Khu: A Tale of Ancient Egypt

by Jocelyn Murray

  Khu had presented the necklace to Tem at the very beginning of the festival, honoring his mother with gratitude in a private ceremony at the palace which had been attended by the royal family, other nobility and officials. Tem had given Khu a golden arm band in return. It was encrusted with gems among which a single black onyx gleamed. Tem had included the black stone after Khu returned from Abdju and told her the story about how he had escaped death as a child, when his village was raided. The dark gem was a symbol of the loss he had suffered as a small boy, and the grief that had forged him into the man he had become. She had listened to every detail of that cursed night with tears in her eyes as he recounted the dark memories which had been deeply buried and forgotten until he came face-to-face with the detestable man who had taken all but his life from him.

  Tem saw a change in her son after he had returned from Abdju. It was a subtle change that only a mother who is well attuned to the imperceptible nuances of her own child would notice. Gone was the boy who had first come to her, shriveled and frail years back when he was found hiding in the reeds by the river. Any last traces of boyhood had completely vanished from his handsome face. The son who knelt before her, to present her with the collar necklace, was a man now; a man who possessed patience under suffering, and power under control. And since his fateful meeting with Ankhtifi in Abdju, he had become a man with a purpose, waiting for the day he knew would come when he would avenge the deaths of his slain family, and send Ankhtifi’s soul to the Slaughtering Place for all eternity.

  The royal barge floated along the river, passing a large parade of revelers dancing in the open fields, where they had smeared mud over their skin in honor of Hapi’s muddy life-giving waters. From head to toe, they covered themselves with the rich black silt saturating the land. It was this silt which fertilized the land with rich minerals that would help the new crops to grow.

  All the priests in the surrounding Theban settlements had spent the first half of the festival in long elaborate ceremonies offering choice sacrifices of slaughtered oxen, goats, and river fowl in honor of the Arrival of Hapi, and in supplication that the god would bring a good flood—neither too low nor too high.

  The mood was hopeful, for the flooding was the foundation upon which all life in Egypt flourished. Those years where the Nile had not risen high enough, were followed by drought and famine. There had been much suffering without the water required to make the fields produce a healthy crop. Likewise, too much water caused great destruction as it swept over the mud-brick villages lying beyond the protective dykes and canals, washing away their homes and leaving behind a useless heap of mud and devastation. But this year the water level was perfect, inspiring the people with much confidence for the uncertain times ahead.

  People everywhere danced and chanted hymns to Hapi in veneration and thanksgiving, as they rejoiced in the annual holiday that brought the gods and the people together during this time of hope and renewal.

  Rejoice and exaltation!

  For the life-giving waters have come

  Reinvigorating the lands

  Feeding the herds

  Nourishing the multitudes

  O Hapi, Lord of the Fishes, Lord of the Birds of the Marshes

  We extol your virtues!

  O Hapi, Sustainer of Life, Quencher of Fields,

  We hail your generosity!

  Rejoice and exaltation!

  It was well after most of the chanting, sacrificial burnt offerings, and ceremonial pageantry of the festival had taken place, that the gruesome discovery of Odji’s death was made. Amun had already been returned to the somber depths of the naos in the sanctuary of his great temple, while Hapi had been placed back in his niche within the hypostyle hall, after which the priests lit a huge pyre in an open courtyard beyond the Avenue of Sphinxes. A column of white smoke rose from the fire like a spiraling staircase winding its way to the heavens. As the blaze burned brightly, the priests lit more incense which they carried through the crowds to drive out evil spirits lurking among the people, while imbuing the festivities with its sweet and sultry fragrance. People ate, drank, and continued celebrating as they danced among the acrobats and musicians playing lively tunes on their instruments.

  A man stood quietly among the cheering crowds as the celebrations went on. He wore a linen cloak over a simple tunic and sandals, and had draped the cloth over his head to hide his features. The man carried with him a brown sack which he clutched protectively. He said nothing as the beating of drums and blaring of trumpets rang out over the people who were elated from the festivities that had been going on for many days.

  King Mentuhotep watched the grand procession and ceremonies from an open pavilion on an elevated section of ground so that his view of the proceedings was unobstructed. The royal family and noble entourage were seated behind him. It was during this time that Mentuhotep prepared to meet with the heads of the settlements in the district. This was the time of year when he granted special requests to them in honor of the festival and the Opening of the Year.

  One by one, each of the heads of the settlements renewed their allegiance to the Theban king, while presenting him with small tokens of their loyalty in the form of gifts, including foodstuffs and crafts produced by artisans in their villages.

  The last one to approach the king was the cloaked man carrying a brown sack. He looked a little out of place with his serious demeanor, and Khu’s hackles were raised at once. Khu knew that this man was not from Thebes, and that whatever was in that mysterious sack did not bode well for his father.

  “Lord King,” the man said in a sardonic tone without bowing as the others had done. “I am sent from the north with a gift.”

  Mentuhotep narrowed his eyes at the man’s insolence. Khu stepped closer to his father’s side in a protective gesture, his body tense with anxiety. He exchanged a glance with the king, shaking his head slightly in a warning. Several of Mentuhotep’s advisors were in attendance, and they stared at the sack, wondering about its contents.

  “Who are you?” the king asked him, but the man did not reply. He loosened the drawstring of the sack, bent down to the ground, and emptied its contents.

  The crowd gasped.

  A head rolled out of the sack—the head of Odji the gatekeeper. Mentuhotep clenched his jaw, and a small muscle twitched on the side of his neck. He stared at the face of his former gatekeeper, whose vacant eyes were glazed over in death.

  In that instant Khu understood what had happened. He had never trusted the gatekeeper after the attempted robbery incident years earlier. Although Khu had not been sure of Odji’s involvement in the crime, his instincts had told him otherwise. But with other matters to keep the child occupied, and with Odji having kept carefully clear from the boy’s presence in the years since then, Khu had forgotten about the gatekeeper and his suspicious behavior.

  Khu took a deep breath and held it momentarily as he laid a hand on his father’s tense shoulder. The gatekeeper had gotten what he deserved. Whatever fate he had met, had been carefully cultivated by his own wickedness, so that he reaped what he had sown. It was all according to the principles of maat that dictated the serving of justice according to one’s deeds. Khu winced as he thought of the dead man’s ka burning in the unquenchable fire of eternal death, and he turned his golden gaze away from the dead man’s vacuous stare.

  The king’s guards immediately seized the messenger who made no attempt to escape. The man held his head high, his expression smug and fearless now that he had accomplished his task. His impudence spoke of the enemy who sent him, and of their hatred for the Theban king. But Mentuhotep knew that the guards were wasting their time with this man, for he was just an emissary.

  The one behind all of this was Khety.

  ***

  Odji’s appearance in Zawty had not been well received. They believed him to be a spy for the Theban king. Officials had questioned him when he was brought before them at a fortified compound off the western bank of the Nile belonging to a di
stant relative of King Khety.

  “You still have not answered the question,” one official said. He was growing impatient with the Theban gatekeeper. None of Odji’s responses made sense. There just did not seem to be enough motive for him to defect from Mentuhotep’s service. Every one of his responses had been without resolve.

  It was not as though Odji had been mistreated, or disrespected, or suffered a grave injustice at the hands of the Theban king. None of his answers seemed to have warranted defection, especially since the economic and socio-political situation under Mentuhotep had been more stable and prosperous than in the north. No, his responses did not make sense, and the official stared suspiciously at the gatekeeper with narrowed eyes. He had to be a spy.

  Several people had come forward to testify that Odji was indeed in the Theban king’s service, and that he had worked for Mentuhotep for many years. But when asked about Odji’s position, they said that he made a comfortable living, and the position he held was respectable. No one really liked Odji, but that could be because he exuded a haughty superiority which made him intolerable to others. Whether it was his position that made him seem this way, or whether it was the man himself who was deeply flawed, they could not say. But they had never heard nor witnessed anything that would have incurred the wrath of Mentuhotep against Odji, or turned Odji against the king.

  “F-Forgive me sir,” Odji stuttered when he answered the official, “I was working with Mdjai—one of the officials near Abdju.” Odji named the man with whom he had been trading clandestine messages before the revolt. “He had promised me a small township in return for information leading to the overthrow of King Mentuhotep.”

  “Really?” the man said, feigning interest, “a small township of your own? How nice for you.” He crossed his arms over his chest, tilting his head as he eyed the gatekeeper in mock-admiration. “Mdjai is dead. Or did you not know that?”

  Odji said nothing, turning his gaze to the ground, his stooped shoulders sinking lower as he cowered from fear.

  “Are you a liar?” the official asked Odji with no real expectation of an answer. “Tsk tsk tsk…” he clicked his tongue, shaking his head in disapproval. “A deceitful tongue poisons itself as it strikes another.”

  But Odji still said nothing. He felt panicked and befuddled, not knowing where to even begin to defend himself against these allegations. He was tired from the long and arduous journey he had undertaken with the boatman. He was tired to the point of exhaustion—mentally, physically and emotionally.

  Odji and the boatman had been heading north on the Nile when the sandstorm struck, forcing them to find shelter in Nubt. Nubt was a necropolis on the western bank of the Nile, with a few scattered monuments, one of which was dedicated to the feared god Seth. The irony of this was not lost on the men. It was as if Seth himself were leading them to perdition, if for no other reason than perdition itself.

  The men had arrived after the winds were already blowing forcefully, and their boat had broken free from its hastily tied post. The sand cloud sweeping over the sky had obliterated the sun, plunging the land into sudden darkness. Day had quickly turned into night, while dust devils whipped across the dry land.

  The men had moved as quickly as they could, wrapping their cloaks about their faces to protect themselves from the thick dust and sand. And arriving to an old temple-tomb of Seth, which dated back to the third dynasty, they scuttled inside like rats seeking shelter from the storm outside. It was dark and dusty inside the old temple, and Odji and the boatman crawled inside on hands and knees to feel their way through the darkness. They made it as far as the hypostyle hall, before curling up on the floor next to the towering columns, where they tried to sleep as the howling winds scourged the land.

  Once the winds had abated, they crept back out of the temple and searched for the boat along the river’s bank, whose visibility had been drastically reduced. An eerie stillness choked the air like a leaden blanket. But the boat was gone. All they found was a torn strip of the rope they had used to secure it to a thick post. Even if they were to find the boat, it was probably destroyed.

  “You are bad luck,” the boatman grumbled as they made their way north on foot with nothing but a few meager provisions and the cloaks they wore. They stopped often to rest, subsisting on the wild fruit they found from trees scattered along the dusty plain. Both men had inhaled much of the dust which made them sick from the spores it carried, and they were forced to pass many days in one of the caves they found at the edge of the necropolis. It was the remnants of an old tomb dating back to the Predynastic period.

  The sandstorm’s winds rose and fell two more times before they were able to continue north on foot. From there they had stolen a small reed boat from a village which appeared deserted. They drifted north on the boat for a few days until the treacherous winds forced them to find shelter once again. It had been a grueling journey.

  “Bad luck,” repeated the boatman as he cast sidelong glances at the bedraggled Odji.

  “Shut up,” Odji said flatly. But he reached up to touch the amulet hanging from his neck when the boatman was not looking, in hopes to break the evil spell that had ruined his plans.

  More than once Odji regretted leaving Thebes. Nothing but trouble had followed him since his departure, and he was starting to believe the boatman’s accusations.

  It was too late to turn back now. Too late to go back and face the Theban ruler who would surely know how he had betrayed him by abandoning his post to flee to the king’s archenemy; too late to reclaim his old life of tranquility.

  But he did not miss it.

  Even in the thick of the storm, with its blinding and suffocating walls of dust, which sent the branches of the palm trees flailing like the arms of drowning men in the river, he still would not have returned to Thebes, if he had been given the choice. Only once when the winds were howling like Seth himself, and he was shivering on the floor of a cave with a fever despite the choking heat, did a terrible despair assail him. But it was short-lived, as he closed his eyes burning from the fever, to let his mind replay one of his sadistic fantasies that would never come to pass.

  By the time they arrived in Zawty, the sandstorm had blown through its course, and was now behind them. The boatman himself had disappeared shortly before Odji had been detained, on a pretext of having work to do. He wanted to put as much distance between himself and the ill-fated gatekeeper so that his bad luck would no longer infect him. Being on territory that was sympathetic to the Nen-nesian ruler, the boatman also feared for his own life and did not wish to be associated with anything, nor anyone, from Thebes. As far as he was concerned, their partnership had ended once Odji left Thebes.

  This was only the beginning of Odji’s demise. What made matters worse for him was that the two thieves who had been caught during the failed robbery attempt in Thebes years back had since been residing in Zawty, and had immediately recognized Odji. When they saw the gatekeeper’s cold and haughty gaze, they had gone to report him at once to the authorities in Zawty, claiming he was a spy for Mentuhotep. They had never forgotten the pain and humiliation of being caught and publically flogged at the pillar. And they wanted revenge.

  There was nothing cold and haughty in Odji’s eyes now.

  Just fear.

  Fear shone in his gaze as he stared, wide-eyed, at the small assembly of officials whose features were devoid of any warmth or compassion. Fear sent the tiny hairs on the back of his neck standing on end as he tried to keep his bound hands from trembling. Fear made his heart pound hard against his ribcage, and his breathing labored as he stuttered and stumbled over his words that sounded hollow and deceptive even to himself. It was ill luck to be caught now, shortly after Khety’s disastrous uprising had disgraced and humiliated the Nen-nesian king and all his supporters.

  After several days of interrogation by the officials in Zawty, the ruler of Lower Egypt had come forth to question the gatekeeper himself. Khety was in a foul temper which seemed to sully t
he very air around him. All his personal failings, all the bitter grief from his past, and all the deficiencies in his dynasty were under tremendous public scrutiny, and the strain of this pressure deepened the fissures that weakened his kingdom.

  “Speak up when you are spoken to!” Khety shouted at Odji, rising from his seat to pace in front of the smaller disheveled man who was mumbling inaudible responses.

  Odji had not shaved during his journey, and he was filthy. The stubble growing on his head and face was peppered with thinning white hair. He looked and smelled like a vagabond, and the king wrinkled his nose in disgust.

  “So this is what Thebes dispatches to pursue us?” he questioned derisively, waving an imperious hand through the air at Odji. “This is your king’s best weapon?” He clenched his jaw, stopping suddenly in his tracks to turn and face the gatekeeper. “A cockroach,” he hissed, pointing at the cowering man. “You are nothing but a cockroach!”