The Wrath of God

by Jay Penner

  Khaia finds the question distracting—why does the Queen care? “Yes, if the messengers have managed to reach him, he is alive, and the winds are favorable,” she says.

  In the waving flicker of the lamps, Khaia notices Apsara sit straight, and there is a sparkle in the Queen’s eyes.

  “Thank you for telling me,” Apsara finally says. “The Island is in trouble, and you set all this in motion, Khaia,” she says, “and you are partially responsible for my death.”

  This child!

  “I will accept your anger at me. I had reasons to do what I did, but this—” she sweeps her hands around. “This I did not cause. Listen to me, please, take my words as the message from our gods,” she implores.

  “Your gods abandoned me long ago,” Apsara says. Her voice is gentle. Without recrimination. “I thank you for coming here. I feel fresh. I am better. Your visit has given me a new resolve. I am ready to die when the time comes. I know that Indra will welcome me to heaven, and I will greet my father and brothers there. And when the time is right, in the afterlife, I will embrace the one man that was more a husband than your King. I will die a Queen. Let your people see what they did to their daughter,” she says, her voice resolute and final.

  Khaia cannot understand her stubbornness. Something nags in her head, but she cannot place what it is.

  “My decision is final,” Apsara says.

  Khaia sighs. She reaches into her waistband and unsheathes a glistening obsidian dagger.

  CHAPTER 51.

  LOWER EGYPT – PERKHURE

  Pharaoh Ahmose surveys the carnage before him. Thousands of bodies lay on the battlefield. The ground is slick with the blood of the dead and the dying. Smoke rises from hundreds of funeral pyres. His soldiers walk about executing those that still writhe, and hundreds of prisoners wait to hear their fate. There is a deathly smell in the air, and the hellish landscape with blue smoke and green-maroon earth looks sinister as the sun makes his way to his end in the horizon.

  General Wadjmose and Baba walk beside the Pharaoh. The General is cut and bloody, and some of his skin is singed by contact with the fire weapons of the Atalanni. Wadjmose limps, and Ahmose slows his pace to accommodate his brave and brilliant general.

  “What are the surveyors saying?” asks the Pharaoh.

  “Very few escaped, Your Majesty. We have destroyed their army.”

  “All of them dead or captured?”

  “Most dead, and some captured,” Wadjmose says.

  “Rest of them?”

  “They ran towards western deserts. Someone told them to go to the sea of sand where no one shall pursue them.”

  Ahmose shakes his head. The sea of sand is in the western edges of Egypt—an unforgiving, hostile, lifeless vast expanse of fine yellow sand. The Pharaoh has no intention of pursuing men who are merely running to their horrible deaths.

  “What about us?”

  “We have lost more than half of our men, too. It will take us time to rebuild, but for now, the threat from the Atalanni is over.”

  “You are exceptional, Wadjmose,” Ahmose says, placing his arm on the general’s shoulder. “Only if you had children! They could one day serve a glorious Egypt.”

  Wadjmose bows in reverence. “It is your divine presence and encouragement that lead us to victory, Your Majesty,” he says. “I have no desire for a wife or children, but perhaps my name will live on.”

  Ahmose knows this battle was a close call. The Atalanni had incorporated a new formation that countered the Egyptian Horus. Egyptian forces had almost collapsed. It was Ahmose’s resolute defense of the center and Wadjmose’s exploitation of a weakness in the Atalanni flank that shifted the tides of the final battle.

  The dancers, he thinks derisively, had fought well. But they were outnumbered and tired, but more surprisingly Ahmose had learned that the formidable commander of the Atalanni side had abruptly left a few days ago. There was also news that the Atalanni troops had rebelled against the crown prince and murdered him.

  Why?

  The Atalanni had attempted to negotiate with him—they had told many stories that the death of Binpu was an accident and that Sitkamose was alive. It seemed like the general was truthful, unlike his lying, cowardly rulers. But Ahmose would entertain no truce. They had stabbed Egypt in their court, and retribution was the only response. Why did these imbeciles embark on such a disastrous invasion?

  “You are confident that they have no other forces in the vicinity?”

  “We are, Your Majesty. Our scouts have spread far, and there is no news of other forces.”

  Ahmose removes his headgear and hands it over to an attendant. He then reaches out to another man who pours scented water to the Pharaoh’s palms. Ahmose wipes his sweaty and grimy face and pours some water on his neck.

  “What do we do with the prisoners?”

  “I do not think they share the same greed as their King, Your Majesty,” he says. Wadjmose knows that the lowest man only cares about a full belly and a safe family.

  Ahmose gives it some thought. “Line them up. Ask who will subject themselves unconditionally to serve Egypt in the army—as menders, cleaners—and soldiers if they prove their trustworthiness. Execute anyone who wavers and recruit the rest.”

  “A sound suggestion, Your Majesty,” Wadjmose says.

  “Take the corpses of their commanders and hang them up on the Thebes city walls.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Then find out where their Navy is. Burn it. I will have no sign of their existence.”

  Wadjmose hesitates. “We could use the timber, Your Majesty.”

  Ahmose considers his general’s response. “Fine then. Dismantle every boat and burn what we cannot take.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. We will leave no trace of their Navy by the time we are done.”

  Ahmose looks at the battlefield once more and shakes his head. “They had peace. Their trade was valued. Their art was beautiful. But they were like a diseased dog that came to attack a pack of wolves,” he says, as he finally turns away to return to his tent.

  CHAPTER 52.

  KALLISTU

  Apsara caresses the smooth and deadly dagger that Khaia handed to her just before she left.

  “Use this, my Queen, do not subject yourself to the humiliation and pain of the punishment,” the Oracle had said. It almost felt like she meant it. Khaia had had her washed, cleaned, and surprisingly, the Oracle had prayed for her. Before leaving the dungeon, Khaia had even held Apsara’s hands and kissed her forehead. She sensed remorse, but one would never know.

  The edges are sharp; she has already cut herself by accident as she felt the elegant weapon. It would all be so easy, to pierce herself in the heart and bid goodbye.

  But she will not.

  She has attempted to die once, and the shame of running away from her troubles still haunts her.

  Not again. The daughter of Mitanni will not go to the afterlife of her own hand.

  She has only heard vague descriptions of her punishment, but she has been told that death will come in hours, if not sooner.

  Let it come. Let the citizens of this land see what their King does to a Princess of a foreign land and their daughter. One with a child. Yes, she had sinned, but it came of abandonment by her husband—a vicious, incapable man who never once treated her as anything more than an alliance because of his physical failures.

  Let the council and the people watch as their beloved Queen is tied, beaten, and murdered before their own eyes.

  Let their deeds shame them for eternity. Let their name be sullied. Apsara is sure their gods will never forgive them even after her death. If nothing else, her demise will cause an uprising that dethrones the King.

  Teber. Oh, Teber. Where is he? Khaia said that there was no news from Egypt but that they had sent a messenger to Teber. That news was what renewed all hopes in Apsara—if Teber knew what had happened. He would return in time. There could be a chance to escape. If not, her death wou
ld cause him to do what he must—rise against the madness.

  She places the dagger back in a crack in the wall. She scratches the severe itch on her palms and elbow, and the skin ruptures again, leaving a trail of blood. Apsara then caresses her swelling belly, and she feels a light kick. She smiles and taps on her stomach in response. There is a gentle rumble beneath her feet—as if the Goddess Mother of Earth approves her decision.

  CHAPTER 53.

  KALLISTU

  Apsara completes her morning prayers to Indra and the Atalanni Mother Goddess of the Earth. She washes with the scented water placed before her and wipes her face with fresh linen towels. She is dressed in sheer white fabric that drapes around her, from her shoulders to her knees but exposing her pregnant stomach. Her hair is let loose, and her hands and legs are devoid of any ornaments.

  Outside the room, she can hear the chants and bells of the ceremonial group.

  May your sins wash away

  May there be mercy for your poison

  The pain shall absolve your shame

  The goddess will welcome you to her arms

  The heavens will say your name

  May you walk quietly to the gates of sky palace

  They treat me with respect before torturing me to death in front of a thousand, she thinks. Do the gods not see the wickedness?

  Finally, the door creeks open. The hinges make a torturous sound as the gravel beneath the door rubs against the wood. Outside is a contingent of the King’s Guard along with three more priestesses.

  Apsara’s knees feel weak.

  Her skin grows hot with stress.

  Her heart beats as if it will break the ribs open and explode from her chest.

  It is time. May Varuna give me the strength to endure the pain before I make my eternal journey.

  Unsteadily she walks to the center of the group. One of the guards asks her, gently, to bring forward her arms. He then binds her wrists with a maroon-stained cotton rope. A priestess kneels before her and applies a red pigment to her exposed belly.

  They then lead her down the dark pathway—it is the first time in many moons that Apsara has been out of her cell. She loses her balance more than once on the uneven, cracked floor, and the priestesses steady her. When she emerges from the corridor to the open ground, the world around her is not as she expected it to be—there is no blue sky and crisp, cool breeze. Instead, the air is heavy with haze and a pungent smell. The column marches on a narrow pathway along the edge of the cliff. Apsara sees high columns of steam rise from various vents in the black rock below her, and also from the sides of the cliffs.

  What is happening?

  Are the gods angry with me?

  Or are they angry at the Atalanni greed?

  People watch her on either side of the path.

  Some look fearful.

  Some look ashamed.

  Some curse her.

  “Harlot, you bring shame to this land!” shouts a man, grabbing his crotch.

  “You are the reason that our land bleeds fire,” says an old woman, as she stabs the air with her bony fingers.

  “Forgive us, Princess,” whispers another woman, leaning forward.

  But most others treat her with silence, and many bow as she passes them. Worry is writ large on their faces. Apsara hopes that the Atalanni gods spare their citizens.

  What I did was wrong, but do the gods not see why?

  Apsara flinches when a vent near her erupts with a sharp, acrid column of steam and one of the priestesses screams in fear. They move away from the hazard and continue to the public amphitheater near the palace. Most of the plants around her—olive, palm, cactus—appear to have dried or burnt. She wipes her eyes to alleviate the sting.

  They ascend several steps of a walled compound and finally arrive at the place of her execution.

  The four-ringed amphitheater is full of people.

  Armed guards stand along the back. People sit on cracked stone benches. There is silence—she senses a reluctant audience. Below, in the front of the amphitheater, is a stone bed with four poles on each corner.

  A rope hangs from each pole.

  A heavyset man in a featureless black mask and loincloth stands beside the platform.

  He holds a short, heavy club.

  At the opposite side of the stone bed is a raised dais—and in the center sits King Hannuruk, and beside him are Phaistos, Rishwa, Khaia, and a host of other officials. Apsara walks down the steps with her head held high. Some people stand, and the rest watch quietly. This is a spectacle that the peaceful people of the land have never seen in their lifetime. Officials have used this stage previously for executions—but they were mostly low life criminals and war captives.

  What must they be thinking?

  What have they been told?

  She finally arrives in the center and stands near the edge of the stone bed. She defiantly stares into the eyes of those that have condemned her. Hannuruk looks back at her. He looks putrid and foul; his stomach droops below the belt, and his face is puffy and red. Rishwa looks like he could be sick and avoids her eyes as he stares at the floor. Phaistos briefly meets her eye—but there is no expression in those eyes—and he turns away to look at the audience.

  But Khaia? She stares right ahead—her face deathly pale, and it looks like she is blinking away tears. Uppiluliuma stands by the King in heavy armor, bronze helmet, and a long sword.

  A hush descends on the amphitheater.

  Hannuruk, slouching on his side, waves his hand dismissively at one of his officers. The man steps forward and faces the crowd. He beats a drum to command attention, and soon there is no sound in the air except the hum of the agitated world outside.

  “This Queen is a sinner. She has brought shame to this land. To the great King,” he says, as he dramatically points to Apsara. She watches dispassionately. “The King has been generous. He has afforded her freedom like no other ruler on earth, for we the Atalanni are gracious in our conduct, generous in our treatment of women, respectful of their wishes and desires, and see the divinity in our Queens for we are blessed by our Mother Goddess of Earth and our sacred Oracle.”

  Many in the audience shout their agreement.

  Hannuruk looks agitated.

  “But this woman, a woman wedded to be the Queen of this glorious empire, the one who had to honor and worship the great King and her husband, has shamed herself with her conduct and abuse of our generosity.”

  A wave of restlessness passes through the crowd. “She has plotted to kill the King!” the man theatrically shouts. “Once a queen, now just a common whore from a foreign land!”

  He does not mention the illegitimate pregnancy.

  The crowd murmurs, but a roar of anger is absent.

  They know the truth. Tongues wag. People speak.

  The speaker looks flustered, discouraged by the lack of robust response. “The King has been most merciful, showing the benevolence of the Atalanni, for we are not barbarians. We follow our law. And the King, while well within his rights to execute this harlot and spill her blood on the palace floors, gave her a hundred days to expose the vermin that has conspired with her,” he says, his voice higher, hoping to elicit more reaction. “And she has not divulged the truth behind her sins!”

  The response is still muted, with a smattering of angry cries of “Whore! Harlot!”

  The citizens see the King for what he is and what he has put them through already.

  “The time for his mercy is over. The tremors, the steaming vents, the crying cliffs, the rising heat—these are the results of this wickedness, and our Oracle says that the gods demand justice!” he says.

  He then turns to Khaia and bows.

  Khaia looks displeased. She nods half-heartedly and sits back, leaving the announcer confused. The King looks angry, but he gestures the man to continue.

  “The King, our glorious ruler, said there should be no secret from the people. Let them know what their Queen is. Let them know that he has swall
owed his pride for this betrayal and yet granted mercy, but this sinful swine has maintained her silence.”

  The people watch on. Apsara feels a warm breeze caress her cheeks. Tendrils of smoke waft over their heads and some people use their clothing to clear the air.

  The announcer takes a step up on the dais and puffs up his chest. “Apsara, one who has disgraced her land, has been sentenced to haimskaia. An ancient punishment reserved only for Queens that plot the King’s death. May you witness this. And let this be a message from the King that the Atalanni are merciful but may no one test our limits. May the punishment begin.”

  Two priestesses circle Apsara and chant prayers. They then bring up her wrists and untie her. Suddenly a hand grips her jaw and wraps a firm band of cloth around her mouth.

  Not even the courtesy to speak final words.

  Apsara fights rising panic and the acrid taste of bile in her mouth. She trembles as a priestess leads her to the stone bench, and someone steadies her when she swoons.

  The audience watches in absolute silence.

  Apsara’s eyes dart towards the dais and the periphery, hoping there is a miracle.

  The executioner, his eyes black as coal, reaches forward and rips Apsara’s garment. In a humiliating instant, she is exposed for all the world to see—a Queen once, loved, desired, admired, and now naked and shaking in front of a thousand eyes. She tries to cover her modesty, but two men hold her arms apart. They lift her and lay her on the rough stone bed. Apsara catches a glimpse of the dais—Khaia is looking down to the floor and Phaistos is arguing something with Rishwa. Suddenly Khaia gets up and walks briskly towards her, swatting away the hands of a guard that tries to stop her. The Oracle kneels beside Apsara, looking into her eye. She pretends to pray but whispers into Apsara’s ears. “I will order the executioner to hasten the process and minimize your suffering. May you and your child find happiness in the palace of heavens.”

  Apsara nods.