Khu: A Tale of Ancient Egypt

by Jocelyn Murray

  “Have you seen Pili?” he finally asked.

  “Not for three days,” his partner answered. He turned to help himself to a piece of the flat bread when they neared one of the tables set under the shade of the colonnaded gallery, next to the vast gardens by the Temple of Osiris.

  Sudi glanced at the food but did not touch it. He was too preoccupied to eat anything.

  “He was going to try to talk to one of the officials and get information for us,” his partner said.

  “But three days…” Sudi said, with a hint of fear. “Three days is a long time.”

  “It is. A lot can happen in three days. Good luck trying to find him in this crowd. It could take longer than that.”

  “Hmm…” Sudi mumbled uneasily, forming his mouth into a hard line. A current of apprehension surged through his blood as his mind turned to Ankhtifi.

  If one of them should be caught by Ankhtifi’s men… Sudi let the thought trail off unfinished. He had heard stories about Ankhtifi. The chieftain’s reputation preceded him like the stench of death from a rotting carcass. He did not know how much of it was true and how much was simply rumor inflated over time. But he did not want to find out. The chieftain looked intimidating.

  “Go back to Thebes,” Sudi finally said. “Leave tonight and warn King Mentuhotep.” He paused a moment to think as his eyes roamed to a group of children who were chasing each other through the gardens which had been readied for the annual feast. They were squealing delightedly without a care in the world, tagging each other and then running away. “Tell the king that there will be bloodshed if he does not hurry.”

  Sudi turned his thoughts back to Ankhtifi as his partner disappeared into the crowd. The people were eager to lose themselves in the revelry of the festivities. The strongly brewed ceremonial heqet was already flowing freely throughout the town, where musicians continued to play their instruments, by the people who sang and danced through the streets, and the lush gardens and parks surrounding the Temple of Osiris.

  Some of the people had come a long way, abandoning their impoverished settlements, whose small shrines and temples had fallen into ruin after robbers had plundered their towns. Without the means to harness the Nile through dykes and canals, their fields had produced few crops, and now lay fallow under an unforgiving sun that had grown indifferent to their plight.

  And so they made their way south to Abdju for the annual celebration, which promised free bread and drink during the festivities that would last for about six days, in honor of Osiris to whom they prayed for a new life of prosperity. They came bedraggled and beaten, with nothing but the flame of hope enkindled within their souls, as they sought work in more prosperous settlements. They came hungering to fill their stomachs, aching from emptiness. And they came in search of a god-king who would protect and provide for them as their lord and master, giving them light and salvation in a time of darkness and uncertainty.

  Rumors spread from mouths to ears of a revolution that would transform their lives and their beloved Egypt—rumors skillfully planted by Ankhtifi and his men. And as those rumors swept throughout the town, which grew ever more rowdy with each passing hour of the setting sun’s voyage through the cloud-speckled sky, a mob began to form.

  The mob took on a life of its own under the control of King Khety who manipulated the crowd like a deft puppeteer. He had been biding his time over the last few days, staying away from the people, as he waited patiently in the hidden rooms of the lavish residence of an official who had sworn an oath in his support. He had purposely kept from public sight when the festivities commenced, and especially during the elaborate religious ceremonies which cast a reverential haze over the people. But his own men and those of Ankhtifi had been weaving through the crowd and garnering support from the masses, telling them that King Khety would be coming to save them from their abject poverty and restore Egypt to its former glory. All they had to do was pledge their allegiance to him.

  Those same conniving men who had been filling the peoples’ ears with promises of plenty, if they supported King Khety’s expanded rule, had also been slandering King Mentuhotep with vicious, deceitful rumors meant to turn the people against the Theban king.

  “He cares for no one but his own kingdom,” one scowled with a frown.

  “He grows fat while the rest of Egypt is starving,” another claimed with a loud snort.

  “He eats from alabaster plates, and sleeps on a bed of gold,” another lied, nodding for emphasis.

  And eyebrows were raised in surprise, and furrowed in anger, from the perceived injustice of it all, as the liars sought to divide and conquer by instilling class envy and spreading malicious lies.

  But not everyone believed the rumors. Those pilgrims who had come from settlements closer to Thebes knew that the king of Upper Egypt was a good and generous ruler, and that he had protected them from the lawlessness plaguing the north.

  “We have had no droughts,” one spoke up in Mentuhotep’s defense. “Our fields have yielded much grain and plentiful harvests,” the man touched an amulet hanging from his neck to avert the evil eye.

  “Our villages have been safer than those closer to King Khety,” another said. “Why hasn’t King Khety done a better job protecting his kingdom the way King Mentuhotep has done with his?” he shook his head.

  “Yes,” another piped in. “If the state of King Khety’s lands are any indication of what we are to expect under his rule of all of Egypt, I will want none of it,” the man set his jaw and crossed his arms over his chest before continuing. “That sort of change will lead to the destruction of all of Egypt. What hope will we have then?”

  “King Mentuhotep is a good and just ruler,” another stated proudly, with a high chin. “Son of the Great Osiris and Amun.”

  “Then why is he not here, honoring Osiris during these holy days?” Khety’s man countered, as he continued trying to turn the people against Mentuhotep.

  “But neither is King Khety here,” responded the man.

  “Oh, but he is. He is here and he is the true son of Osiris. You shall see him when he chooses to show himself.”

  And on it went.

  The seeds of doubt had been sown among the people, whose hunger for change made a fertile breeding ground.

  By now all the people returned to the main part of town after laying their god to rest in his ancient tomb, and they succumbed to the festive atmosphere by the temple. Musicians played their lutes, cymbals, sistrums, and sheneb trumpets, while people clapped and danced around the acrobats performing on the streets. It was a loud and joyful ruckus, swirling with an energy that quickly spread throughout the town.

  ***

  King Khety had waited for the heqet to lull the crowd with its intoxicating effects so that their inhibitions would be lowered, their spirits raised, and their wills more pliant and amenable to the power of suggestion. He had gone to wait with a group of his advisors and several guards in the colonnaded courtyard of the Temple of Osiris after the crowds had followed the priests on their procession to the god’s final resting place.

  When Khety finally emerged from the temple’s pylon, it was like one of the gods coming forth in the flesh, resplendent in all his dazzling regalia including a golden scepter, a ceremonial wig, the Deshret Red Crown of Lower Egypt, and the long, narrow, false beard of Osiris that he wore on special feasts. He made a magnificent sight as he dangled glittering promises before the pilgrims, who had fallen to their knees before him. They were transfixed by his kohl-lined gray eyes, gleaming with a fierce and glacial beauty from his handsome, chiseled face. Even the austere quality of his features that he had acquired over the years, imbued his face and bearing with a godlike dignity, not unlike the great sphinx inspiring reverence as it stared out over the desert.

  A hush fell over the inebriated crowd as they drank his words like one parched from the desert heat. He spoke of sacrifice, and blood, and the intense labor required to give birth to a new nation—a new and unified nation of Egy
pt.

  “And you will prosper once again,” his voice rang out after the musicians had stopped playing so all could listen. “The gods will resurrect the dead and imbue new life throughout the land.”

  There was much murmuring of voices in assent. Even the children running about through the crowd, paused from their rambunctious activities to stare at the king who captivated the people’s attention. Khety was radiant, regal and refined; all masculine grace and magnetism.

  “This division must end for a new life to begin,” he continued.

  The king of Lower Egypt paced before the temple that rose above the gardens like a beacon. Each of his measured steps accompanied his words like the beating of a drum. His voice resonated deep and melodious above the susurrations of the crowd. The sun had just set, and the torches lining the Avenue of Sphinxes had all been lit. Their smoke rose to the heavens, toward the sky whose clouds had been ignited by the last rays of the sun, into tongues of fire which bled a passionate haze over the people, who were feeling the rapturous effects of their revelry.

  “YES,” the people shouted back, falling under his spell. They were pushing to get closer to the god-king who had bewitched them.

  None of the people even remembered Egypt as it used to be before the breach which had left it crippled and vulnerable to corruption. The rise of the provincial powers in Lower, Middle and Upper Egypt had weakened the central authority, so that the Old Kingdom had greatly declined during the sixth dynasty under King Pepi II. By the end of Pepi II’s long reign at that time, civil wars tore apart the last remnants of the unified kingdom, and the fractured lands were plagued by severe drought, famine and conflict.

  But the people did not recall these details. All they knew were the stories they heard which had been passed down from their parents and their parents’ parents: tales of prosperity and plenty under a succession of god-kings who had reigned from the Old Kingdom’s throne in the great city of Inebou-Hedjou, north of Nen-nesu, at the base of the Nile Delta, where the creator god Ptah was revered as patron of craftsmen and giver of life to all things in the world springing into existence through the power of his word.

  “Blood and sacrifice!” the king shouted as he thrust a clenched fist into the air with wrath in his eyes.

  The crowd’s energy spiked his adrenaline, and his radiating power sent a ripple back over the throng in return.

  “YES,” the people shouted back, lost in his allure. Many of them were rocking back and forth, entranced by his irresistible magnetism, their heads flung back toward the sky, and their eyes closed in ecstasy.

  Sudi felt his heart beating faster as he watched the mesmerized crowd, whose hunger for change was stimulated by the words of Khety. And he could see why. The king’s deep voice and aristocratic bearing were simply bewitching. He looked every inch the god-king he proclaimed himself to be. His perfect features, erect bearing and booming voice left people spellbound.

  Sudi also felt himself almost swept away by Khety’s stunning presence, and he had not had a single drop of the ceremonial heqet. He saw the people go down on their knees and bow low to worship the king, who seemed to grow larger than life in the elongating shadows cast by a fiery setting sun. Several cats wandered near the king, one of which went right up to him and rubbed itself along the king’s muscled legs. And the crowd gasped, wide-eyed, as they took it as a sign that the goddess Bastet—protector of Lower Egypt—had shown favor over the king whom she would defend.

  “Save us, Lord King!” some of them shouted as the crowd pressed closer to the temple.

  “Deliver us!” others yelled.

  “We shall restore the great nation of Egypt to her former glory!” Khety boomed.

  “GLORY TO EGYPT,” the crowd thundered.

  “To the land of plenty that our ancestors knew!”

  “LAND OF PLENTY,” they echoed, as many of them held up the pottery jugs of heqet being passed around liberally. They stretched out their arms in elation with the jugs lifted up high in an offering, as though the gods themselves would partake of the copious libations that inflamed their euphoria.

  “The great divide that has weakened the north, while fattening the south, will be eradicated so all may flourish!” the king continued.

  “FLOURISH, LORD KING.”

  “Your children will thrive in a new and prosperous land!”

  “YES, LORD KING.

  “And we will vanquish our enemies—enemies who seek to oppress Egypt!”

  “VANQUISH THEM.”

  “Enemies who prey on the weak while paying homage to the strong!”

  “VANQUISH THEM.”

  “Enemies who wish to trod upon your bowed heads!”

  “VANQUISH THEM.”

  “We will gather them round like cattle for the slaughter.” Khety’s piercing eyes shone like a man possessed, as he whipped the mob into a frenzy. And they hung on every word that came from his mouth.

  “GATHER THEM, LORD KING.”

  “And we will slaughter them!”

  “SLAUGHTER THEM. SLAUGHTER THEM. SLAUGHTER THEM,” they chanted.

  It was then that the king motioned to Ankhtifi with a stabbing glance. Ankhtifi had been waiting patiently to one side, watching the events with his dark fathomless eyes that absorbed every detail of the crowd. He had his hand clasped around the upper arm of a man whose hands were bound behind him, and whose head was completely covered by a linen hood.

  “Blood and sacrifice!” Khety yelled as Ankhtifi pushed the hooded man toward the king, forcing him to his knees.

  Two other bound and hooded men waited under the watchful eyes of a guard. They stood next to one of the sphinxes that stared out through the torch-lit shadows engulfing the temple in the growing darkness.

  “BLOOD AND SACRIFICE,” echoed the crowd as their hunger grew more savage.

  Ankhtifi withdrew the hood which had been covering the kneeling man’s head and upper chest, and the crowd gasped once again. It was one of the temple priests who had carried the gilded barque of Osiris.

  Three of the priests had been secretly ambushed inside the tomb after refusing to swear their allegiance to Khety. Repeated efforts to coax and convince the priests to support Khety had been fruitless. Even the bribery attempts were unsuccessful in enticing them. The pressure had only made them hostile, so that they threatened to speak out against Khety publically. And when a more diplomatic approach had failed to sway them, they were bound and beaten for their resistance. Ankhtifi then brought them before the king so he could make an example of one of them—the ultimate sacrifice that would seal the pact between Khety and the people.

  A blood sacrifice.

  The bound priest managed to still look dignified in his long kilt, shaven head, and somber expression that belied the fear and outrage churning within him. But one of his eyes had been blackened, and blood ran down his scalp, as well as from a corner of his mouth. The ceremonial leopardskin cloak which was draped over a single shoulder across his body had been torn away, as had been the heavy collar necklace and carved staff that symbolized his authority. But his thick, gold arm bands set with carnelian and lapis lazuli, gleamed in the golden torch light.

  Sudi tensed when he realized what Ankhtifi and Khety planned to do to the helpless priest. All at once he understood it had been the priest’s blood which was streaked across Ankhtifi’s face, when Ankhtifi had mysteriously emerged from the tomb of Osiris earlier. The ruthless chieftain must have been the one to beat and bloody him and the others who had stood against King Khety’s plan.

  Sudi watched with disgust as Ankhtifi placed his hand on the hilt of a dagger hanging openly at his side. The chieftain’s favorite mace was no longer hidden, and also hung in plain sight from his hip.

  Someone in the crowd began to chant, and other voices joined in the chorus.

  “Blood.”

  “Blood.”

  “BLOOD.”

  “BLOOD.”

  They condensed all their hate, despair and desire for chang
e into one murderous thought which they irrationally believed would deliver them from their plight.

  The individuals in the crowd no longer acted alone, but melded together, transforming into an angry mob pulsating with a life of its own.

  Sudi felt the dynamic change as a thrumming energy resonated through the people who freely forfeited their individuality to the collective force. He was transfixed as he watched this distinct entity charged with hate and need, demand a justice they felt they were owed, from a man who played upon their weaknesses like an accomplished musician plucking the strings of a harp.

  “BLOOD.”

  “BLOOD.”

  “BLOOD.”

  The mob chanted louder this time, as it slithered and coiled more tightly around the temple, like a great serpent whose head was the king. Even the children who had been running around excitedly, had long abandoned their play and gone to stand by their parents’ sides, clutching their hands nervously.

  Khety climbed upon a platform that had been used earlier by the priests, so the pilgrims could more easily observe the performed rites before the gilded barque had visited the cemeteries. But Ankhtifi and his men kept the entranced mob from touching the king.

  The mob pressed against itself, and all the constraints that had subverted it for so long, becoming a creature of violence which fed on hate. The downtrodden who had come to Abdju in search of a new life, had infected others who had simply come to pay homage to the ancient god Osiris who now lay impotent in his dusty tomb.

  Just as Ankhtifi raised the dagger in his hand and poised it over the helpless priest, who now lay prostrate before the unyielding king, a scream pierced the night, momentarily distracting the mob and Ankhtifi. It was a shrill cry that caused King Khety’s own confidence to waver. And as he turned his gray eyes upwards, he spotted a ball of fire flying through the air toward him.

  “Osiris!” one of the hooded priests cried out in a desperate plea for divine help. He had not seen the fiery arrow barely miss the king. But he had heard the commotion which ensued as the lupine-faced Ankhtifi ran for cover with King Khety, whose fiercely regal expression had crumbled.