by Jerry Dubs
Ahmose sighed. “I was hoping that you were letting me know that those baboons would escape. It would certainly solve that problem. But then,” he continued, “I’d have a bigger problem because Pharaoh Hatshepsut would be upset.” His short neck disappeared into his shoulders as he shrugged in resignation.
Imhotep, worn by the lengthy expedition, stopped walking and put both hands on the tall walking staff he always carried. “If it helps, admiral, my memory is that all five ships return to the Two Lands. Pharaoh Hatshepsut will be immensely pleased, the baboons, the giraffes, the myrrh trees — all thirty-one — will survive and your name will be remembered forever and ever.”
“This isn’t you trying to tell a joke, is it?” Ahmose asked, staring into Imhotep’s eyes.
Imhotep smiled and said, “No, admiral, that would be a very poor joke.”
“Yes, it would,” Ahmose agreed. He put his hands on his hips, failed to find a resting spot on his wide waistline and let his hands slide to his side. “So the problem is solved, the baboons survive the trip, Pharaoh Hatshepsut is happy and therefore I survive the trip,” he said.
“And where will you put the baboons?” Imhotep asked, hoping that his reassurances had helped Ahmose decide that the baboons could stay where they were.
“I suppose Djehuty can endure their company a little longer.” He leaned toward Imhotep and asked, “You know what they do, don’t you?”
When Imhotep shook his head, Ahmose said, “They fling shit. They climb up on the mast and then they shit, catch it in their hands and throw it.
“I certainly can’t have them flinging shit at Pharaoh Hatshepsut.”
He scowled at Imhotep, challenging him to disagree.
“No, certainly not,” Imhotep agreed and then, hoping to change the subject he said, “How long will we be ashore this time?”
“A few weeks,” Ahmose said. He stopped and looked back toward the camp. The giraffes were ashore now and men were leading them to the edge of the scrubby forest to eat. “We’ll let the animals fatten, hunt some game, scrub the ships, and then we should be able to sail on for another week or so.
“I was thinking of building some barges. We could offload some of the goods to them and haul them back to the Two Lands. It would give the sailors elbow room and we should make better speed.”
Eager to return to Waset and his daughter, Imhotep nodded agreement. “Yes, you could put the baboons on one of the barges.”
Ahmose grunted. “Your prophecy, I’m sorry, your memory — you don’t remember anything about barges, do you?”
Imhotep shook his head.
An accidental time traveler from the modern world, Imhotep had survived entombment in the alabaster sarcophagus and a revolution in the Third Dynasty of ancient Egypt, called the Two Lands by its inhabitants. Fleeing a rebellious army, he had traveled forward through time to the Eighteenth Dynasty where Pharaoh Hatshepsut, the most famous female ruler of the ancient world, wore the double crown.
He looked over at the camp, searching for Akila, his fellow time traveler, who remembered much more about the era of Pharaoh Hatshepsut.
Ahmose followed Imhotep’s gaze.
“Your hemet and Pharaoh Hatshepsut have become very close,” Ahmose said.
Imhotep leaned on his staff and sighed. “They fought together against Yuya,” he said. The fear and helplessness that he had felt the night Yuya and the renegade Medjays had attacked swept through him, and he found himself gripping his heavy walking staff tightly.
Ahmose shifted his weight, cleared his throat loudly, and spit onto the desert sand.
The night of the Medjay attack was a night he wanted to forget. The Medjay raiders had eluded his guards and chased Pharaoh Hatshepsut, Akila, and Queen Ati from a raised wooden hut in the center of the village of Tadjoura. The leader of the Medjays, a giant named Yuya, had pursued and nearly killed Pharaoh Hatshepsut in the forest of myrrh.
Ahmose had been relieved that Pharaoh Hatshepsut had survived, but worried that she would blame him for her near-death.
She would be right to, he thought. I blame myself.
Now, he was determined to get the five ships, all the soldiers and sailors, the court officials, the ivory and gold and incense, the animals, and, of course, the thirty-one myrrh trees Imhotep had prophesied would be on board the ships, all safely back to the Two Lands, back to civilization.
The Fist of Amun
Beyond the shores of the Great Green, more than four hundred miles north of the small fleet, a captive soldier knelt in the desert sand of Sinai.
His hands were tied behind him and a lead from his wrists pulled him back toward bound ankles. He was stripped naked, his skin mottled with blood, some of it his own, most of it from men he had killed.
Two Egyptian soldiers wearing short, pleated kilts called shendyts stood beside him, their backs straight as General Ahmose Pen-Nebheket walked toward them.
General Pen-Nebheket, commander of all the armies of the Two Lands, walked stiffly, partly from age, partly from the stilted military march he had learned decades ago as a young soldier under Pharaoh Thutmose I, and partly because he walked now beside sixteen-year-old Pharaoh Thutmose III, who shared the throne with his stepmother Pharaoh Hatshepsut but someday would become sole ruler of the Two Lands.
***
Only two years old when his father Pharaoh Thutmose II died, young Thutmose had been sent by Queen Hatshepsut to the temple of Amun to be educated while she ruled as regent for him.
For seven years Queen Hatshepsut sat on the throne but spoke in the name of the boy Thutmose. Then Hapuseneb, high priest of Amun, had announced that the god had come to him in a dream and revealed that he had fathered Hatshepsut. Hapuseneb said that Amun now commanded Hatshepsut to sit on the throne and to wear the double crown as Horus incarnate.
Nine-year-old Thutmose should have suffered a fatal accident that would leave Hatshepsut’s claim unchallenged, but young Thutmose believed in the gods.
The boy believed that in the beginning there had been only Nu, the lifeless chaotic waters of the void. He believed that before time had begun its slow march, the word of Amun, in the form of the call of a goose, had echoed across the vast sea. He believed that Amun’s call had brought forth a goose which laid an egg on a mound of earth that the god had raised from the sea ... or perhaps the call had summoned Thoth, the ibis-headed god, who laid the egg ... or perhaps instead of an egg Amun had created a blue lotus.
There were many variations of the story.
Thutmose believed that the solar god Re emerged from the egg — or from the lotus. Before he mounted his fiery barque to sail the sky, the great god had wept at the emptiness of the mound beneath his feet. His falling tears had become the people of the Two Lands.
Or perhaps the ancient god Khnum created the first men, and had continued to form all men since, on his immortal potter’s wheel.
Thutmose knew that there were various, sometimes conflicting stories. With so many gods — and a country as vast as the Two Lands needed a host of gods — there were bound to be different stories. It mattered not to young Thutmose nor to his tutor, high priest Hapuseneb, because although the origins might be unclear, the results were the same: the people of the Two Lands existed and they were favored by the gods.
Hapuseneb patiently explained to Thutmose that the gods’ actions lay beyond the understanding of man. The priest told young Thutmose that all he had to understand was that the gods made the Two Lands, the sky, the waters, the beasts, the stars. The gods were everywhere: See Re’s blinding light! Hear Sobek’s deep roar! Marvel at the flight of Horus! Touch the waters of Iteru, living, moving body of the god Hapi!
Fatherless, banished from the court, alone and young, Thutmose listened and believed.
And so, when Pharaoh Hatshepsut visited alone with nine-year-old Thutmose and told him that the god Amun had chosen her to lead the Two Lands the boy’s eyes had grown wide in wonder and he had fallen to the ground to prostrate himself b
efore the self-proclaimed living goddess.
Watching the one living being who could dispute her claim lie helpless before her, Hatshepsut had relaxed her grip on the deadly knife of Horus.
And the boy had lived.
Now, seven years later, Pharaoh Hatshepsut had allowed Thutmose to leave the shadows of the temple for the unending sunlight of the desert of Sinai where the Shasu were raiding caravans traveling to Gaza. He was being groomed to take charge of the armies of the Two Lands, and General Pen-Nebheket was his mentor.
***
Although the relentless desert sun was alien to Thutmose, he held a contented, confident smile on his face as he walked now across the sandy ground toward the kneeling prisoner.
Thutmose moved like a temple carving come to life, his arms held stiffly at his side, his hands rolled into fists, as if he were carrying the golden flail and crook, symbols of royal authority. His head and kohl-shadowed eyes were aimed at a distant horizon, beyond the gaze of other men. A blue-, red-, and silver-beaded pectoral necklace lay on his smooth chest; his shendyt was startlingly white, its pleats sharp and straight.
He moved gracefully, yet firmly, as he had been taught a god should move. But his attention darted about him, drinking in a world that couldn’t be more different from the cloistered temple he had left.
He saw the involuntary shudder of the prisoner’s shoulder muscles. He saw the hesitant half-glances from the soldiers. He saw the curious queue of men shuffle as close as propriety permitted to the lord of the Two Lands.
He heard the heavy, raspy breathing of General Pen-Nebheket. He heard the distant snort of chariot horses. He felt the sand shift beneath him and he felt the skin-tightening heat from great Re. He smelled the dirt and the blood, the sweat and the acid tinge of fear.
Every moment away from the cloistered temple was a revelation, and Pharaoh Thutmose III, not-yet-ruler of the Two Lands, was hungry to learn.
He imagined himself as the Two Lands at the end of Shemu, the season when the water receded and the land grew parched and empty. Now, leaving the temple, he was exposed to a flood of experiences; it was his personal season of Akhet. The waters of life would fill him and he would grow into a new man.
A stronger man.
Stopping by the prisoner, Thutmose allowed himself an inquisitive tilt of the head.
General Pen-Nebheket cleared his throat.
“This is the highest ranking prisoner we have captured. I thought you might want to ... ”
Although he didn’t know what General Pen-Nebheket meant, Thutmose nodded and slowly counted three breaths, waiting for a revelation.
General Pen-Nebheket drew his khopesh sword and offered the handle to Thutmose.
He expects me to kill this man, Thutmose realized.
He took the sword in both hands, finding the heft of the heavy blade surprisingly reassuring. He had never killed before, not a bird nor insect nor snake nor fish.
Certainly not a man.
Still, the thought of taking this prisoner’s life didn’t disturb him. Hapuseneb had taught him that, as Horus Rising, he had dominion over all the cattle of Re. Even before the man kneeling at his feet had been captured his life already belonged to Thutmose.
He could end it or not end it.
Or does this man belong to me? The man is a Shasu, not a native of the Two Lands. Do the gods of the Two Lands rule this man?
Thutmose had never considered this question. He smiled inwardly ... another new experience.
General Pen-Nebheket nodded to the soldiers. One of them turned to the prisoner and forced his head down, exposing his neck for Thutmose.
Instead of striking the man, Thutmose squatted beside the prisoner, leaning his weight on the heavy khopesh, its blade flashing in the sunlight.
“Who is your god?” he asked.
“Molech,” the prisoner said.
Without looking up, Thutmose asked General Pen-Nebheket, “Is that the name of their god? Does this man speak our language?”
“Yes,” the prisoner answered. “I speak your language. My god is Molech. Also Anat.”
Thutmose stood.
“Do you serve this Molech, this Anat?” he asked.
The prisoner nodded.
Thutmose lowered his head slightly as he thought. After a few minutes he heard General Pen-Nebheket cough. Thutmose turned to the general, who blinked quickly and looked away toward the horizon.
“You fought for Molech. He gave you strength, yes?” Thutmose asked the prisoner, tilting his head as he ordered his thoughts.
The man nodded. One of the soldiers kicked him and the prisoner said “Yes, lord.”
“Just as we fought for our gods,” Thutmose said, smiling as a new understanding settled on his thoughts. “Amun gave us strength. He directed our arrows, he guided our swords. As your Molech did for you. And now you kneel before me and so you must imagine that your Molech is now kneeling before Amun.
“You see the gods act through us.”
Thutmose wrapped his hands around the thick handle of the khopesh.
“You are the weak, broken hand of Molech and I am the fist of Amun.”
As the prisoner braced himself for the death blow, Thutmose turned to General Pen-Nebheket and handed him the khopesh.
“I have no need to soil Amun’s fist with this man’s blood. Put him with the other prisoners.” Thutmose turned, brushed unseen sand from his hands and placidly walked toward his tent, his mind turned to the mystery of foreign gods.
“We do not take prisoners,” General Pen-Nebheket said under his breath.
***
Pharaoh Thutmose III ate and bathed. Then, as evening approached, he directed his servants to unroll linen mats, light incense, and prepare a place for him to guide Re into the darkness of night.
Naked, his slim body anointed with oil, he knelt on the linen facing the west. His hands resting on his thighs, he breathed in the cooling night air, the pinched dryness of the desert flavored with the sweet aroma of smoldering myrrh.
Re still burned brightly, his light not yet tinged by the shadows of Apep’s jaws, and so Thutmose continued to count his breaths. Eyes closed, his face turned toward Re, he cleared his mind as he waited for the god’s strength to wane.
His attention on the god’s fading heat, Thutmose sensed more than heard movement behind him. He ignored the sound as he focused on the words he needed to speak to help Re survive the night.
The light that brushed against his eyelids dimmed and Thutmose slowly opened his eyes. Re’s disk had turned deep red as it began to slide behind the distant edge of the earth. Thutmose imagined the yawning mouth of the serpent Apep beginning to swallow the god, and he raised his arms and began his chant.
“Oh, all you gods of the House of the Soul!
“Weighers of Heaven and Earth in the Balance, givers of food and sustenance;
“Oh, Amun, Unique One, Creator of Humanity!
“Oh, Southern, Northern, Western, and Eastern gods, give praise to Re, Lord of Heaven, the Sovereign,
“Live, Strength, Health, Creator of the Gods!
“Adore Him in his Beautiful Image, as He descends in the Barque of the Evening.”
He repeated the prayer, his voice filled with love and strength, his eyes closed until the god disappeared and the world turned dark.
Sitting silently, he smelled the familiar scent of oil as his servants lit lamps, and then he remembered the presence he had sensed earlier.
Rising, he turned to see General Pen-Nebheket kneeling in the sand, his head down.
Thutmose walked to the general and stopped, waiting for the old man to look up at him.
Without raising his eyes from the ground, General Pen-Nebheket lifted his arms, offering Pharaoh Thutmose a golden tray which held something wrapped in linen. In the flickering light of the lamps, Thutmose could see that the linen was covered with hieroglyphs. He recognized his own cartouche and the names of Re and of Amun.
“I thought it appropriat
e,” General Pen-Nebheket said, his head slowly coming up to look at Pharaoh Thutmose.
Delicately, Pharaoh Thutmose lifted the edge of the linen and peeled back the cloth. It took him a moment to recognize the object.
“I was inspired by your words, Pharaoh Thutmose,” General Pen-Nebheket said.
Pharaoh Thutmose stared at the tray and ran a finger across the offering, fascinated that General Pen-Nebheket would bring it to him.
“You said that you are the fist of Amun and that the enemy was the broken hand of Molech. So I brought you his hand.”
Seni’s hopes
Listless and impatient, Governor Seni slouched on the worn wooden chair in his dressing room in his palace in Kerma, capital of Ta-Seti. His elbows rested on the sweat-darkened arms of the chair; his hands, clenched together in a double fist, rested against his mouth as his watery eyes stared into the gloom of the night.
Once he had been a man of vigor, full of ambition and hope.
Hope!
The word was dust in his mouth. It kept him alive so the gods could heap more disappointments on him.
He had hoped to spend his life with his childhood love, Mut-Nofret, but forty years ago Pharaoh Thutmose I had taken her away.
He had hoped that his Medjay warriors would kill the royal family, clearing the way for Mut-Nofret’s son Akheperenre to take the throne, but Hatshepsut had survived.
He had hoped that Mut-Nofret would rule as regent for Akheperenre, who became Thutmose II, but Hatshepsut had ruled instead. And then, as Thutmose II’s mind drifted away from the Two Lands, Hatshepsut had consolidated her power.
And then Thutmose II died and Hatshepsut took the throne for herself.
Then Mut-Nofret died, and with her death Seni’s hope had died.
But the gods were not finished with Seni.
Half a year ago, as the god Hathor revealed that he was dying, Seni had learned that Pharaoh Hatshepsut was traveling in disguise to Ta Netjer. The gods had given him a final chance for revenge.