by Jay Penner
Khamudi turns towards me. I bow to him.
“We are not losing,” he says.
But you are; you posturing idiot. You just do not want to admit it.
“We bring an alliance for your consideration, King Khamudi—”
“Who are you?”
“I am a trade advisor and a commander of the Navy,” I lie.
“You are too young.”
“I have the confidence of the King and the Prince, Your Majesty,” I say.
“Continue,” he says, finally.
“Our messengers say Pharaoh Ahmose gains strength, and we worry about the rise of imperial Egypt.”
“Ahmose? The boy? Do you know what we did to his father?”
“No, Your Majesty.”
“We took an ax to the old fool’s head. We split it like a watermelon. He had to be carried off bleeding his foul blood on our lands!” Khamudi says, his hands chopping the air. His bangles shine in the light. His men join a chorus of approval.
“Not just that. We hacked his son’s shoulder and saw him run away. He will die soon as well.”
I infer that Khamudi talks of Kamose, Ahmose’s brother. I was unaware of what had happened to him. Our spies had not told of his brother’s condition. I begin to question the quality of our intelligence. “The tides of fate change, Your Majesty,” I say. “We have men, material, and a powerful Navy that controls the seas.”
Khamudi leans back on his throne. He is quiet as he sips beer. Slaves offer us honey-infused water, and we decline. The Prince signals for me to come to him. He leans and whispers in my ear. “When do we threaten him?” he says, and I almost laugh at the stupidity of that comment.
“Not yet Your Majesty. Your silence is powerful and unnerves him,” I say, lying but sufficient to calm his ego and keep him from jeopardizing this mission. There is more silence.
Finally, Khamudi speaks. “What do you have in mind?”
Finally!
I take a few steps forward to be closer to the King. He leans forward to listen.
“We help you capture the Upper Kingdom. In return, you open major harbors by the sea to expand our trade into Egypt.”
Khamudi smiles. He slaps his thigh. He looks around his council. “They say they will let their men bleed so we can give them more access to our harbors,” he says, loudly, and they break into laughter. Heat suffuses my cheeks.
Khamudi turns to me. “You take us for backwater idiots,” he says, wagging his finger. “No respectable king would offer such a weak excuse.”
The astute observation surprises me. The Prince, who held his tongue, erupts. “Do not speak of my father in such a manner, King Khamudi. The ruler of the Atalanni does not seek alliance without reason!”
“Well then he should send an honest delegation and not think of us as swamp barbarians!” roars Khamudi. His raspy voice cracks and misses portions of his words when he screams. “We have an alliance already with the Kush, and never have I heard of a kingdom that offers the blood of its people in return for an expansion of trade.”
Suddenly the court erupts in recriminations, with each side accusing the other of treachery, disdain, disrespect, and stupidity. Khamudi calls us dancers, painters, and very stupid ambassadors. The Prince calls the Asiatics fools, blind to reality, blowhards, and the taunts and yelling overtake any attempt at reason. I try in vain to calm everyone but feel like a cat that chases many mice at the same time. It is clear to me that they have clearly seen through the ruse and nothing we say will convince them that we seek an honorable alliance.
Though of course, I know that our alliance is anything but honorable.
At one point several courtiers jump to the arena and we end up pushing and shoving each other. The crude behavior of these Asiatics is astonishing! One of the men opens his gown and masturbates in full view, taunting us. It is remarkable that no one is stabbed or arrested, and I give Khamudi credit that he would not harm or imprison his visitors. I could not imagine such a scene in King Hannuruk’s or even Minos’ court. And Minos is a rogue.
Finally, the shouting dies down, and Khamudi settles back to his throne. An attendant strikes a bronze plate with a bell to bring order and silence. The King asks everyone if they need water or wine; the absurdity of the scene is confounding.
Khamudi finally speaks. “It is clear to me that you have other nefarious reasons for seeking an alliance. We have entertained you as guests, and yet you seek to deceive us.”
I try to speak, but the King holds up his hand.
“We are not fooled so easily. Our warriors are strong, Prince of Atalanni. We cut off the hands of those who attack us!” he says, and gestures to a man beside him.
The man walks towards us.
He stops his advance and kneels.
He picks on a wedge of a stone block on the floor. Some of the blocks have grooves that allow one to remove the stone. He removes the block and gestures me to come forward.
I lean into the hollow in the floor.
Severed palms.
Desiccated palms of grown men.
The bones jut through the dried, broken skin. It is revolting to see human remains in the room, but such is their custom.
“Those are the hands of unfortunate high-ranking fools of the Upper Kingdom who thought it fit to attack us. We can defend ourselves well, Prince Nimmuruk. There is nothing more to hear from you. You may stay here for the night. But you will leave tomorrow morning and return to your land,” he says. “If your troops remain, we will kill them and hold you to ransom.”
“You cannot threaten a Prince that way!” shouts Nimmuruk; he is red in the face and sweat glistens on his skin.
Khamudi says nothing. Instead, he stares at Nimmuruk and smirks. “We have threatened Pharaohs for a hundred years, Prince Nimmuruk. I am now Pharaoh as well. You are nothing,” he says. With that, Khamudi rises and storms out of the room, followed by his officials.
The Prince shakes in anger, but there is not much we can do. Deceit hides beneath the thin veil of our proposition. Khamudi has seen through the ruse, and we must now decide the next course of action. We spend the night with not much of a chatter, and my mind is a cauldron of emotions. It is still unclear to me why Khamudi is so confident that we came in the guise of peace. The first engagement with the Asiatics has failed spectacularly—and neither the Prince nor I have been able to salvage it.
In the morning, Iben-Har unceremoniously escorts us out of the gate, and Khamudi does not appear to bid goodbye. The gates shut behind us, and a contingent of heavily armed Asiatics escort us across the bridge. Khamudi’s distrust is plain—his troops line the riverbank on either side. Iben-Har speaks little as we walk. I reckon he fears for his life for this debacle.
Prince Nimmuruk rages on our way back and sulks in his tent as I think of our next move. I know I must bide time—so I walk back to Iben-Har and tell him that we need until noon to depart for the tents must be packed, soldiers prepared to move, and the ill must be tended. After some argument, he allows for us to delay departure but says his men will remain where they are.
I return to the tent and go to the Prince. As much as I hate it, he has been designated commander of the forces, so I must consult him. I wonder how the news of this failure would be taken back at home. How Minos would try to capitalize on the Prince’s ineptitude.
“What do we do next, Your Majesty?” I ask. The Prince’s pudgy face is red, his eyes are puffy, and the stubble on his chin makes him look ill. He pulls and removes a ceremonial thread off his hair and throws it to the ground and takes a swig from a beer flask.
“How dare he treat us this way?” he says. “We have to teach him a lesson!”
I know I must tread carefully, but my ultimate loyalty is to my land and its glory, not to Prince Nimmuruk. “We are here to secure their cooperation so we can front them in the battle against the Pharaoh, Your Highness, not to waste our limited resources trying to destroy him.”
“We have the skills and weaponry to la
y them to waste and force the rest to follow our command.”
“We do not have enough weaponry or men to lay them waste. Besides, to destroy him would only strengthen the hands of the Pharaoh.”
Nimmuruk shoots an irritated look. “How so?”
“We may kill and destroy some here, Your Highness, but what we will leave behind is an insurgency. The Asiatics will turn on us for our actions, and the Egyptians under their rule will go back to supporting the Pharaoh. Neither of it is in our interest and will only prolong our effort. We have formidable weapons and men, Your Highness, but we do not have enough of either.”
Nimmuruk paces in the tent. He has removed most of his garments. His back and chest are sweaty; a slave walks behind the prince fanning him.
“My father will be livid,” he says, “we have to find a way.”
“We will do what your father, His Majesty, commanded.”
“What do you propose?” The Prince asks.
“I have an idea.”
An idea that requires Iben-Har to listen to me.
CHAPTER 19.
KALLISTU
Khaia’s mind is preoccupied. Governor Minos has been impatient and continues to protest the order that he must defend Kaftu and supply the Atalanni troops in Egypt. His insistence on meeting her to influence the King’s decision has become irritating.
But for now, Khaia has other pressing matters to attend. She walks briskly through the labyrinthine corridors of the royal palace towards the Queen’s quarters.
Khaia wipes her brow. It is hot inside; the westerly breeze has not cooled the palace enough. The Queen’s quarters are deep in the palace, a level below the ground, but with windows opening out of the cliffs onto the ocean. The views are spectacular, but the roof is low, making the sensation at once beautiful yet claustrophobic.
Slaves fan her and the Queen, but with every pause, the heat envelopes them in an instant like a woolen blanket in the summer.
Khaia appraises the Queen who sits on a comfortable blue cushion in front of her. Apsara looks back coolly. Aranare sits by Apsara, fanning the Queen.
Khaia has asked for this audience. She tells the Queen that it is the Divine Council’s responsibility to meet with the Royals from time to time to convey messages from the divine and act as counsel if there is distress. They have met only once since the war delegation left for Egypt.
“I am here to enquire after your health, Queen Apsara,” says Khaia. “And I thank you for granting me audience.”
Apsara smiles. The dimples enhance her face, and the blue-glass earring reflects the lamp and shines into Khaia’s eyes.
“I thank you, sacred Khaia,” she says, “your visit is a breath of fresh air.”
“You are the rulers and protectors of this land,” says Khaia. “We have just embarked on a perilous path. Your health is of great concern to our gods and to me.”
Apsara nods but says nothing. There are questions in those eyes, but the lips stay closed.
“May we speak in private?” Khaia asks, her eyes shifting towards Aranare, who hovers around the Queen like a protective mother. Apsara turns to her maid and gestures her to leave the room.
“You are calm, Apsara,” she says, dropping the formality for royalty. “But like rising mud below a quiet lake, I sense turbulence.”
Apsara raises an eyebrow. “It is natural to feel stress when we are embarking on a course of war, and what you sense is nothing more.”
“Call me Khaia, my Queen. Within the confines of this room and between us I speak to you not as an Oracle but as another woman. We both shoulder great responsibilities.”
Apsara nods. But her silence frustrates Khaia. She wonders if the Queen’s demeanor is naturally that of reticence or if she distrusts Khaia’s motives.
“I sense a lot more than natural stress. When you and the King come in my dreams, you are on your bed, and there is always a dead olive tree between you.”
Apsara looks up sharply.
Finally.
“I do not know what you mean,” Apsara says. Her voice is cold. She adjusts the drapery around her neck and pulls it closer over her chest.
Khaia leans forward. “Your marital discord is a matter of concern to us all.”
Apsara blinks. Khaia sees that the Queen is struggling to respond to a blatant intrusion into marital concerns. Khaia continues. “Perhaps such matters are never brought up in front of the Mitanni rulers, my Queen. In Kingdoms where the King has a vast harem of wives, like the Egyptians, it does not matter that one wife is in a well of distress. But we are not the Mitanni or the Egyptians.”
“What are you saying, Khaia?” says Apsara. Her body is tense.
“The Atalanni Kings have but one wife. Polygamy is not looked upon kindly by the gods except where the Queen is no longer of sound mind or body,” Khaia says.
“Are you implying I am not of sound mind or body?”
“I said no such thing, my Queen. But tongues wag, and rumors spread when there is no child after three summers of marriage.”
Apsara’s face reddens at Khaia’s words. She grips a cup and struggles to respond. Khaia continues. “The Egyptians lay all fault at the feet of the king if there is no child. But the common people of the Atalanni pin that responsibility on the queen.”
“The King already has two sons, so why is it of any concern to you, or to the people, that I have no child of my own?”
Khaia appraises Apsara. This is not a woman who would collapse and cry. “One son is incapable of rule, and the other is out fighting a war,” says Khaia. What she does not tell Apsara is that a messenger had left the capital just before her declaration of the gods’ intent to the Supreme Council, to meet Khamudi, the King of the Asiatics, to warn him not to believe any Atalanni delegation that may come through. She had thought through what might happen. Except that Khaia had not anticipated that Teber would be part of the party going to meet Khamudi for she did not wish him danger but hoped that the skilled general would find his way out.
Apsara takes a sip. Her eyes fix on Khaia’s from behind the rim of the cup. Then she says softly. “A war that you said was necessary.”
Khaia leans back and scowls. She then straightens her back, making herself taller and imposing, and jabs a finger at the queen. “A war that the gods deemed necessary. I am a messenger. Do not question my intent, Your Highness.”
Apsara bristles at the admonition.
“I do not know why you are here, except to find me at fault for something I—“
“I am here to convey the concerns of the Council as we are also the guardians of the Kingdom’s future. We are approaching dangerous times, and you have so far failed in your duty as Queen,” Khaia says, her voice cold.
Apsara explodes. “What duty do you talk of? Does the King have no duties? The duty to treat his wife with kindness? The duty to perform on the marital bed? The duty to perform ceremonies without swooning like a drunkard?”
Khaia appraises the Queen. Her nostrils flaring in anger and face red.
“He is King. Perhaps he treats you the way you say, because of your actions. Perhaps he does not perform in the marital bed for you do nothing to excite him. Perhaps he swoons in the ceremonies because his Queen has nothing but disdain for him. The signs do not show you to be innocent,” Khaia says, slowly and deliberately.
“Then it matters not what I say because you have no desire to believe me. Hannuruk will never produce an heir, dear Oracle, no matter who the woman is, for he is no longer able to produce the seed that gives life.”
Khaia sighs. “You do not understand, Your Highness. It is not about whose fault it is, but it is that this coupling will put this empire to risk. And to that end, the Atalanni will not lay blame on the King’s feet.”
Apsara is quiet for a long time. Khaia feels a tinge of pity for the Queen but dismisses the thought. She thinks of her own sacrifices and actions in her rise to becoming the Oracle.
Khaia sees Apsara’s tears reflect the soft yellow h
ues of the room lamps and the queen sniffles before she composes herself. “I can divorce the king and let him marry someone else.”
Khaia laughs. It is without mirth. “You are an innocent girl, or you forgot your vows. Atalanni queens cannot divorce the king. There is no such provision in our laws. Your wedding is for life—as long as you breathe—Your Highness. Even if the King dies.”
Apsara shakes her head. “Then, I shall ask the King to divorce me.”
“Please do not take me for a fool, Your Highness. You have surely asked him, and he has surely said no. He is still wedded to you, is he not? There is not one instance of an Atalanni King divorcing his queen in the past fifteen generations. As I said, once a King weds, his wife stays in that capacity until the end of her life. Do not forget that his first wife still lives.”
Apsara pulls up her knees to her chest and sobs. But Khaia makes no move to console her, for this is the intended direction. Finally, the Queen composes herself.
“Why can he not wed another woman to prove his masculinity, just as he wed me when he was still married?”
Khaia sighs as if to respond to a child. “It is only allowed if there is a clear, demonstrable reason, or if the wife is no longer alive. You are young, beautiful, articulate.”
“So, as long as I live, this land is in peril?”
Khaia stands and smoothens the creases of her garment. She straightens the curls of her hair and clasps her hands. “Some sacrifices are greater than the preservation of self, Your Highness,” she says. Khaia then bows to the queen and takes slow steps backward until she reaches the door. “And if it is pain you worry about, I have many ways to lessen the sharpness,” she says.
Apsara does not respond. Her eyes have lost their strength and brightness. She slumps against her cushion, her chest heaving. Khaia hopes that the message is clear, and the Queen has the strength to do what is necessary.
CHAPTER 20.
LOWER EGYPT