s teeth bared in pain. He almost looked up to the face of his queen, but checked himself. “I've already failed your husband, goddess...”

  “No, Qebera. You've just begun to serve.”

  Sanni watched the exchange. The goddess’s hand reached once more toward Qebera’s chest, then checked its progress and receded, trembling. In that gesture Sanni saw both desperate hope and deep despair. It frightened her that a goddess would pin her fortune and the future of a kingdom on a mere mortal man, and a poor farmer at that. Qebera seemed to strengthen from Isis’s earlier touch. His exhaustion melted and defeat fell away from his shoulders. But he was still a farmer, nothing more.

  After a moment, the goddess turned away and pushed through the press of bodies into the dark front room.

  The humans looked from one to the other. Qebera stood, his men with him, and met Sanni’s moistening eyes. Some of his gloom returned. “I would rather remain near you,” he said, his voice husky with anguish, “but she is queen and goddess to our land, and this is all I can do for my lord.”


  Sanni rushed into Qebera’s arms. They clung to each other, sure of coming tragedy. Sanni thought she would scream if ever forced to release her love. But release him she did, both their faces streaming tears. The children ran to their parents and hugged them about the legs.

  “Ra will remember such nobility in man,” a voice said from the dark front room. Long moments passed before it spoke again. “I ask much in my husband’s name. But in you, his legacy could find no greater guardians.”

  “I trust your wisdom,” Qebera said to the queen’s shadowed back. “I will do this service you ask, in hope that it will help.”

  “Your way is hard.”

  “I’m no stranger to hardship.”

  “You will be hunted. You will endanger your family if they are near.”

  Qebera looked at his wife. She nodded with grave calm.

  “I’ll travel alone,” he said.

  They all heard a sigh from Isis. “Come, priestesses. These people have their demons to bear. And we have ours.”

  The queen retreated into the night, her attendants following. Sanni heard her voice project in a blessing to Qebera’s house, an impotent but heartfelt gift of faith.

  Hordedev came, his sister behind him.

  Within half an hour, the tiny house stood empty.

  Chapter Three:

  The next several days were a hemorrhage of grief for Abydos. After Set’s initial attack, several ships from Abu Simbel docked at the city’s moorings and disgorged their Setim cargoes. The invaders had been anchored miles upstream, and beset the city like some awful communal nightmare. They burned the great temple of Osiris, gamboling in triumph as the massive palm columns supporting its ceilings went up like torches then scorched and shattered the mudbrick edifice. The infidels rioted throughout the city, smashing all altars erected to Osiris and murdering his workman-clerics. The noble houses succumbed to looters. Citizens fell to axes. Women endured rape. The people of Abydos wailed for deliverance, but no one strode forth to save them. With no other options, the survivors fled in despair to the desert or submitted to the new order’s slavery.