Khu: A Tale of Ancient Egypt

by Jocelyn Murray

  “This will be easy,” one boasted to the other.

  They sensed the boys’ inexperience. But Nakhti leaped toward the first man, shrieking as he whipped his blade in the air, like a demon from the Netherworld. The man jumped backward and spread his arms wide as though welcoming the assault.

  “Behind you!” Nakhti yelled, as another man ran toward Khu, roaring as he swung with a downward cut of his blade.

  Khu sidestepped, but not quickly enough, and in the clangor of blades his own dagger broke in half. The man sneered, his yellow teeth gleaming in the fading light. Khu thought he smelled heqet on his sour breath as the man lunged for Khu’s chest. But Khu dodged the blade and thrust his knee into the man’s groin. He snatched the dagger out of his opponent’s hand, and stabbed him in the throat as the man bent forward, grimacing from the pain. Khu kicked the dying man backward as he pulled the blade free, then turned to find Nakhti.

  Nakhti was holding his own against two men. One of them slashed Nakhti’s forearm and had drawn blood, but it was not deep. The man moved like a weasel, fast and slippery, as he came in with a succession of quick short swipes. His attacker then tossed both his daggers into the air, and for a moment time stood still as the blades caught the dazzling light of a torch fire burning from the wall of an abandoned shop, reflecting it back like liquid gold. The blades whirred in the air as they spiraled back down before the man caught them by their hilts. He was showing off. But his confidence made him careless.

  “Kill the whelp,” his partner spat.

  Nakhti swung then. He ducked low and swept the blade of his dagger before him, slicing into the man’s ankles, crippling him at once. The man shrieked as he fell, letting go of the daggers which fell to the ground. His partner immediately stepped forward, driving his battle ax down over Nakhti’s prone head. But Khu rammed his blade into the man’s belly, and he dropped the ax, stumbling back with a look of utter shock on his contorted face. The man gripped the hilt of the dagger embedded in his gut, ripping the blade free from his flesh, just before Nakhti finished the job with a death blow to his throat.

  On went the fighting as smoke spread over the settlement like a gray cloud, deepening the darkness that reeked of death. Blood soaked the ground where colorful flowers had been strewn before. All the singing and dancing accompanying the religious ceremonies and festivities had turned into shrieks and wailing. Time passed in what seemed like an interminable stretch of violence, with screaming and shouting that told of pain and death. Black smoke choked the night air from scattered fires, whose flames danced red and gold like giant burnt offerings to the gods. The blaze scorched parts of the marketplace and public areas, smearing soot, burning the vegetation, and charring the structures throughout the cult settlement.

  Mentuhotep’s army drove the enemy back from the town’s center. Those pilgrims who had joined in the fray were the first to be subdued, and were bound in reed ropes to await justice. Many of them pleaded for mercy, claiming to have been swayed by Khety’s glittering promises and their own passionate desire for change, which was true. They professed their allegiance to the Theban ruler, but were still rounded up and herded away along with other prisoners to an open field lying adjacent to the town.

  Khety’s and Ankhtifi’s men were shown no mercy. They were promptly beheaded and left in a clearing before being thrown into a shallow pit, which would be dug in the desert, far beyond the fertile plain. The temple priests who had not been ambushed in the tomb, and those clerics who had been elsewhere in the town, led their own guards against Khety’s and Ankhtifi’s men. They managed to seize some of the officials who had betrayed them by siding with the Nen-nesian king, including Mdjai—the friend of Odji—who had boasted about his position to the power-hungry gatekeeper. They too were shone no mercy, and they were put to death in a manner that would also banish their souls from the Field of Reeds, damning them for eternity.

  After the mob had disintegrated into a state of panic, Mentuhotep had immediately embarked on a search for Khety.

  “They have retreated into the temple,” he told Qeb. “Do not let them get away. I want to confront Khety myself.”

  They left the shrine where they had been spying on Khety during his speech. Only Qeb and a few others had stayed behind to accompany Mentuhotep, who was wearing the blue-stained leather Khepresh royal war crown with a gold rearing cobra fastened on the front. The king and his men skirted around the southern part of the large public square leading to the Temple of Osiris. The colonnaded arcade, parks, gardens and open halls were mostly empty now, except for the fallen and injured whimpering in confusion or lying in a pool of blood.

  Most of the fighting had moved farther away by the open marketplace of the village, and closer to the Nile where some of Khety’s men were attempting to flee. People ran screaming on the narrow streets which were shrouded in darkness, like black kohl smeared in thick brushstrokes across the land. A few rogue fighters pounced from the shadows to lunge at the Theban king and his men like feral cats. But they were quickly subdued, mostly by Qeb’s scimitar which the Kushite warrior wielded expertly as though it were a mere extension of his own hand.

  The torch fires burned brightly along the deserted Avenue of Sphinxes. The human-headed monsters seemed to scowl at the night, daring man to rise above his baser instincts and join the immortal ranks of the gods. The regal heads rose imperiously from leonine bodies made tense by a barely checked urge to crush and devour the evil crawling throughout the earth. They symbolized the power of mind over matter, of spirit over flesh, the godlike human head controlling the bestial body, and the never ending battle of good versus evil.

  Mentuhotep and his men approached the Temple of Osiris with great caution, touching their amulets in a silent plea for protection and aid from the gods. Shadows wrestled on the smooth, paved ground like battling beasts in the eternal struggle of mankind. Smoke writhed around them, and dogs barked in the distance, from the town which had been turned into a battlefield. The king kept his hand on the hilt of his dagger, while Qeb held his scimitar protectively before him, ready to strike at the enemy. With every tentative step, they neared the nest of vipers. Arriving to the pylon, they pressed their backs against the walled entrance rising intimidatingly toward the black sky. No sound emerged from within.

  Qeb gestured to the others to wait as he moved slowly around the colossal sandstone statues of Osiris flanking the pylon, where the god stood guarding both sides of the entrance with the crook and flail in his arms which were crossed over his chest. The massive stone entrance was carved in heavy relief. Osiris watched them from the colorful painted walls, seated from his otherworldly throne, with the crook and flail also held in his crossed arms; and again from where he was standing with a spear in one hand, and a dagger in the other, as he was depicted in several carved poses, battle-ready and menacing, with the war crown on his head—the same blue Khepresh war crown that Mentuhotep wore. The others followed slowly behind Qeb, stepping soundlessly through the rectangular opening and into the empty hypostyle courtyard.

  “No one is here,” Qeb whispered.

  “Look,” Mentuhotep pointed to the scepter that Khety had flung to the floor earlier. It lay abandoned by a column. One of the guards picked up the scepter and handed it to Mentuhotep.

  “Khety was holding this,” Mentuhotep said, as he angrily recalled how the king of Lower Egypt had appeared when inciting the crowd from the platform in front of the Temple of Osiris. Mentuhotep grit his teeth as he thought of the man who wanted to take his throne from him.

  From the distance where Mentuhotep had been watching, he didn’t think that Khety had changed all that much over the years since he last saw him. But he had not been close enough to the northern king to really tell, and darkness had already been settling over the temple. Regardless, Khety still possessed an undeniable presence which left people spellbound. That much was obvious. The crowd’s reaction was evidence enough of Khety’s allure. He most certainly must still possess the strik
ing features with which he had been blessed by the gods. And whatever creases he had acquired over time, and the hardened aspect from all he had suffered, would only have made him more fiercely handsome.

  “Lower Egypt’s crown will be yours one day, Lord King,” Qeb said, as Mentuhotep was recalling how Khety had captivated the crowd. “You will wear the Double Crown, as you are meant to.”

  “When the Prophesy of Neferti is fulfilled,” Mentuhotep said, as he left the scepter where it had been found on the floor, before continuing to look around the courtyard for any signs of the enemy.

  The huge columns framing the courtyard shone translucent in the milky light of the full moon. The lunar god Khonsu had made his appearance in the night, where he took his regal place upon his sky throne. Mentuhotep peered into the thick shadows beyond the colonnaded galleries, but saw nothing.

  Nothing sinister moved in the darkness that settled between the columns. Nothing scratched or scurried on the ground, which was kept immaculately clean by the priests who oversaw the temple rituals, and daily tended to the ancient god’s human needs. Nothing but the sounds of their own movement and breathing disturbed the space around them.

  The group moved deeper into the hypostyle hall waiting beyond the courtyard. Qeb grabbed two torches flanking the second pylon’s entrance, passing them to two men whom he urged forward before following them inside the roofed structure. Three sets of double-rowed columns rose in what seemed like a petrified forest, appearing taller than the columns in the courtyard. The colossal pillars were topped with papyrus and lotus capitals, gently flaring toward a ceiling pierced by shafts of spectral light, that drifted through openings cut into the sides of its raised center aisle. Although the hypostyle hall was smaller than the courtyard, its limestone opulence dwarfed the men who touched their amulets in awe. They were overwhelmed by the surroundings meant to evoke the densely reeded marshes of the outside world, which screened the holy and secluded dwelling place of the god from unworthy eyes.

  The hypostyle hall was used to perform religious rituals, and was forbidden to the general public. Only the high priests and king were permitted to enter, and only after obligatory purification rituals including meticulous bodily cleansing, and a strict adherence to dietary laws prohibiting the consumption of certain foods like fish and pork, which were considered unclean. But all protocol had been cast aside in order to rid the settlement of the wickedness that had taken refuge within its holiest temple.

  Every step through the magnificent space filled the men with a sense of wonder and trepidation, and their grips on their weapons tightened with the need to feel something tangible in the elusive world of gods, which dazzled mortals. The men holding the torches, swept the flames over the walls surrounding the outer columns, where the darkness was most profound. The fire’s light threw ominous shadows that imbued the paintings with a life of their own. Brightly painted, carved reliefs portrayed religious rituals and scenes of the life of Osiris, and were lavishly decorated with lush plant-life including lotus flowers and papyrus reeds.

  In one of the painted scenes, Isis stood with her hands resting on the shoulders of Osiris, who was seated before her with the crook and flail in his hands. He wore the Atef feathered crown, while Isis wore the horned crown of Hathor, symbolizing healing and fertility.

  In another painted scene, Osiris stood next to Isis, while their son Horus, who was wearing the Pschent Double Crown of Egypt on his falcon head, stood before them with one foot in front of the other. Horus was holding the ankh key of life in his right hand, and the canine-headed Was Scepter, symbolizing his divine authority, in his left hand.

  The eerie play of shadow and light made the gods seem as though they were actually breathing. Even the columns were elaborately carved, depicting more scenes from the life of Osiris, including a painting of the god seated before an offering table heaped with food, drink, oil and incense. Everywhere in the hall, the paintings, reliefs and the architecture of the temple reminded one of the god whose mythos dominated the structure, and whose essence permeated the very air, which was redolent of smoke and incense.

  The men grew tenser as they moved deeper into the temple, exploring its sacred surroundings for the evil lurking within. Mentuhotep wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. He was perspiring. Qeb just ignored the trickle of sweat running down the side of his face.

  They entered the Sanctuary—the Holy of Holies—in the deepest part of the temple where Osiris lived. But his cult statue had not yet been returned. It was still at the tomb where it would remain for several more days, before once again reclaiming his throne upon the raised shrine enclosed within the monolithic syenite naos, which was topped with a decorative cornice and polished to a gleaming shine.

  In front of the naos stood another platform in the room’s center, where the gilded barque was usually stored. That too was missing, as it would be used to transport the god back to the temple from his tomb. The room’s two bronze wall braziers, that were kept burning year-round in the presence of the god, remained unlit in his absence. Nothing but the men’s torchlight illuminated the walls of the room, which were covered in images of gods and goddesses, and in intricate hieroglyphic texts.

  From floor to ceiling, illustrations were carved into the walls, portraying Osiris in different stages of his life. There were images of priests making offerings of food and drink to the beloved god, while scenes of clerics and other ministers were paying homage before him, or serving him in a variety of manners as was befitting to the god.

  For a moment no one moved. Even though Osiris was not there, they felt the god’s omnipresent Ka watching them. They held their breaths in reverence, knowing that their presence here would never be warranted under normal circumstances.

  Few ever had the chance to enter the temple-mansions of the gods. The priests who did enter had to undergo a ritual of purification rites before stepping within the hallowed structure. Cleanliness was indeed next to godliness, as they were required to wash and oil their clean-shaven bodies four times daily—twice in the morning and twice at night. They wore no leather or wool, abstained from all intimate relations, followed strict dietary laws, and rinsed their mouths out with a cleansing solution of natron. Even those lesser priests who did not have any contact with the divine cult image, were also required to partake of the ablutions so that they too would be considered ritually pure before stepping within the hallowed temple grounds.

  “Blood!” one man gasped in alarm. He crouched down to examine the drops which thickened into a trail, smearing its way behind the platform.

  Qeb took the torch from the man, his other hand never leaving the hilt of his scimitar, as he followed the bloody path. Every one of his senses was in a heightened state of alert. He could feel the tiny hairs on his body standing on end as his skin prickled with fear, anticipation, and anger.

  The trail led them behind the shrine to an oval stone basin that was larger than the opening of a well, and set directly into the floor. It was filled with holy water from the Sacred Lake lying just outside the temple, behind its grand structure. The sanctified waters were used in the temple purification rites and offerings. But the once-crystalline water ran dark with the blood of a priest who was sprawled face-down in the basin. Two more priests lay on the floor nearby. Their dead eyes stared blankly ahead, the light of life extinguished and cold, as were the bronze braziers affixed to the walls.

  Mentuhotep tore his gaze from the bloody scene, grabbed a torch from one of the men, and scanned every corner of the vacant room that lay at the very back of the temple.

  But no one was there.

  King Khety and Ankhtifi had vanished.

  ELEVEN

  King Khety and Ankhtifi were on a ship bound north to Nen-nesu. The oars bit into the Nile, spreading ripples across the dark water glinting in the moonlight. The ship’s prow rose to a sharpened point on which a metal lion’s head jutted out almost horizontally over the water. Its jaws gaped open in a menacing snarl meant to
scare away any evil spirits lurking in the river.

  The narrow elongated hull cut through the river, parting it evenly in two. A large steering oar used to navigate the ship was fastened to the stern, above which rose the bowsprit in a long and graceful curve, its end flaring out like the head of the papyrus reed—the symbol of Lower Egypt.

  The ship moved soundlessly through the water with its cargo of defeated men. It slipped away from the dwindling battle in Abdju, which had been ignited by King Khety’s uprising. Fires continued to burn all through the night, visible along the southern horizon where they destroyed and blackened much of the old necropolis and other parts of the settlement.

  The ship moved steadily, looping around wide marshes and mudbanks where night heron and grebes stalked and foraged through the reeds. The haunting wail of a loon sounded a lonely call echoing in the darkness.

  King Khety and Ankhtifi had escaped from Abdju shortly after the fighting had commenced. They had disguised themselves as pilgrims, and had stolen away through a secret passage hidden within the temple. They had tortured their captives into revealing the entrance to the passage before Ankhtifi killed them inside the sanctuary, and left their lifeless bodies on the defiled floor. It was a sacrilege of the worst kind, a blasphemous desecration of the holiest of holies in the murder of innocent men, whose blood violated the god’s earthly domain.

  No purification ritual could wash away the darkness staining a wicked soul, or the evil festering within an infected heart.

  The narrow mouth of the secret passage had been concealed by a thin stone veneer etched in elaborate hieroglyphs, overlaying a thicker slab of limestone in one of the corner walls of the hypostyle hall. It had been difficult to find at first, and even more difficult to pry out. The priests had searched frantically, only pausing to argue amongst themselves as they sought the opening that had not ever been used in their lifetimes.