The Wrath of God

by Jay Penner

  That is when he notices for the first time the Atalanni Prince in an excited motion ordering something to the men around him. Then, he sees the Atalanni middle split like a river.

  What are they doing?

  Ahmose’s heart races.

  When he turns, he sees Wadjmose rushing towards him; there is a manic glee on the general’s face.

  Ahmose knows exactly why. He breaks out into a grin.

  Thank you, glorious Amun!

  CHAPTER 44.

  LOWER EGYPT – PERKHURE

  From my vantage point, on the ground that is a little higher than the center mass, I can see our forces pushing the Egyptians back.

  We are winning!

  Only if I had the Daivoshaktis with me! I would have made quick work of the Egyptian infantry, but those elite troops with the special weapons are with the Prince. In the dust, gore, and melee, the powerful center mass of the Prince’s battalions is slowly pushing through the enemy center—the distinctive pale orange and maroon uniforms of the Atalanni army contrast with the dust-adorned white tunics of the Egyptians and the Nubians. But I am a little puzzled that the central mass is not moving fast enough, and it looks splintered. The Atalanni center was to be like the head of a hammer—it should be ramming through the Egyptian center and never split under any circumstance.

  A familiar headgear with yellow plumes comes running towards me.

  Bansabira.

  He is gasping for breath and takes a moment to recover. I have someone near me give him a quick drink—we are in a safer zone, surrounded by our units and the Egyptians are on the fringes or in the front, retreating against our steady onslaught.

  “What is it?”

  “Nimmuruk,” he gasps. “The Prince, he—”

  “Is he dead?”

  “No, no, he split the center!”

  I reel from shock. “What do you mean he split the center? We had agreed to never—”

  “I know what we agreed to, General,” he says, irritated. “But the Prince decided, just when we were punching through their center, to split our forces on either side to encircle them!”

  “But we do not have enough men to encircle a thinner, larger force that’s spread wide,” I yell, not so much at him but in general alarm and frustration.

  “Yes! And I tried to hold the left branch, but we are getting massacred, and I think Nimmuruk is in danger if you do not intervene,” he says, wiping the drool off his lips and tugging on his dark, blood-stained curls that fall on his face.

  “That fucking idiot,” I curse, and I look at what is happening. We are making progress, and even in the din of the battle, I can see my troops inching forward. We may be in severe danger if I do not divert some of my resources to protect the center. I decide quickly. I call two of my Upashaktis and tell them I must take a third of the men, still waiting to engage, with me to the center. They are shaken—they know this puts them all in much greater danger. As much as I hate the Prince, I cannot simply abandon him on the field. We muster the men to join me at the center.

  The journey is now perilous—our thinning lines are getting infiltrated by Egyptian units, and we have to fight them. I manage to kill three men on my way to the center, lopping their heads off. That is when I realize the precarious position that we are in. As expected, we are spread too thin, and we are outnumbered. Our men are fighting, but they are falling. The Prince is flailing about, not fighting anyone, surrounded by a ring of our soldiers fighting valiantly to keep the enemy out. At a distance, I can see the Pharaoh, his golden-hued chariot and headgear melding in the fine yellow dust that reflects the sunlight, urging his troops. He is unreachable, protected by a full contingent of heavily armed Egyptian troops.

  My unit manages to jump into the melee and slash and pierce enemy flesh, and soon we bring a balance to the battle. I give urgent orders for me to group and fall back into a defensive position. I lose a sense of time and place. At some point, my chest burning, my body screaming in pain, and eyes hurting like there are a thousand needles in them, I realize that both sides are immeasurably exhausted. Many stand and stare at each other without lifting their weapons. Still many lie on the ground, having given up. Some others circle each other, with each man hoping that the other will give up and run away, but neither making any effort to attack the other. To my relief, I hear the distinct Egyptian cymbals—the clang rising above the clamor. It is a sign for retreat, and it is just in time for we have also lost badly after the Prince’s enormous blunder.

  The two sides separate, and the battle ends. It has been a disaster for us—we quickly realize that a sizeable part of our army is dead, with the most significant losses in the central hammer that Nimmuruk split.

  What a stupid, worthless commander!

  My unit has taken significant losses as well, as it broke to save the Prince. We conduct a quick parley with the Egyptian envoys to let them collect the dead, and we collect ours. For the next several hours we set up camp further north of the battlefield while the Egyptians disappear behind hills in the south. There is no potential for another battle for another moon or more as the two sides recover. I look across in sadness and Bansabira, a battle-hardened commander himself has tears of frustration in his eyes.

  “We were winning,” he whispers, pointing to the dead and dying on the blood-drenched, muddy field. “Your strategy was working. We were winning.”

  CHAPTER 45.

  LOWER EGYPT – PERKHURE

  Failure brings out the worst in men. “You stupid son of a sewer-cleaner, how dare you insinuate that I put us in danger?” screams Nimmuruk. The Prince is in a rage; his shoulder and waist are still red from the violence of the battle. It is his fatal mistake that turned the tide of the fight against us; every commander on the force knows it. We have lost four of our Upashaktis, critical for leadership on the battlefield.

  “Bansabira should have stayed and driven through the Egyptian center, but you split the hammer,” I say, calmly. Not backing down.

  “No! No, no, no! If he had fought like you claim he did and led his side capably, we would have encircled and destroyed their center and captured their Pharaoh! You should have come faster to the center. You failed,” he says, pacing around, shouting, pointing at me. The others are scared and nervous. Nimmuruk has already put to death one Upashaktis and two commanders even before I got here. Their headless bodies lie in front of the tent. The heads are nearby—glassy, lifeless eyes stare into the darkening skies.

  “I could not have come to you while we were pushing back their left flank! We were at the cusp of destroying them, and you split the hammer in the center and diverted my men for your safety!” My voice rises. Others shuffle nervously.

  Nimmuruk rushes forward to my face and starts screaming, spittle flying on my face. “My safety? I was there slaying the enemy like the swine they are. Your commander is a worthless goat fucker. Not only did he fail in carrying out my orders, he then ran to you like a dog to complain, putting the Crown Prince of the Atalanni in danger, even as I fought far more bravely than you—” he looks around, and some of the other nod. I know that they do it out of fear because anyone with even any sense would know that the idiot Prince was frightened and had committed a terrible mistake.

  “He didn’t come to complain. Not only did he return to you, Your Highness, but he saved the forces under your command from annihilation by warning me.”

  He shakes his head and tugs on his thin hair. His chest heaves with anger and his face, dirty from the soot, dust, and sweat, is crunched in hate. Then, suddenly, Nimmuruk stops.

  He returns to calm.

  His eyes take a dark vacant look.

  He stares at me unsmiling.

  “Bansabira,” he says, flatly. Then he looks at one of his loyalists. “Bring Bansabira to the announcement area.”

  There is a flurry of activity as we all head out to a hastily cleared grassy area between the tents and funeral pyres. There is the stench of the dead and burning bodies in the air. Hastily c
onstructed pyres are all around us, discharging smelly smoke. Hundreds of corpses are in haphazard ditches and heaped on each other. I dread what is about to happen. I quickly slip away, leading two of my Upashaktis to gather some of my most loyal commanders. We run tent to tent, rousing some of them. I tell the bewildered men to wear their armor and bring their best weapons.

  They follow me.

  Soon, I muster a hundred loyal men—hardened, experienced warriors. They share their disdain for the Prince. They know what happened.

  We rush back to the Prince’s tent. It is dusk, and a large fire burns on one side of the area. I ask my men to quietly spread around in a circle and meld with the others and wait for my order if there should be one. I part men and get to the inner edge of the ring and the sight both chills and enrages me.

  Bansabira, my most trusted and talented commander, hangs from wrists tied to an overhead pole. He is naked, and his entire body is shivering—not because of the cold evening weather, but because the body shakes when it is filled with fear and pain. There are red welts on his back, a result of lashes from a rough bamboo whip that a punisher holds.

  “What are you doing?” I ask the Prince. “This man saved you.”

  He smiles. “Saved me? He disobeyed an order and plotted to get me killed on the battlefield. Did you have something to do with it, General?”

  I clench my fists. “You make wild accusations on the men that serve and protect you, Your Highness,” I say, as anger wells up in me. I have been obedient to this talentless, vicious idiot for too long. “Why have you said nothing?” I address one of the Upashaktis, and he squirms with discomfort.

  “Prince’s orders, General Teber, how could I—” he stutters.

  “Stay where you are, Teber. Let this be a lesson. I have been too lenient on my men for too long,” Nimmuruk says and nods to the punisher.

  The man lays down the small bamboo whip and picks up a larger one. It has small barbs on it, designed to rip flesh and inflict great pain.

  He swings it in a high ark, and it makes a sharp crack as it connects with Bansabira’s buttocks. He screams, and a long red and bloody gash opens up. Bansabira holds on and does not collapse to his knees. The lash comes down again, this time on the back.

  And again.

  And again.

  Bansabira’s back and buttocks are a mass of red as blood oozes from the welts. His legs start to shake uncontrollably and give out under him.

  He dangles. But he has so far not begged for mercy.

  “Stand him up!” shouts Nimmuruk, and two men rush to Bansabira.

  I run forward, as well.

  “Not you, Teber. Stay where you are. Make sure this never happens again,” he says.

  Bansabira lets out a low moan as the men stand him up

  Nimmuruk laughs.

  Something snaps in me.

  I rush to the center and order the punisher to stand down. He looks confused, unsure of what to do. “Sir, I am—”

  “Get back,” I tell him.

  Nimmuruk is enraged. “How dare you! Now you deliberately disobey me, return to your station,” he shouts. A few of his guards shuffle nervously. The Upashaktis are frozen to their feet—and that is when I realize that I could work this to my favor.

  “Men,” I say. Suddenly my officers emerge from the group with their swords drawn and form a protective cover around me in an arc.

  “What are you doing?” screams Nimmuruk. I can see his slick, shining face crunched in a rage. “Kill him,” he shouts. And suddenly there is considerable confusion. Not all his guard rush at us, and the Upashaktis stand their ground. We clash with the Prince’s guards, but these brutes are not trained for swift close combat. They are better suited to jump on unarmed men and rape helpless women.

  Blades connect with power, and we swing, dance, jab, and strike. I kill two of the rushing guard—my sword slices through their chests even before they have the chance to raise their hand. My men make quick work of the rest, methodically striking them to the ground. In no time the melee is settled—the Prince’s guard that rushed us is dead or writhing on the ground. But the scene around us has changed—many more men surround us in a wide arc, but they watch. Many have their swords out.

  We regain our defensive posture. I shout at them. “Stand back. Let us not allow this Prince to destroy our honor and murder our valiant forces!”

  There is murmuring. I can hear the Prince shouting, but it is all falling on deaf ears.

  “Ignore his orders,” I say. “You are all under my command now.”

  “General is that a wise—” starts one of the Upashaktis.

  “Yes, do you want to be annihilated under this imbecile?” I ask.

  For too long, I have watched from the sidelines while this ungrateful wretch made a mockery of our honor. I realize that my actions could lead to my execution, but I have had enough.

  The Prince is shouting in the background, but with most of his guard dead and others not making a move, I know I have to be decisive.

  I turn my attention to the Prince. “You are a brave warrior, you say. How about you face me? Your Highness? Kill me with your own hands?”

  I can see the panic in Nimmuruk’s eyes.

  “Come, Your Highness, let us find out if you are a lion or a whimpering swine,” I taunt him. I point my sword at him and crouch. Here Nimmuruk is alone—no longer a sparrow protected by eagles.

  Nimmuruk frantically looks around and addresses those around him. “What are you looking at? He is threatening your Prince, get him!” he shouts, but no one moves.

  I think they realize that their chance for honor or victory is with me.

  Nimmuruk flounders around, but he is now inside the ring with me. The wall of men prevents him from leaving.

  “Come, coward,” I yell. It is as if a great monster is awake within me, challenging no less than a successor to the Atalanni throne.

  “Yes, Your Highness, demonstrate to us your greatness,” some brave soul shouts from behind the lines. This has now become a mesmerizing contest. Nimmuruk gives up attempting to shore support. I sense his fear, and he finally unsheathes his sword from the casing. He takes tentative steps forward, but his unsure hands shake.

  I glance at Bansabira.

  Someone has untied him.

  He lies on his side, raw and bloody, his eyes half-shut and his tearful yet brave face reflecting the fire.

  Flames ignite in my belly.

  I lunge forward and strike the Prince on his shoulder with the flat side of the sword. He yelps, like a stricken dog, and staggers back. He flails about swinging his sword and misses me wildly.

  I circle Nimmuruk again.

  “What are you doing, Teber? You are under orders of the King to follow me!” He whines.

  I ignore him.

  Then I cover ground swiftly, this time delivering a stinging blade-slap on his exposed side.

  He screams in terror.

  I hear laughing.

  Nimmuruk’s eyes dart around with frantic desperation.

  “Men, stop him! Kill him! You disloyal cowards!” he howls in the high pitch of a girl. And no one makes a sound.

  Realizing that no help is forthcoming, Nimmuruk lunges at me. I am prepared for this lazy, arrogant, honor-less fool. I first strike his sword with a powerful blow, knocking it off his hands. Then I sidestep and trip him, and he sprawls on the muddy ground.

  A stream of obscenities escapes from him as he crawls to his blade.

  I strike his buttocks with the flat side of my blade.

  The Prince screams and flips to his back.

  He looks at me with a frightened expression. “Stop it, Teber, what are you doing?”

  I have nothing to say to this godless man-child. I turn and point at the lashes lying near Bansabira. The men understand.

  Someone throws the smaller lash to me.

  Nimmuruk’s eyes go wide.

  I lash him across his stomach. He howls and doubles-up holding his belly. I whip h
im across his thighs, and he rolls and cries in anguish. His skin is chafing raw on the muddy, rough grass ground.

  All those images flash in front of my eyes.

  The Egyptian ambassador dying in my arms.

  The soldiers burning in the pit.

  Binpu’s eyes as the light in his eyes dimmed.

  Thousands dead because of this man’s stupidity.

  Finally, Bansabira’s lashing—an ultimate act of cowardice heaped on a warrior who had saved Nimmuruk’s life.

  I reach down and grab him by the throat.

  I pull him up. He frantically grapples with my iron grip, but he is weak. I think of him as an obstinate mule as I drag him to the fire that burns a bright orange.

  This time it is his turn to beg and cry.

  Nimmuruk jumps and dances and fights my grip, but no voice comes out of him due to the pressure on his throat. The men look on without a word. He tries to kick me, but I avoid the legs. It is as if a great fire is alight in my skin, my bones, my skull, and my mouth. It is as if all the injustices this man and his father have inflicted on us courses through my veins and bleeds from every pore.

  I heave Nimmuruk into the fire.

  His greasy body catches the flames in an instant as he falls onto the logs. Nimmuruk bellows as he springs up like a human torch. He shrieks and trips back into the orange-blue tongues of the hungry god. It is not long before his skin, and flesh singes in the crackling heat and all we see are a black and gray apparition whose movements slow with the passing time.

  I wonder if the Egyptian gods have the power to make their royals’ words come true. Binpu had said that the Prince would burn. And now I, the general of the Atalanni, had murdered the crown Prince by throwing him to the flames.

  There is absolute silence around me as the fire crackles and hums. I sprint towards Bansabira and kneel by him. He is unresponsive—I shut his eyes and signal the men to get a physician. It will take many weeks for him to recover if he not consumed by the fevers. I turn to one of the Upashaktis and place a hand on his shoulder.