Khu: A Tale of Ancient Egypt

by Jocelyn Murray

  “I am not a spy for King Mentuhotep,” Odji defended himself in a feeble voice, keeping his gaze lowered in deference to the king.

  “Shut up!” Khety spat. “You are not a spy?” he narrowed his eyes in irritation. “Then you must be a traitor. You are a miserable excuse for a man, and these two men have sworn by the gods that you are indeed a spy. You are Theban, and you work for Mentuhotep!” He said Mentuhotep’s name with a scowl, as though the very word made him ill.

  Khety stopped his pacing to close his eyes and take a deep breath in an attempt to regain his composure. He rubbed his jaw and the back of his neck in irritation. He thought of everything Odji had said in his own defense, including his claim to have been secretly communicating with Mdjai—a low-ranking official—who died in the insurrection at Abdju. He thought of the accusations leveled against the bedraggled man; accusations that he was a spy for the Theban king, which Odji continued to deny. But no matter how much Khety weighed the evidence, studying it from every angle, it did not bode well for the gatekeeper. Every which way he looked at the testimony, it pointed to Odji’s guilt.

  Khety turned his icy gaze back to the gatekeeper, exhaling before he spoke. “It would be better for you to be a spy, than a dog who betrayed his master,” he spoke slowly, lowering his tone in emphasis, and pointing a finger at the smaller man. “There is nothing more despicable and loathsome than an unfaithful, traitorous dog. He is a dishonorable, vile creature, and cannot be trusted.” Khety waited a moment for the words to sink in. “Did you hear me?” he asked, narrowing his eyes. “There is no honor in betrayal.”

  Odji kept his gaze lowered as his mind raced in a panic. He feared for his life. He feared the men who accused him, and he feared the ruler of Lower Egypt whose hardened heart bore no patience for that which was contemptible, even where his enemies were concerned. And as a thousand afflictions assailed Odji from within his tortured mind, Ankhtifi stepped silently forward to join the tribunal before him. Odji did not see Khety’s enforcer at first. He was too wrapped up in the darkness of his own agony to notice him.

  “You will go back to Thebes,” Khety said, after a moment of deliberation. The king had turned to convene with the officials and Ankhtifi in private, speaking with them in hushed tones before facing the accused once again.

  Odji did not know what to think. Had he heard correctly? Would he actually be set free? He dared to raise his eyes and glance at the King who stared back at him with loathing.

  “L-Lord K-King?” Odji asked in a shaky voice.

  Khety blinked hard before speaking again, his jaw set. “Yes, you will go back,” he repeated. “You will go back to Thebes where you belong,” he nodded slowly as his eyes filled with a cold malevolence which made Odji shudder. “It will be a gift,” he said in a show of mock-benevolence as he looked down his nose at the defendant. “A gift from me to your ruler.”

  But Odji said nothing in his confusion. His eyes darted from Khety, to the officials surrounding him, and finally to Ankhtifi.

  Ankhtifi took a step closer to Odji, regarding the smaller man with dark sunken eyes. The tic in his jaw made one side of his mouth twitch upwards involuntarily, as though he were trying to suppress a snarl. The limp from his leg wound did little to alter his menacing appearance, even making him seem less human than before. He still moved with a lethal grace, stooping and swaying in a sinuous arch as he neared the gatekeeper. Odji stared at the taller man with hope and puzzlement as he wondered if he was about to be set free. But then Ankhtifi’s hand shifted to grip the hilt of a weapon hanging discretely under his kilt.

  That was when Odji knew he was doomed.

  Odji fell to his knees as the certainty of his impending death plunged him into desolation and despair. He was so choked up with fear and anguish, he could not even speak. He only uttered a low and pathetic cry before Ankhtifi withdrew his weapon to separate Odji’s soul from his body, sending him to the Hall of Two Truths and eternal death and damnation where the gaping jaws of the demon Ammit waited with salivating relish to devour the blackened heart of Odji’s spirit, which far outweighed the feather of maat on the scales of justice. His blackened heart—despite being shriveled with decay—weighed heavier than all the immense stone blocks used to build the Great Pyramid of Khufu on the west bank of the Nile in Lower Egypt.

  FIFTEEN

  About seven years passed since the revolt in Abdju and the events following it; seven long years of battles and skirmishes that thwarted Mentuhotep’s dream of unification. The Kushites had gotten wind of King Khety’s attack, and jumped on the opportunity to stake their own claim on Upper Egypt’s throne. Like the hyenas scavenging the plains, they smelled blood. They saw an opening in Mentuhotep’s tightly held reign, and they took advantage of the prospect for themselves.

  The ensuing skirmishes kept the Theban king occupied in the following years, so that his plans to push his forces north and defeat Khety once and for all had been delayed. Just when he had squelched one of the Kushites’ sly attacks, another battle would follow.

  Khu and Nakhti had fully grown by that time. Khu stood almost a head taller than Mentuhotep, and his sinewy frame had filled out into a solid mass of lean muscle. Although Nakhti was shorter than Khu, he was thickset and strong. The boys had become the men that the Seven Hathors had decreed for them at birth, and they made their father proud. Each was assigned to a battalion where they led men into battle against the Kushites and other enemies which tried to undermine Mentuhotep’s authority. The numerous battles they faced stole the last remnants of their boyish looks, earning them a few more scars in the process.

  Mentuhotep’s army grew into a formidable war machine during this time. Armories produced mass amounts of weapons to arm the warriors: from bows and arrows, spears and shields, to scimitars, axes and daggers used in close combat by the troops that were drafted from settlements and villages across the land. Those soldiers in reserve were called to duty, while officers of the army prepared their men—from the toughest disciplined troops, to the lowliest peasants and field hands—to mobilize for battle.

  As battles were fought and won, the spoils of war were dedicated to Amun in gratitude for his assistance, and in supplication for his continued protection. Captive soldiers were conscripted into Mentuhotep’s army, swelling the ranks of his forces, while their women, children and cattle were likewise confiscated as spoils of war, and assimilated into life within Upper Egypt.

  King Khety had his hands full with problems of his own. Asiatic nomads had infiltrated Lower Egypt through the Nile Delta, where they had arrived battle-ready and menacing with plunder on their minds. His forces were stretched thin by these sporadic assaults which left the already weakened lands in further ruin. But what Khety lacked in manpower, he made up for in his ability to gain support and convince others of his cause. With persistence and unrelenting tenacity, he managed to replace many of the men he had lost in the battle at Abdju, strengthening his army once again.

  It was Khety who had sent word to the Kushites, encouraging them to attack the Theban king shortly after the insurrection at Abdju. He promised them land in Upper Egypt if they helped him to overthrow Mentuhotep. And while the attacks had thwarted Mentuhotep’s immediate plans, they did not really weaken him. His army still managed to grow stronger, his forces multiplied, and his resolve to reunify the divided kingdoms was as unwavering as ever.

  It was after the last of the Kushite forces had been defeated, and a grudging peace treaty had been established, that Mentuhotep assembled his vast army and headed north on the Nile. His fleet of ships had more than doubled in the years since the revolt at Abdju. Sudi and a host of other spies had been keeping him abreast of Khety’s whereabouts so that he always knew of the Nen-nesian ruler’s activities.

  Mentuhotep stared out over the water’s surface that shone brilliant and blue under the sun. It was the Season of Growth—Peret—long after the annual flood waters had receded, and the crops had all been planted in the fields. Although t
his was the coldest of the year’s three seasons, the weather was still clear and pleasant during the day, with temperatures dipping more sharply at night.

  Mentuhotep was on the lead ship of his fleet, standing by the prow which rose in a graceful line before jutting out straight over the water, where the bronze sculpted head of a lion crushing a human skull had been mounted. The ship’s single mast stood bare as its sail remained tightly furled while oarsmen gripped the oar handles and pulled on their shafts so the wooden blades sliced through the water in unison. They had left Thebes nine days before, and made a brief stop at Gebtu, and then sojourned in Abdju and again in Ipu where they waited another day for the rest of the ships in his fleet to join them before finally heading for Nen-nesu, where he believed Khety was staying with his army. Khu and Nakhti accompanied Mentuhotep, Qeb and several other generals in leading the fleet of warships north. Their own men followed behind in several ships under the guidance of the officers who served them.

  The very air seemed charged with excitement as the fleet glided steadily northwards by oarsmen maneuvering the flat-bottomed ships with ease. Crocodiles eyed them warily, their sharp teeth overlapping their closed jaws in a menacing sneer. They were submerged in the water near a sandbar rising from the west side of the river where herons, cranes and storks were foraging for fish and insects. The birds waded near plants growing in a wild tangle of reeds, bulrushes and cattails that were alive with dragonflies, beetles and butterflies.

  “I want to arrive while it is dark,” Mentuhotep said as he glanced at his grown sons who stood by his side. “We can stop three more times on our way there—four if absolutely necessary—if we plan accordingly.”

  A chorus of noisy cicadas echoed across the water from the shrubs and trees along the bank where they sounded their mating calls.

  “The river’s current is steady, Father,” Nakhti observed with a nod, “and the rowers are propelling the ships swiftly onwards. We should be able to arrive when you plan, if they continue to row in shifts.”

  “Khety will know we are coming,” Khu changed the subject. His face was serious and his eyes had a faraway look to them.

  “He will indeed,” Qeb echoed as he joined them on top of a lookout platform which sat in front of the prow of the ship. “But that will not matter. Either way he will have to face us.” Qeb was rubbing his left arm which bothered him when the weather cooled. “Khety has had his spies lurking among us,” he slowly exhaled a deep breath, “just as we have had ours among them.”

  “It is the way of war,” Mentuhotep explained. Deep lines were etched on his forehead. “Khety will be told we are coming once we pass Zawty.”

  “Unless we get to Nen-nesu before his spies,” Qeb added.

  With every day that took them farther north on the Nile, Khu’s apprehension increased. Perhaps it was because they were leaving the safety of their own lands; perhaps it was because they were entering unfriendly waters. Either way, Khu’s uneasiness grew stronger.

  “Most of our sources claim that his army is smaller, despite the mercenaries he has hired. We have many more men than he,” Mentuhotep said.

  Qeb looked at the king. He had fought alongside his sovereign and friend for many years, and his respect for King Mentuhotep had only grown stronger after seeing the Theban ruler consistently lead his men with unwavering valor into battle. Mentuhotep could always be found at the forefront of combat. And he never asked anyone to do anything he himself did not do. He was a bold and fearless leader, having been born and bred for this role which he fulfilled well.

  “I am not overly concerned,” Mentuhotep stated with forced confidence. But his demeanor said otherwise.

  Khu could feel the tension within his father without even looking at him. Mentuhotep was like the taut string of a bow pulled before discharging an arrow. Khu felt the same way. He had spent so much time pondering the strange circumstances and tragic events which steered the course of his life, that little else mattered to him other than his loved ones and avenging the deaths of his family.

  Nakhti, on the other hand, was smiling. He looked forward to the battle with eagerness and enthusiasm, almost as one entering a great competition whose prize was beyond measure despite the risk of life it entailed. He had married a few years before, and already was a father to a little girl with another child on the way. With all that had been going on, the wedding contract had been a short and simple affair arranged on the Theban palace grounds.

  Nakhti’s wife was a cousin whom he had known since childhood. She waited for him at their home in Nekhen where they had been living for the past three years, since Nakhti had become chieftain of Nekhen to replace Ankhtifi. Nakhti began to be groomed for this position a couple years after Ankhtifi had fled north with King Khety, and he had done a fine job in overseeing the trade center, its mines, and its skilled craftsmen. With his own son at this important post, Mentuhotep felt more confident in the stability and security of his kingdom.

  Khu had not married, and remained in Thebes where he had been serving his father as chief counselor and military chancellor, replacing Qeb in the illustrious position after Qeb had sustained a debilitating injury that had crippled his left arm. Qeb had been serving in an advisory position to Mentuhotep and Khu in the last three years since receiving the injury. Khu looked over at Qeb with admiration for the man who was like a second father to him. He saw Qeb rubbing his maimed arm when his thoughts were preoccupied elsewhere. It pained Khu to see the man he admired—and thought invincible—in any kind of discomfort.

  Khu turned away to watch a hawk gliding over the floodplains near the river. He could not help the anger and frustration that surfaced every time he pondered the circumstances of the battle where Qeb had been hurt. It was a particularly treacherous battle with the Kushites; a treachery prompted from within Mentuhotep’s own ranks, by the men who had betrayed him. Khu tensed, taking a deep breath, exhaling slowly.

  That was more than three years ago.

  Khu glanced back at Qeb, fixing the Kushite warrior with his piercing gaze. Qeb was staring out over the water’s shimmering surface, his usually smooth impassive brow, drawn in concentration. The injury had done nothing to detract from Qeb’s intimidating appearance. The Kushite warrior stood tall and proud despite missing part of his left arm. The attacks in that battle were meant to have assassinated the Theban king.

  They nearly killed Qeb instead.

  It was during a supposed respite between battles that Qeb was seriously injured. Khu was away in Gebtu at the time. He had gone north with an army of men, while Nakhti stayed in Nekhen, stationed at his home settlement with a small army of his own. Mentuhotep and Qeb remained in the garrison town of Swentet where more mercenaries were being trained.

  The Kushites hatched a particularly wicked plot to assassinate Mentuhotep and capture the Theban throne. A small army of them entered Egypt through one of the Nile’s minor tributaries in the land of Kush, whereby they traveled north on the river, disembarking their vessels before the Nile’s first cataract, and continuing on foot over the land. They had disassembled their boats and hidden the evidence among the reeds and shrubbery growing on the eastern bank of the river. Journeying by night, they made their way under cover of darkness to avoid being seen.

  It was treachery from within the ranks of Mentuhotep’s garrison that instigated the revolt. But the treachery was devised by Ankhtifi who wanted revenge for the leg wound he had sustained in Abdju three years earlier, and who wanted repayment for having lost the prosperous settlement of Nekhen. The former chieftain had not forgotten the humiliation he had suffered, and he blamed Mentuhotep for everything he had lost. He blamed the Theban king for his ungainly limp, for the forfeiture of his settlement, and for his wounded pride that rankled more than anything else.

  Ankhtifi had decided to send a few of his own men like wolves among a flock, with bribes to induce the Theban forces to treason. Khety had been occupied with skirmishes in the north, and was unaware of Ankhtifi’s plan
. While it was true that Khety had wanted Ankhtifi to help him spy on the Theban king, he had not been aware of the assassination plot until after it had already been set into motion. Khety knew that Ankhtifi was acquainted with some of the men working for Mentuhotep, from the years he had lived in Nekhen, south of Thebes, and that these old ties would prove useful in acquiring information.

  “Once their loyalty is bought, the rest will fall into place,” Ankhtifi told Khety after he had sent his men to infiltrate the Theban army.

  Khety stared at Ankhtifi without saying anything at first. He was surprised that the former chieftain would go behind his back on such a delicate matter.

  “So their loyalty has already been bought?”

  “Yes it has.”

  “And you believe it will work?” Khety asked warily. He felt uncomfortable with the idea, and especially with the man who proposed it.

  Khety rubbed the smooth line of his jaw as he examined his own feelings on the matter, and considered the implications of Ankhtifi’s actions. It bothered him that Ankhtifi had not consulted with him first. It also bothered his pride that the man he had trusted had gone around him and acted alone. What did this say of Ankhtifi’s opinion of him, or of his respect and loyalty? Perhaps he was reading too deeply into the matter. But it still bothered him. Ankhtifi should have approached him first.

  “Why wouldn’t it work?” Ankhtifi asked the Nen-nesian king. “One of his own men betrayed him already, and we did nothing to encourage it,” he reminded Khety of Odji.

  But Khety said nothing. The lines between his eyes deepened as he regarded his enforcer with ambivalence. Khety’s own ruthlessness had been tempered by a lifetime of deep superstition and a grudging respect for the gods, including the principles of maat. And while he possessed a trace of civility, he knew that Ankhtifi had no such scruples himself. Khety despised treachery, even where his enemies were concerned. And he was suspicious of any man inclined to such malicious behavior, or who condoned it himself. What was to prevent such a man from turning around and betraying his own loyalties? And what would stop him from usurping the throne of the very king to whom he had sworn his allegiance?