The Wrath of God

by Jay Penner

  Pharaoh Ahmose is concerned by the latest developments. He stands with Nebhekhufre and Wadjmose, by the west bank of the Pelusiac branch of the Great River, about a day’s march from Hutwaret.

  The flags of his army flutter behind him; it is a windy day, and powerful gusts bring fine dust from the western deserts and coat the men, trees, and grass. The three men stand on the sandy bank, letting the cool water lap their feet.

  “The Ambassador to Keftiu has not returned,” Ahmose says.

  “He has not, Your Majesty,” says Wadjmose. The General is in his battle gear, and the decorative bronze buttons on his leather corset reflect the sun and distract the Pharaoh.

  “Remove your corset, Wadjmose, they hurt my eye,” says Ahmose. Wadjmose hastily removes and lays it by his feet.

  “And the man who went to fetch the Ambassador has not returned either?” says Ahmose.

  “He has not, Your Majesty.”

  “And you are certain that he departed to Keftiu?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. Our men saw him off at the northern harbor. Neither he nor any of his guards or boatmen have returned.”

  “How do we know that they were not ambushed by the Asiatics on the sea?”

  “The Asiatics have no fleet to speak of, and had no reason to ambush them, Your Majesty.”

  “Perhaps they were ambushed on land on their return?”

  “We have had our lookouts all along the western paths far away from the Asiatics influence. No one has recorded any visitors from the sea.”

  Ahmose sighs. He does not like what he hears. He kneels down and washes his hands in the water and wipes it on a cloth hanging by the belt of his kilt. He turns to the Vizier.

  “What do you think, Nebhekhufre?”

  The Vizier has aged with worry. His normally leathery face shows deep lines now accentuated by the shadows of nearby trees. “I share Wadjmose’s observations, Your Majesty. I do not like these developments. There were three other incidents that when I think of it now seems to lend credence to our worries.”

  Ahmose looks at the Vizier questioningly, and it seems like Wadjmose is surprised too.

  “What incidents?”

  “Just a few days ago we heard news that in two separate occasions two trading boats were accosted by the Atalanni navy far from their land and forced to turn back. The crew were not killed but were warned not to venture further north towards their land.”

  Ahmose stands akimbo. He feels a tingling warning in his neck. It is as if a large mosquito buzzes close to the ear.

  “Did they know it was a trading boat from us?”

  Nebhekhufre shields his eye from the sun. “It would be hard to miss, Your Majesty. Our boats have a distinct look. Our men have a distinct look. The signs of Egypt are unmistakable,” he says, with a hint of pride.

  “Have our trading boats ever been turned back?”

  “Never. We have no records of Atalanni hostility towards Egypt.”

  Pharaoh Ahmose paces along the rocky beach, sometimes kicking the stones into the water. He is God and King, and yet a boy. He wishes he could sit here all day and throw pebbles into the water. But he knows matters of far greater gravity need attention. “What I know from my messages of our gods, and from watching my brother, is that conflict between empires starts not always with armies but with grain and cloth. Our men have not returned, our trading boats have been turned away, and all this in the same span of time. I do not like this,” Ahmose says. “Wadjmose, you served my brother and father, what is your opinion?”

  The General looks distressed. “You are the god of this land, Your Majesty. I may be a general, but your divine vision replaces all my experience. I believe there are dark forces at work at the Atalanni and their intentions towards us no longer pure.”

  Ahmose, deeply worried, walks slowly on the edge of the bank. He scoops up the greenish water and raises it to the sun, seeking blessings of Ra. His belly feels like a hollow pit of worry—a foreboding that he is unable to shake off.

  Ahmose curses under his breath. Have the gods abandoned him, he wonders. The Hyk-Khase still squat on this land, and now another threat looms.

  Just then, he hears a servant announce. “A runner comes with an important message, Your Majesty.”

  Ahmose turns. At a distance, a man comes running—he is panting and hobbling, doing his best to cover the last few paces before reaching the Pharaoh. As he nears Ahmose notices that the messenger’s almost naked body is drenched in sweat and his eyes have lost focus. He collapses a few feet away from the Pharaoh near the ring of guards.

  “Get him water and revive him,” Ahmose orders. The guards hold the messenger until his breathing settles, and he comes to his senses. He eagerly gulps the water and lets some dribble on his chest. He sees the Pharaoh himself in front and prostrates before his living god; Ahmose receives his obeisance. Finally, he stands up, looks at the Pharaoh, and rubs his hands nervously.

  “Speak,” says Ahmose.

  “The Asiatics, Your Majesty. The Asiatics…” he stutters.

  “What about the Asiatics?”

  “They have just hosted a military delegation from the Atalanni with their Prince and their General.”

  CHAPTER 21.

  HUTWARET

  We wait in the humid weather, sweat running down our backs. I had sent Iben-Har back to the fortress with a simple message—tell your King to witness a demonstration of our power which could be turned against them if they did not cooperate. Iben-Har, in turn, had demanded that our troops retreat half a mile and that only I, along with a few of my demonstration personnel, would stay where we were. I had refused to listen to Nimmuruk and commit to a foolhardy attack on Hutwaret. The Prince thinks a few magical weapons are sufficient to break a city’s will, and his inexperience has already put us in jeopardy.

  Men peek from the top of the fortress walls. Asiatic troops have left their stations and gone back to the city. Now it is us, a bridge on a river, and a formidable fortress behind which Khamudi plots.

  Just send us a few goats and pigs, I had told Iben-Har, and we would show what we had.

  Our weapon-bearers stand behind me in a line—ten of them. In their hands, they hold the slingshots of god—Afastis—long bronze tubes, about three feet in length. I have seen Afastis tested on animals, and the effect is terrifying.

  The gates of the fortress open slightly. A few Asiatic soldiers walk out holding swords and axes, but they stay near the gate.

  The gates grind and open some more, and suddenly thirty to forty men in loincloths charge at us with swords and maces. There is desperation and determination in those faces. I realize I have little time before they charge the gap and reach us, and with my forces half a mile behind, there is no chance for us in a hand-to-hand with so many men. It also dawns on me that Khamudi has decided to sacrifice men instead of goats.

  The Egyptians near us.

  I can see the whites of their eyes—there is little but fear and panic.

  “Go back! Back!” I shout, gesturing frantically at them. But they ignore the warnings.

  Condemned men.

  Threatened with something I do not know.

  I pity them, but I have no choice.

  I turn to my men and scream, “burn them when they near!”

  My men use the Afastis when the Egyptians are within sixty or seventy feet. I put fingers in my ear. First, there is a series of clicks, all within the blink of an eye.

  Then there is a synchrony of thunderclaps and yellow flames from the barrels.

  The heads and chests of many of the charging men explode as if magically and chunks of skull, brain, ribs and spine fly and splatter on the others. The other men freeze in terror.

  I have learned a few Egyptian words; sufficient for greetings, goodbyes, and a few warnings—helpful during our journeys.

  I gesture and shout. “Go back! Go back!”

  They hesitate. They look back at the fortress and squint. I know why these men rush on a suicidal mission
—there are children and women on the edge of the walls. There is shouting from the ramparts in what I imagine to be orders for the men to continue.

  They turn at us again and charge us, screaming frantically, waving the weapons, and I have no choice but to order another discharge of the Afastis. The firing repeats until I think every man is dead—their bodies splattered on the dust. I taste and spit blood and pieces of their flesh.

  But one man is still alive.

  He looks back, hoping that the men on the walls are satisfied at the carnage.

  He runs back. His arms raised. Imploring.

  At that moment, I hear a high-pitched scream of a woman, and a child comes tumbling down the walls and drops on the hard ground like a rock. The man wails loudly but continues to rush towards the gates. He then desperately clings to the motionless body and screams at the people above, cursing them. One of the soldiers comes behind the man and stabs him. He crumbles forward. I hear more commotion on the walls as a woman comes flying down.

  The wife?

  The family is dead. There is silence. No one else comes through the gates, and it shuts again. Someone gestures from the top of the wall, indicating that we must wait. Finally, the gates open again, and Iben-Har appears. He comes to me and says he wishes to talk to the Prince, and we finally walk back to our main contingent. The Prince waits impatiently and jumps to his feet as we enter his tent.

  “So, what is the verdict? Does your King wish to ally with us or not?” he says.

  Iben-Har is cool. “King Khamudi wishes to clarify some questions, Your Majesty.”

  “What does he need to know?”

  “Your bolts of fire, what use is having just ten?”

  I panic at the question. Before I open my mouth, the Prince opines. “We have two hundred and fifty more and another five hundred at Kaftu!” he says triumphantly.

  Idiot!

  “And thousands more in production,” I say, but Iben-Har smirks. It is too late to undo the damage.

  “How many troops do you have here and how many in your island?”

  “We have—”

  I cut The Prince off. “Our contingent here may be small, Iben-Har, but it is well trained. And we have over forty-thousand waiting for orders to sail.”

  Iben-Har appraises me but turns to the Prince. This is a clever man. He knows he can speak to our idiot Prince and get what he needs. I try again. I curse our inability to converse in our tongue because Iben-Har is conversant with it.

  “Iben-Har. The Prince is busy with matters of greater import. It is me you should speak to regarding military arrangements and logistics.”

  Nimmuruk shoots an angry glance at me. He puffs up his chest. “I am the commander. Teber will speak when he is spoken to. What else do you wish to know?”

  I can see Iben-Har controlling his laughter. This is what happens when you send a man untested in diplomacy, his eyes seem to say. Nimmuruk has forgotten every lesson Rishwa imparted him, and Minos tried to drill into his head—never reveal your true strength, never give up our secrets, and always project your strength to be far greater than it is.

  And yet here we are.

  “Your fire bolts are very impressive. You are blessed by your gods, and your men are blessed by your magnificent leadership, Prince Nimmuruk. Do you have other similar weapons that we may use against the Egyptians?”

  I watch in horror and Nimmuruk continues to display his immaturity. “We have fifty boat-mounted missiles that can set fire to nearby towns, and hundreds of clay pots of poisonous liquid that can waft in the air and strike men with sickness. Nothing you have ever seen, Iben-Har. Even your minds would not be able to conjure what we possess.”

  Iben-Har gently kneads his beard. His sly eyes dart between the Prince and me, and only a fool would not notice the glee in them.

  A fool like Nimmuruk.

  “That is most impressive, Prince Nimmuruk,” Iben-Har says, “No doubt it will strike fear in your enemies’ hearts! King Khamudi has a proposal.”

  “King Khamudi should be grateful for our presence. Without us, you will soon—”

  Iben-Har cuts the Prince mid-sentence. “King Khamudi will collaborate if you teach us how to build your god-gifted weaponry.”

  We are speechless.

  “Those weapons are gifts from our gods to us. Not for us to bestow the secrets to you Asiatics!” Nimmuruk shouts indignantly.

  “You speak of us as if we are barbarians! And yet here you are begging for our assistance for whatever nefarious designs you have!” says Iben-Har.

  I just watch quietly and let them fight. There is not much hope here.

  Nimmuruk berates Iben-Har. “It is you who act like uncouth bastards, shaking your penis in our faces while arguing, what cultured civilization does that?”

  “So says the Prince who wants to be carried off in a hearse because he eats too much!”

  Nimmuruk and Iben-Har hurl insults at each other. I hastily intervene and pull them away before anything worse happens. The Prince’s chest and his prosperous belly heave. Iben-Har collects himself.

  “Your Highness. General Teber,” he says coldly, “We have been warned that you are here not with good intentions but with greater designs. You are fortunate that the King has let you leave alive. You clearly have no intention of collaborating for you have turned down our very fair offer—share your knowledge in return for the blood we will shed along with you.”

  Someone had warned the Asiatics?

  Nimmuruk composes himself. “We will get what we seek, with or without cooperation.”

  “And so it shall be, Your Highness,” he says, unyielding.

  It dawns on me that someone had compromised our entire mission from the beginning, and we had no hope even before we stepped into Khamudi’s court.

  But why?

  The only reason Khamudi let us alive could be that somewhere in his reptilian mind he thinks attacking us would bring great harm to him, given his already precarious position. What his strategy against the Pharaoh is I do not know.

  But for now, we must retreat.

  “Does your king guarantee our safety?” I ask.

  “He guarantees nothing, General Teber. But if we have no agreement, he promises he will cause no harm on your way back. But if you face other difficulties, you are on your own.”

  I am relieved. The villagers are of no cause for alarm, and the only real danger is those large, ungodly aggressive Hippopotamus that roam the lands.

  We stand in silence, contemplating what to do next, but I know there is nothing here for us. Without Khamudi’s cooperation, we must find a different tactic against Pharaoh Ahmose. Perhaps destroy Ahmose, even if it means a significant loss of men on our side, and then turn on the Asiatics and eradicate them from this land. But any such strategy requires discussion with the King himself, for the Prince has proved himself utterly incompetent.

  Iben-Har looks at us shrewdly and a smile passes his lips.

  “You may have your magical weapons, Prince, but we have men. Many men who are willing to die. You will run out of your weapons long before we run out of men. Please remember that.”

  I bristle at the condescending tone but I know he is right.

  He pauses for our response but both of us say nothing. Iben-Har then wags his finger at me. “King Khamudi has one last thing to say: if you return and dare to challenge us again, we will kill you all, cut off your hands, and send your palms in baskets to your king. Stay away and never threaten us again.”

  With that, Iben-Har rubs his hairless chest and walks out, leaving a fuming Prince who now turns at me.

  “My father will be livid!” he screams, spittle flying. Squealing like a girl chased by rats.

  “Your Highness—”

  “You were supposed to make this alliance happen. You were supposed to counsel me as the general,” he says, suddenly laying the failure on my feet. I am tempted to point to the Prince that it would not have mattered what we did, for we were compromised before we
even set foot in the Asiatics’ court. But this is not a man I can reason with.

  “The Asiatics are untrustworthy, Your Highness. You saw that with your own eyes. You tried but how can you reason with uncouth barbarians who put severed palms inside their royal chambers?”

  Nimmuruk splutters and shouts some more, but there is nothing to debate as we are at risk if we do not leave. I finally calm him down. We decide to leave before sunset and camp several miles north of where we are. Our hope is that we will not be ambushed as we sleep.

  We march until the sun finally vanishes beneath the great ledge at the far west and I order to set camp and perimeter. We stay far away from the riverbanks. I place night sentries all along the perimeter. I also send men further out in a circle, hiding in the bushes and laying low, looking for any danger during the night.

  But the night is quiet. The sounds of Egypt’s night creatures wake me time to time, but nothing untoward happens. My mind eases—it seems Khamudi kept his word and stayed away from trying to attack us, though danger still lurks around us until we depart from the shores of Egypt.

  In the morning we wake early as the sun rises and we pray. The power of the gods is such that no matter how far we come from our land, the sun looks the same, bestows the same heat, and rises and sets as he does. I order the captains to assemble and prepare to march.

  It takes an hour before we are ready. We trudge north again through the muddy fields and low-lying hills on either side. I hate such terrain as it can easily hide the enemy and increase the danger of ambush, so I send two scouts on either side of the marching column to walk in parallel on the hilly grassland by our side.

  We decide to rest and eat when we near noon. Just then, I hear some commotion.

  One of the scouts is screaming something and flailing his arms from the higher ground to the right behind me. I cannot hear him, but it seems some troops behind me understood.

  But just then an arrow flashes behind the scout.

  The tip rips through his back and appears in front. The man collapses in a heap.

  And that is when I hear someone scream behind me.

  “Pharaoh’s forces behind the hills!”