The Wrath of God

by Jay Penner

Today, Ahmose prepares for the next chapter. He has summoned his vizier Nebhekhufre, two high priests from the Temple of Amun, and two of his generals, to discuss the path forward on the Hyk-Khase—the people of foreign hill country—the dirty Asiatics. Dressed in his crown of the two lands of Egypt, the Pharaoh receives his subjects and their obeisance and settles on his throne.

  “The son of Amun, The Lord of the Sedge and the Bee, Kamose, he who is strong, my great brother, looks like he will ascend the stairs towards heaven,” Ahmose says. There is much lamentation from the audience at this news.

  The Pharaoh waits for the audience to settle.

  “The Vizier brings news from the North,” says Ahmose.

  The Vizier stands before the members assembled in the room. Nebhekhufre is a slight man—his body lean and his face etched deep by lines of worry and administrative pressures. He wears a kilt-and-apron and a large amethyst-and-lapis lazuli studded necklace made of three distinct layers. His voice has a deep timbre that makes people notice when he speaks.

  “Our spies say that Khamudi is fearful for the future of his land, Your Majesty. The Asiatics seek alliances in the Levant, and we hear they have sent emissaries even to the far east to the Babylonians and to the North to the new Mitanni.”

  “Have those delegations borne fruit, noble Nebhekhufre?” asks Wadjmose, one of Ahmose’s generals instrumental in the successful push against the wretched Asiatics. Wadjmose has risen from a lowly stature to now one of the kingdom’s most revered warriors.

  “Not that we are aware of, Wadjmose. The Mitanni are new, and they have recently forged an alliance with the Atalanni—the island dwellers in the Great Green Sea. Our great Kingdom had sought the hand of Idukhipa Apsara, the princess of the Mitanni, for His Majesty, Lord of the Two Lands. But she had already been promised to King Hannuruk of the Atalanni.”

  “What of the lands of the East?”

  “Samsu-Ditana struggles with revolts on the borders of his kingdom. He has never sought conflict with us. I do not think he has the will or the resources to ally with the Asiatics.”

  As the Pharaoh considers the response, Ahmose-Nefertari, the Queen, speaks. “Does that mean we can plan an invasion on Hutwaret and finish the Asiatics once for all?”

  God’s Wife of Amun is known to participate in matters of prayer and administration.

  “No, Your Highness,” says Wadjmose. “We are weakened by the poor harvest, and our troops have been depleted by our recent advances against the impostors. We do not yet have the resources to launch a sustained offensive against them.”

  Ahmose knows that the Kingdom’s granaries are low, and a great many cattle have died. The previous inundation of the Nile has been insufficient and has weakened the Pharaoh’s hand. Ahmose had stepped up the prayers to the gods and gifts to the temple priests throughout the land, putting further pressure on the treasury.

  But these efforts had not yet paid.

  What the gods were upset about, he did not understand.

  “Then how do you propose we finish them before they regain strength, Wadjmose?” asks Ahmose-Nefertari.

  “We should seek an alliance, Your Highness. The Nubians are weak and have shown treachery before. There is another choice.”

  “The Mitanni?” says the Pharaoh. Nebhekhufre nods at Wadjmose. It is evident that the two men have previously discussed whatever Wadjmose is about to propose.

  “No, Your Majesty. The Mitanni, as the noble Vizier says, are too weak and will be unable to cross the Levant lands to support us. They are a new kingdom. Instead, we propose an alliance with the Atalanni. Together we can drive out the impostors,” says Wadjmose.

  “That is an interesting proposition, Wadjmose,” says the Pharaoh. Ahmose knew from an early age that to seek wisdom and knowledge from his expert advisors was critical to success and his ambitions. “I know little about them, except that they have gifted our ancestors with beautiful pottery, garments, and paints, and they have exceptional dancers and performers. We have traded linen, papyrus, flint, jasper, agate, and gold with them.”

  Nebhekhufre interrupts Wadjmose. “They are skilled painters, dancers, and traders, Your Majesty. And before your grandfather’s time, they also traded in olives, figs, and pottery with us. But they have a formidable navy, and that they have a secretive council that is known to create weaponry through the direct hand of god.”

  Ahmose is intrigued. The Pharaoh leans forward and adjusts his onerous crown to prevent it from toppling. He wishes to remove it but knows that it would offend the Priests and his sharp-tongued wife. The false beard attached to his chin with a strap is another irritation that he must live with, in the throne room.

  “What kind of weapons?”

  “We do not know exactly, Your Majesty. They are known not to display or demonstrate their creations, but rumors are that they are unlike anything we have ever seen or heard.”

  “Why had I not heard of this before?”

  “We have had little contact with them since the control of Lower Egypt by the impostors, Your Majesty. And their King, Hannuruk, who ascended the throne during your father’s early reign, has instituted a policy of limited engagement with the outside Kingdoms except for trade.”

  “He is a strange king, then,” says Ahmose. The attendees chuckle.

  The vizier nods. “We have heard rumors that the King is counseled by their priests who prefer that the Atalanni keep their boundaries to themselves.”

  “How do you know all this?” says Ahmose, as he points at Nebhekhufre.

  “We have maintained light maritime and trade contact. With the impostors controlling much of the North,” The Vizier spits on the ground, “it has been difficult—but we get steady news of their land. Besides, Your Majesty, we have an Ambassador in their court.”

  “We have an Ambassador?” The Pharaoh is surprised.

  Nebhekhufre smiles apologetically. “I beg your mercy, Your Majesty, but yes—we have a man in their courts to represent our interests. It has been over a harvest, but we expect to see him soon to present his latest report.”

  “Is he in touch with their King?”

  “Not their King, Your Majesty. The Atalanni have two lands where most live. Their capital, which we have only heard of, is a small island in the middle of the Green Sea. They also have a large province—a great island called Keftiu, ruled by a governor named Minos. Our Ambassador resides in the Palace of Minos.”

  “This governor, is he an influential man?”

  “The Ambassador says so, Your Majesty. The Governor’s ranks next only to the Royals and the Oracle of the Atalanni.”

  “Why would they help us?”

  “We tell them that the Hyk-Khase seek dominion of the seas. People of similar stock already control parts of the Levant, and if the impostors conquer Egypt, may Sekhmet strike them to the ground, then it is unsurprising that they will turn north to expand their dominion further.”

  “That is a premise based on fear,” says Ahmose. “My brother often said that good negotiation combines fear with incentive.”

  “The great Kamose, he who is beloved of the gods, is right, Your Majesty,” says Nebhekhufre, his eyes twinkling with pride at his nephew. “We propose a mutually beneficial trade agreement and to develop the ports along the Northern Sea. We will propose attractive terms of trade. The Atalanni are masters of the Sea and to have access to our harbors and expand trade will be of value to them.”

  Ahmose found taxes, grain allocations, trade terms, cattle barters, and other administrative discussions boring. “When does this Ambassador come to us?”

  “He should arrive here in the next one or two moons, Your Majesty.”

  “We send him back with our proposal?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  Ahmose turns to his queen who now stands and places a hand on the shoulder of one of the priests who burns incense around the Pharaoh and his queen. Ahmose-Nefertari closes her eyes and holds her husband’s hand. The two wait as the priests chan
t hymns to the gods. A wonderful aroma permeates the room as the royals go deep into prayer.

  Once the fire that burned the incense dies down, Ahmose opens his eyes and looks at the audience beside him.

  “A vision came to me. A vision with the blessing of the gods. I saw a falcon over a hot golden desert. It is a graceful creature with silver wings and a golden beak. It flies high in the sky and sees a beautiful blue oasis in the middle of vast dunes of sand. The thirsty falcon then circles the oasis several times and dives to get succor for its parched throat. But just as it nears the water, the color changes to red, then black, and the water evaporates entirely. The falcon has no water to drink, and all around it is only sand.”

  Ahmose-Nefertari grips her husband’s hand. “I dread hearing it, my husband.”

  Nebhekhufre clears his throat. The Pharaoh looks through the lingering smoke of the incense at the wise old vizier. Ahmose is aware that while he is the First Priest of the Temples, there were times when he would have to defer to his formidable wife, the God’s Wife of Amun, or to the wise vizier who was also once a Chief Priest of the temple of Amun.

  “You are wise beyond your time, my Queen. The gods send their messages in mysterious ways. If you will allow me, Your Majesty, may I present my interpretation?”

  “I grant you permission,” says Ahmose.

  “The falcon represents you who is divinity Horus and god on earth. The blue water represents our alliance with the Atalanni, those who dwell in the waters. The red represents your domination on the black, which is the representation of the Asiatics. The evaporation is the gods’ sign that our land will no longer have the scourge of the Asiatics and that all that is left is our sacred sand.”

  Ahmose is torn between the interpretations of his wife and his vizier. “I have never heard of black representing the Asiatics.”

  “It is the color of their hair and the darkness of their souls, Your Majesty,” Nebhekhufre says.

  Ahmose turns to his wife, whose gentle eyes show great concern. “Your heart remains heavy, my wife.”

  “The Vizier has wisdom and experience, Your Majesty. My heart worries for you and our Kingdom, but the Vizier was once the Priest of Amun and knows the signs of gods.”

  Ahmose contemplates the situation. The gods work in strange ways—it is up to him, as the foremost priest of the land, to decide whether a strategy of waiting for an alliance with the Atalanni would bear rewards or lead to the end of his Kingdom.

  “I honor your counsel, my beloved wife. But on this occasion, I shall direct our affairs based on what the Vizier sees.”

  Nebhekhufre bows.

  Ahmose continues. “Prepare gifts for the Atalanni. Let us make a grand gesture of friendship. Give me word when the Ambassador arrives.”

  The attendants prostrate before the Pharaoh and his wife, and Nebhekhufre turns to Wadjmose.

  “Guard the secret paths to the Great Green Sea. Send a boat to Keftiu as soon as possible and summon the Ambassador.”

  As the Vizier walks out of the Palace, Ahmose looks at his Queen and hopes that he made the right decision.

  CHAPTER 14.

  KAFTU

  The crowd waits in anticipation. Once again, the priestess repeats her ceremonial actions, and the door at the far end opens again. The curious audience looks as a man tentatively walks out. There are gasps of surprise—the man there is distinctively Egyptian. I know that most people had only heard of the people of the neighboring empire, and few had seen an Egyptian. He is middle-aged. His head is shaved and his skin darker than the Mycenaeans but not much compared to us. His eyes are accentuated by black kohl under the eyelids, and he wears a simple tunic embroidered with decorative golden swirls. On his wrists are gold bracelets. He takes tentative steps and looks around. In his hand, he holds a club.

  “You see one here, my people! But there are many more, and we shall smite them!” Minos shouts.

  The crowd roars, bloodthirsty, and invigorated with a sense of conquest. The Egyptian flinches but stands where he is. Teber watches him closely—does the man know what fate awaited him? But Minos stays where he is. Prince Nimmuruk walks closer to the edge.

  Minos raises his hands to silence the crowds and waits for them to quieten.

  “The Egyptian stands proud. He thinks no man can challenge him. He thinks his Pharaoh is a god. He believes that his monuments are greater than any other’s. He says he can strike anyone with impunity. We will show him fear!”

  There is more cheering. Minos turns towards Prince Nimmuruk.

  A strange smile comes upon Minos’ face.

  He declares loudly.

  “As per tradition, the Prince will now descend the labyrinth and strike down the Egyptian.”

  Minos’ announcement startles Nimmuruk. He frantically looks either side as the crowd comes to its feet and a great roar rises to the skies—thrilled at the prospect of their Prince subduing their enemy.

  I am alarmed.

  “Governor Minos, you should have cleared this with me. We cannot put the Royal in danger,” I whisper. The Prince stands speechless, knowing that any act that looked like backing down from the declaration would be cowardice.

  “I need to clear nothing with you, Young Teber. These are our customs. I know that the Prince will faithfully carry out the people’s expectations of him,” Minos says. “Let us get the Prince ready.”

  Nimmuruk’s face darkens. I come close to the Prince to confer. “I will make him pay,” he hisses.

  Nimmuruk changes to a ceremonial attire and is given a sword that is clearly too heavy for the Prince to handle deftly. Once ready, he walks forward to the pit and raises his sword, causing the crowd to cheer again. I grow concerned at the development, but there is nothing I can do—not only does the Governor outrank me, but the Prince has committed to the fight in full view of the audience.

  “Do you want to delegate the fight to me, Your Majesty?” I ask.

  Nimmuruk does not answer. There is rage in his eyes. “Do you question my ability, Teber?”

  “No, Your Majesty, as your loyal servant I am required to ask.”

  “Stay and watch. But whoever decided to surprise me shall pay,” he says, leaving the threat vague and open. I bow and step back, and the Priestess guides Nimmuruk towards the entrance to the labyrinth. I watch as the unsure Prince walks unsteadily while trying to grip his heavy sword. I feel sorry for the Prince, and yet a sense of glee. The Prince often projected his power on the weak as he sat on a throne and passed judgment, but now he would face an enemy alone.

  As the anxious crowd watches, the Prince appears from the door of the labyrinth, stepping into it. The crowd roars again, and the Prince acknowledges the adulation.

  The Egyptian has walked ahead and turned a corner, but he stands there quietly. He looks back and forth, eyeing the remains of one of the dead youths.

  Nimmuruk advances carefully, his sword held forward, but his steps are without the confidence of an accomplished warrior.

  The Priests signals for the people to be quiet. I anxiously move to the edge of the labyrinth, straining to see the two men in the corridors.

  As the Prince comes closer to the turn of the corridor, the Egyptian hunches and takes a battling stance, with his club held at an angle.

  The Prince closes the corner and slows.

  The two men are on each side of the wall, waiting for the other to act.

  The Prince looks up.

  I gesture that the Egyptian is right around.

  But the Egyptian sees that as well.

  In a flash, the Egyptian jumps around the corner and swings his club hard at the Prince. Nimmuruk brings his sword up in a defensive posture in the last moment, and the impact of the club pushes him back. The Egyptian is taller than the Prince, and he advances menacingly. Nimmuruk straightens again and returns to a battle stance, but the Egyptian does not hesitate. He swings his club again, striking the sword hard, almost knocking it off. The crowd gasps in horror, and I look at Minos
for direction.

  The Governor has no expression as he watches the scene unfolding in front of him.

  The Egyptian strikes again, and this time the Prince stumbles and falls to the ground. A great moan rises from the crowd and Itaja, my lieutenant, taps me on the shoulder.

  “What do you want to do, sir?” he asks, urgently. As I watch horrified, the Egyptian hits the Prince on his shoulder.

  The Prince screams.

  It is not a scream of valor or aggression—it is the high pitch of a boy struck by fear. But the Egyptian does not strike the Prince again and instead curses at him as he looms over the fallen Prince while shaking the club.

  Enough.

  “You and Bansabira, cover me if needed,” I order Itaja.

  I leap across the gap of the labyrinth onto the top of the nearest wall, then jump down by holding onto the ledge before dropping to the floor. The Egyptian, distracted by this sudden movement, steps back from the Prince who has now shrunk to a corner, his back against the deep-brown hardened clay walls. The Prince’s headgear has detached and fallen on the ground, and his thinning hair is a disheveled mop.

  I unsheathe my sword.

  The Egyptian turns to me.

  Behind the Egyptian, Prince Nimmuruk is getting back on his feet.

  “Stay where you are, Your Majesty,” I say, and the Prince stops moving.

  “Why?” The Egyptian asks haltingly. His eyes show no fear, but they have questions. The man is a head taller than me, and I am tall.

  I lower my sword.

  There is chatter from above and curious faces of people looking at what is unfolding. The Egyptian takes a step forward, but not threateningly. He lowers his club and speaks in a muffled voice. “I am Ambassador of Egypt. I serve their majesties, Lords of the Two Lands, Beloved of Amun, Pharaoh Kamose and Ahmose. What is my fault?”

  An envoy of Egypt?

  The Egyptian’s enunciation is clear and his Atalanni flawless, even if with the accent of his home.

  I am at a loss of words.

  The Prince is now back on his feet with his sword out in the front. His face is red and his lower jaw trembles. I raise my hand again, signaling the Prince to stay where he is.