by Max Overton
Seti stood with the scribes, fascinated by the spectacle. He took a stick and separated out a hand from the pile, squatting down to examine it, using the stick to turn it over. Blood spatters stained the pale, waxy hand of the rebel, a rough skinned hand, callused and torn, with broken dirty nails. He looked at it with growing distaste and then put out a finger and poked it, feeling his stomach roil at the cold lifeless touch of the flesh. A stub of bone, splintered and bloodstained, showed at the severed wrist, with other tubular structures of whose function the boy could not guess.
A scribe came over to Seti. "My Lord, we must add this hand to the tally."
"Take it away. It's disgusting."
"It's only a hand, my Lord, and yet with all its fellows is a symbol of your illustrious father's victory."
The counting continued and a long time later, when the numbers had been checked and rechecked, the Head Scribe presented the figures to the king.
"Two thousand, three hundred and forty-seven hands, Son of Re, though thirteen of them are left hands."
Merenptah laughed and turned to his commanders. "Why do you suppose that is? Do I have soldiers who cannot tell right from left?"
"I have a few in the Re legion," Disebek said, "but I think it more likely they sought to please by inflating the figures."
"And our own casualties?"
"About five hundred dead, mostly the new recruits with little experience," General Hotepnebi said. "The same number wounded, but half of those will likely die."
There was a moment's silence while the commanders digested the news.
Besenmut, Commander of Ptah, cleared his throat. "A signal victory anyway, Son of Re. The rebels have been wiped out and it will be a simple matter to reinstitute order in Retenu."
"Except there were over three thousand rebels," Merenptah pointed out. "Where are the others? Have they escaped?"
There was an uncomfortable silence, and then General Hotepnebi said, "Night fell before we could complete the gathering. No doubt many are dead and possess both hands still, and likely there are survivors hiding in the hills. We'll find them tomorrow."
"Be thorough," Merenptah commanded. "Every rebel is to be found, killed and harvested for his hand. Then we march on the rebel towns and kill any men who have fled there, or were too cowardly to come out and fight."
"And the women?" Disebek asked.
"You have been on campaign before. Use the women as you will. If there is a harvest of half-Kemetu children next year, it will be no bad thing." Merenptah laughed. "Perhaps that is the way to bring peace to Retenu."
* * *
The legions were up at first light, broke their fast and waited in their ranks as Baenre Merenptah greeted the dawn, offering up sacrifices of thanks for the victory, and petitioning the gods for success in the coming days. Then the men were sent off to scour the hills and gullies for any rebels. If the rebels were dead, they were to take the right hands, and if alive they were to be killed and then harvested.
While the bulk of the men were thus engaged, Merenptah and Seti toured the tented area where the wounded were being tended by army physicians and priests. Lengths of linen cloth had been pegged to the sand and suspended between poles, keeping the sun off yet allowing cooling breezes to bring some relief to the groaning men. Physicians and their assistants bustled around, administrating such medicines as they thought might be efficacious, while priests droned out generalised prayers to the gods. Scribes wrote out similar prayers on scraps of papyrus to be attached to the bandages.
The tents stank of blood and excrement, and the hardly more salubrious odours of the medicines employed by the physicians. Merenptah stepped carefully between the rows of wounded men, one hand grasping that of his son. Seti looked pale, his eyes wide as he viewed the carnage that bronze blades, clubs and axes had wrought on human flesh. He stared as a physician sawed off a crushed foot, and another sewed up a gash in a man's belly where purple intestines coiled. Over everything hovered a miasma of flies and the roar of their wings almost drowned the groans of the wounded men. The king watched his son, smiling as he saw the efforts the boy was making to remain calm in the face of pain and death.
"This is the aftermath of battle, my son. Men die or are wounded in service of Kemet and their king. Many of these men lying here will die in the days ahead despite the best efforts of the physicians and priests, but that is in the hands of the gods."
Seti swallowed and tore his eyes away from the gaping wound in a man's belly, the flies crawling all over the gash. A priest was now praying over him while a physician stood waiting with a bone needle and length of linen thread. "That man has a wound that the physician is going to sew up, father, but why is he waiting for the priest to finish. Would it not be better for the priest to wait until the physician has sewn him up?"
"Who is the most powerful, my son? The physician or the gods? You know the answer. A man may recover with or without medical assistance, but never if the gods turn their face from him. The priest draws the attention of the gods to this man, and then the physician sews him up."
The physician now went to work, the wounded man biting down hard on a willow stick while the physician held the edges of the wound together and thrust the needle into his flesh, drawing the thread after it. Blood trickled down from each fresh puncture and an assistant brushed the flies away and mopped up the blood. The man groaned beneath their ministrations, his hands digging into the stained sand beside him.
The king moved on. A few paces away lay a delirious man whose left leg had been removed at the thigh the previous day after a chariot wheel had rolled over it. A physician's assistant was peeling back the bandages to reveal a red and inflamed stump, oozing blood and pus from the ragged wound. Prayer-inscribed papyrus was stuck to the stump, but the painted prayers had run and become obscured by the stinking fluids.
"The gods have turned their faces from this man," the assistant told the king. "He will die today or tomorrow."
"Can nothing be done?" Seti asked.
"I will have fresh prayers written out, young Lord, but if the first ones did not work it is unlikely those will."
Other wounded men were less severely damaged, and had minor wounds to arms and legs bandaged. They were conscious and in a good mood, laughing and joking with each other. When they caught sight of the king, they knelt and greeted him, the king smiling and acknowledging their sacrifice.
Seti looked around the tent while his father spoke to the bandaged men and spotted a face he knew. "Ament!" he yelled out, and ran across to the Leader of Fifty. "What are you doing here? Are you wounded? How bad is it?"
Ament grunted as the boy wrapped his arms around him. "Easy, young Lord. You'll do me more damage than those god-cursed rebels." He firmly thrust Seti away and pointed to his bruised ribs and a cut under his arm. "A club knocked me down, but I'm healthy enough, which is more than I can say for the other man."
"Did you kill him? Oh, I wish I'd seen it, Ament. Wasn't it an exciting battle? I saw the whole thing from the king's chariot. Did you see me in the charge?"
Ament laughed and then winced, holding his side. "The whole army saw you, young Lord. We could hardly take our eyes off our Great King and the glorious young prince at his side. Until the enemy started laying into us, at least. You are unhurt? And the king?" Ament looked across the tent to where Merenptah stood.
"Not a scratch on either of us," Seti replied. "The gods were on our side today."
"How could they not be, young Lord, with you to lead us?"
Seti grinned. "I'm going to ask father to give you the Gold of Valour."
Ament shook his head. "There are many men more deserving than me. My reward is knowing you are safe."
"Well, anyway...won't Tausret be envious when she hears I was in my first battle? She'll be spitting with rage all locked up in Men-nefer."
Ament looked down at the ground. "Ah...er, yes, my Lord."
Merenptah approached and Ament knelt painfully, dipping his head to the
sand.
"You are wounded?"
Ament explained again, offering his praise for the result of the battle.
The king nodded, his attention drawn by a returning patrol. "It is not over yet, Leader of Fifty Ament." Merenptah turned and strode away, Seti running after him with barely a backward glance at the kneeling soldier.
Seti saw the tight look of anger on his father's face. "What is it, father?" he ventured. "What has happened?"
"Look." He pointed. "A patrol returns, with prisoners. My orders were explicit. There were to be no prisoners."
As the patrol neared, Merenptah saw that the banner they held was that of the Ptah legion. He called for Besenmut and when the legion commander came hurrying up, turned on him.
"Did I not give instructions for no prisoners to be taken?"
Besenmut saw the anger flaring in his king's face and heard the fury. He trembled and fell to his knees, arms held out in supplication. "Those were the orders I passed on, Son of Re."
"Who has disobeyed me then? Find out and he shall die."
Besenmut scrambled to his feet and accosted the patrol, talking urgently to the officer in charge, a Leader of Fifty. The officer blanched and staggered before recovering his nerve. He approached the king and threw himself down on the ground.
"Leader of Fifty Amenope, Great King. Forgive me, I beg. I erred with good intentions."
"You knew my royal command? No prisoners?"
"Yes, Great King, but the prisoners are some of the leaders of the rebel tribes. When I heard who they were, I thought that you might want to interrogate them."
"Why would I want to do that? They rebelled, and the penalty is death. Their army lies dead on the field of battle and shortly their women will be ravished and their villages burnt to the ground. All I want from them is their right hands." Merenptah beckoned to Besenmut. "Take him away. Execute him and replace him with an obedient man."
"Yes, Son of Re, but..." Besenmut gulped and knelt beside the prostrate Amenope. "This man is brave. I was going to nominate him for the Gold of Valour..."
Merenptah looked thoughtful and turned to Seti. "What do you think, my son? What is the fate of this man?"
Seti regarded the grovelling Leader of Fifty and thought of Ament. "A king may be merciful, father."
"So be it," Merenptah declared. "Amenope, my son has spoken for you and I am willing to show mercy. You are broken to foot soldier and will be given twenty lashes. Take him away, Commander Besenmut."
Amenope shuffled forward on his knees and clasped the king's knees, thanking him for his mercy, and then he was hauled off to his punishment.
Merenptah smiled on his son and drew him close. "A good decision, Seti, but a king cannot always be merciful. He must also be just. Speak for me now as if you were king. These Retenu rebels, what should be their fate?"
"You have already declared their fate, father, and a king should not appear weak by going back on his word. Their fate is death."
"Death it is. And what manner of death?"
Seti frowned, showing uncertainty. "I don't know, father. A...a sword thrust?"
"Too kind. If they were simple misguided peasants, I'd agree, but these are leaders of the rebellion. There must be a lesson given, if not to them, then to all who will see their bodies."
Seti nodded slowly. "What then, father?"
"Impalement."
Chapter Twenty-One
Seti speaks:
What can I say? It is for this that I live. Kemet is the Land of the Gods and its King is chosen by the gods, becoming on his coronation a god himself. My father Baenre Merenptah is a god and led his army to glorious victory over the rebel Kanaanites. I am determined that I will be his heir and one day become a god myself. I will lead Kemet to further victories, throwing down our foes of the Nine Bows completely, creating a greater empire than even my illustrious grandfather Usermaatre.
My father took me to war for the first time when I was twelve, and I cannot forget the anticipation that grew in me slowly as the army moved northward, the thrill that gripped me when the scouts first reported the presence of the rebels, and the excitement that made my heart pound and my stomach churn as we bounced over the rough ground in my father's war chariot. Pride swelled my chest as the army cheered my father and I heard some men calling my name as well. Already they can see the greatness that lies in me, only awaiting the god's hand for my spirit to spring free and attain glory.
We charged the enemy, the wind buffeting our faces, the roar of the chariot wheels in our ears, and it was exhilarating. Fear gripped the rebels when we smashed their line, the king's bow striking down men to left and right, the wheels of the royal chariot grinding men into the dust. Then we were through and watching the rebels stream away in fear with our valiant men in pursuit. Great was the slaughter, and the piles of hands were mounded high before the king.
The king my father honoured me before all, calling upon me to advise him in the case of a disobedient officer, and in the disposition of captured rebel chiefs. I think I made him proud, for he followed my advice, seeking only to kill the rebels in a way that would inspire fear rather than my more merciful way.
I had never seen impalement before, and the sight still haunts my dreams at night. My body cringes when I think upon the upthrust stakes and hear the screams of the men in my head, but I must harden myself for these are enemies of Kemet and fully deserve to die.
There were seven captives, great bearded men of the tribes, chiefs who had broken their vows to the King of Kemet. They must have thought that as they offered up their oaths of fealty to Usermaatre, that they no longer applied to Baenre. Such mistakes can be fatal. When my father made the pronouncement of death, and the manner, they fell to the ground crying out in great fear and begging for mercy. I thought them cowards to so fear death, but it seems they knew more than me, perhaps having seen the punishment before.
Men hurried to obey their king, taking seven tent poles and hammering them into the ground before sharpening the tops with their bronze swords. The sharp tips stood about a man's height from the ground. Others stripped the captives naked and as this was the first time I had seen a barbarian naked, I stared, satisfying my curiosity. These tribesmen were unbelievably hairy. I have mentioned their beards, but their bodies too were covered in a mat of dark hair and a veritable forest grew in their private parts, almost obscuring their members which, I saw, were uncut and strange looking.
A soldier started to tie the hands of the captives but my father stopped him. I turned to my father to ask why, but the words died in my mouth when I saw his look of cruel anticipation. I shivered, for I knew something dreadful was about to happen.
The first man was hoisted up; soldiers holding his arms and legs, positioning him face down over the spike. The poor wretch screamed dreadfully and tried to arch his back away from the spike, but the soldiers let him drop and the pole drove through his belly and out his back. Blood gushed and spurted and the man's screams redoubled. His legs kicked out as if he could run from his fate, and his hands waved about as if they could somehow relieve the agony in his belly. I felt my head spinning and a grey curtain swam before my eyes. My father must have seen my distress for he grasped my shoulder quite painfully.
"Do not shame me by fainting, Seti. A king must be strong in the face of death."
I forced myself to focus, but the horror of the situation made my eyes slide away, though the man's cries still bit deep into my heart.
The next rebel was brought forward, and he fought the men holding him, twisting and pulling away, but to no avail. He was dropped on the spike and his screams joined the fading cries of his fellow. This one reached down with his hands and tried to push himself off the stake but even when he got a grip, he had not the strength. The soldiers laughed at his antics and I felt shame. Another four men followed, and soon six men struggled amidst the blood and excrement, howling their distress, weeping and begging for mercy.
The seventh man broke free of his c
aptors and faced the king, anger showing in his face rather than terror. He spat out a long string of words in some barbaric dialect, but as the soldiers hauled him toward his stake, my father called on them to stop.
"What did he say? Who understands his tongue?"
A junior officer stepped forward and saluted his king. "Son of Re, I understood him."
"Speak then. Tell me what he said."
The officer licked his lips. "Son of Re, he says his name is Baalbek, son of Aram, and he...he said..."
"Go on," said my father. "Report truthfully and you have nothing to fear."
"Son of Re, he called you a cruel and despotic king who grinds his subjects down through wicked men acting as governors. He asks how they can pay their taxes when the harvest has been bad."
"Bring him close," my father ordered. When the soldiers had forced him to his knees, my father told the officer to translate.
"If the harvests are bad, you must petition my governors for relief, not rise in armed rebellion."
"We did, but the governors came and took what they pleased, even our daughters and wives. When the husbands and fathers protested, they killed them."
My father frowned, hearing the truth in the man's voice. "If my governors have acted improperly, my wrath shall fall upon them, but that is still no reason to take up arms against your king."
"The governors act in your name, cruel king. What else could we do?"
My father thought on this awhile, the six companions of Baalbek slowly dying behind him. At last he stirred and said, "I am mindful of your plight and will grant you your life if you beg for it."
Baalbek stared at my father and raised his head proudly. "I will not beg a man who has so cruelly consigned my people to death. You say you are a god on earth, but I see nothing divine in your actions."