by Jerry Dubs
***
Despite pain in his joints and the discomfort of being away from his home and the servants there, Babaef felt fresh life enter him as he led his army downriver to the Lower House.
He had decided to take a thousand men with him, more than enough to quell the noisy spear-shaking of a few rebellious governors. In truth, it would have been difficult to take more. The governors had sent fewer men this year in response to General Babaef’s call for troops and many of the ones who did arrive were old and barely fit, and others were young and without training.
Each year Babaef had delegated more and more of the administration of the army, the training, the record keeping, the supplying of goods, the manufacture of spears, the recruitment of mercenaries from Nubia. And so he traveled now with an army that he didn’t know.
When he was younger he had known all the commanders, the captains and even platoon leaders. He had made surprise visits to garrisons up and down the river. The army had been strong and ready then.
But the last sixteen years had been peaceful and the army had grown soft.
Babaef, sitting beneath a painted canopy in his boat, a pot of beer by his side, the river breeze in his face, looked down at his round belly.
I’ve grown soft, too, he thought.
But not so soft that I can’t put down a few ragged companies of delta fishermen.
A Desert Lion
At the start of the season called Akhet, the great river Iteru swarmed over boulders at the first cataract and swept past the island of Abu where the Temple of Khnum guarded the southern entrance to the Two Lands.
Swollen and powerful, the river rose from its banks and flooded the land. Three months later the river returned to its banks and fishermen, reed gatherers and brick makers returned to their tasks, crocodiles and snakes awoke in dwindling pools far from the river and wound their way back to their wet homes, waterbirds feasted on stranded fish and darkened the skies with their swarming flights.
Now in Nehebkau, the fourth month of Akhet, as the lake that had covered the fields subsided, farmers began leaving the cities and the quarries and the barracks for their farms and General Babaef led his diminished army northward.
Babaef chose to let the army drift with the current. It would take the armada three weeks to travel from Waset to Ineb-Hedj. Although Babaef was eager to reach the rebellious governors and although he could have ordered the men to bend their backs to the oars to reach Ineb-Hedj in a week or less, he decided to take his time. He wanted rumors of the army’s approach to reach the governors. He wanted fear to squeeze their kas, driving the fighting spirit from them.
And so he put ashore each evening with hours of daylight left. He ate a leisurely breakfast before taking to the water in the morning. Listening to the men sing as the thousand-strong army wound its way toward the delta, General Babaef sat in the shade of his canopied chair, drank his beer, and contemplated his approaching victory.
***
Djoser had become leaner and harder.
Hetephernebti thought he resembled a desert lion. His skin was tight over hard muscles, his movements were graceful and powerful, his eyes and ears were alert to every movement and sound.
Even at rest – lounging with a pot of beer, bent in conversation with Inetkawes, talking with Re-Khu – he projected power and energy. She was proud of him, and frightened at the same time. It seemed to her that his ka possessed an unnatural energy and its intensity was straining against its cage of bones, muscles, and skin.
Yet when they spoke, he seemed at ease, his thoughts and words directed only at their conversation. Whatever worries and plans he had were put aside and his attention was focused on the moment.
When the flood had arrived, he had started leaving Iunu for weeks at a time, visiting the other nomes to check on the training of the militia, solidifying plans with Sabef, reassuring the governors that their newly trained militias would keep them safe, and gathering rumors and reports from the south.
Now the flood was receding and he had returned once more to Inetkawes and their son.
She saw him walking outside the temple grounds, a short staff balanced across his broad shoulders, three heavy sacks hanging from each end of the staff. He was singing to himself as he walked, one of the songs from Ta-Seti, the rhythm and words unintelligible to Hetphernebti.
Barefoot, wearing only a loincloth, his head shaved, his arms looped over the staff to hold it steady, he looked like any other villager. Yet everyone watched him pass. They, too, could sense the power and grace within him. Children ran beside him, hurtling close, but innately aware that he was beyond their touch. Women watched him, their eyes seeing his form, their minds seeing their own past and young dreams. Girls hung back in the shadows, quivering with unnamed desire, imagining themselves in his arms, his breath on their skin.
Sensing Hetephernebti’s attention, Djoser swung his head around and smiled at his sister. He rolled his shoulders adjusting the load and changed direction.
“Good morning, Lady Ipwet,” he called, his face alight with pleasure.
“Lord Hemwy,” she answered. “Shopping?” She nodded at the sacks.
“I leave tomorrow, so I thought I would be sure Inetkawes and little Teti have everything they need until I return,” he said. He stopped before her and, placing his hands under the staff, lifted it from his shoulders and raised it overhead. Then he lowered it to the ground and rolled his shoulders and bent his neck.
Seeing her concern, he smiled and turned her thoughts from the approaching battle.
“I enjoy the weight on my shoulders. It makes me feel alive.” He closed his eyes a moment and then said, “When I first arrived in Ta-Seti with Sabef, I spent many days sitting by the river, wondering how the gods could have let our father be assassinated. Sabef wisely let me have time to think, to be sad, to try to understand.
“I sat by the river and felt the sun dry my skin and then I would dip a foot into the water and feel how refreshing it was. I sat alone for days until hunger gripped my stomach in its fist. When I ate I could feel the food in my mouth, passing my throat and then slowly filling my stomach. I felt the heat of the sun and the coolness of the night.
“Then one night, I was leaning against a tree, my mind dwelling on the moment when I saw our father’s body and the emptiness that consumed me. I felt the pain of my loss. It was a hunger, Nebti, uncontrollable. I turned it over in my memory, trying to keep it fresh, holding each passing image as long as I could so it could cut into my ka. I wanted to feel the pain our father felt. I was consumed by it.
“If I had had a knife I would have sliced open my hands, cut into my legs. I wanted to know what he had endured, I wanted to be one with him.
“And then there was a noise. It might have been a frog splashing into the water or the distant cry of a night bird. It roused me from my thoughts and I looked out over the flowing water and saw the moon reflected in the water as if Khonsu were captured by the river.
“I suddenly understood, Nebti. There is a world of sand and heat and water and sun, of food and clothing and trees and rocks. And there is a world inside my heart. My memories and dreams and fears and longings. My love and my anger.
“I was viewing them as two different worlds, when they should be one. If the world outside and the world within are the same, then I can live truly and honestly. Otherwise I will fool myself and act against ma’at.
“And so these,” he gestured to the heavy bags and the wooden staff. “They help me. The pressure reminds me that I am of this world and that my thoughts need to be centered here.”
Hetephernebti looked into her brother’s eyes. There was no guile nor questioning. Instead she saw a fierce honesty. He was giving her what he saw she needed: understanding of his ka and what drove him.
She was overwhelmed by his passion and found she couldn’t meet his gaze.
As she dipped her head, she felt his hand on her chin. Gently he raised her face until she looked back into his eyes.
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br /> “Nebti, there is nothing here to fear. Not here in Iunu, not in the Lower House, not anywhere in the Two Lands. Certainly not from General Babaef and his empty swagger. His army is made of dust, his strength is a dried reed, fragile as papyrus left in the sun.”
He watched her a moment and then bent to pick up the staff and the heavy bags. He hoisted them to his shoulder and settled the weight.
“Have you seen Inetkawes dance?” he asked.
She nodded her head.
“I love to watch her dance.” He shook his head when he saw her expression. “No, not because it arouses me. When she loses herself to the movement, I see her ka. It takes control of her arms and her legs, it shines from her eyes. It reaches out and embraces me.
“You know what I mean, Nebti, I see it in you when you worship Re.
“The same feeling lives within me, sister. But it is not the joy of dance or the passion of worship. It is the all-encompassing strength of Horus. He lives in my ka. When I feel his presence I am one with myself and with the world. I speak, walk, run, fight, all without need of thought.
“In those moments, I am Horus.
“So there is no need for worry, Nebti. No matter what rumors you hear, no matter the size of Babaef’s army or his intentions, I tell you that there will be no battle.
“Yet Babaef will lose.”
A Vow Fulfilled
The lead boat of General Babaef’s armada rounded a bend in the river and the pilot saw the white walls of Ineb-Hedj shining through distant trees. He raised a spear with a red pennant tied to its end and waved it. Then he pointed toward the western bank of the river and the boat turned sharply, angling for land.
Each trailing boat raised a similar red pennant signaling the end of the army’s slow advance and turned toward land. Aboard the boats, veteran soldiers gathered their spears and shields, stretched their arms and rolled their shoulders, careful not to look anxious. Some walked to the rear of the boat and, laughing and elbowing each other, squatted to empty their bowels and bladders in the water.
Midway down the armada, General Babaef saw the waving red flags and set his beer pot aside. He belched and motioned for his lieutenant.
“Tell the commanders to assemble the men in ranks of ten. I want the men from the Lower House in the lead. I want their fathers and brothers to see them leading the attack.”
“Yes, General Babaef,” he answered and backed away.
***
Behind the walls of Ineb-Hedj, Hemon the Dwarf was standing on an overturned bucket which was resting atop a bench.
Leaning his hands against the top of the parapet he said, “Red flags, I see them waving red flags. What does that mean?”
“I don’t know,” Khnumhotep answered.
“But you served with General Babaef,” Hemon said.
Khnumhotep shrugged. “We didn’t go anywhere or do anything. We just sat around Waset and tried not to be bored.”
“That’s not what you said when you came home and were wooing my daughter. Then it was all about spears and marching and hardships,” Hemon said. He looked at the boy and saw that at least the boy had the grace to blush.
Hemon laughed to himself. “No, no, I wouldn’t have told anyone that sad story either. Oh, they’re turning, they’re coming ashore. Djoser was right.”
“I wish I could be out there with them,” Khnumhotep said. “I mean, I’m happy to be here with you. It’s just that ... ”
“I know,” Hemon said. “But once this is over and Djoser goes to Waset, we’ll need leaders for the soldiers assigned here in Ineb-Hedj.”
He looked at his son-in-law, a gangly, empty-headed youth. He was handsome with heavy eyebrows and a smooth face. Hemon could understand why his daughter had been attracted to him. But marriage? He had hoped for someone with an interest in numbers, someone who liked to organize, someone who could help him run the nome.
We make do with what the gods give us, Hemon thought. He had been born a dwarf and now he was governor. He looked at Khnumhotep and tried to see the boy’s future, but he only saw a gangly, immature boy.
He is such a contrast to Djoser. No one could look at him and not see greatness. I hope his plan succeeds, Hemon thought.
***
General Babaef’s army disembarked, organized itself into companies and fell into files along the river.
Re was in the western sky, still far above the horizon, hurling bright heat against the bare chests and naked legs of the men as they waited for General Babaef to finish his inspection and then lead them forward to Ineb-Hedj and glory.
Some of the men carried clubs, trusting in their strength and depending on getting close enough to an enemy to crush his skull or break his arms or legs. Others carried short spears with thick staffs. They would form the front line, creating a bristling wall of spear points to force a gap in the enemy line for the club-wielding men to enter.
Behind the spear men and the club men was a final rank of men, career soldiers, veterans who had served with Babaef all their lives. They were armed with short stabbing spears and knives. Their job was to prod the men in front of them, reminding them that cowardice would lead to immediate death.
The men waited nervously, sweating in the afternoon heat, eager to see action and fearful of the rumors they had heard that a long-dead king was leading the rebellion.
There was no glory here – they weren’t invading Kush or clearing the eastern trade routes of sand dwellers – they were confronting their brothers and cousins.
And a dead king.
No matter how many times their commanders told them it wasn’t true, the men continued to whisper that Djoser was alive. He had disappeared as a child, killed with his father in the desert, and now the gods had brought him back to life to claim the throne.
None of the men, except General Babaef, had ever seen Djoser. They had no idea if he was the true king. They didn’t know if he would be a better king than Nebka. All that they knew was that he had been killed and now he was alive. It had to be a sign from the gods.
***
The river bank where the army had landed gently sloped up to high ground where it leveled off into a sun-baked path wide enough for five men to walk side by side. Farther ahead, where trees lined the river bank, the road veered off into farmland, which was a muddy expanse, not ready yet for planting.
Just beyond the start of the tree line, the river turned east, bending away to the right of the waiting army. The road followed the tree line, disappearing from sight.
General Babaef, accompanied by a coterie of officers, walked past the assembled men. Three young boys jogged behind the general, two of them holding towels, the third panting as he carried a jar of beer. Four older boys formed a square around Babaef as he walked. Each boy held a pole. A rope ran from the top of each pole forming a square over which a colorful linen cloth was draped to form an umbrella to keep Babaef perpetually shaded.
Reaching the front of the army, General Babaef paused and squinted toward the trees which screened the turn in the road.
“Send a company up there. At a jog. When they get to the bend in the road, they should stop and wait for us,” he told one of his lieutenants. Then he reached a hand toward one of the boys who was carrying towels. He took a towel and wiped his face and stepped off the road to let a jogging company of men pass.
In a few minutes the men reached the trees. Their commander turned and waved to General Babaef, who nodded and then ordered the rest of the army to follow him forward.
When General Babaef reached the bend in the road he stopped and surveyed the land in front of him.
Off to his left, toward the western horizon, there was flat farmland edged with irrigation canals. The fields were still dark and covered with mud. Up ahead, as the river rolled back to the west, the road rose over an embankment built to channel the flood. Trees lined the river and off to the land side of the embankment stood an orchard of date palm trees, the green leaves offering an oasis of shade.
And cover, Babaef thought. An entire army could hide in those trees.
He turned and looked behind him. The road they had just walked followed the river and, by the landing area, it rose and turned westward toward the desert. It disappeared into sand dunes. As he stared at the empty road a sense of unease crept over him.
I should send a company to guard my rear.
Then he shook his head.
I’m fighting against a ragged collection of farmers and fishermen.
He turned back to the north. Ineb-Hedj lay just beyond the next turn of the river. If the rebellious governors had actually managed to piece together an army it would be waiting outside the city.
“Sir?” one of his lieutenants said.
Babaef looked crossly at the man who had dared to interrupt his thoughts. The lieutenant was pointing down the road where a solitary figure had appeared over the embankment and was standing on the top of the rise.
The man was dressed in a short kilt, its hem in dark blue, a color reserved for the royal family. He appeared to be unarmed, no spear, no shield, nothing at all in his hands.
As Babaef watched, the man walked down the road toward the army. His shoulders and head were held high, his gait was comfortable and unhurried. Silhouetted by the sky behind him the man’s face wasn’t visible but Babaef felt a tremor of excitement and fear. He had seen that body shape. He had seen that confident walk. The shape of the man’s shaved head, the way his arms moved, the short, strong legs.
For a horrible moment Babaef thought he was watching dead King Kha-Sekhemwy approach him, his body reanimated, his ka filled with anger, his heart set on revenge.
