Khu: A Tale of Ancient Egypt

by Jocelyn Murray

  Odji swore that he would be different from the man who begot him. And he was. He was nothing like his father. While his father had been a humble man who was grateful for his place in the world, Odji wore his pride like a heavy cloak—a cloak reeking of arrogance. He felt entitled to a life he had not been born into.

  “Odji!” His father said. And when the boy did not answer, he followed him up to the roof.

  The sun had already set earlier, and all that remained of twilight was a thin band of silver glossing the edge of the horizon. No moon shone in the sky, and long shadows spread like black wine spilling over the land. The trees edging their home deepened the darkness, making it difficult to see.

  “Odji?” his father called as he climbed the last few steps near the rooftop. “I know you are up here.”

  Odji did not answer. He was sulking behind a tall clay amphora on the opposite side of the roof.

  His father reached the roof and paused. He was tired, and it had been a long day. “You have nothing to be ashamed of, son,” he said. “There is nothing shameful about hard work. It is hard work that got us here, and it will get us into the Field of Reeds as long as we live a good and moral life.”

  Odji still said nothing. He kept sulking behind the amphora, as he listened to his father’s footsteps.

  “We could still be living in the village next to the other peasants. And you would never have had the opportunity to learn how to read and write. Instead, we’d all be doing back-breaking work in the crop fields all day long.” He took small steps, trying to avoid tripping on anything. “But even that is honorable,” he nodded to himself. “Yes, hard work is honorable, Odji. We must live by the principles of maat, for truth, order and integrity are everything.”

  Odji exhaled, slumping down further into his self-made misery. By now even the silver lining on the horizon was gone, having faded away into the night. Only the bright stars lit up the sky with their glittering splendor.

  His father squinted as he peered into the darkness, hoping to find his sullen boy. “Come out, child,” he said. “Come out and stop this foolishness. Do not be offended by a little dirt. It is the dirt within men’s hearts that is most offensive; the filth you cannot see. Remember that always, son.”

  And those were his last words.

  Something frightened Odji and he tumbled out from behind the amphora and into his father’s legs. It might have been a spider crawling over his hand, or a cricket hopping in the darkness, or even just his own skittish imagination which made him screech in surprise as he tumbled into his father.

  And startled by the commotion, his father lost his balance and tripped. He tried to avoid falling on the boy at his feet as he stepped away awkwardly, but he lost his footing as he came perilously close to the roof’s edge.

  It was not the fall that killed Odji’s father, but rather the pile of mud-bricks sitting on the ground below. He lost his balance and fell off the roof, over the side of the house, landing awkwardly on that pile of bricks where he broke his neck. It had been swift. So swift, that his father did not even scream.

  Odji stood, wide-eyed for a heart-stopping moment. He kept very still, staring into the darkness as he held his breath, suddenly aware of the sounds of the night. Crickets were chirping, and a dog whined in the distance. Hushed voices drifted from the servants’ quarters in another part of the compound, and a light breeze ruffled the branches of the palm trees nearby. He heard an owl call, and he shivered involuntarily, touching the amulet hanging from his neck. Then he headed back slowly downstairs.

  “Mother?” he called.

  Odji was strangely calm. It was as though an invisible burden had been lifted from his shoulders. The load weighing him down was gone. He knew his father was dead. He knew it an instant after his father had fallen. And yet he felt nothing. No sadness, no remorse, no sorrow. Because he was dead inside.

  Together he and his mother had gone outside to find his father’s body.

  At least his father had died with his eyes closed.

  Mentuhotep’s father, King Nakhtnebtepnefer Intef III, was king at the time when Odji’s father died. He was a kind man who allowed Odji and his mother to continue living on the palace compound where his mother worked as a servant. They had moved out of the caretaker’s lodge and into the smaller servants’ quarters. Odji gladly abandoned his studies after that. A scribe was not something he aspired to.

  Odji did odd jobs for several years until he commenced his guard training. When he was old enough, he began working as gatekeeper, where he remained through the rest of Intef’s reign, and Mentuhotep after him. Yet his job as gatekeeper—though honorable—had never been good enough as far as he was concerned, for some people are born restless and can find no satisfaction in life. Odji was not going to sit around and wait for a change that would never come. He refused to accept things as they were.

  So he began to plot something new to bring about that change for himself.

  Odji had a friend named Mdjai who lived north of Thebes in the district of Abdju, which was an important religious site of many temples. Mdjai had boasted about his life as an official, and how he oversaw one of the district’s smaller villages of craftsmen and laborers. Although he answered to a noble, the people of the village answered to him.

  Odji wanted the same arrangement for himself. It would be far more exciting than what he did now. He was able to read and write, and believed that these skills made him worthy of a higher occupation.

  Odji had never taken a wife, nor did he have any children. He did not care for those sentimental things, nor did he have time for the burdens accompanying such mundane and tedious bonds. All he wanted was power; a power to wield according to his own will.

  “I am responsible for settling petty conflicts among the villagers,” Mdjai had said.

  “You are their judge?” Odji asked interestedly, when he had seen the man at one of the many festivals celebrated throughout Egypt.

  “Yes. Their first judge. They bring their cases before me and I listen to their complaints. Then I arbitrate in their disputes.”

  “And if they are unhappy with the ruling?”

  “They can petition to have their case heard by the temple priests.”

  Odji liked that very much. It would certainly be more interesting than what he did now. He wanted the respect and fear that would be shown him as an official overseeing a village of his own. He wanted the deference of a people subjected to his authority. He got a secret thrill from other people’s fear. It made him feel powerful, and flooded his veins with a kind of decadent exhilaration. Just thinking of it made his skin prickle with anticipation.

  He closed his eyes as he indulged in one of the fantasies which helped him get through the day-to-day routine in his dull existence. In his mind’s eye he saw people begging for mercy before him. Their pathetic pleas gave him a titillating rush as he grabbed a whip to inflict a merciless punishment upon their backs. Odji swallowed and opened his eyes, tamping down the excitement that made his heart beat faster.

  It would not be long now.

  Odji had been biding his time and working out a new plan. He had made an arrangement with his friend Mdjai, where they would secretly exchange information so that Odji would keep him abreast of Mentuhotep’s business affairs. Mdjai knew important officials who were interested in having inside knowledge about Mentuhotep. The Theban king had rivals who would pay well for this information.

  After their agreement, Odji sent messages to Mdjai in Abdju every so often by way of the boatman who had come down the Nile on that blundered robbery attempt several years before. He was paid for this information according to its importance. Odji felt no allegiance to the Theban king, and did not hesitate to betray his ruler. He felt no loyalty to anyone except himself.

  Odji had told Mdjai that King Mentuhotep often went down to Kush to see to his mines, trade resources, and to visit and collect taxes from some of the settlements along his route. He told his friend how the king was getting r
icher from the gold he often brought back. And in return, Mdjai also shared information about the political intrigues throughout the northern lands.

  The boatman had recently informed Odji that a revolt was being planned in Abdju. It was being led by King Khety of Lower Egypt, who ruled from the seat of his throne in Nen-nesu, south of the Nile Delta. Khety had been conspiring with forces from the settlement of Nekhen—which was not too far south of Thebes. With the help of Ankhtifi, who was the governing chieftain of the province of Nekhen, Khety planned to capture Abdju and then continue on south in hopes of capturing Thebes as well.

  Abdju had remained neutral in the political conflict dividing the once-unified powers of Egypt. It was an autonomous district, independent of the sovereignties of Lower and Upper Egypt. But some of its people wanted the protection and power that an alignment with Lower Egypt’s throne would afford. Odji’s friend Mdjai was one of them. Others, like many of the high priests in the temples, were more sympathetic to Mentuhotep and preferred to position themselves alongside the Theban ruler if neutrality were no longer possible.

  King Khety had his sights set on overthrowing Mentuhotep, seizing the throne of Upper Egypt, and consolidating the two kingdoms under his own rule. Gaining control of Abdju would be a pivotal step in the direction that would empower him over the divided lands.

  “Just try to distract your sovereign with local matters,” the boatman told Odji, as though it were that easy. “Then everything will fall into place.” He was relaying a message from Mdjai in Abdju.

  Odji just stared at the boatman, the lines between his eyes deepening. His mind was trying to sift through and organize all the information the man had told him. He knew that Mentuhotep was wise. It would not be easy to distract him with anything. The king would see right through the weakness of that plan, and wonder what he was up to. But Mentuhotep’s expedition to Kush could not have come at a better time. All Odji had to do was wait and hope that the king would be delayed by the Kushites. That would give King Khety the time he needed to capture Abdju.

  “You will be compensated well. The Lord King Khety himself will see to it that you get your own village in one of the more prosperous districts in the north.”

  Odji swallowed at the lure dangling before him. His time had finally come. He would soon quit Thebes for good, and go north to live as a lord overseeing a village. If only his father could see him now. Everything looked promising on that sun-drenched afternoon which even made the dirt roads sparkle. Power was the elixir that made his head spin, not unlike the potent ceremonial heqet brewed very strongly during times of great feasting.

  Odji pondered the boatman’s message as images of a thriving village over which he ruled flitted through his mind. There was a cruelty to Odji’s thin mouth that made the boatman nervous. The boatman kept glancing anxiously about him. He knew he was in danger here, and did not wish to be caught conspiring against the king. The punishment for high treason was death—death by decapitation. But that was not all. His filthy remains would be scattered in the desert, and left for the wild animals to devour. This terrible fate would leave him incapable of crossing the great divide to the Field of Reeds in the Afterlife. Without a body and proper burial, his immortal soul ka would forever be doomed to roam restlessly in the Netherworld.

  “When will the revolt take place?” Odji asked, distracting the boatman from his dismal thoughts. Odji hoped it would happen soon before Mentuhotep returned from Kush.

  “King Khety is probably on his way from Nen-nesu as we speak,” the boatman said. “The annual Festival of Osiris will be celebrated in Abdju soon.”

  Odji frowned. “Why would he go then?” he wondered aloud.

  “I think he wants to time the revolt to coincide with the festivities.”

  “With the Festival of Osiris?” Odji was confused. It did not make sense to him. For a moment he wondered if the boatman got his facts mixed up. The man was getting on in years.

  “That is all I know,” the boatman said, shrugging his thin shoulders. He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to another as he spoke. His sun-darkened skin was stretched tightly over his wiry frame, and the lines on his weathered face gave him a look of being perpetually worried.

  A gray short-haired cat watched him with aloof eyes from the shade of a doorway lying beyond the main entrance to the palace compound, and the boatman touched a hand to the amulet hanging from his neck. He felt guilty and wondered if the gods were watching as well.

  “Ankhtifi is there already, with a small army of his own,” the boatman added. His eyes darted around nervously, making sure no one was in too close proximity to overhear their conversation. But no one even glanced their way.

  “Ankhtifi?”

  “Yes,” the boatman said, “King Khety’s supporter. The chieftain of Nekhen.”

  Odji nodded absentmindedly. He was imaging himself again as a lord. It was a far cry from the boy who was born to simple peasants.

  An ox-drawn cart passed by on its way to the village. It hauled a crop of melons, cucumbers, leeks and onions. A man and his son led the beast of burden through the street, tugging on the animal’s yoke. They did not even glance at the gatekeeper and the thin, older man with whom he was talking.

  No one noticed the avarice gleaming in Odji’s eyes. And as the boatman took his leave of Odji, hurrying to head back to his small vessel so he could get away from Thebes, Odji once again slipped into his reverie, dreaming of the day when he would oversee a small village of his own.

  SIX

  King Wakhare Khety III, Ruler of Lower Egypt, stood in the pavilion of his palace in Nen-nesu. He had just dismissed his advisors and needed a moment alone to think. A servant was clearing away two platters of food and several cups of heqet that had been set on a long side table standing between two columns. Khety exhaled as he stepped down from the dais where his throne sat. He walked over to the table where he had left his cup earlier. The servant paused from her work to refill his cup with heqet before bowing and leaving with the platters.

  Today Khety received word that Ankhtifi had arrived in Abdju with a small army. This was good news. It was what he had wanted, and what he had been planning for several seasons now. Yet he felt a little ambivalent at how these long-awaited events were finally unfolding.

  The king walked over to the edge of the pavilion with the cup in his hand. He took a sip of the heqet and stared out at the view. His palace sat on a piece of land which rose sharply from the Nile’s western bank. It was set higher than the crop fields growing closer to the water’s edge. A village lay south of the palace, and west of the fields. From its elevated ground, the palace commanded stunning views of the River Nile and the lush floodplains to the east, as well as of the desert ridges, sand plains, and rocky plateaus stretching interminably to the west.

  There were no clouds in the vast blue sky, and the king interpreted that as an augury boding well for his plans. He needed the gods to smile upon him, for tomorrow he would depart for Abdju, where he would be joining Ankhtifi with his own army of men. The timing was perfect, for it happened to be the Festival of Osiris which was celebrated annually in Abdju. Hopefully no one would suspect anything untoward.

  King Khety had descended from the Akhtoy lineage known as the House of Khety which rose to power from their seat in the district of Nen-nesu, after the disintegration of the Old Kingdom. His forefathers were buried near the great tombs of the sixth dynasty kings at Saqqara near Inebou-Hedjou. Over the last hundred years, Nen-nesu’s dominance in the northern territories, and the power of the House of Khety had grown to extend over most of Lower and Middle Egypt as far south as Amarna and the province of Zawty. But that power was ridden with corruption and greed spreading out like fine fissures over the land, allowing the infiltration of all sorts of ills from thieving and bloody raids, to natural disasters including plagues and drought.

  Nen-nesu was the cult center of the ram-god Heryshef, Ruler of the Riverbanks. But the ram-god’s temple lay in ruin. Many o
f the temples of the north had been pillaged over the decades, and nothing had been done to rebuild them, so that their painted walls and pitted columns were crumbling in decay. Supplies were scarce as it was, and people were hungry.

  Many of the royal necropolises had been plundered as well. Even in prosperous times the living robbed the dead. But with the breakdown of the centralized authority from the early dynasties, all within the fractured lands was vulnerable to robbers. Various rulers vied for power like wolves fighting for dominance over a pack whose alpha male had died. Thus the ancient tombs had been destroyed, and their relics left to decay under a careless sun. And Khety did not waste time, effort, or funds in rebuilding any of them—funds he did not possess and sorely needed.

  King Khety was not overly concerned about the state of his dilapidated lands at the moment. He had more important things to keep him occupied. He wanted to keep hold of his throne in Nen-nesu and of Lower Egypt in general. He also wanted more power; a power extending to Upper Egypt, so that he could reunite the divided lands under his rule. Resources were scant, and he needed all of them spent on his efforts to capture Upper Egypt’s throne. He had his sights set on Thebes where King Mentuhotep’s throne was set firmly into the land of Upper Egypt. And King Khety was relying on Ankhtifi to help him take that throne from Mentuhotep.