by Jerry Dubs
***
Pharaoh Thutmose saw the hands of the gods everywhere.
When frogs sang their hollow songs at night he heard the pushing grunts of the goddess Heket who labored with women through childbirth. When a cobra slid into the shadows he saw the goddess Renenutet protecting the fields. Desert jackals were Wepwawet patrolling the gates of Duat. Vultures soared the sky, wide wings spread as they kept a protective eye on the Two Lands. The wind was Shu, the breath of Re, the night sky was Nut’s arched stomach as she looked down loving at her husband Geb, the very earth beneath Pharaoh Thutmose’s feet.
Looking now at the outstretched back of the charioteer, he saw one of Re’s own cattle, formed on Ptah’s potter’s wheel and given into Pharaoh Thutmose’s care.
His stepmother Hatshepsut called them her little birds, but Thutmose knew that they were stronger than birds. Hatshepsut wanted to protect and nurture the Two Lands; Pharaoh Thutmose, imbued with the knowledge of the gods, saw strength and destiny in the Two Lands.
And that strength was displayed before him now.
He looked at Pawura’s powerful legs, thick and heavily muscled. His shoulders, too. No, Thutmose thought, as he studied Pawura’s back, not shoulders. Shoulder. Pawura’s right shoulder was thicker, the muscles coiled like serpents. The left shoulder was smoother.
Thutmose clenched his hands as he thought.
He remembered that some of the acolytes at the temple had calluses on their knees; others did not. Inquiring, Thutmose learned that the boys with calluses were assigned to washing duties. Curious, he had gone to one of the washing rooms and seen that the boys spent their days on the knees on the stone floor scrubbing and rinsing linen.
Ptah had given the boys protection from the stone to ease their days!
A slow smile tugged at Pharaoh Thutmose’s mouth. The man before him was an archer! Neith had given him strength in the arm which drew the bow!
As Pharaoh Thutmose wondered at the omniscient gods, he heard a rattle beside him; General Pen-Nebheket was clearing his throat again. Pharaoh Thutmose smiled. The gods have given General Pen-Nebheket a heavy throat rattle so he can recall me from my reveries.
“Rise, young hero,” Pharaoh Thutmose said.
Pawura got slowly to his knees, raised his head and cast his eyes on General Pen-Nebheket who nodded, and Pawura scrambled to his feet.
Pharaoh Thutmose stepped toward him with the awkward, stiff-legged gait Pawura had seen before. Then he raised both arms and put his hands on Pawura’s shoulders.
The young soldier, who had known only exhilaration on the battlefield, felt his knees turn soft in fear as the living god touched him. But he felt only warmth and he marveled that Pharaoh Thutmose’s touch did not send the fire of Re through him or the sting of Selket, the scorpion goddess.
He watched Pharaoh Thutmose look from one shoulder to the other, felt his hands squeeze his shoulders, his fingers moving over the muscles, probing at the bones beneath.
Satisfied, Pharaoh Thutmose’s head nodded almost imperceptibly. “Ptah made you to be an archer,” he said, his eyes examining Pawura. He lowered his arms to his side and stepped back beside General Pen-Nebheket.
“Indeed,” the general said, “and no ordinary archer. Pawura can place five arrows in a man’s heart before the man’s legs begin to buckle. Once we placed a series of targets ... ” He stopped when he saw that Pharaoh Thutmose had turned away.
General Pen-Nebheket had learned quickly that Pharaoh Thutmose did not engage in small talk and that he seldom spent more than a few moments on any subject, except Amun and Re. He never tired of talking about them.
Well, to them, the general thought. Although, Pen-Nebheket conceded in his thoughts, Pharaoh Thutmose never needs anything repeated, nor does he seem to ever forget anything.
Pharaoh Thutmose stood before a short table and waited until a servant darted from the shadows of the tent to pour a goblet of wine.
General Pen-Nebheket glanced at Pharaoh’s back and then turned back to Pawura.
“We are breaking camp and returning to the Two Lands,” he said.
“I believe, General Pen-Nebheket, that we have established that the ground here is part of the Two Lands,” Pharaoh Thutmose said.
“Yes, yes, Pharaoh Thutmose, forgive me. What I meant to say ... ”
Pharaoh Thutmose raised his left hand and General Pen-Nebheket stopped talking.
The young ruler turned, the golden goblet glittering in the light of oil lamps and burning candles. Pen-Nebheket looked down, afraid to meet his eyes. Pawura lowered his head as well, but not before glancing at Pharaoh Thutmose and seeing a curious smile on his face.
“General Pen-Nebheket, Commander Pawura,” Thutmose said, advancing in his stiff walk, “I have traveled with the army of the Two Lands for almost a year. I am well pleased with the army. The men are fearless and skilled. They are truly the fist of Amun!
“And I am the all-seeing eye of Horus.”
They heard him sip his wine and then he said, “Look at me.”
The men raised their heads, unsure if they would see the slight, beautiful man-child who wore the crowns of the Two Lands or a hawk-headed god. What they saw first was the wine goblet, held aloft in front of Pharaoh Thutmose’s face.
“This gold was pulled from Geb’s belly and fashioned into a cup for me. Your bow, Pawura, broken from a tree, fashioned in water, honed with bone, made taut with sinew. Each turned to its task. And yourself, Pawura, the gods clearly intended that you be an archer. General Pen-Nebheket has a mind that can embrace all the details of the army ... the water supply, the pack train, the reserve of weapons, the time it takes to move across desert or mountains.
“I am not an archer or a general. When we speak, and we will speak more and more in the future, I need you to speak freely. I know that your hearts are pure and the Two Lands dwell within your kas. If I comment, do not take offense. We must work together and trust each other for we are the legs and fist and heart of the Two Lands.”
As Pharaoh Thutmose spoke, Pawura felt a warmth flush through him, a love for this man who, Pawura thought fiercely, must sit alone on the throne of the Two Lands.
Kebu and the mole rats
Exhausted, his injured leg quivering with each step, Kebu collapsed on a bed of ferns by the shallow river. He groaned and rolled onto his back, staring up at the broken stump of a tree. Half-moon-shaped fungi grew from the dying trunk. He reached up and broke one off, sniffed at its woody pulp and bit into it.
Then he ate another. And another.
His stomach filled, he dragged himself to the river and leaned his face into the slow moving water. As he lapped at it, his eyes grew heavy. He pushed himself back from the river bank, curled into a ball and fell asleep.
He woke in a panic from a dream of fire and screaming women. He looked at the dark canopy, smelled the water and heard a soft scratching. Turning his head toward the sound he was overwhelmed by the stench of rotting fish.
He jerked his head back and saw that the darkness in front of him had a shape and that it was growing closer. He scrambled backward and, as his eyes focused in the night, saw that a giant crocodile had dragged itself from the water.
Frantically rolling away from the beast, Kebu felt his arm slap against a heavy tree limb. As he pulled on it to get to his feet, the branch began to twist. As he stared in horror, two yellow eyes and a flickering tongue moved toward his face and he felt the snake wrap itself around him.
He thought of the messenger Kasta and how Yuya had fed him to a giant boa.
Kebu screamed and jerked his head upward.
The snake dissolved, the smell of fish evaporated, and Kebu realized he had been dreaming. As he smiled in relief, his stomach clenched, and he began to vomit.
***
The next day, with spirits from his dream drifting through his thoughts, Kebu turned away from the river and after an hour’s walk discovered that the jungle abruptly ended in a flat, empty desert.
He decided to walk along the edge of the jungle; it would run parallel to the river, but be less dangerous. He would be able to see approaching predators, he could guide his steps by the light of Re and he could seek shade without worrying about overhanging snakes.
As Re crossed the western sky, Kebu veered away from the river and the depths of the claustrophobic jungle. He found a small cropping of rocks and checked it for snakes and scorpions. Then, as Re descended, Kebu allowed his eyes to close, confident that giant snakes and gnarled crocodiles were far away.
His leg was still tender, the swelling around the wound angry and red. But he was sure he could continue walking and be able to reach Kerma in another two or three weeks.
He began to think of the food he would enjoy, the beer he would drink, and then frowned because the thoughts only made him hungrier.
Sitting up, he scooped the loose dirt to make shallows for his hips and his shoulders. Turning on his side, he put his hands under his head for a pillow and closed his eyes. His last thoughts were that the earth beneath his head was alive.
He imagined that the god Geb was having gas, smiled at the thought and drifted off to sleep.
***
He woke to a soft scratching sound, pebbles rolling across broken earth.
Awake, he lay motionless, careful to keep his breathing soft. He kept his eyes closed and focused on the sound. Slowly he tightened the muscle in his leg, felt the pull of pain and nodded his head.
This is real.
He considered the possibilities. Snakes seldom hunted at night, nor did crocodiles, especially this far from the river. Hawks and eagles searched the ground during the day, owls and bats hunted the night skies, but he had nothing to fear from them. Jackals scavenged at night, but not so quietly and softly.
The scratching sound came again and Kebu wondered if he could safely ignore it or — he had a sudden happy thought — maybe it was something he could eat!
Slowly he opened an eye.
A small gray shadow moved.
Kebu squinted, trying to see the shape more clearly.
Unconsciously he sniffed, trying to smell the animal. The inhalation brought dust into his nose and he snorted, trying to dispel it.
Suddenly there was a screech. Then another, and suddenly a swarm of beasts emerged from the earth and poured over him.
Flailing, Kebu sat up, and as his eyes focused he began to scream, convinced that the Seth beast had sent its spawn to attack him.
Fat, gray, hairless rats were crawling over him.
Without thinking, he caught one in his fist. Its head was flat with stubby white whiskers sprouting in front of squinting, sightless eyes. A pair of long, flat teeth curved down from its stubby, callused snout.
Horrified, he held the rodent at arm’s length while it twisted and snapped at him with yawning jaws, trying to drive its fangs into his fingers. Suddenly, he felt sharp pricks across his arms and chest as hundreds of the mole rats swarmed over him. Frantic, he tried to brush the vermin away. Some of them clung to him with knife-like claws and others scrambled over him, scratching and cutting with their claws and teeth.
Kebu rolled away from the rocks. He felt the naked mole rats squirm under him and around him and atop him as they tried to find a way back into their dark tunnel.
Shouting and panting, Kebu grabbed and threw the hairless rats into the darkness. As he fought he felt them twist in his grip and their sharp, digging teeth pierced him like a thousand arrows. Still screaming, he rolled farther away from the rocks until he was finally free of the rats.
Beneath the thousand stars he stood bleeding and shivering in fright and disgust as the rodents scrambled and waddled across the ground and disappeared beneath the rocks, swallowed again by the god Geb.
On to Waset
Sad, tired, and fragile, Sabestet sat on a stool in the shadows of Governor Seni’s dressing room and toyed with a knife.
He wore only a loincloth, and the skin across his chest sagged above deep folds that crossed his sunken belly. Loose skin gathered under his arms, and his face, once held in place by an eager smile, was now an empty mask. His whiskers and hair had turned gray, and the stubble rising from the rubble of yesterday’s haphazard shave gave his head a gray sheen, as if he were slowly turning into a lifeless statue.
He leaned back against the stone wall and looked across the dark room toward the darker rectangle of a window. Beyond it lay Kerma, sleeping capital of Ta-Seti. It had once been a busy, thriving city. It would never be Waset, of course, but traders from Ta Netjer, nomads from the red desert, strange men from the deep jungles who spoke with their hands, once they all brought their treasures to Ta-Seti, southern gateway to the Two Lands.
It had been a meeting place of ideas and colors and scents and sounds, a whirlwind of movement and wealth. Strange, dark men, some in colorful robes, others wearing nothing but tattoos, brought sacks of rare spices and fragrant incenses, sledges stacked with strange, heavy wood or long, curving ivory tusks, bundles and bundles of exotic skins, spotted, striped, some smooth, others as rough as a crocodile hide.
Now the city slumbered.
The river, once filled with boats, flowed now past quiet markets. Dust lay undisturbed on the streets. Even the air seemed sluggish.
Joy had fled Kerma.
Sabestet listened to light snoring that stumbled from the bedroom of Governor Seni. Unconsciously he placed the tip of the knife blade on the thin underside of his left forearm. He laid the tip of the blade against his skin and dragged it softly across the blue river of blood that rose against the skin.
When he saw the knife blade against his arm, he thought, it would make such a mess. But, for once, I wouldn’t have to clean it.
Smiling in resignation he lifted the blade from his arm.
There are potions, he thought, quiet, gentle ways to rest from this life and begin the journey to the Field of Reeds.
Governor Seni snorted in his sleep and cried out, a short, sharp bark.
Sabestet shifted on the wooden stool and leaned forward to rise.
Seni, he thought, has wasted away like the city has. The oracles told him that he is dying, yet he haunts the palace, his body here in the outskirts of the Two Lands while his ka strains for release.
Sabestet arched his back, heard the bones clatter in his spine, turned and gently placed the knife on the stool. He looked toward the governor’s bedroom.
His heart is heavy with hate for Pharaoh Hatshepsut. Perhaps that is why he lingers here. If Anubis weighed his heart now, the white feather of Ma’at would fly from the scale and Ammut would devour his heart before the feather fluttered to the ground.
Now there was no sound from the bedroom. Sabestet pressed his eyes shut and listened, half of his heart hoping to hear the sound of Governor Seni snoring, the other half yearning for release of his master’s ka.
Sabestet cautiously stepped toward the doorway, his weight balanced between curiosity and hope.
***
General Ahmose Pen-Nebheket stood with arms crossed as he stared at a scattering of papyrus reports that lay on a long wooden table in his tent. Eyes watering and blinking in the soft morning light that filtered in through the painted tent walls, he tilted his head down and studied the markings.
Antef, director of the granaries and quartermaster for this campaign, stood beside Pen-Nebheket, his eyes darting from his reports to the general’s face. He suspected that General Pen-Nebheket’s eyes no longer permitted him to read and that his memory, once as steadfast as Thoth’s, had begun to grow vaporous.
“You are sure there will be adequate water?” Pen-Nebheket asked, lifting the dry sheets as if searching for the answer.
“Yes, General Pen-Nebheket, Addaya assures me that he will stock way stations for us as shown on this map.” He le
aned in beside the general and shuffled through the papyrus sheets until he found one that showed the path the army would take southward through the Sinai Peninsula on its march back to the Two Lands.
“Addaya?”
“Pharaoh Hatshepsut’s commissioner in southern Canaan,” Antef respectfully reminded Pen-Nebheket. For the past hour they had been going over plans for the army’s departure from Sinai and Antef was growing tired. He shifted his little weight from one thin leg to the other. His friends teased him that his legs looked like those of a crane.
But a crane can balance on a single leg all day, he thought.
He stifled a sigh and wondered how Pen-Nebheket could stand without a muscle twitching for hour after hour, as if the desert sand had infiltrated his body during his long years, turning his flesh into stone.
But then the young Pharaoh had the same ability. Antef had watched him review the army through a long morning without so much as a blink.
“Yes, I know who Addaya is, but does he have authority? Can we expect him to fulfill his promises? I don’t want to lead a thirsty army through a desert,” Pen Nebheket said as if Antef had never been thirsty.
Antef’s left leg began to jitter, a sign that he was growing weary of reassuring Pen-Nebheket. He shifted his weight again.
He was sure there could never have been a more cautious man. But, as Pen-Nebheket never tired of explaining, it was detailed planning that won battles.
Weapons break, carry triple the number needed.
Soldiers eat more when they fight, supply double the amount needed.
Horses must have water. There is never enough water.
Chariots need bales of leather and cords of wood to make repairs.
Antef could recite the general’s never-varying list in his sleep. In the weeks it took for the army to throw off its lethargy, like a snake slowly sloughing its skin, Antef would often awake with the general’s words slogging through his mind.