The Wrath of God

by Jay Penner

  The Prince looks better today. He is in an energetic mood as he paces around the tent wearing just a small patch of loincloth. He has washed and perfumed himself and wears his hair in dreadlock. We have had little conversation since we landed as I was away overseeing camping arrangements and protective barriers. We stand around a makeshift wooden table. The prince holds a bronze rod that he can draw on the soft clay on the table.

  “I am glad we all made it from the storms,” he says, “Horus and Amun could not stop us.”

  There are murmurs of assent.

  “What are our losses?” he asks.

  “We lost forty boats and seven hundred thirty-five men,” I say.

  He does not respond. He holds the rod behind his shoulders and clasps the ends with both his hands and twists to crack his back. “Did we lose any of our Daivoshaktis or food?”

  “Two weapon boats and one grain boat, Your Highness,” says Bansabira, who is in charge of logistics.

  Nimmuruk turns and spits. “We will break the backs of their gods.”

  We wait if to see if he has anything else to say, but all he does is twist and stare at us.

  “Shall we go over the plans, Your Majesty?” I say, finally.

  “I was wondering when you would come to that,” he says.

  I bristle but continue on.

  I draw a rough outline of the lake and our locations around it. “We are comfortably camped and recuperating. So far, there is no sign of activity. Our advance scouts are away to the south and should return in three to four days.”

  “Where are we? How far are we from where we were last time?”

  “We are much further west of our location last time, Your Highness. But our guides know the terrain.”

  “Nothing from the Asiatics?”

  “None. Villagers say that they have not seen the Asiatics in this region in many harvests.”

  “Explain your plan to me.”

  I ask for the bronze stick, and Nimmuruk hands it to me reluctantly. “They say it is about a moon’s march to the capital Thebes. And this is assuming there are no surprises on the way.”

  “A month in this weather,” he murmurs. I glance at Bansabira.

  Does the prince think we are on an excursion?

  I ignore his remark. “We will stay on flat, open ground wherever possible. Our chances are best on such terrain.”

  “Is it mostly open land from here to Thebes?” he asks, clearly not remembering the briefing given before the invasion.

  “That is what our scouts and advisors say.”

  “How confident are you that we will encounter no enemy?”

  “Our priests say that they see no signs of the enemy, Your Highness. But they have been wrong in the past,” I say, remembering that one of the augurs said our sailing to Egypt would be smooth and without incident.

  “But what if?” he is insistent, but I do not begrudge him so. It is the sign of a maturing commander—to always plan for the unexpected.

  “We are much better prepared this time. We have advance scouts and rear guard. Our force is large and well equipped. Three divisions of ten-thousand men will march in a wide formation to avoid being boxed in.”

  I explain our strategy in case of ambush. We do not yet know if there are narrow passageways or canyons, but our advisors tell us that so long as we stay on course closer to the river, we will remain on flatlands. Go further west, they say, and you meet desert, or further east, rugged mountains. But we will avoid such areas.

  “When do we march?”

  “In ten days, Your Majesty. We must wait for our advance scouts to return before we move the entire army.”

  He seems relieved that there is more time before we move. Postpone the inevitable.

  “What do we do until then?”

  I am tempted to ask him if he listened to any of the briefings before we sailed. “We practice our routines, ensure we are ready for the march, anchor the boats and hide them where we can, and go through our plans and directions again,” I say, and I know my voice conveys impatience.

  Nimmuruk looks at me intently. “When I ask you a question, general, you answer,” he says. The rest of the men shuffle uneasily.

  I stare at him.

  “Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Your Highness,” I say. I have saved this spoiled idiot, and yet he has no gratitude.

  “Report to me every morning. You may leave now,” he says. I turn to exit the tent but then he stops us all. “Remember, all the Upashaktis report to me. You are the general until I say otherwise.”

  The excitement and energy in the room is palpable.

  “Are you certain?” I ask the scout.

  “Yes, sir! There is no question.”

  “How big is the army?”

  “We think it is at least fifteen to twenty thousand men. They march in a narrow column.”

  “Have you been spotted?”

  The scout bows his head sheepishly. “Yes, sir.”

  Nimmuruk intervenes. “How many days before they arrive here?”

  “If we stay and they march, then less than ten days, Your Highness.”

  “How many horses do they have?”

  “Few, sir. We noticed only a small number of horse riders and a few on chariots. Otherwise, their army is entirely on foot.”

  “Composition?”

  “It was difficult to tell from the distance, sir. But they most certainly have archers along with swords, mace, and ax-men.”

  We question the scout some more to get a good understanding of the advancing army. It seems clear that it is the Egyptian army, but we do not know yet if the Pharaoh accompanies it, for the scout said there were no grand displays anywhere on the column—either at the head or the middle.

  “We will teach them a lesson they will never forget,” says Nimmuruk, swinging his short ax.

  “Let us not underestimate them, Your Highness, they have had the intelligence to group and march their armies North which means they have planned this well. Prime Minister Rishwa briefed us that their general, Wadjmose, is a formidable man.”

  What is remarkable is that the Egyptians have astutely calculated that we might invade. If we were weeks delayed, then we might have to had face their army just as we landed, which might have been a disaster.

  Nimmuruk scoffs. “Our tactics will destroy them,” he declares, and looks around the room. Most of the senior officers nod vigorously, out of fear or respect. I know that at least three of my Upashaktis are fanatically loyal to the Prince. I wonder what tactics the Prince speaks of, for he has had no input to any of it. What is worse is he has refused to deploy all our Daivoshaktis—he is worried that we will deplete all our weaponry and that we should hold considerable reserves for future offensives. He ignores my argument that a decisive victory now would put us on a significant advantage.

  He is convinced that we can thrash the Egyptians without the full use of our Daivoshaktis.

  I plead and argue with no success.

  The next few days are a blur. We declare a rapid march Southward, and the army assembles for the journey. I rearrange the march plan—while the terrain is mostly benign, it is may not be wise to spread too wide and risk the enemy smashing the center. Every Upashaktis leads their unit in blocks two-hundred deep and a hundred-wide. We finalize our flag semaphores and tactical orders, and at first crack of dawn, the Atalanni army finally begins its fateful journey.

  I pray to the gods, for victory, for the well-being of Apsara, and glory of the Atalanni over others.

  CHAPTER 34.

  KALLISTU

  But why? Apsara wonders.

  The last thing she felt was the wind on her face before strong, wiry arms had enveloped her and pulled her back to safety.

  Prime Minister Rishwa.

  He had saved her life, and she had sobbed uncontrollably holding him. The old Prime Minister had infused strength in her—to hold on, to survive, to face the odds. He had told her of remarkable stories of valiant queens
of the past; those that dealt with unloving husbands or rebelling populations. He had told her of the need for courage and duty.

  He had told her of the obligations of a Queen—one of which was never to be cowed or run from life.

  But the days are hard. Hannuruk’s ailment of the mind and his tooth are only getting worse. There are days when he screams and rants for hours, especially when the effects of the calming salves on his gums wear off.

  But she is resolved to survive.

  She thinks of Teber every day, not knowing where he is or if he is still alive.

  But no news means there is still hope.

  CHAPTER 35.

  NEAR SAIS – EGYPT

  My ears still ring from the explosions of the Dharbastis. But we watch, with utter exhaustion and despair, as the Pharaoh’s army retreats, leaving behind the dead. The first major clash has led to no victory for either side—but our under-estimation of their forces and tactics, combined with lower numbers and insufficient use of Daivoshaktis has led to significant losses on both sides and a stalemate.

  We have no energy or the reserves to chase them. I had to convince the Prince to pull back. The Egyptians have endless supply of men and material through land, while we do not. My legs wobble, and I collapse with exhaustion. Around me are the corpses; stabbed, bashed, burned, cut, impaled. Some are still alive and groaning, and we will soon put an end to the misery of those beyond hope. The Prince is alive, but we have lost a great many.

  Bansabira sits by me and gives me a water skin. I take greedy gulps. My hand shakes. “How bad?” I ask him.

  “We’ve lost battalions, sir. We should have retreated earlier. We will count the losses later tonight.”

  I lean back and lie flat on the ground, looking up at the skies still hazy with dust and smoke.

  I am such a failure.

  Our first mission to Egypt was a failure.

  We barely survived our first ambush.

  We just managed to save ourselves from the first major battle.

  “Do you still trust my abilities, Bansabira?” I ask him, feeling particularly anxious.

  Bansabira looks at me and grins. His matted hair is combed to a bun, and there is blood all over his body. “If it were not for you, we would all be dead by now, sir. It is you who keeps us alive with that clueless idiot dictating tactics.”

  I sigh. Who said wars were easy to win?

  CHAPTER 36.

  THEBES - UPPER EGYPT

  Pharaoh Ahmose has called a war council after days of depression and prayer. He feels demoralized but cannot show that to his people. Wadjmose has been on his side, encouraging him, giving him the power to persevere. His wife has been a constant companion and a fountain of strength in these days of darkness. The council is in full attendance—The Queen, the vizier of Upper Egypt, Wadjmose and his senior officers, Menkheperre the Chief Priest, chieftains of ten nomes under the Pharaoh’s control, Masters of Treasury and Temples, Minister of Agriculture, and high priests of the temple of Amun—they all wait for the Pharaoh to speak.

  As the living god, Ahmose knows he must put on a brave face and yet find a way out of potential destruction of his land. Ahmose appreciates Wadjmose’s counsel and assurance. The formidable general is not easily cowed—he has seen much in his battles with the Asiatics when he served the great Kamose.

  Ahmose makes his opening statements. “The brave soldiers of Egypt have laid their lives to fight an evil that comes from the Sea. We have fought them and pushed them to the far North, but the pestilence stays.”

  The council nods in agreement and cheers the Pharaoh.

  “But our situation is dire. Our granaries are depleting, and we have lost many young men in our battles with the Atalanni. We must regain strength before we fight to engage them again,” he says, surveying those around him. “And once we drive them out of our lands, we will turn on the wretched Asiatic impostors.”

  Wadjmose rises from his chair. The general looks haggard from worry—his handsome, broad face show lines of stress and yet his eyes shine brightly. He takes center stage and addresses the Pharaoh and the council around him.

  “You speak like an experienced general, Your Majesty,” Wadjmose says, “you are right. Our resources are stretched. Our men are not ready for a war on two fronts. We must seek a truce if that is possible, and at a minimum delay another full-scale clash.”

  “But how?” asks the Pharaoh. He has some thoughts, but the right solution eludes.

  “Perhaps we can trick Khamudi to launch an attack on the Atalanni in return for a truce with us?” says Menkheperre.

  Wadjmose nods appreciatively at the Chief Priests suggestion. “Except that there is a greater risk that they will turn on us instead and try to recruit the Nubians and the weaker among us to fight the Atalanni after they destroy us.”

  Ahmose agrees with the assessment. “They are quiet. They wait. We must resolve the Atalanni question first.” Besides, Ahmose has established a powerful garrison of eighteen-thousand men to the south of the Asiatics’ capital to discourage any venture southward.

  “If we do nothing, the Atalanni will regain their strength, re-supply, and march again,” says the Minister of Agriculture. His principal worry is the chance of civil revolt if the temple granaries empty.

  “Can we send emissaries to them and ask for a truce?” says Menkheperre. It is an idea that Ahmose has in his mind, but waited for someone else to ask, for it could show signs of weakness.

  All eyes turn to the Pharaoh. Ahmose feels hot under his skin; this is a test from the gods, and yet a solution eludes. He prays silently and hopes for a spark in his mind. If he is unable to lead the great people of Egypt, he will only be seen as an ineffective boy.

  “I have an idea, husband,” the gentle voice wafts from the side. Queen Ahmose-Nefertari holds his hand.

  “What is it, dear wife?” he asks, and he knows that the God’s Wife has insightful opinions.

  “Direct attempts to reach the Atalanni may not work for we know they can blockade our boats and may not even hesitate to murder our peace emissaries.”

  The men nod in agreement.

  “But the Atalanni King is wedded to the daughter of the Mitanni King. Mitanni is a very new Kingdom and desire cordial relations and trade with Egypt.”

  Ahmose’s eyes light up. “We send a message to the Atalanni through Mitanni.”

  Nefertari smiles. It is a beautiful smile—wide, energetic, and her eyes twinkle with happiness from her husband’s appreciation for her idea.

  The men examine the idea some more, and it seems like a sound plan. There are paths to the Mitanni capital that can evade the Atalanni eyes and the Asiatics. Once they reach Sinai, the regions are friendly to Egypt, and there are no quarrels with the governors and chieftains that serve Mitanni or the Assyrians. Besides, most of the land away from the towns by the seashores is arid and deserted.

  Finally, Ahmose decides. “An emissary shall go with gifts to the Atalanni court, through the assistance of the Mitanni. We shall convey that Egypt wishes to make peace.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” says Wadjmose.

  “We will wait for the emissary to return to us. Then, an Egyptian delegation will leave to the Atalanni capital.”

  “It will take many moons for this to happen. It is a risky strategy, but we must be patient,” says Menkheperre. The others nod in agreement.

  “We have many emissaries to choose from, Your Majesty, but who do we send as representatives of the Royal house?” asks Wadjmose. Any overture with weight must be presented with someone with a high rank.

  Ahmose sighs and looks at his wife. It is as if they read each other’s mind, and they have someone they can appoint for this critical mission.

  PART III

  We are superior to all other peoples. Our knowledge greater, our arts richer, our towns cleaner, our men braver, our ships faster, our blades sharper, our ways more right and our gods more able. The Atalanni are rulers and the rest lesser.”*
/>   DAIVOSHASTRA CH. X: “OUR WAYS”

  CHAPTER 37.

  KALLISTU

  Much time has passed, and much has happened. The Prince and I have been recalled to the Kallistu for this momentous occasion, even as our army stays in Egypt.

  I cannot but marvel the scene.

  Princess Sitkamose, Kamose’s daughter, and Prince Binpu, Pharaoh Ahmose’s brother, stand proudly in front of King Hannuruk. It is a scene no one ever predicted—that royalty from Egypt would stand in front of the Atalanni King seeking a truce.

  I have never seen Egyptian royalty up close.

  Sitkamose is not beautiful in how we see our women—she is tall, looks a man, but she has regal, handsome features. She wears the distinct gold-and-blue colored wide-patterned headgear with a serpent on top, one they call the Uraeus. Her hair is a dark black wig that falls on both her shoulders. She sparkles in a bright white linen gown with silver-bordered embroidery and gold-patterned waist belt. In her hand, she holds a curved stick made of gold and adorned by Lapis Lazuli.

  She is a striking woman.

  Binpu is of slight build and stands beside his older cousin. He too is dressed in the similar wide-patterned headgear but also wears a full necklace with numerous strings of beads. He is disfigured—his back is bent slightly, giving him the look of an older man even though he is less than twenty. Translators and other royal support personnel accompany the Egyptians. Behind the Egyptian Prince and Princess several Egyptian slaves stand with gifts—gold necklaces, ivory jewelry boxes, lapis-lazuli rings, finely engraved alabaster boxes, amulets, blue glass armbands, turquoise pendants, blue-glazed scarabs, ivory-inlaid swords and daggers with gold hilts, silver scimitars, ingots of precious copper and tin, various luxurious linen, and many other items. This contingent arrived days ago but had been asked to wait for an audience with the King and the Prince, who now holds an elevated position in father’s eyes for the King sees that it is his son who has managed to bring the Egyptians to this state.