by Overton, Max
There were foreigners in Waset, especially down near the docks. Huge muscled Nubians unloaded the barges from the south, while from the west came Libyans in robes, thin and hawk-faced; and from the north, bearded Syrians, robed Babylonians and strange looking dark-haired men from the Sea. Small and swarthy and as clean-shaven as any Kemetu, they wore brightly coloured kilts, gold around their arms and jewels in their wavy black hair. Strangest of all, they wore as much makeup as a woman, their eyes coloured in green and blue and lips rouged. When I first caught sight of one I thought it was a woman until it turned and I saw there were no breasts. Then the kilt parted and I knew without a doubt it was a man.
"Who are they?" I asked, pointing.
Smenkhkare snatched my finger down. "Cretans," he said. "People of the Sea. Don't point; they are very sensitive about their appearance."
The man had seen me point though and sauntered over, his mincing walk raising doubts in my mind again.
"Well, what have we here?" the man asked in a high, clear voice.
"I'm sorry if we caused offense, sir," Smenkhkare replied. "I am showing my sister around and she has never seen a Cretan ship before."
"Really? May I invite you aboard, young sir--for by your speech I can tell you are well educated. Your sister too." He winked at my brother and laid a finger alongside his nose. "We can have some wine and dates and get to know each other."
Smenkhkare bowed. "Perhaps another time, sir. Regrettably I must get my sister back to her nurse."
I opened my mouth to protest as I was very interested in seeing the Cretan ship and the dates sounded appetizing but Smenkhkare dug me in the ribs and hurried me away. "What did you do that for? He was very nice."
"He thought I was your pimp."
I looked blank. "What's that?"
"Never mind. I'll tell you another time."
The docks were smelly, dirty places. Refuse lay everywhere and workers on the wharves, loading and unloading cargoes, stopped to urinate and defecate in the water, instead of finding a privy like normal people. Vermin abounded because of these habits with large sleek rats running along the decks or sitting on the bales in full sight of passers-by. Cats were here too, but not the contented cats of the grain warehouses. These were half-starved and mangy, not much bigger than the rats and tended to leave them alone. They hung about the fishing boats, darting in to steal a fish when a back was turned. Stray dogs hunted the streets in packs, getting bolder with each passing day until the people complained and the police would sweep through, killing as many as they could find and dumping the bodies on the city's refuse heap. Then the streets would be safe until they bred and built their numbers up again.
On one such trip to the city a strange thing happened--something new to us both. As we loitered by the side of the river, munching on a handful of figs given to us by a shopkeeper, a shadow fell over us. I looked up to see a bank of heavy cloud obscuring the sun. A few moments later I was astounded to feel small droplets of water strike my upturned face. A faint crackling sound washed toward me from the river as the smooth surface dimpled and jumped.
"What is it?" I asked. "What is happening?" I shrank back toward the shelter of a crumbling warehouse.
"Rain." Smenkhkare grinned, his face upturned like mine, his eyes wide. "I have heard water falls from the heavens though I have never seen it before today."
"What does it mean? Are the gods angry?"
"I don't know. I don't think so--look, it is stopping."
The fall of water eased and stopped, the cloud scudding eastward and breaking up, the sun shining out once more.
I shivered, despite the renewed heat of the day. "It--it feels unnatural."
Smenkhkare shook his head and bit into another fig. "It happens, though not often here in Kemet. Uncle Ay says the rain sometimes comes down so hard the tombs in the western valleys are flooded out. He says that in Nubia it rains so hard you cannot breathe."
I ventured a weak smile. "Now that I cannot believe, even having seen water falling from the sky." I took a fig from my brother's hand and sat down on the river's edge. Our talk turned to other matters.
Gradually, as the weeks and months unfolded into years, I came to know the common people of Waset almost as well as my brother--or so I thought. I certainly knew something of the wide range of trades and professions practiced in the city, but I still had a lot to learn about people themselves. That lesson would take longer, but I had a good teacher and I came to love my brother Smenkhkare. I have heard it said that the gods prepare us early for the part we play in their designs. I did not know it then, but my schooling in Waset prepared me well for my later life.
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Chapter Ten
Jebu the Amorite sat in the small rock shelter outside the Samarian village of Jerborah, nursing a clay pot between his knees. Around him, a dozen of his men sat with similar pots or with their swords drawn, sharpening them. He picked up a handful of dry twigs and, snapping them into little bits, fed them into the tiny, almost smokeless fire in the pot.
"Why do we wait?"
"Patience, Simyras. It is nearly dark."
"We did not wait for dark at the farm. Why do we have to wait now?"
Jebu put down his pot and leaned back against the wall of the stone shelter, idly scratching his groin. "God-cursed lice," he muttered. "They infest these sheep-shelters." He looked up at his subordinate. "The farm was a small one with only a few men. This village has maybe thirty men and they will have seen the smoke of the farm. They will be waiting for trouble but with luck will relax when it gets dark. Then we will strike with fire and sword."
Simyras grumbled inaudibly and sat down across from his leader. He pulled out his bronze sword and examined the edge, peering along it. "I will kill more men than you tonight, Jebu. I am feeling lucky."
Jebu laughed. "What will you wager? That silver brooch you took off that trader two days back?"
"Against your dagger."
"Done. But men only, Simyras. Women and children do not count."
"Boys if they hold a weapon is fair." Simyras turned to one of the other men to support him. "Isn't it, Joram? It was a boy nearly spitted you last month."
Joram leaned over and told Simyras in a harsh voice exactly what he should do with that sword of his. The men in earshot guffawed and tossed small pebbles at them both.
Jebu laughed loudly. "Boys it is then, Simyras, if they hold a weapon, but no women."
"I have other uses for women," Simyras leered.
Jebu nodded. "As you will, but make sure all the village men are dead before you start your pleasure. And be swift, I will not wait for you when we pull out."
"I will pull out when you do, Jebu," grinned Simyras. He made an obscene gesture and resumed his examination of his sword.
The sun set, dropping behind the hills toward the western sea, casting a dusky gloom over the land. Jebu and Simyras left the rock shelter and walked down the rutted uneven road to where it crested a low rise before sweeping down to the outskirts of Jerborah. Without a stockade or any defensive structures, the village lay exposed and vulnerable. A few men could be seen standing around where the road met the first buildings, looking toward the north where a dark smudge of smoke could still be seen against the darkening sky. The cries of livestock and children came faintly on the breeze.
"Not even an attempt at a wall. Twenty years of peace and they think the world is their friend," Jebu sneered. "Well, we shall disabuse them of that notion tonight. They will find that the Kemetus cannot protect them."
"What's the plan?"
"Come full dark, we attack from the north. Break the fire pots and set the thatch ablaze. When the men come out to deal with us, Aram and the others will hit them from the south. It will be a merry slaughter."
Simyras squinted into the gathering darkness. "Where is Aram anyway? Why isn't he here?"
"He is where I want him. He will attack when he sees the flames. Come." Jebu turned
back toward the sheep shelter, scratching underneath his leather armor. He gathered his men together, and in the failing light, made an inspection of their weapons and the fire pots. At length he nodded, satisfied.
"Very well. Time to start. I have told you all before but I will say it once more so there are no mistakes. We approach the village along the road then spread out along the north side. Move quietly but steadily until you are in position, close by the outer walls of the houses." Jebu picked up one of the prepared torches, a crooked branch with the end tied with strips of cloth, soaked in pitch. "Look along the line for my signal. I will light my torch and hold it aloft. That is the signal for you to light yours. When all six are lit we throw them into the thatch. When the men come out, kill them."
He looked along the line of his men, all soldiers he had fought and bled beside this last year or more. He nodded, satisfied with what he saw. "Kill them all," he repeated softly. "We take no prisoners and we take no booty." Jebu grinned, his yellowing and crooked teeth showing in his luxuriant black beard. "Take your pleasure with the women if you must, but quickly. I mean to leave before moon rise." He doused the torch, kicking dirt over it to smother the flame and plunging the sheep byre into darkness.
A hundred paces short of the first house, Jebu halted and listened for any sign that the populace was on guard, ready for them. A myriad of sounds emanated from the village and the surrounding scrub--insect noises, dogs barking, children crying and a low indistinct murmur of voices, the screech of an owl as it made its kill--but nothing that even hinted of danger. He motioned with his arm and Simyras led his men quietly off the road and into the scrub, angling to the right, toward the houses in the village.
As the last man passed, Jebu followed, quickly taking up a position by a woven thatch wall. He could hear the movement of livestock behind the wall, muffled bleating and stamping of hooves. The night hung quiet and still around him, the darkness complete, lit only by the stars ablaze in the sky and a faint orange glow from the clay pot in the crook of his arm. The odour of pitch from his unlit torch mingled with the stale smell of sweat and the animals a few feet away. The man beside him shifted, his armor chinking softly as he moved. He looked along the side of the village but could see no-one, hear nothing.
Jebu thrust his torch into the fire pot, waiting until the pitch-soaked rags ignited before drawing it out. He raised it above his head, waved it. A few moments later a flicker of light glowed in the darkness behind the village, followed by another. Distinct across the intervening shadows came the sound of bronze swords whispering from their scabbards, the clink of metal on metal and a muffled curse as a fire pot fell and shattered on the rocky ground.
A dog yelped, then lifted its voice in alarm, followed by a chorus of others. A light flared in one of the huts and a man called out.
Without waiting for the last of the torches, Jebu swung his brand and tossed it in a high arc onto the top of the nearest thatched hut. The flames caught almost immediately, crackling and spitting as the dry material ignited. Along the northern rim of the village, Jebu saw other brands fire other roofs, heard cries of alarm from within the huts. He raised his sword and with a yell, ran between the burning huts toward the middle of the village.
Jebu dashed out into an open space beyond the first row of huts and collided with a man running in the opposite direction. The man fell with a cry of fear and Jebu staggered back, his blade swinging down. He felt a tremor run up his arm and he wrestled his sword free. The burning roof behind him fell in with a roar of flames, sending a pillar of sparks skyward to mingle with the stars. The screaming of trapped animals and the cries of the townsfolk almost drowned the yells of his men as they poured into the main street of the village to meet a resolute defense.
Unexpectedly, the peasants were better armed than the usual villagers. Several had spears and a few had old swords or knives, the rest pitchforks or staves. They rushed Jebu's men and forced them back by sheer weight of numbers. The Amorite soldiers fell back and consolidated in the lea of the burning huts, standing shoulder to shoulder as the village men faced them. Bursting flames lit the scene as if in full moonlight, though the leaping shadows and flicker of the flames fooled the senses, multiplying the foes facing them. Dark smoke billowed, enveloping soldier and villager alike, blinding the eyes and doubling them over in fits of coughing. Despite the discipline and superior weaponry of the Amorite soldiers, three were already down and the ten remaining could not hold off more than thirty for long.
"Where's that bastard Aram?" screamed Simyras, fending off a pitchfork that came searching for his life. "Can't he see the fornicating flames?"
Jebu said nothing. He concentrated on two men with daggers in front of him, weaving his sword back and forth as they edged closer, looking for an opening. A gust blew spark-filled smoke over them and as one flinched; Jebu stabbed forward, feeling his blade rip into flesh. The man screamed and dropped his dagger, clutching at the sword in his gut with his hands. The unexpected action sent Jebu stumbling forward as he tried to keep his grip on the weapon, and the other man moved close and slashed. Jebu felt the knife rip through his shirt, turn on the leather and bronze studs of his armor, before scoring a stinging cut on his arm. He swore and let go of his sword, rounding on his assailant before he could recover from his stroke, hitting him on the side of the head.
The man staggered back and Jebu, blood streaming down his arm leapt forward, carrying the man to the ground. They rolled and punched on the ground, tangling in the feet of other fighting men. The man tried to stab Jebu and the soldier kept a hand, slippery with blood, on the man's wrist, striving to break his hold. A villager stabbed down awkwardly with a spear, missing them both, but as he did so, Simyras thrust his sword into the villager's throat. Jebu twisted and kneed the man hard in the groin, following it with a punch to the head that made the man drop the dagger, half-curling to protect himself. Jebu rolled and grabbed the fallen dagger, sweeping it up and into the man's chest. The man screamed weakly and belched gouts of blood over his chin before collapsing, his legs shuddering in the dust.
Scrambling to his feet, Jebu steadied himself against one of the as-yet unburned huts. He looked around at his men, hemmed in by a tide of villagers and cursed Aram out loud.
As if in answer to his curses, a great cry erupted from the far side of the street and a wave of bearded, armored men swept out of the darkness and fell upon the rear of the peasants. Some fell where they stood, others turned in an attempt to counter this new threat, others tried to run. Jebu rallied his men and attacked the remaining villagers, hacking them down. A few threw down their weapons and pled for mercy only to be slaughtered.
The fighting faltered and died, and Jebu took stock of the stinking dirty men in front of him. "Aram, where in Hades have you been. The fornicators nearly had us." He sniffed, his nose wrinkling in disgust. "You stink. Have you shat yourself?"
Aram cursed volubly. "The south side just happened to be where the middens are. The wind was behind us and by the time we nosed it, we were in it."
Jebu waved his sword at the burning village. "Finish this then and you can clean yourselves." Above the crackle and roar of the flames could be heard the wailing of women and children and the terrified screaming of the trapped and burning livestock. Black smoke rose in thick clouds, almost dimming the flames and the stink of charred flesh assaulted their nostrils.
Aram and Simyras led the attack on the remaining villagers. The Amorites went from hut to hut, systematically hunting down and killing the people. Old men and women died under the sword, children were gutted and left to die and young women wished for a death that only held back for the space of a brutal coupling.
A gibbous moon rose above the low hills before the village died. The soldiers dragged the bodies into the center of the street and heaped them one upon the other where they lay soaked and streaked in black blood, eyes staring, naked bodies and limbs sprawled.
"Get a move on, curse you," Jebu yelled. "I wanted to be
away from here before moon rise." He picked up a burning brand and pushed it into the thatch of an intact house. "Burn everything. Hurry."
"Five of ours dead, Jebu," Aram reported.
Jebu cursed. "Killed by fornicating peasants. Say the rites and scatter the earth, Aram. We leave them here."
Simyras sauntered up, the front of his tunic spattered darkly in the smoke-filled light. "Five, Jebu," he crowed. "Five and only one a boy. He had a knife too, so it counts."
Jebu snorted. "I claim five too, Simyras, but mine were all men. I win, I think."
Simyras scowled for a moment and then shrugged. He dug into the wallet at his belt and brought out the silver brooch, passing it to his commander. "No matter, I found a couple of nice bits of copper on the women."
Jebu nodded and turned away, exhorting his men to hurry. The last of the huts was set afire and any surviving animals turned loose. Before the moon rose its own breadth further, casting its silvery light onto the black smoke clouds hanging over the village, Jebu and his surviving Amorite soldiers were trotting eastward along the road, back into the hills.
At dawn a patrol of Kemetu soldiers arrived from the west, alerted by the plume of smoke smudging the dawn sky. They found the village of Jerborah in ruins, its people dead and livestock burned or scattered. They also found five dead Amorite soldiers neatly laid out on the outskirts of the village, a coin in their mouths and dirt scattered on their bodies. The commander ordered the taking of the enemy heads, pocketing the death coins, then led his small squad back to the fort. As they ran, the commander started formulating the report he would submit to Ribaddi, the governor of Byblos.
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Chapter Eleven
The time of the flood came and went. The gods smiled on the Two Lands once more, delivering a rich layer of alluvial mud to the farmlands near the river. Pa-it and other farmers of Akhet-Re, and villagers along the length of the river, spent the weeks of the flood mending equipment and sorting out, seed by seed, the viable ones from the insect-ravaged. Frogs bred in the flooded meadows, filling day and night with an incessant racket, making sleep all but impossible. Fish invaded the fields, swimming where the peasants had toiled only weeks before, feeding on rich algal blooms and aquatic insects, worms and detritus, fertilizing the ground in return.