The Wrath of God

by Jay Penner

  “You are old, lazy, and useless. You have no role to play in the future of this empire. I should have you flogged and drowned, but I will let you live. Get out.”

  The embarrassed man bows and leaves the hall in a hurry, and everyone holds their breath. It is as if a glowing star is extinguished in the blink of an eye—the man who rose to the generalship is a nobody in an instant; such are the surprises of life.

  Hannuruk turns to me again. “Governor Minos here thinks you would make a fine general.”

  I am surprised. “I am honored, Your Majesty. King Minos.”

  “He wants you as his apprentice. Apparently, we have no wiser men in all our forces.”

  “I am sure— “

  Hannuruk scoffs and waves dismissively. “The Oracle did not seem very excited about the prospect of bringing you here, is that not the case, Khaia?”

  “He is young, Your Majesty. We have had generals that have led our men—“

  “How many have fought invaders as much as this young man has?”

  She hesitates. “None.”

  “Is not the Pharaoh of Egypt young too?”

  “He is, Your Majesty.”

  “I know I must seek your counsel in matters of war, Khaia, but I prefer to listen to the men who fight rather than women who lecture.”

  Khaia responds indignantly. “Your preferences have little to do with my opinions, Your Majesty, and my counsel stands that Teber has not enough experience to—”

  “I have heard your counsel, but I am not obliged to act on it. Remember who rules this empire, Khaia. I have one woman by my side to annoy me, and I will not have another. Be quiet and leave matters of war strategy to me.”

  I hear some chuckles, but the Oracle remains stoic.

  Rishwa reaches across and soothes the King, “Every flower is entitled to spread its scent. The Oracle has the right to her opinions, Your Majesty. Let us not anger the messengers of the gods. The gods see the immense pressure of a ruler, don’t they, sacred Khaia?”

  Khaia fixed her gaze on the King, “They do, Prime Minister. But they also expect the King to maintain his decorum. I am not his servant.”

  Hannuruk locks his eyes on Khaia, and they glare at each other until Minos laughs and breaks the tension.

  “Now, now. Shall we all agree that we listen to the Oracle on matters of divine message, but to the King on matters of war strategy?”

  Khaia says nothing. I am uncomfortable in the middle of the quarrel between the Kingdom’s two most elevated people. I am also skeptical about how the King is better suited to discuss matters of war strategy for the King has never waged war in his entire lifetime. At least the Oracle is brilliant and surely has messages of strategy from gods—after all, if divinity wanted the Atalanni to conquer Egypt, they would have a few ideas for success as well.

  But my opinions mean little.

  The King turns to me again. “Do you know why you are here, Teber?”

  “No, Your Majesty.”

  “Do you think you can lead us against Egypt?”

  CHAPTER 7.

  THEBES - UPPER EGYPT

  Pharaoh Ahmose looks behind his chariot with pride. His men are bruised and covered with fine desert dust, but victorious in the latest battle with Khamudi, the son of Apepi, the impostor Asiatic ruler who squats over Lower Egypt. The column stretches a great length.

  The swordsmen follow the archers.

  Mace-handlers walk with ax-men.

  The wretched captives walk in the middle, followed by more troops and baggage train.

  The forty-day mission has been a spectacular success. They have destroyed a major garrison near Hutwaret, the capital of the impostors—the Hyk-Khase.

  Khamudi is weakening. Gone is the fire in the foreigners’ bellies, Ahmose thinks, the wretched scum that defiles his lands, disrespects his gods, and calls themselves Kings of Lower Egypt. Khamudi’s father Apepi was a thorn in Egypt’s side, and his father Khyan not only took Egyptian royal titles but also sent ambassadors to far places such as Keftiu, posing himself as king.

  Such shame. Such disgrace.

  But Ahmose would put an end to it all.

  The Pharaoh has proved to his citizens that he is god, like his brother before him, and his father before him. As they enter the magnificent gates of the greatest city known to the world, Thebes, Ahmose looks at the throngs of adoring men, women, and children.

  Most are by the wide granite and limestone royal pathway.

  Some stand atop stone platforms and hang on to the Obelisks.

  Some perch precariously over rooftops.

  The rest balance delicately over tree branches.

  They shout with joy.

  And as he passes by, they prostrate on the dusty grounds, bowing before their god-King.

  “Amun blesses you, Your Majesty, and Ra shines upon you,” says Nebhekhufre, The Vizier of Lower Egypt and uncle by relation. Ahmose likes and respects Nebhekhufre who understands the ways of gods and the people. The Vizier has governed his areas with care, even when under attack and under control of the impostors. Nebhekhufre had been by the side of Ahmose’s father, Pharaoh Sekhenenre Tao, when an impostor’s ax had felled the courageous man. Sekhenenre had died fighting, and yet in his death, he had heralded a resurgent Egypt that would no longer accept the Asiatic impostors and their backward ways. Ahmose’s brave brother Kamose too had sought Nebhekhufre’s counsel.

  Ahmose smiles and orders the chariot to halt. The Vizier lifts the statue of the bearded Amun high above the kneeling Pharaoh’s head.

  The Vizier steps down from the chariot and places the miniature statue on a fresh linen pillow adorned by fine silver threads. He then places the pillow on the ground.

  As the adoring crowd watches, Pharaoh Ahmose kneels before the god and places both his palms firmly on the ground. He bows and touches his head to the feet of the god. Ahmose then stands up to great cheers and walks up to a specially erected podium in the great quadrangle before the Palace. The guards hold back the surging crowds as the Pharaoh prepares to speak.

  “I have beaten the impostors like a master beats his disobedient slaves. Glory be to Amun, he shines upon us, and glory be to my father Sekhenenre, he smiles upon us. It will not be too far before we destroy the impostor’s cities, kill their soldiers, enslave their men, women, and children, and bring the wretched Khamudi’s head on a ram’s horn!”

  A great roar rises from the crowd. On cue, two guards drag one of the captured impostors—a lean and hard-muscled Asiatic with curly dark hair and knee-length garment. The impostor looks on fearfully as a guard forces him to kneel.

  Ahmose moves forward, arches his back, and lifts his bronze and blue-glass striped crook.

  He kicks the kneeling captive in the head.

  The man topples on the stone pathway.

  As the Asiatic looks on fearfully, a priest wearing the mask of Seth grabs the man’s hair and yanks it back, exposing the neck. The man thrashes about, uttering pitiful phrases in his foreign tongue. The priest slices his neck open, letting the ground saturate with blood.

  “We will spill the Asiatics’ blood until there is a river that rivals The Great River!” Ahmose declares as the crowd cheers.

  The dying man’s rasps are drowned in the celebration of victory.

  The procession proceeds to the palace. The fit and young prisoners would be auctioned off as slaves or quarry workers, the rest would be executed, and their bodies hung on the walls. The Pharaoh stops before ascending the steps of his palace and waits for the priests to complete their rituals. They burn fragrant cedarwood incense on a gold plate and utter prayers as they move the plate in a circular motion near the Pharaoh’s face. Once completed, they move away respectfully, allowing Ahmose’s wife to receive him.

  Ahmose’s eyes shine at the sight of her.

  The lovely Ahmose-Nefertari—a dutiful sister and now royal wife. She walks forward shyly, coming down the steps like a graceful dancer, and kneels before her husband. Ahmose
leans and grasps her shoulders, and she rises to meet his gaze. Ahmose marvels at his wife’s delicate features and how much he missed her.

  And then, together, the Royal Couple turn and face the multitude before them for one last celebratory cheer before they turn and walk through the massive wooden doors.

  Ahmose hurries to the farther end of the palace, followed by his wife and attendants. Guards open the door and bow as the Pharaoh enters the spacious room which opens on one side to a small garden. He comes to the side of a figure lying on a massive oak bed, draped in a linen blanket. There is smell of sickness mixed with the sweet fragrance of burning incense. Ahmose gently holds the palm of the man and kneels beside him.

  “My brother, I have news,” Ahmose whispers near the man’s ears. “I have beaten the dirty Hyk-Khase again. I have spilled their blood.”

  Kamose stirs and groans. His face has a deathly pallor and is covered by sweat.

  His left shoulder is swollen and looks like a ripe plum—a sign they say brings a man closer to his end. The royal physicians have placed poultice on the deep wounds, but it has been several moons with no improvement. The co-ruler, known to all as Kamose-the-Strong, is slowly slipping towards the realm of the dead. Ahmose’s wife, also Kamose’s sister, gently caresses the fallen Pharaoh’s hair. She wipes his forehead with a cloth and removes the ceremonial crown to let the attendants fan the matted hair that sticks to the pillows. Kamose’s hair still has the luxurious shine of youth, and yet the rest of him has aged.

  “I will continue my battle until we win our lands back, brother,” Ahmose continues, “I shall not let your and our father’s fight go in vain.”

  Kamose breathes hard, and Ahmose feels that his brother has heard him. Ahmose still holds hope that his brother will recover and one day rule by his side in the new whole Egypt. And for this reason, on the advice of the priests, Ahmose has not even commissioned a tomb befitting the status of his brother.

  The Pharaoh and his wife rise from their position and return to his chamber. On this day, Nefertari will spend the night with him with the hopes of not just igniting his passion, but also to bear him an heir that will rule Egypt someday.

  After disrobing and cleansing themselves, the couple moves to the royal bed. Ahmose-Nefertari places her head on her husband’s chest. The Pharaoh reaches for his wife’s hand and rubs her fingers. “We will free Egypt soon. The omens say it will not be long before we destroy the impostors. With no one else to challenge us, Amun will lead us to glory.”

  And just as he says that a gust of wind blows through the quiet chambers. The stone statue of Amun, placed on a pedestal by the side of the bed, wobbles and falls to the ground.

  CHAPTER 8.

  KALLISTU

  He walks quietly along the labyrinthine tunnel under the Palace. The lamps on the walls come to life as he walks by—another magical invention of the famed Atalanni Engineers. As he turns, he finally sees her near the far corner—her silhouette showing her gentle curves under the flickering lamp.

  They embrace each other with great urgency, and the lips meet with passion and desperate force. It is extraordinarily dangerous, but he is reckless, and she is bold.

  They know they have not much time, for guards patrol the tunnels at pre-determined intervals. He knows the schedules, and in his position, he can control access. They have only a few minutes.

  “What will become of us?” she asks; her soft voice trembling with fear.

  “I am sure that with our power, brilliance, and gods’ blessings, we will be victorious, and I will return soon, my love.”

  “I cannot take it much longer; each day is a curse, and I will go mad here.”

  “Be brave and be bold. Your strength shines brighter than the suns!”

  “You are a bad poet,” she says, giggling, and breaking the seriousness of the moment. She then runs her finger on his taut muscles, sculpted by battle and rigor.

  He pushes her face to his chest and laughs quietly. He breathes her aroma and feels the soft curves of her waist. “I mean it. But you must be strong. Once I return, I will take you away. We will vanish.”

  “I am so alone. Every day is so tedious. It is hours of ceremony in the morning, the prayers, the cleansing. I am forbidden from leisure with commoners, and I cannot go outside the Palace. This is a prison! I did not grow up like this. Can you really take me away? Under watchful eyes and Kingdom’s spies?”

  “If I take you away, can you live as a commoner?”

  “I can live happily where you are.”

  “Is your life in danger?”

  “There are days when he strikes me. But his words cause far greater injury. He speaks ill of my father, my mother, my people. He has threatened to drown me, for no fault of mine. But he knows not to kill me.”

  He feels a great anger rise in him.

  “He accuses me of not bearing a child, and it is he who is unable to perform on the marital bed,” she says. “Though I retch at the thought of sleeping with him.”

  “Find ways to keep him at bay. If we are thoughtless in these times, there will be no future. I will free you, even if it means I must kill— “

  She placed a finger on his lips. “Do not speak of killing him. We do not know how the gods view such acts. They are already angry at the Atalanni. All I want is to be free from him, but he must not know I abandoned him.”

  He understands her point, though, in his heart, he would have liked nothing more than killing her husband. But such acts were rare in Atalanni history, and penalties are severe.

  “When do you leave?”

  “I do not know. We confer with the King in two days for final orders. The first step is for us to move our weapons and train soldiers from Kaftu. Minos will host us and help build an army until we are ready to sail to the shores of Egypt.”

  “I am filled with fear,” she says and embraces him tightly.

  “And I, with hope. I am certain no gods look kindly on the cruelty he inflicts on you. We are an enlightened people, my beautiful, and you see the mirth in our women’s eyes. They are protected by laws, and yet those laws do not extend to Royalty.”

  She nods. He knows there is no escape for her—she would either live condemned or must kill herself if she were to escape from her marriage. The only other option is her husband’s death or her escape with the man she loved.

  He pauses. “Do you want me to take you away now and vanish?”

  She shakes her head, vigorously. “No! You have a duty to this land. The gods will surely see that as sacrilegious. This is your chance for glory. Come back and take me away.”

  He kisses her again. She is right. This is his chance for glory, and once that is achieved, he wants to vanish with her. To abandon his people would surely enrage not just the gods, but all those who depend on him. He would never be able to live with that.

  She caresses his face. “Your mole,” she says.

  “What about my mole?” he asks, rubbing the dark patch below his right eye.

  “It looks nice on your rugged face. But you should grow your beard, or you look like a girl.”

  “I do not look like a girl.”

  “You have such long hair. Why do young Atalanni men not grow their beard?”

  “Because lice grow in them. We don’t stink like the men on your side.”

  “They do not stink.”

  “They are hairy.”

  “They are manly.”

  “Are you saying I am not manly?”

  She giggles. “You are the manliest man I know. Grow your beard.”

  “Military regulations do not allow me.”

  She pouts. “Stupid soldiers.”

  “Look at my muscles,” he says, flexing his biceps.

  She feels them and laughs. “You need to put on more weight. You are lean and strong, but have you seen Urama? Such big muscles!”

  He tweaks her nose. “Urama is an oaf. I am a lean fighting warrior. I am so much taller.”

  “That you are,” she
says, and hugs him again.

  It is time for him to leave. It is too dangerous to be here.

  “You must leave. Stay strong. I will find a way for us to meet once before I leave,” he says, and he holds her close for another longing kiss.

  And then Teber watches as Apsara, the Queen of the Atalanni, vanishes into the darkness.

  CHAPTER 9.

  KALLISTU

  I am the first to arrive in the throne room. I wait, nervously. Today is when the King will announce his final orders after several days of deliberations and planning. While the King had announced me general, they have decided much without me.

  Able enough to lead the men to a fate-altering battle, but not considered intelligent enough to make momentous decisions.

  Surely the King knew that I, at the age of fourteen, had been considered as an able entrant to the Academy of Engineers—a famed group that was under the hierarchy of the Divine Council. The Academy is known for its ability to interpret the signs from the gods and bend the laws of nature to the Academy’s will. The Engineers built contraptions that felt otherworldly, and no one except the Oracle and her acolytes knew of the working of the Engineers. It was the Academy of Engineers that owned the armory and built weapons. At times of peace, the Academy reported to the Oracle, but at times of war, it would take its directions from the King and his nominee.

  The Atalanni have the tradition of nurturing Engineers for many generations—that was what gave us our extraordinary knowledge of metals, mining, the alignment of stars and planets, the humming of the earth and the signs of skies, and precision of journey times and directions, and even an extraordinary new way of barter through the use of coins. They could put the famed Egyptians to shame, but the restraint codified in Atalanni laws have restricted our operations.

  Only a few boys and girls made it through the tests to join the Academy of Engineers, and I had been one. But before my first month, the assessors had dismissed me for my unwillingness to follow orders, and the exasperated decision-makers, with support from the Oracle herself, had put me in the military instead of throwing me in prison.