Khu: A Tale of Ancient Egypt

by Jocelyn Murray

  Ankhtifi glanced at Khety, and the king felt something cold pass between them. There was something disturbing about Ankhtifi’s black eyes, which reminded Khety of death. It was probably just his imagination. Perhaps he imagined the contempt he thought he saw in Ankhtifi’s lifeless eyes. Perhaps he imagined a hint of defiance in the man’s lupine face and posture. Khety had been encumbered with skirmishes by the Nile Delta, and the strain was getting to him. Ankhtifi might have done him a favor, after all. But it bothered him nevertheless. He felt as though his own authority had been undermined by Ankhtifi’s actions. He felt as though his position had been challenged, growing more vulnerable and threatened from within, regardless of the purpose of Ankhtifi’s plot.

  “Then do as you see fit,” Khety finally answered with a wave of his hand, as he tried to mask his discomfort with indifference. “Just keep me informed of Mentuhotep’s whereabouts.” He doubted Ankhtifi’s plan would work, and he wanted to dismiss his enforcer and the strange suspicions that left him uneasy and cold.

  Ankhtifi’s plan did work, to a degree. Three men who had served Mentuhotep for many years, had accepted bribes from Ankhtifi’s spies, and turned against the Theban king. Despite their loyalty and service, they fell prey to the lure of greed. For even a single tainted seed can sprout and overtake a field, if its soil is fertile enough. And the soil of those three men’s hearts was a fertile breeding ground to the seeds of treachery sown by Ankhtifi’s spies. Promises of riches, land, and power can prove too great a temptation for even the most stouthearted of men; promises which assured them prosperity once the kingdoms were reunited under King Khety’s rule. So the three men turned against Mentuhotep, giving in to the temptation that overwhelmed them like an insidious vine strangling a tree.

  A small force of mercenaries had joined Mentuhotep’s army the previous year under the pretense of serving the Theban king. They were a diverse group of men including Kushites from the southernmost regions of Kush, and nomadic tribes which had been assimilated from settlements bordering the Sea of Reeds. The three traitors oversaw the training of these mercenaries who had been promised much wealth and riches upon the successful completion of their mission to assassinate the king—a mission that seemed almost impossible to Mentuhotep’s enemies, until now.

  The mercenaries trained hard, proving themselves in battle, and gaining the confidence and recommendation of Qeb himself. And with the passing of time, the poison within the Theban ranks spread as a disease, polluting more of the men, and turning them against the king.

  No one was aware of the contagion brewing from within. No one knew of the secret communication passing between the Kushites and the traitors in Swentet, as the Kushites prepared to send a small army to ambush the king. The enemy was patient, biding their time and keeping their intentions well hidden as they continued to fight and train diligently.

  Khu had not been around for much for the men’s training, and was stationed north in order to secure those settlements lying between Ipu and Gebtu; something he would later regret upon learning of the attack.

  The vicious attack came in the earliest hours of dawn, when a spectral light steeped the camp in ghoulish shades. The sickle moon hanging low over the sand dunes beyond the floodplain had disappeared from sight, as though the moon-god Khonsu had turned his face away in shame. Most of Mentuhotep’s troops were fast asleep in the mud-brick barracks of the camp, as well as in tents spreading out beyond the floodplain. More than two seasons—about nine courses of the moon—had passed since their last skirmish, and the men had been lulled into a false sense of security. One by one, under a somber sky, the Kushite warriors that had infiltrated Egypt from the south, tread like hyenas on the prowl. With their bows and arrows in hand, they advanced quickly and methodically, surrounding Mentuhotep’s camp, as they lay in ambush waiting for the signal to attack.

  The traitors slipped out of their tents to join the Kushite ambush, and once the signal was given, the attack was unleashed. A storm of arrows rained down over the camp, piercing through the coarse linen fabric of the tents, and injuring or killing those men who were trapped inside.

  “We are under attack!” someone shouted, waking Mentuhotep and Qeb at once. One of Mentuhotep’s men had gone to relieve himself when he spotted some of the strange, unfamiliar Kushite forces just before their arrows flew. He did not recognize any of the men. They were not part of Mentuhotep’s army, nor with any of the newly hired mercenaries.

  They had to be enemies.

  The camp was thrown into chaos as troops scrambled for their weapons and headed outside. Bewildered bleary-eyed soldiers rushed with daggers, while others grabbed spears and shields. But the element of surprise had thrown Mentuhotep’s army off guard, stunning them into confusion as they watched many of their own troops turning against them in a stabbing frenzy that resulted in much bloodshed.

  It did not take long for Qeb and Mentuhotep to realize what had happened. Together with a group of their most trustworthy fighters, they defended themselves and their camp from the treacherous onslaught that grew more bloody and vicious with every moment. The camp’s stillness had been shattered by shrieks, pain and blood that told of treachery and treason fouling the air.

  Although the enemy forces were fewer in number, the confusion set off by the surprise attack gave them the advantage in the beginning of the battle. One moment, men fought the ambushing Kushites side-by-side next to their allies, and the next, those allies bared their treachery, turning against them and killing them in a shocking and deplorable counterattack.

  It was a brilliant assault, hatched in malice, nurtured by greed, and reared in deception.

  Qeb stayed by Mentuhotep’s side throughout the fighting. Although the battle did not last for more than a few hours in its entirety, it was bloody, barbaric and brutal. As confusion gave way to clarity, the division between the traitors and defenders grew more apparent, making it easier to distinguish between friend and foe. But lives had already been lost in the turmoil, some of which were slain mistakenly, so that each side inadvertently killed some of their own men. It was a chaotic rampage of death and destruction.

  The attack on Qeb came after sunrise as Re’s Mandjet Barque of a Million Years rose higher, transforming the sand dunes into stunning hills of gold, their radiance spilling over the plains. Qeb had just killed two foes when he saw a furtive movement from the corner of his eye, coming from somewhere behind Mentuhotep.

  Two of the traitors were already dead along with many of the mercenaries who had trained under them. But the third traitor had guarded his identity, leading the king into believing he was an ally. Suddenly, the man whistled and turned on the unwary king when the opportunity presented itself. His signal prompted an enemy archer to loosen an arrow aimed at Mentuhotep.

  Qeb saw the arrow, and he threw himself in front of the king, blocking the assault with his own body. The arrow struck Qeb in the upper left part of his chest, close to his shoulder. In that same moment he was also stabbed by the traitor in the left forearm as he attempted to parry the attack. Qeb fell from the impact of the double assault, as Mentuhotep killed the rebel with a powerful thrust of his dagger, catching the man under the jaw with the blade.

  “Qeb!” Mentuhotep yelled, his eyes wide with worry when he saw his faithful friend fall to the ground. But Qeb just shook his head, waving the king away with his good arm so that he would not be distracted from the danger.

  Qeb backed away slowly on the ground, gritting his teeth against the pain as he tried to find cover by one of the barracks. He found refuge in the shadows of one of the mud-brick buildings, and he rested his back against the wall, his legs stretched out before him. He looked down at his wounds, trying to ascertain the extent of the damage. The arrow was still lodged in his chest, and his left arm hung limply as he attempted to cradle it on his lap. The traitor’s dagger had sliced right through his forearm, snapping a bone, and both wounds bled profusely.

  Qeb took a shaky breath and leaned his head
back on the wall, resisting the urge to close his eyes. He had seen the king stab and kill the traitor, and he knew that most of the rebels were dead already. But he could not fathom how the revolt had taken place. He searched his memory for any telltale signs that might have pointed to the deception in their midst. He tried to recall any clues or hints carelessly left by the traitors over the last year, but could find none.

  It was mystifying.

  He felt guilty, knowing that he should have seen it coming, should have somehow known of the treachery brewing within their ranks. He berated himself silently, shaking his head at his own failure to prevent the attack; an attack that had put his esteemed sovereign and friend’s life in danger. Mentuhotep could have been killed. What if he had not seen the furtive movement coming from somewhere behind the king in that instant? What then?

  Qeb’s eyelids grew heavy as the pain from his wounds throbbed, and his whole body ached. All it takes is an instant to change the course of a life—or to end it, Qeb thought grimly. A single, careless instant that would have invariably altered the fate of Upper Egypt’s Kingdom.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, just for a brief moment, then forced them open once again. His breathing was shallow, and his skin slick with blood and perspiration. He could hear men yelling throughout the camp, and somewhere in the distance dogs were barking. He felt cold—very cold—and a spasm made him shudder involuntarily, sending a stabbing pain through his left shoulder and chest, and he winced, clenching his jaw in pain.

  He couldn’t see Mentuhotep from the shadows where he lay propped against the wall, and he hoped the king was alright. He thought of the traitor who had almost killed the king, and he felt angry once again—an anger tempered by exhaustion and an increasing drowsiness. He had trusted that man, and had even congratulated him on the progress he had made with the mercenaries. He felt like a fool now.

  Qeb steadied his breathing to keep the pain in check. His gaze drifted upwards toward the sky, and he thought he glimpsed something flying. It was a dark shape with wings gliding over the camp, and Qeb squinted, wondering what it might be. He closed his eyes again, reaching a tentative hand—his good hand—up to the amulet hanging around his neck.

  It was gone.

  The amulet must have been ripped off in the battle. He wondered where it was and if he would find it again. Then he wondered at himself for the inconsequential thoughts darting through his head. He grew colder still, and weary, so weary with fatigue. He longed to sleep, but fought the urge with what was left of the strength draining fast from his body. He closed his eyes again, keeping them shut a little longer this time as the noises grew more distant.

  By the time Mentuhotep and his loyal troops subverted the enemy and regained control of the camp, Qeb was unconscious. Two surgeons worked on Qeb for hours, trying to save his life and his arm. They managed to remove the arrow after opening up the flesh where its tip had been lodged. And although they tried to reset his broken bone, mend the severed muscle and sinew in his forearm, the surgery caused more blood loss, putting Qeb’s life in further danger. They finally sutured and bandaged the wounds, and then left to treat more of the injured men in Mentuhotep’s ranks.

  No mercy was shown to the pinioned enemy who were still alive after the battle. They were promptly beheaded for treason after swift sentencing. Following their executions, their right hands were severed and their remains scattered in the desert for the wild animals to ravage.

  Qeb battled for his life for more than a full course of the moon after that. No amount of herbal infusions, compresses, medicinal unctions, spells, chants and amulets could counter the foul infection that overtook his left arm. While the chest wound seemed to be healing properly, the wound in his arm had putrefied, and the rank odor was enough to make one dizzy. Nevertheless, Mentuhotep remained at the side of his military chancellor, his own face pale and drawn from the anxiety within him. He watched his friend who was gripped by a tortuous fever. He watched him closely, his own brows furrowed, willing him to get well.

  Qeb’s skin burned from the temperature that left him weak and delirious. The arm wound was red and inflamed, and a vile liquid seeped from the opening beneath the sutures. At times he thrashed about and mumbled incoherently in his native tongue, perspiration coating his skin, and drenching the sheet on which he lay. Other times he lay still like a cadaver, a mask of death upon his face.

  More than once, Mentuhotep placed an apprehensive hand upon Qeb’s chest to ascertain the beating of his heart. The king held his breath as he laid a hand over Qeb’s heart, and bent down to lean closely by Qeb’s face, making sure his friend was still breathing. Qeb’s heart continued to beat—slow yet unfailing—much to the relief of the king who exhaled noisily each time.

  Qeb’s arm was finally amputated just above the elbow, and the remaining stump cauterized in the open flame of a fire to keep the poison which was blackening his hand and forearm from spreading any further. It took six men to hold him down while the two doctors performed the ghastly operation; six strong men to keep the Kushite warrior from thrashing about wildly, despite the trauma and weakness from his wounds, and the infection tormenting his body. He had cried out loudly during the procedure, roaring like a lion in terrible agony.

  The king had stepped aside to get out of the men’s way, but he did not leave the room. Mentuhotep stood watching from a corner of the room, his shoulders squared and his face stoic. He watched in silence, his eyes shining with unshed tears. And when he finally blinked, those tears left a glistening trail on his cheeks, which he did not bother to wipe away.

  Hours after the amputation, Mentuhotep sat at Qeb’s bedside, reflecting on the battle while his loyal friend lay pale and sleeping. Although that battle had been won, it was a costly victory due to the good men who had perished, and especially Qeb’s incapacitating injury that had nearly cost him his life—a life worthy of a whole battalion of men, as far as the king was concerned.

  The Kushite warrior had thrown himself in harm’s way without hesitation, to save the king. Mentuhotep knew that Qeb had shielded him with his own body. He knew that Qeb had taken the arrow and dagger that were meant to have taken his own life. And as Mentuhotep kept vigil over the man who had saved his life, he gave a long heavy sigh, slumping his shoulders as he closed his eyes and bowed his head in grief.

  Qeb later—much later—continued his duties as trainer to the young boys at the palace, as well as to those men who were conscripted into battle from the surrounding settlements; men who were vetted with great scrutiny after the treachery had infiltrated their ranks and nearly cost Qeb his life.

  The road to recovery had been long and arduous, but Qeb refused to give up or to give in to the temptation of wallowing in self-pity—a disease in itself that can infect a man’s soul when he is debilitated and his guard is down, incapacitating him far beyond the physical limitations of his wounds. No, he did not succumb to the self-indulgence and misery that defeats a weaker man’s spirit.

  Qeb remained stouthearted, and the strength of his will grew stronger along with the scars forming a protective barrier over his wounds. He recovered slowly, regaining his strength and training himself to fight with his one good arm. He knew he was fortunate to be alive. He knew this and he was grateful for it, accepting his fate with the poise and dignity of those rare and exceptional heroic men, who rise above their tragic circumstances with unwavering integrity and honor.

  Khu blamed himself after he found out what had happened, and he wept for the man whom he loved as a second father. If he had remained in Swentet, the revolt would not have occurred.

  At least that is what he told himself.

  He might have sensed something was amiss; sensed the presence of something wicked conspiring against them, and perhaps been able to warn his father and Qeb before the danger had erupted. Perhaps he could have done something about it long before the conspiracy had formed and taken shape; long before the deceit had spread like a contagion. Perhaps he could have flu
shed out the traitors right from the start, and the men they infected with their treachery. Then perhaps the rebellion would not have happened. Perhaps.

  There was no way to tell by hindsight. The damage was done. It was over. It was too late now. Khu felt guilty nevertheless. He felt conflicted and resentful and angry at the Kushites, the traitors, Ankhtifi and Khety, whom he blamed most of all. He thought of the Kushites who were like opportunistic hunters pouncing on any chance they spied. He thought of Ankhtifi and Khety whom he believed would stop at nothing to take Upper Egypt’s throne from his father. And he thought of the traitors who had forfeited their honor and loyalty for the promise of riches—a promise that unleashed havoc, bloodshed, death and disgrace instead. He wondered if he could have exposed them, if he could have thwarted their plans, if only he had been there. If.

  But he had not been there. He was far away at the time—about a seven-day journey from Swentet; much too far removed from the disastrous events. He shook his head, clenching his jaw, exasperated with himself, his guilt, and the senseless thoughts gnawing at him inside.

  His father had needed him up north to protect those settlements that were most vulnerable to attacks from Khety’s forces; or from Kushites circumventing the Nile and infiltrating Mentuhotep’s territory from another route. And Khu had prevented them. He had prevented more than one attack, thwarting several schemes that another man in his place might not have detected. Mentuhotep had done well to send him there. Khu knew this, and yet he felt frustrated and angry despite it all. The battle at Swentet had been something totally unforeseen. It had taken them completely by surprise. He could not have prevented it because he had not been there. No, there was nothing he could have done. He had to let it go.