House of Scorpion

by Mark Gajewski

  I peered over the crest of the low ridge I’d been hiding behind one last time. As quietly as I could I slowly slithered away on my belly through loose sand and sparse grass. Once completely shielded from the lion’s view I rose and sprinted towards Father’s hunting camp a little over a mile away, dodging clumps of terebinth and acacia and tamarisk, jumping shallow rocky gullies. I hoped none of the hunters who’d left camp before dawn to look for a lion had found one yet. If I was the first it’d be a coup – the past two days no one had – just ostrich and oryx and gazelle and jackals and hyenas and plenty of snakes and lizards and scorpions. More than once as I’d sprawled on my belly, scanning the desert, I’d wished Father had decided to hunt hippo in the marshes along the mighty river that sliced the narrow valley in two instead of lions – marshes shaded by acacia and willow and date palms, alive with birdsong, never more than a few steps from cool water. I’d hated baking in the relentless sun, my mouth parched and throat choked with dust, for the few scattered and scraggly desert shrubs had provided only fitful shade.

  The only thing I could do better than my brothers was run. Neither could keep up with me. In only a few minutes I sighted camp. About a dozen small linen tents were clustered in a hollow beside a grove of acacia trees abutting a small spring. The tents were golden, reflecting the early morning light, for the day was less than an hour old. Father’s pavilion dwarfed the tents. Three standards atop ebony poles were set in the ground in front of it – one topped by a scorpion, Father’s personal symbol; one by a jackal, the symbol of Tjeni’s god Wepwawet; the last by a falcon, the image of the god Horus, adopted as Tjeni’s second god thanks to a trader named Dagi that Shery’s mother, my ancestress Abar, had sent from Nekhen to live at Tjeni centuries ago. Father was seated cross-legged on the ground in front of his pavilion along with my brothers and my two younger sisters, Weret and Heria, aged fourteen and thirteen respectively. Everyone was eating from a cluster of overflowing bowls and platters, waited on by several servants. My stomach growled. I’d grabbed only a few crusts of day-old bread and sipped a little beer before slipping away from camp in the predawn darkness. Minnefer and Perneb flanked Father; in their early thirties, they were Tjeni’s two most important elites and would have considerable say in who succeeded him. Perneb was allied with Lagus, and Minnefer with Mekatre. I’d need their combined support to be named king. Neither knew me particularly well; perhaps what I was about to announce would change that.

  A third elite was sitting next to Heria. Sety. Thirty years old, he resided on a vast estate in the delta that had been founded by his ancestors Nykara and Amenia about two centuries ago. Both of them had known my ancestress Abar when all three lived at Nekhen. Sety’s family had been loyal to Tjeni’s kings and reliable trading partners from the day of Abar’s death until now, delivering to Tjeni’s rulers goods from their estate and luxuries they’d obtained at two important delta settlements, Farkha and Maadi. Delivering those goods was a considerable undertaking, since Sety’s estate was almost a month’s travel north of Tjeni. Nykara had been a boat builder and his descendants were to this day – Sety owned an entire fleet that he used to move goods all over the delta and valley. Sety always spent a week or more with Father on his trips, for Father greatly valued his counsel. He was with us today because by chance his latest delivery had coincided with Father’s hunt. Alone of my brothers, I’d developed a warm relationship with Sety. Beginning when I was five years old, he’d told me stories about the valley that had been handed down in his family for more than two thousand years, stories that never failed to fire my imagination.

  Since the day Father had taken his throne he’d been trying to secure control of trade between South and North and thereby make our house powerful and wealthy and unassailable. A worthy ambition. But Sety’s ancestors’ ambition had been greater – they’d dreamed of uniting the entire valley from the cataract to the sea under a single ruler. My mother’s ancestors had shared that dream, particularly Abar. She’d taken the first step on the path of unification, along with Nykara and Amenia, two centuries ago. Assuming I gained Father’s throne, I was determined I’d use my power to pursue my ancestors’ dream to its rightful conclusion.

  The remains of last night’s campfire were ash, the fire currently unlit so a column of smoke wouldn’t give our presence away to prey. A few of Father’s servants, men and young girls mostly, looked up as I dashed into camp in a swirl of dust. Except for them and the royals and elites, camp was empty. The rest of the men and boys who’d come with us were out scouting. Good! I was the first to report.

  Father spotted me and rose, his expression hopeful. In his early forties, he was lean and athletic, taller than most men, muscles bulging, hair long and secured in back to keep it out of his eyes during the hunt. For five years he’d ruled Tjeni and its surrounding region. Once out from under complacent and aged King Bull’s shadow, he’d quickly made himself into the valley’s most powerful and feared man. He rendered justice, supplied Tjeni’s elites with fine objects to set them apart from commoners – lapwings, he disparagingly called them – assigned cropland to Tjeni’s farmers each year after the inundation subsided, directed public works during the months of inundation when farmers were idle, supported craftsmen who created fine objects for barter throughout the valley, collected emmer and barley against drought years and stored it in great granaries, guarded Tjeni against Nubt to the south and various barbarian raiders from the west, punished the guilty, interceded with the gods on our behalf, presided at celebrations and festivals, and managed relations with important kings and rulers. Every man in Tjeni bent his knee in Father’s presence.

  A lion’s tail was affixed to the back of his belt this morning, to give him a lion’s strength during the day’s hunt. Only kings were allowed to wear a lion’s tail, for lions were the symbol of kingship. For that matter, only kings or men granted permission by kings were allowed to kill lions. That tradition extended back to the days when patriarchs led small bands of hunters across the savannah, long before anyone had settled in the valley and taken up farming and herding.

  Lagus and Mekatre rose too. Each had painted a lion on his chest in preparation for the hunt. Their hair was tied back too.

  “A mile, Father,” I panted. Sweat pattered onto the dust at my feet. “A male. Just killed a gazelle.”

  Heria excitedly handed Father his spear. Like Weret, she’d braided her long black hair this morning. Her skirt was of coarse linen suitable to camp life, not the fine opaque stuff she normally wore around the per’aa. Camp life hadn’t separated either her or Weret from their gold necklaces or bracelets or girdles, though.

  Lagus and Mekatre took up bows and slung quivers of arrows over their shoulders. Minnefer and Perneb and Sety hurriedly took up their weapons.

  I immediately turned and ran back in the direction from which I’d come. I glanced over my shoulder once – Father was following closely, only a step behind Mekatre despite their difference in age. Then came the elites. Lagus was lagging far behind, panting, barely ahead of half a dozen servants who’d drag the lion’s carcass back to camp if Father was able to kill the beast. I wasn’t surprised – Mekatre was far more energetic and athletic than our older brother, and a better hunter as well. Both surpassed me in that. No matter how hard I tried I couldn’t hit anything with an arrow. Both beat me every time in wrestling, too, or in practice with weapons. Father held the last against me, for no one in the valley was a better fighter than him.

  We soon reached the low ridge and halted at its base. Making signs with my hands I directed Lagus and Mekatre and elites and servants to left and right. Then, crawling, I led Father to the point on the crest from which I’d watched the lion make his kill. Stretching out on my belly, I peered over. The gazelle was half eaten. A few vultures had landed nearby, impatiently awaiting their turns. The lion had his back to us and was unaware of our presence.

  Father motioned to the rest of the men. Lagus and Mekatre nocked arrows in their bows. Then s
lowly, carefully, Father rose to a crouch. He moved over the crest to the flat land beyond the ridge, stepped towards the lion, spear ready, slowly, quietly, carefully. He’d gone less than six paces when the beast suddenly spun around, raising the dust, snarling. The lion crouched, tensed, his jaws dripping blood, his eyes narrowed. A low growl issued from his throat. How Father had the courage to face him I did not know. Then the lion’s leg muscles quivered the slightest bit. Just as he leaped Father thrust his spear forward with his full weight behind it. The spear took the lion in the throat as he collided with Father. The impact sent Father flying. The screaming beast tumbled to the ground. Father scrambled to his feet, long flint knife in hand. He pounced on the lion from the side and plunged the knife into his spine. The lion slashed with his paw but missed, then went limp.

  Father rose and cried out triumphantly, arms held high.

  We all hurried to the lion. Servants yanked out the knife and spear and stretched out the carcass. We inspected the beast. He was a fine animal, well-fed and powerful, a trophy fit for a king. Father bent and cut off the tail with his knife and held it up, dripping blood.

  “My fiftieth,” he boasted. Then he placed a bloody hand on my shoulder. “Well done, Iry. Now – go find me another.”

  ***

  The celebration in camp that night was raucous. Servants had stretched out the lion, minus its tail, a few feet from our blazing campfire. No one had spotted a lion the rest of the day. Because the kill was due to me I was seated in the place of honor beside Father. Weret, the older of my sisters, was keeping my cup filled with wine. Wine was limited to royals and elites in Tjeni – Father acquired it from a land far in the north, beyond the river’s delta, and so it was very scarce.

  We were a happy group gathered around bowls and platters – me perhaps more than the rest. Minnefer and Perneb and Sety had all made a point of congratulating me on my find. That had visibly angered Mekatre, for Minnefer was his supporter and he didn’t want me tampering with him. Mekatre desperately wanted to succeed Father. Not because he wanted to do the hard work of ruling, but because he wanted to live a life of wealth and luxury and status. That he was worried about Minnefer’s loyalty was heart-warming. Serving girls in linen skirts were keeping our bowls and platters and cups full. As we ate Father recounted the killing in detail, and even insisted that I describe my role in the hunt, an opportunity I welcomed as a chance to set myself apart from my brothers. After dinner, Weret and Heria entertained us for an hour. Not only could they dance, but their voices were exquisite and their repertoire of songs seemingly endless. The eyes of every man in camp were on them. Even huntsmen and servants, who should’ve known better than to stare at a king’s daughters.

  The fire had almost burned to coals when a dusty messenger appeared. That he’d traveled at night, and for a distance, was unusual. He bowed low to Father, then whispered in his ear for a long time. Father nodded, then dismissed him.

  Father stood. “Khayu, Nekhen’s king, is dead. Nekhen’s elites have chosen Khab, his youngest grandson, to succeed him. I’ve been invited to attend his coronation. Khab will be crowned in three weeks. We’ll break camp at dawn and head straight for Nekhen instead of returning to Tjeni. That should give us a week to spare.” He swept all of us around the campfire with his eyes. “You’ll all accompany me.”

  I was overjoyed. Aside from this hunt I’d never been more than a few hours walk from Tjeni. And now I was going all the way to Nekhen. Mother’s ancestral home. A settlement Sety had told me numerous stories about. A settlement Father intended for me to someday rule. I could hardly wait.

  “I have an important task for all of you,” Father told me and my brothers and sisters. “Every major ruler in the valley will likely attend this coronation. Most are jealous of me and Tjeni. In fact, Nekhen’s elites specifically chose Khab as king because he’s promised to restore Nekhen to prominence. Who knows what alliance the valley’s rulers might forge against me, or what a brash new king might try to do on his own? So, I want each of you to get as close as you can to the daughters and sons of kings and rulers while we’re at Nekhen. See if you can find out what their fathers are up to. If you hear even the slightest hint of alliances or agreements or ambitions, let me know. Any remark might be an important piece in a puzzle. Every king in the valley fears me – I want to know if I have reason to fear them.”

  “You can count on me, Father,” Mekatre promised brightly. “If any king’s daughter knows anything I’ll get it out of her.”

  I believed him. Mekatre was extraordinarily lazy when it came to studying and preparing himself to rule, but when it came to girls none could resist him. We were so different in that I sometimes wondered if we were actually brothers.

  ***

  Hours after we’d all gone to bed a servant shook me awake and, in a whisper, summoned me to Father’s fire. I crept quietly from the tent I was sharing with my brothers. Father was seated with Sety, quietly conferring. It was late; the fire had burned to coals and their faces were ruddy in its dim light. Everyone but the two of them and a few servants were asleep.

  “Father?”

  “Sit, Iry. We need to talk.”

  Very unusual. Father hunted regularly with my brothers; he mostly ignored me. Not that he disliked me; he had more in common with them. I could count on one hand the number of times we’d conversed about anything remotely important.

  “King Khab will pose a danger to me if he pursues restoring Nekhen to greatness as he’s promised his elites, Iry. Sety and I have been discussing how to turn his ambition into an opportunity.”

  Now it made sense why Father had summoned me instead of Lagus or Mekatre. Nekhen and I were a component of his ambition to rule the South. “What kind of opportunity, Father?”

  “For me to take over Nekhen from within.”

  “Instead of by conquest?”

  “Yes. And instead of waiting until after I take Nubt.”

  “You’re planning to capture the southern settlements out of order? How, Father?”

  “Khab has a daughter, Heket,” Sety replied. “She’s sixteen or so. She needs a husband.”

  I looked from Sety to Father. “Me?” I was stunned. “You want me to marry Heket?”

  “Yes. To seal an alliance between Tjeni and Nekhen. Afterwards, you’ll live in Nekhen, Iry. You’ll be my spy, residing in Khab’s per’aa. You’ll insinuate yourself with Nekhen’s elites. You’ll prompt Khab to act in ways that benefit Tjeni. Khab has two sons – one a year older than you, one a few years younger. The trick will be for you to give Khab a grandson and then push both of them aside so you can take Nekhen’s throne when Khab dies – or before.”

  That would mean I’d sit a throne before either Lagus or Mekatre. That’d give me an advantage over them when it came time to choose Father’s successor. “I’ll rule Nekhen in fealty to you.”

  “And Lagus after I’m dead.”

  Or not. Doing a good job ruling Nekhen might be enough to shift the support of Tjeni’s elites from my brothers to me. Father was giving me an opportunity to shape my future. I vowed not to squander it.

  “I’ll propose an alliance when I meet with Khab,” Father said. “He’ll surely agree. Our alliance will raise his stature with his elites and beat down internal opposition from his older brothers and cousins who weren’t selected to be king. As an incentive, I’ll let him send his boats all the way to the sea in the future instead of only as far north as Nubt. No king of Nekhen’s been able to do that the past two hundred years. Plus, our alliance will inoculate Nekhen from Nubt’s ambitions.”

  “Nubt won’t be able to attack either Tjeni or Nekhen if Nekhen’s our ally. You’ll be able to dictate terms of trade to Nubt. You’ll instantly have control of every trade route in the South.”

  Father smiled. “You’ve been paying attention in my audience hall, Iry.”

  “I have, Father. I’ve paid attention to Sety and his stories too.”

  “I can attest to that,” Sety said.


  Father pondered a moment. “I’m going to tell you something no one but Sety knows, Iry. I want you to keep it to yourself until I tell you otherwise. Will you?”

  “Of course, Father.”

  “You’re aware that ever since I was young I’ve dreamed of making the entire South mine. What no one but Sety knows is that once I rule the South I intend to turn my attention to the North.”

  “Where my ancestors and I have been laying the groundwork for a unified valley for generations,” Sety added.

  “My ancestors’ dream,” I said. And mine. I felt a surge of excitement. If I managed to succeed Father I might in fact be ruling far more than just Tjeni and the South. I had no doubt that Father would be able to unify the valley if he set his mind to it.

  “An alliance with Nekhen will allow me to concentrate on controlling the North sooner rather than later. So, your marriage to Heket and eventual takeover of Nekhen is a very important step on the road to unification. I’m counting on you, Son.”

  “I won’t fail you, Father,” I promised.

  He draped his arm across my shoulders. “Don’t be surprised if you’ve seen the last of Tjeni for a while. Tomorrow morning you may be on your way to your new home.”

  And eventually to Father’s throne.

  ***

  Peret (Seed)

  Matia

  ***

  “Come along, Matia and Nebetah,” Heket said. “That has to be King Scorpion’s boat approaching. Father expects me to greet him at the quay. I’ll show you around Nekhen afterwards, like I promised.”

  My year-older half-sister and I followed Heket, daughter of Nekhen’s about-to-be king, Khab, on a narrow footpath through the half-mile-wide cultivated strip that lay between the settlement and the riverbank. Only sixteen, Heket was a beauty, nearly as gorgeous as Nebetah, her shoulder-length hair dark, eyes black, cheeks dimpled, skin light brown. A magnificent necklace of alternating gold and turquoise beads graced her neck, no doubt created by one of Nekhen’s famed craftsmen. Gold bracelets inlaid with turquoise clattered against each other as she gestured. Her skirt was white, her girdle gold. Green malachite highlighted her eyes. A small falcon was tattooed on her left shoulder and what appeared to be an ivory clapper on her upper arm. I took it they meant she sang and danced when Nekhenians worshiped their god, Horus.