The Wrath of God

by Jay Penner

  King Hannuruk looks ill and obese. The King’s speech slurs most of the time, and his eyes are bloodshot. Apsara sits beside him—my beautiful Apsara—she is like a dancer from the heavens. I hope to meet her soon. She looks healthier—there is a color in her cheeks, and her eyes glint every time she glances at me.

  The Prime Minister is by the King’s side today. His steady and calming presence is comforting. With the King’s disposition, it is now Nimmuruk’s court. Phaistos sits beside the King; he now assumes the role of Minos, though the King has not yet named him the successor of Kaftu. There are curt introductions and greetings, but the air is hostile, and there is not much affection on either side. The Egyptians are stern and unsmiling, and Prince Nimmuruk smirks and sniggers from time-to-time.

  The Prince’s behavior is impolite and unwanted, but such is his personality.

  Once the pleasantries end, the treaty begins. The Egyptian royalty is afforded the courtesy of comfortable chairs though they are seated at a level below the King and Prince’s seating, so they are forced to look up. It is no different than how the Asiatics treated us in their court.

  This is war. They are here for a truce, and we must secure an upper hand to prevent further bloodshed and loss of Atalanni lives.

  “State your reason,” says Hannuruk, opening formal discussions. The King, while he looks ill and indisposed, speaks clearly. He slurs a little, but the words are unmistakable in his low growl.

  Sitkamose stands up, proud. “Under the guidance of the God of Egypt, He of the Sedge and the Bee, Lord of Upper and Lower Egypt, beloved of Amun, Pharaoh Ahmose, I am instructed to negotiate a peace agreement between the Kingdoms of Egypt and the Atalanni,” she says, her voice is loud and clear.

  Hannuruk’s languid face displays little emotion. “Are you authorized to negotiate on behalf of your Pharaoh?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” says Sitkamose.

  She extends her arms and opens her palms.

  An adjutant places a papyrus in her hand.

  She then holds it up to show the royal cartouche of Ahmose and instructions under a wax seal.

  She breaks the seal and reads. “Egypt authorizes my beloved sister and brother to negotiate a peace treaty with the King of Atalanni. I ask that Hannuruk, Father, and King of the Atalanni, give audience and ear to this proposition.”

  Nimmuruk scoffs. “Why does your Pharaoh call my father as Father, he is no father of yours!”

  Sitkamose looks at the Prince coolly. It is as if she appraises an insolent idiot. “We call the kings of our neighboring Kingdoms as father or brother, Your Highness. It is a mark of respect.”

  “You are making—”

  Hannuruk turns to his son and admonishes him. “Be quiet! This a peace treaty, not your harem.”

  “Father—”

  “I said be quiet,” says Hannuruk. Nimmuruk turns red and bristles under the admonishment, but he keeps his mouth shut. He casts a baleful glance at the Egyptian Princess.

  “Princess, what is Egypt’s proposition?” asks the King, gently.

  Khaia straightens up and watches Sitkamose.

  Princess Sitkamose bows to the King.

  “We propose a complete halt to hostilities. In return, Egypt will pay an annual tax of a hundred boats of grain, allow access to our harbors, submit three talents of gold from our mines, and supply workforce to extract tin from Cyprus. We will also give you sovereign access to land fifty-miles long and fifty-miles deep on the coast of Egypt.”

  Phaistos leans forward, but Hannuruk raises his hand. “I will be the one speaking,” he says, “and the rest of you remain silent until I allow you.”

  Phaistos, chastened, leans back. I will not open my mouth until I am asked, but I am sure the Prince will break the rule eventually.

  “And why would we agree to such terms?” asks the King.

  “It is a fair agreement, King Hannuruk. You seek more land, and you receive a piece of our sacred earth without more bloodshed. You get grain to prosper, and Egypt is spared further hostility.”

  “What makes you think you are at a position of strength?”

  “Egypt is much stronger than you think, Your Majesty. If we were weak and beaten, you would not have entertained a delegation,” she says. It is a smart and respectful response.

  Hannuruk smiles. His jowls droop, and he wipes the saliva from the corner of his lips. “And yet it is you who seek the peace conference and not us,” he says.

  Sitkamose bows and smiles. “It is then an acknowledgment that both Kingdoms desire truce.”

  Hannuruk watches her intently, and the Princess maintains her constant eye contact. He finally turns to Rishwa. “What do you say?”

  The Prime Minister rubs his chin. “A fool barters his bread for gold, but the wise barters his bread for seeds. Your Highness, Princess Sitkamose, why do you think that a hundred boats of grain, some gold, and a small piece of land is a good settlement in return for the safety of all your population and preservation of your Kingdom?”

  Before Princess Sitkamose responds, the diminutive Egyptian Prince, Binpu, speaks up. He has a surprisingly strong voice—it is deep, soft, and carries the weight of Royalty. “No Kingdom gives a piece of its land and access to its harbors without deep thought and great sacrifice, Prime Minister,” he says, and continues, “To give you a piece of Egypt is the greatest sign of respect, peace, and intent for harmony. Would you,” he points to the Prime Minister, “ever consider giving a portion of Keftiu to a foreign ruler?”

  Rishwa nods. “While we acknowledge the intent, you have so far not convinced us why we should accept so little when we can get so much more.”

  There is silence in the room. It is late in the afternoon, and there is persistent heat in the room. There are sweaty eyebrows and lips and chests, and the slaves work hard to fan the members of the peace treaty. Nimmuruk snaps his fingers at a servant to come closer and fan him harder.

  Finally, Princess Sitkamose speaks. “What is it that you seek?”

  Rishwa turns to King Hannuruk and the Prince for approval. They then confer among themselves before the Prime Minister addresses the Egyptians. “Annual tribute of one-thousand boats of grain and a quarter of all your gold, two hundred miles wide and one-hundred-mile depth of the land, and a temple dedicated to our gods to be built in your capital and worshipped every year along with your gods.”

  I can feel the sting of the response. Curiously, the Oracle sits stone-faced with no expression and not a word so far. Her eyes remain firmly on the Egyptians, and she has barely made any eye contact with anyone else.

  I wonder what she is thinking.

  I glance up to see Apsara, hoping to steal a look when everyone is busy watching the Egyptians. Unfortunately, she too looks ahead curiously. She purses her lips and places her knuckles beneath her chin. The slightest dimple on her chin is maddeningly beautiful.

  I wonder if she is somehow reconciled with the King and feel a pang of jealousy. Sitkamose confers with her cousin and refers to something on a Papyrus. I wonder if those are instructions to negotiate settlements and how far they can go.

  “Six-hundred boats of grain, one-tenth of gold, temple midway between your lands and our capital, and land that is one hundred miles wide and fifty miles deep.”

  Rishwa laughs appreciatively. “You negotiate well, Princess. You only give us a marginal extension of your original proposals.”

  I can see Sitkamose’s body language. She is comfortable with the Prime Minister, who looks like a wise father. Besides, I am astonished at the terms—we will have a permanent foothold in Egypt, our gods will put their feet on their land, we will lose no more blood, and access to Egyptian harbors will make us the most powerful nation.

  In time we can build our strength on their land and launch a more significant attack. I wonder if they see that.

  “You bargain harder, Prime Minister. I know that you see the benefit of gaining a foothold in Egypt. To have such a large piece of land gives you the
chance to build your fortifications and establish your divisions. Egypt sees that. But we believe in an honorable truce.”

  There is some more back-and-forth with minor changes in the terms. Phaistos asks some questions on whether Egypt plans to ambush and attack us on the dedicated land, and the answers satisfy the assembly. So far, the Oracle has not said a word. Even when the King asked her once she only said, “I obey the terms. I chose this day for the gods told me that it should be when such matters are discussed.”

  She is right. We had to make the Egyptians wait for over ten days before we convened this audience, all because of the Oracle’s instructions to the King.

  Hannuruk finally speaks up. “We have discussed much, and the Atalanni recognize your genuine gesture, Princess. But we must speak amongst ourselves and come to a decision. You will be well taken care of, and we ask you to rest until we reconvene in a few days.”

  The Egyptians rise and bow to the audience. Sitkamose says her final words. “We are two great Kingdoms, King Hannuruk, and our agreements will begin an era of prosperity!”

  We continue debating once the Egyptians depart.

  “Well?” asks Hannuruk.

  “We do not know if behind the door is a hungry lion or an inviting maiden. The question is whether the gods will accept this agreement,” says Rishwa.

  “It is a great agreement,” says Hannuruk. His son looks almost disappointed but keeps quiet. I have my reservations but prefer to remain silent until I am asked.

  “That it is,” says Rishwa. “The gold and grain can be dismissed, but the offer of land on the shores is a significant concession.”

  “What do you say, Khaia? Do you think this will appease our divinity?” asks the King. Khaia is quiet for a while, and she finally speaks. Her voice is gentle, and it does not have the usual sharp edge. “Their concessions are significant, Your Majesty. Their intentions sound sincere. It is not for me to say if our gods are pleased by a piece of land on Egypt—perhaps they are. But I have seen no signs either way, and I wish to wait a few days to see if there are any untoward signs once we make a decision.”

  Nimmuruk interjects. “Surely, there must be some signs. We made them come here for a truce!”

  “The absence of expressions of anger and the pleasant weather is an indication of their satisfaction so far, Prince. I cannot foretell the future,” she says and turns her attention to the King.

  “Should we accept?” asks the King again. This time he turns to me. “What do you think, Teber? You have seen quite a bit of their land and fought them multiple times already.”

  I stand up and face them. I position myself, so I can get an eyeful of the Queen even as I speak to the King and the Prince.

  “They are a clever and resilient people, Your Majesty. Their gods are resourceful. That the Pharaoh concedes so much means they must want peace. When I think of the challenges of fighting them on their land, I think their offer can spare us from further bloodshed.”

  “Do you not think we can beat them handily?” asks Rishwa.

  “Of course, we can, we already beat them!” shouts Prince Nimmuruk. He is red in his face because no one has asked his opinion.

  “Well if you beat them handily, then why are we not in their capital?” shouts his father at him. “Don’t think I don’t know about losses! Yes, you fought well, but we haven’t beaten them enough!”

  “It’s a war, father, of course, there are losses!” Nimmuruk responds to his father. There is a stunned silence—he has never raised his voice against his father before. Hannuruk glares at his son, and I wonder what next.

  After several tense moments, the King breaks into a big grin. “You are right, Khaia, my son has become a lion!” he says and slaps his son on his shoulder. Nimmuruk cannot control his happiness—I have never seen him smile so much, and his evil eyes twinkle. “I am the son of a great father,” he says, false humility dripping in every word.

  Hannuruk turns to me again. “Teber, my son is the supreme commander, but you are the general and the tactician. What do you think?”

  I look at the Prince, and his smile has died. He has the same frustrated look—one of a man whose counsel no one seeks.

  “I maintain that it will always be challenging, Your Majesty. It is simply the size of their land and population. We will be limited by how we are—island dwellers with a limited population under our command. If we agree to the truce and gain a piece of their land, then we can take the next few summers to build a powerful presence, establish necessary trade routes, shore up our defenses and weaponry, and then make a bold attack. We must grow our population—”

  “Minos is dead,” deadpans Phaistos. The audience erupts into laughter. Even the serious Oracle cannot help but grin.

  Rishwa smiles and the King nods as well. He turns to Phaistos. “What do you say?”

  Phaistos has been quiet, his shifty eyes darting among us. But I have gained some respect for his abilities. He pauses for a while. “If general Teber had defeated them conclusively we would not have had this conversation. But with the current situation, I agree with the General’s assessment.”

  I marvel at his ability to both blame and praise me at the same time. “May I, Your Majesty?” I ask.

  The King nods.

  “Phaistos was not on the ground fighting and perhaps has little understanding of the complexity of war, but I must admit he has executed commendably as a coach and supplying asses to us for the invasion,” I say, not breaking eye contact with Phaistos.

  Apsara giggles and the King roars with laughter. “Our men have a new spirit today!“ he says, and Phaistos breaks character and smiles as well. There is some levity in the room, and we argue some more before the consensus is that this is a good development.

  Finally, the King makes his final announcement. “So, it is decided. With our bravery and robust action, we have brought the Egyptians to the bargaining table and gained a foothold on their land!” he says, and there is great cheer in the room. Khaia is the only one quiet, and I do not understand why.

  Hannuruk turns to his son. “I may be gone one day, my son, but you will launch a bigger war on Egypt and make it ours!”

  Nimmuruk bows to his father and pumps his fist. “I will, father, but I hope that glory will come to us long before you are gone!”

  There are more cheers and bows.

  I can almost feel my heart begin to lighten. If this development holds and we enter into a truce, that would give me plenty of time and a chance to unite with Apsara.

  I will vanish with the woman I love and let greater men fight for what they want.

  As the assembly finally dissolves, I stand by the side as the royals make their way out of the throne room. Apsara’s eyes connect with mine—there is joy and laughter in those eyes.

  It feels like the gods finally smile upon us.

  CHAPTER 38.

  KALLISTU

  They enter the cavernous chamber and make their way to the rock-hewn stairs that seem to disappear into the darkness below. It is damp, hot, and gets hotter as they descend the steps illuminated by flickering lamps set up in intervals of ten to fifteen steps. Their skin is wet and slick with sweat, and it becomes increasing laborious to breathe with each step.

  It feels like they are approaching the gates of hell.

  Far down in the abyss, there is a golden-red glow, and that is all they can see if they dare to look below instead of focusing on the steps ahead. They tiptoe, breathing harder with each step, sometimes wiping their face, or covering the nose to protect themselves from the noxious fumes and smells that come from below. The golden-red glow seems tantalizingly close, but they know that it will take hundreds of steps before they reach the rim of the pit within which that molten rock bubbles and swirls.

  “Feels worse than five days ago,” one of them says.

  “It is. But not to the extent we thought,” says the other.

  They continue, passing each flickering lamp that is the only other contribution to th
e otherwise claustrophobic darkness around them, smothering them in a black and ill-smelling blanket.

  “Be careful!” one of them warns and grips the forearm of the other. The stone steps are damp, and without the right grip, it is easy to tumble and vanish below. Many have died here, but today is not the time for accidents.

  After what feels like an eternity, they finally arrive on flat ground.

  It is sweltering here.

  Some others are waiting. Here, they are on the level with the pit, and what they see is just a faint yellow light that emanates from beyond the rim. They dare not yet peer into it; it is as if the god’s angry eye looks back at them.

  “Well?” asks the leader.

  The man who has been waiting for them bows. His face glistens with sweat, and he has draped himself with a sheer fabric, wet with water, for protection.

  “The forces gather strength below us. Molten rock has not yet swelled above our markers. But without question—ten days or less—we will experience major tremors.”

  “You are confident.”

  “As confident as I can be. We have rarely been wrong.”

  “This is not the time to be wrong, even if rare, Chief Engineer,” says the leader.

  The Chief Engineer of the Atalanni is known for his fierce intellect and is one of the most revered figures in the Divine Council. At fifty, he knows the deepest secrets of the earth and the skies, the sign and behavior of metals, and has been instrumental in the discovery and creation of the Atalanni Daivoshaktis— One seen as magical and bestowed by gods, but one that the Oracle and the Chief Engineer know has been forged in the minds of the engineers.