Khu: A Tale of Ancient Egypt

by Jocelyn Murray

  “Find it,” Khety hissed at them. “And do it quickly!”

  “Y-Yes Lord King,” one replied in a shaky voice.

  All three priests darted nervous glances at Ankhtifi who was shadowing their every move. His ominous presence rattled and frightened them, making it more difficult to think. They had been right to fear him. For after they finally found the ancient passage, Ankhtifi had killed the priests to silence them forever.

  “Hide their bodies,” Khety told him, “but not too well. Let their deaths serve as a warning to anyone who may come searching for us.”

  Once they were able to wrench the stone covering the hidden passage free, Ankhtifi had a hard time fitting through the hole that was slightly smaller than the width of his broad shoulders. But he finally squeezed inside, following after the king of Lower Egypt and three other guards who had also disguised themselves as pilgrims. The chieftain of Nekhen had then carefully replaced the slab and stone veneer after him, with the help of a thin reed rope and the edge of an ax which he used to fit them back over the lip of the opening to the passage, so that no one would be the wiser. Anyone searching for them would not even know where to begin looking. Their only hope for clues now lay dead in a pool of blood.

  The fugitives had taken a torch with them to light the dismal path, which descended several feet beneath the ground. It was a dark tunnel, lined with large rough-hewn stone bricks that clung heavily with a silt-like dust, rising about them like a cloud of spirits from the Netherworld, reducing the visibility to almost nothing. The men moved slowly, having to stoop very low in the tight shaft as they stretched out their hands before them in an attempt to feel their way through the cramped space.

  Doubts assailed King Khety’s resolve as he peered ahead through the murky cloud that was a pale color of sand. He was carrying a linen sack with the Deshret Red Crown, and the ceremonial wig and beard he had been wearing earlier. With the other hand he pressed a strip of fabric over his mouth and nose, which he had wound about his head in a vain effort to protect himself from inhaling the thick dust. He wondered if he had done the right thing in escaping through the tunnel. What if they could not find a way out? Going back was not an option. But neither did he relish the thought of slowly suffocating to death in the entrails of the ancient city. Its bowels concealed a stale earthiness, much like the tombs whose lifeless air had not been disturbed in centuries.

  The men perspired heavily with the strain of their efforts, as they followed the passage which cut beneath the city in what seemed like an interminable stretch to the ends of the earth. They forced themselves to take shallow breaths through the layers of linen, which made them look like living mummies creeping through the land of the dead. Their backs and legs ached from their half-crouched stances, and the dust burned their eyes and nasal passages. They were heading north to one of the royal chapels in the Terrace of the Great God, which lay along a processional route waiting at the edge of the town.

  Centuries had passed since anyone had crept through these tunnels, which dated back to the first dynasty of the Old Kingdom. They had been constructed as a safety precaution against tomb raiders, and other thieving reprobates, who had a canine ability for sniffing out treasure like a fox in the desert sand. The last time anyone had been down here was well over five hundred years earlier, before the building of the pyramids of the great Giza necropolis that served as tombs and rose like citadels for the dead, in Lower Egypt’s west bank of the Nile.

  The channel-like passages were connected by small chambers cut into the bedrock upon which several tombs were built. But the entrances to those chambers were also hidden within the tunnels themselves, and even more difficult to find than the mouth of the passage within the Temple of Osiris. There were false passages and false doors leading to dead ends, all with the purpose of thwarting would-be robbers from desecrating the holy graves, temples and monuments. They would suffocate long before locating the chambers which remained sealed against all living things. Their only hope for escape was to remain on the path that would take them to one of the shrines belonging to the Terrace of the Great God. And so they continued feeling their way slowly, moving like moles burrowing through the earth, away from the fighting and chaos they had unleashed, which continued raging on the streets above them.

  The men followed the directions of the priests who had assured them that this particular path of the tunnel would arrive to a dead end at the edge of the settlement, preventing them from getting lost. Since the priests had never been down in the tunnel themselves, the fugitives were relying on secondhand information they had gotten from the priests, which had in turn been passed on by a long line of Keepers of the Temple, whose guarded secrets had been relayed in the oral tradition of the Old Kingdom, as well as inscribed on papyrus scrolls which were promptly incinerated before their escape. Khety had verified their information by comparing it to the diagrams on the scrolls, before Ankhtifi had burned the ancient evidence over a torch flame.

  They finally arrived to the end of the tunnel. But it took well over an hour just to find the trap door concealing the exit. Khety and the other men were bent on their knees, feeling blindly along the walls, running their palms over the rough surfaces as they searched for any telltale markings that would reveal the exit’s hidden location. They tried to smother their coughs behind their linen masks as more of the fine, silt-like dust rose in a thick veil around them, and the flames of their single torch lapped greedily at the dwindling oxygen of the cramped space.

  It was stifling.

  But Khety refused to give up, believing the priests had told them the truth. No one could resist Ankhtifi’s agonizing methods of extracting information. The priests had gladly revealed all they knew in hopes for a swift death at the hands of their tormentor, who inflicted pain with the calloused aggression of a crocodile.

  “Hold this,” Khety ordered from behind his linen mask, as he reached for the arm of a man next to him, and placed the handle of the torch in his hand. “I think I found the opening.”

  He brushed away the dirt outlining a crevice in the wall, keeping his eyes closed against the burning dust. The opening was about the same size as the one they had entered in the Temple of Osiris. With the help of another man, Khety carefully pried out the stone covering the hidden exit of the passage, and climbed out of the cramped space. The men stood up slowly, working out the kinks from their aching muscles as they stretched to their full heights. They wiped away the grimy sweat running down their faces like crocodile tears.

  No one but the Wedjat Eye of Horus watched as the disheveled group of men finally exited the tunnel, and entered the shrine that was dedicated to the son of Osiris and Isis. The Wedjat stylized eye and eyebrow was carved into the stone walls of the shrine, covering much of the space which had been built to honor the brave young warrior-god Horus, who had sacrificed one of his own eyes so that his father Osiris could see again, after his murdered and dismembered body had been revived by the loving devotion of Isis. The Wedjat’s symbol of protection matched the amulets worn by two of the guards, which they promptly touched upon entering the shrine.

  But nothing could ward off the evil that ulcerated within the chieftain who wore no amulets himself. Ankhtifi held little regard for such fanatic zealotry, and had long dispensed with those tokens believed to provide divine aid to the people. The only talisman he believed in was the power of his mace. And he grasped its hilt warily after he replaced the stone covering over the exit on a lower section of the wall.

  It was mostly dark inside the shrine. No braziers or torches burned in honor of the god. Only the flame of a small oil lamp sputtered a weak glow over the engraved and painted walls. The sounds of men fighting, and the frantic cries of people fleeing in panicked haste, sounded in the distance, far beyond the chapel as the men froze a moment to get their bearings. Their linen clothing was brown from the dust of the tunnel, which also clung to their skin in a thick dirty layer. Anyone spotting them might think they were one of the walking
dead who had left their tombs to wander among the living.

  “We should be safe here,” Khety whispered as he withdrew the dagger hanging at his side.

  A small war ship was waiting for them in the harbor lying just beyond a field bordering a dirt road. It had been a precautionary move, just in case things did not turn out as planned. Khety unwound the linen from his face and drew the cloth over his head to cloak his features. The other men did the same as they tried to pass for pilgrims fleeing from the city. The king motioned to the men to follow him as he left the enclosed pillared shrine and exited to a small courtyard facing the street. Other shrines and chapels lining the Terrace of the Great God stared out from their stone niches at the darkness that stank of smoke and death.

  ***

  Khu stopped suddenly as he and Nakhti walked along the Terrace of the Great God. Pilgrims scurried away, keeping to the shadows as they sought cover from unfriendly eyes. Most of the fighting had receded to small pockets scattered throughout the settlement which continued to burn well into the darkest hours of the night.

  “What is it?” Nakhti asked. Although he trusted Khu’s instincts, he also believed his brother to be a little too sensitive at times. Sometimes being overly cautious can be just as deadly as lacking any caution whatsoever. It is in those moments of hesitation and uncertainty that trouble strikes.

  “Wait,” Khu lifted his palm as he froze for a moment on the narrow street where debris was strewn, and flowers had been trampled by the fleeing crowds. Khu turned his head slowly towards the shrine of Horus across from them. He drew his brows together, narrowing his eyes as he stared, unblinkingly, into the darkness. He seemed to sniff the air like a wary dog sensing trouble. A vague and inexplicable suspicion prickled the back of his neck, telling him danger was near.

  “There is no one here,” Nakhti lowered his voice instinctively.

  But Khu shook his head and placed a hand on the hilt of his dagger. He felt the same tingling sensation he had felt earlier while staring at King Khety and his entourage, just before the Nen-nesian king would have had Ankhtifi slay the priest in a bloody sacrifice before the transfixed mob.

  Khu suddenly pulled Nakhti aside, quickly stepping behind a wall as five men emerged from the darkened courtyard waiting across the road, outside the shrine of Horus. Although they were dressed as common pilgrims, there was something clearly uncommon about the men. And they were armed. All of them held daggers with wicked tips glinting in the moonlight. Their proud and menacing postures were more fitting for battle-hardened warriors rather than humble supplicants seeking salvation. The tallest of the bunch also had a mace hanging by his hip. He seemed to prowl with the bearing of a predator on the lookout for prey. His broad shoulders swayed above a long, curved spine resembling the threatening pose of a cobra readying to inflict a deadly bite.

  The boys watched the men from their hiding place. Even Nakhti could tell that these were no ordinary pilgrims, and he admired Khu’s uncanny ability to sense danger, grateful for his brother’s mysterious gift.

  Khu was perspiring beside Nakhti. He felt an eerie chill shoot through his limbs, and yet he broke into a cold sweat despite the iciness flooding his veins. His eyes were locked on the largest of the men, who was cloaked in inky shadows smeared over the settlement.

  There was something familiar about the man, and it filled Khu with dread.

  “Let’s follow them,” Nakhti whispered, as he nudged Khu.

  But Khu did not move.

  “Khu,” Nakhti urged quietly. And when Khu still said nothing, Nakhti turned to look at him. “What is it, brother?” he asked with a frown, the tone of his voice full of concern.

  But Khu only shook his head. He could feel his heart race and his breath quicken. His eyes were riveted on the group of men as they stepped away from the shrine and headed cautiously down the street, darting leery glances about them.

  Khu did not understand the terrible fear that gripped him. He had never felt so confused and afraid in his life. There was something about one of those men in particular that left him frozen and immobile. It was as though the pliant tissue in his muscles had been replaced by lead. And although anxiety addled his mind and slowed his movements, he managed to follow after Nakhti who led the way.

  An owl hooted in the darkness, like a omen boding ill, and somewhere in the distance dogs were barking. A cat darted across the street and disappeared into a shrine, and a warm breeze blew the smoke from the fires across the settlement.

  Then someone screamed.

  It was a piercing sound that was immediately stifled as the largest of the men in the group ahead of them silenced the shrill cry of a woman with his dagger. She had run out in front of the men with her two children, thinking they were pilgrims like herself, and that they would help her to flee the burning city and all its havoc. But when Ankhtifi raised his dagger, teeth flashing as he snarled threateningly, the woman panicked when she realized that death, rather than deliverance, was at hand.

  Nakhti and Khu had closed most of the distance between them and the men stalking the street ahead of them. The boys kept close to the shadows of the shrines they passed along the Terrace of the Great God. Most of the colonnaded façades stared out at the deserted street, with little more than an ashy light seeping from the darkness beyond their small courtyards, where forgotten oil lamps burned in solitary confinement, within the chapels paying homage to indifferent gods who had forsaken the major cult center of the ancients.

  The moon’s light shone full on Ankhtifi’s face from this angle, throwing his lupine features into high relief. Khu saw Ankhtifi’s face, and reached out a hand to steady himself from the jolting shock that nearly knocked him over. He grasped Nakhti’s shoulder, who walked a pace ahead, stopping him at once. Nothing blocked Khu’s view of the wolf-man’s face, as Ankhtifi kicked the woman’s lifeless body, and those of her two young children, away after they all fell to the ground.

  Something twisted painfully inside Khu. Something within him was wrenched with a violent force, and he groaned softly in spite of himself. It was a low guttural sound, like that of an animal which had been mortally wounded. He stared, wide-eyed, catching his breath as the full force of the horrific memories that had long been repressed and deeply buried within the furthest recesses of his subconscious mind, came crashing over him like a tidal wave. He winced, shutting his eyes tightly, unable to thwart the violent sensations from wracking his being.

  Time stood still then.

  It came to a screeching halt before reversing backwards with a jarring force. For a few moments Khu stood riveted to the spot as images of his mother’s and sister’s deaths flashed in his mind. In that instant he was transported back to the bloody room in his old village, on the night of the terrible massacre that had annihilated the small agricultural settlement.

  Every detail of that cursed night tore through his mind with the vivid clarity of lightning striking through a blackened sky, wrenching his heart in two.

  One of the two children who were thought to be dead on the street next to their mother, made a mewing sound then. She twitched awkwardly as her little hand opened and closed next to her bloodied face. Ankhtifi grabbed his mace, swinging it over the child’s head, delivering the final death blow that forever silenced the girl with a low crushing thud.

  It was all that was needed to jolt Khu from his riveted trance. He leaped out of the shadows and ran towards the men, howling like a raging bull out of the darkness.

  For a moment the men panicked and dispersed, wondering what wicked fiend had been unleashed from the bowels of the Netherworld. It was an inhuman, ghastly cry that struck a terrible fear into the men who touched their amulets for protection. Even Ankhtifi panicked and stepped away looking for cover.

  Nakhti took full advantage of the element of surprise, catching up with two of the men as they were running away from Khu. The thugs staggered off balance in their haste, parrying as Nakhti lunged, but their efforts were weak and ineffectual against
the adrenaline-induced fury that suffused Nakhti’s blood with a godly strength. Nakhti screamed as he ran his blade into the belly of one opponent, gutting him open like a fish, then twisting the blade free before driving it into the second man’s back, stabbing ferociously with a hulking strength, then pulling it from the bloodied flesh.

  Khety had immediately taken cover in the shadows of another courtyard when he heard Khu scream. Nakhti ran after the third guard who had fled before the others. The man turned to face him, dagger in hand, as he swept the blade toward Nakhti’s belly. Nakhti blocked the assault and lunged furiously at the man who sidestepped out of reach. Nakhti swung again, hacking at the air as the man ducked away each time. Then the man feigned a thrust, but Nakhti did not take the bait. He twisted to the right, bending low as he stepped forward with an uppercut of his dagger, catching the man below the jaw. Blood spurted out into the darkness as Nakhti drove the blade deeper. The man stumbled and fell, dropping his weapon. Nakhti kicked the fallen blade away, and then withdrew his dagger, pulling hard at the blade, as more blood drenched the night. He wiped its crimson edge on the dead man’s cloak.

  Khu was about twenty paces behind Nakhti, locked in battle with Ankhtifi. He had pounced on Ankhtifi’s back, screaming like a demon, and startling the larger man into dropping his dagger as he reached up to grab Khu. Ankhtifi twisted around, ducked, and then rolled to the ground in an attempt to throw Khu off his back. It was only when Khety stepped out from the shadows that Khu got distracted and released Ankhtifi.

  Nakhti caught up to his brother, lunging at Khety as the Nen-nesian king joined in the fray. But Khety kicked Nakhti with a powerful force, and Nakhti skidded away on his bare back. A small group of people passing nearby screamed when they saw the men fighting, and they took off in alarm, scattering like a flock of birds flushed from a thicket. Khety’s eyes flashed as he glanced at the pilgrims running away. It was all the time Nakhti needed to jump back on his feet, his dagger in hand.