“Ankhtifi! Let’s go!” Khety called out to Ankhtifi when he saw an opportunity to flee after Nakhti retreated. He wanted to rush to their ship before it was too late.
But Ankhtifi crouched low, growling as he faced Khu with the mace in his hand. He did not recognize the young man standing before him as being the same little boy who had been hiding under a blood-soaked sheet, in a shadow-shrouded room that stank of death. He had never seen him, nor had he even suspected that the boy had been hiding inside the room on that fateful night, when death fell upon the village like a plague.
But Khu remembered Ankhtifi.
Every detail of Ankhtifi’s lupine face had been seared into Khu’s soul before it was buried and forgotten with the amnesia he had suffered. Every single nuance, from his predatory sneer, to his dark sunken eyes, and even to the tic that made one side of Ankhtifi’s jaw twitch. Khu shuddered once again as he faced the malevolent beast with the blackened soul who had butchered his family and village.
Ankhtifi sneered and turned to flee with Khety, but not before Khu ran after him once more. Khu dove at Ankhtifi, lunging low at his legs, driving his dagger deep into the back of Ankhtifi’s left thigh.
Ankhtifi shouted angrily in pain as he twisted free of the blade, kicking Khu hard with his good leg.
Khu rolled on the ground, putting distance between him and Ankhtifi, but two of his ribs had broken from the force of the kick. Khu winced as he got up, wobbling a little from the pain, wrapping a protective arm about his ribcage. He was bent over with his eyes fixed on Ankhtifi, panting with the effort of breathing through the stabbing sensation in his side.
Then a glowering Ankhtifi swung his mace, twirling it high in the air as he edged closer to Khu, who was backing away from the wounded wolf-man.
“KHU!!!” Nakhti yelled.
But the warning was wasted, for Khu had been watching Ankhtifi all along. He was unable to tear his gaze away as he stared, transfixed, at the man who moved with the calculated precision of a predator readying to pounce.
Khu ducked but not fast enough. The mace glanced hard off the side of his head. He stumbled and fell as the men fled, and Nakhti ran to his side.
The blow did not kill Khu, but it stunned him badly, and blood ran freely from the jagged cut in his smooth-shaven scalp, spilling down his face and neck.
Nakhti kneeled down on the ground, placing a supportive arm under Khu’s bleeding head, and another under his back, holding his brother closely as a violent trembling assailed Khu’s body.
“It’s alright Khu,” Nakhti whispered worriedly. “They have fled. It’s alright.”
“No,” Khu uttered between breaths, “he… he k-killed them…”
Nakhti watched his brother intently, not sure who he was referring to. “They fled,” he repeated in a calming voice. “They are gone. It is safe now. You are safe.”
“He k-killed my f-family.”
“Who?” Nakhti asked, utterly confused.
“Ankhtifi.”
And then Khu closed his eyes.
Khu’s last thoughts before succumbing to the darkness enveloping him were with his father, his mother, and his little sister who waited for him in the Afterlife—in the Field of Reeds. He saw their beautiful faces smiling to him, as they stood together, holding hands, side by side, in an open field, under a limpid sky, warmed by a golden sun.
Hot tears rolled slowly down from the outer corners of Khu’s reddened eyes. Hot, bitter tears that bled from the raw, biting wound in his soul, whose thick protective scar had been savagely ripped open after all these years. His tears mingled with the blood and dirt staining his skin, and then dripped, one by one, to the ground, as he finally lost consciousness in Nakhti’s arms.
TWELVE
A smoky haze hung over Abdju. It was deathly quiet, and the eerie hush stifled the city that had been ravaged by King Khety’s insurrection. The sun shone through a mass of clouds that stretched thin over the large settlement.
The last of the revolt had been quickly crushed, though it took days to drive away the crowds, and clear out the last of the pilgrims, who had arrived on foot or by boat. But Abdju had suffered extensive ruin. Mentuhotep left troops stationed at the ancient cult center, placing the city under guard to keep away looters from descending upon the settlement, whose many temples, shrines, and vast necropolis had been charred and partially crumbled in the fires.
The Temple of Osiris was among those structures which remained standing. It was as though the blood drenching the floor of the sanctuary had deflected the ravenous flames from consuming it. The price of peace is innocent blood spilled on the altar of death. But the Avenue of Sphinxes and the pylon of the great temple had not been entirely spared. Many of the human-headed monsters were blackened by the fires, and now resembled something fiendish out of the Netherworld, like hulking, soot-smeared, crouching beasts ready to pounce on passersby, and drag them to the depths of their fiery dens.
Khu lay on a bed inside the lower hall in the home of an official who had remained loyal to King Mentuhotep. Although the ground floors of the upper class homes were usually reserved for the household servants, Khu had been placed there so he would not have to walk up and down the stairs leading to the family’s living quarters, on the second floor of the home. The gash on his head had been stitched and bandaged, but nothing much could be done about his broken ribs, other than wrapping a linen cloth around his torso to help immobilize him, and provide a small measure of comfort. He lay still, keeping his breathing even so as not to exacerbate the pain in his side. Several days had passed since his fight with Ankhtifi and his head still throbbed from the pounding gash he had received.
“I want to go with you Father,” he told King Mentuhotep, after a moment of silence.
Qeb and Nakhti were pacing in the hall of the house where Khu’s bed had been laid, but they stopped their pacing to look at Khu, and frowned.
Mentuhotep sighed, shaking his head as he released a long, frustrated breath. He had gotten very little sleep in the last days, and it showed. Stubble had grown over his smooth scalp and face, shadowing his features with fatigue, while the black kohl lining his eyes was smudged, making the circles underneath his eyes appear darker.
Yesterday he had assembled a large group of his men to devise a plan to defeat Khety and Ankhtifi once and for all. He knew that the northern king had a powerful influence which commanded people’s respect. But it was a grudging respect, for many people did Khety’s bidding out of fear rather than faithfulness. And those who rule through intimidation end up commanding a legion of cowards, who are quick to turn and scatter like the sands of the desert when facing a shift in the wind.
Mentuhotep had met with an assortment of advisors, warlords, generals, and other officials and leaders from various regional settlements, in the pavilion of one of the noble’s homes, near the temple complex of the city. With the help of Qeb, he had delineated his plans and instructed the men to gather more troops for the assault that was planned to happen as soon as possible. They wanted to strike the iron while it was hot, and use the momentum from their victory in Abdju to continue pushing north after Khety and Ankhtifi.
Ankhtifi was a fugitive now. The chieftain of Nekhen had no choice but to abandon his settlement after their defeat. He would not dare show himself near Thebes for fear of retribution. It was well that he hid, for Mentuhotep had already sent spies all along the Nile as far south as Kush, and up north by the Nile Delta.
After options were discussed, details ironed out, and questions were answered, the king had dismissed the men so that they could make their preparations and raise more troops. Men and boys of fighting age would be conscripted into Mentuhotep’s growing army, alongside the household troops of the various chieftains who were loyal to the Theban king. With proper planning and training, they would move forward in hopes of defeating all remaining obstacles including Khety, before capturing the throne of Lower Egypt once and for all.
A deep vertical line etched
Mentuhotep’s forehead as he drew his brows together. He was staring at Khu with a look of worry. “If something had happened to you…” the king cast a disapproving look at Nakhti and Khu. “You attacked three men—”
“Five,” Nakhti corrected, as he walked over to the king’s side.
“Five,” Mentuhotep nodded with a snort. “Five seasoned warriors!” He had gone to sit by Khu’s side, but got up suddenly, upset. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose in an attempt to alleviate the strain he felt. Part of him admired the courage of his sons. They had gone after King Khety and Ankhtifi without a second thought for their own welfare. But the other part of him was furious at their impulsiveness.
“You are too impulsive Nakhti,” the king scolded his other son. “How many times have I told you to think first before acting? How many times has Qeb said the same?” Mentuhotep knew that the boys could have been killed. “Whatever gave you the idea that you could possibly attack Khety and Ankhtifi and survive?”
“They do not know of Ankhtifi’s reputation,” Qeb added in their defense. He too looked worried, and the lines on his dark skin were more pronounced. But Mentuhotep disregarded him.
“I wish it had been my idea, Father,” Nakhti said regretfully, ignoring the rebuke.
“It was my idea, Father,” Khu spoke up. “But it could not be avoided.”
“Your idea,” Mentuhotep repeated, raising a single eyebrow. Khu never ceased to amaze him.
“Yes,” Khu said simply, without any trace of defensiveness.
“And what would I have told your mothers if something had happened to you both?” the king admonished them with a shake of his head.
“That is the risk of battle, Father,” Nakhti answered after a solemn moment.
“No,” the king argued.
“What else could they have done?” Qeb asked, crossing his arms over his chest. He had been standing by and watching the king chiding his sons. He understood Mentuhotep’s concern. When Qeb had first heard of Khu’s injury he felt a molten blend of rage and fear surge through him. Fear for the boys he loved as sons, and rage for the men who could have killed them.
Mentuhotep’s fatherly instinct was the first to rear its head where his sons were concerned. But the boys had proved themselves as young warriors. They had survived their first real battle, and it would serve them well in the uncertain times lying ahead. After all, iron is forged in fire. And there is nothing like battle to forge a warrior.
Mentuhotep shot Qeb a censorious look, but said nothing. He knew that Qeb was right. “They could have gone for help,” he finally said after a moment, but his words lacked conviction. He realized that he would have done the same in their place.
A servant girl brought in a tray of food, and laid it on the wide table standing between two painted columns supporting the spacious room’s high ceiling. No reed mats covered the three windows set high up in two of the walls facing each other, and light poured into the room, illuminating the vast space. The walls were covered in painted vines and flowers, as were the columns. Incense burned from a corner of the room, sending delicate tendrils curling through the still air. Amulets encircled Khu’s bed for protection. Two more amulets were tucked within the bandages of his head and his ribcage, to speed up the healing process. He had been given warm infusions to sip that were made with special curative herbs. But they tasted awful, and he winced every time he drank, forcing himself to swallow the bitter liquid.
“Father…” Khu got Mentuhotep’s attention, and the king turned back to his son.
Mentuhotep sat down at Khu’s side once again. He placed a fatherly hand over Khu’s hand that was now larger than his own. Khu was still growing, and the king knew he would soon surpass him in height.
“It’s alright, Father,” Khu whispered as he gave his father’s hand a gentle squeeze. He sensed the king’s distress.
Mentuhotep could not stop thinking about how his sons could have been killed. It would have destroyed him if anything had happened to them. Utterly destroyed him. For a moment, the idea of losing his sons made him think of Khety, and how the northern ruler had lost his wives and children; he had lost everyone that mattered to him. The thought was unbearable, and Mentuhotep frowned, quickly shaking it away.
Mentuhotep’s gaze turned to one of the high windows and he stared at the light. Tiny speckles of dust moved in lazy patterns through the brilliant streak. He thought about the terrible massacre from which Khu had escaped as a child. Although the king was well aware of those things happening in the villages north of Thebes, Khu’s story made it more real—and far more personal.
Once he had regained consciousness in the presence of Nakhti, Mentuhotep and Qeb, Khu had recounted everything that had happened to him on that grisly night in his village when he was a child. His encounter with Ankhtifi had triggered every sordid detail of those long repressed memories, and he told them the story with a grim and faraway expression. Only a slight trembling of his hand, and a silent tear marking a glistening path on his cheek, betrayed the emotions roiling within him.
The king turned back to Khu. He regarded his son with a quizzical eye, as he pondered the bloody pillaging Khu had witnessed and escaped. What if Khu had died alongside his family that night when he was a boy? What if he had arrived to another settlement after his narrow escape, instead of coming to Thebes? What if someone else, other than the palace servants, had discovered the sick child hiding in the reeds? So many questions ran through his mind.
Mentuhotep thought of the Seven Hathors and what fate they must have decreed for Khu upon his birth. It was believed that these seven mistresses of fate were responsible for the destiny of a person’s life. They were present at the moment of birth, pronouncing the child’s fate in all things, including the lifespan, key events, and manner of death. How they must have smiled upon the infant Khu when he was born. They must have kissed his eyes, imbuing them with the special gift he possessed. Whatever bleak future he had held in that humble village, must have been promptly exchanged for something brighter. The short and dark thread of his destiny had been replaced by a golden strand that would lead him to the Theban palace on his seventh year. It was full of portent, and the king felt a strange thrill prickle his skin as he pondered the fate of the boy who became his son.
“Father…” Khu sensed the turmoil within his father. But Mentuhotep closed his eyes and shook his head.
“You cannot come. You must rest and heal. You can barely move as it is. Look at you,” Mentuhotep gestured with a hand over Khu to indicate his debilitated state.
“I injured Ankhtifi, Father,” Khu said.
“How do you know this?” Mentuhotep narrowed his eyes.
“I felt the blade hit bone. He will have a limp at the very least, if he does not lose the leg to infection.”
Khu had indeed injured the chieftain when he had lunged and driven the blade into his leg. The wound in Ankhtifi’s thigh had been cleaned, sutured, and bound tightly afterwards. No infection ensued. But the dagger had inflicted nerve damage, and would leave Ankhtifi with an obvious, permanent limp. It would hinder him, making it difficult to walk for long. It would also affect his posture, so that he would grow more stooped over time, from the efforts of favoring the weakened leg.
“An animal is far more dangerous when wounded,” Qeb muttered aloud as he thought of Ankhtifi’s feral instincts. The man seemed more animal than human.
“Sudi left yesterday for Nen-nesu with a few men,” Mentuhotep changed the subject with a wave of his hand. “He will find and keep close watch over Khety and Ankhtifi’s whereabouts while we prepare our forces.”
“What if Ankhtifi sees him?” Khu asked.
“He won’t recognize him. I spoke with Sudi before he left, and he never got close enough to Ankhtifi before or during the revolt. Besides, they have never met, so Sudi’s identity is quite safe.”
“I do not know about that,” Khu said.
“What do you mean?” the king asked.
“That is what I have been saying,” Qeb added.
“Sudi will be alright,” the king insisted.
“And then what, Father?” Nakhti asked.
Like Khu, Nakhti was also eager to hunt down Khety and Ankhtifi. He wanted to kill Ankhtifi himself, after the chieftain nearly took his brother’s life. He glanced at Khu, tightening his fists and setting his jaw against the anger he felt for the man who almost killed Khu—twice: years back when Khu was a child in a small village, and again several days ago.
Khu sensed Nakhti’s emotions and looked at his brother. He had always admired Nakhti’s courage. But there was more to him than that. Nakhti had a fiercely protective spirit, one which was backed by a boundless generosity for those whom he loved. He never stopped to think of himself when the welfare of others was at stake.
“We will go north.” Mentuhotep got up and wandered over to the table where several dishes of food waited. He helped himself to a handful of grapes. “If we do nothing, Khety will make another attempt to take the Upper Kingdom,” Mentuhotep said around a mouthful of food. “That is what I would do if I were in his place,” he nodded. “He knows his time has run out. And desperation makes men fearless.”
“And impulsive,” added Qeb.
“We should hurry, Father,” Nakhti pressed eagerly. “He’ll get away.”
“And go where?” the king said flatly. “He has nowhere to go. He is most welcome to leave Egypt if he so desires. It will make things easier for us.”
Khu: A Tale of Ancient Egypt Page 18
