The Amarnan Kings, Book 2: Scarab - Smenkhkare

by Overton, Max

  "Yes!" Menkure yelled, stabbing his fist at the sky.

  "I would be honoured," Merybast replied calmly.

  "Do not think the rest of you have escaped all danger," Smenkhkare went on. "This lion has been hunted before and this time he may decide to break through the men who disturb his rest, rather than flee before them. I would have you three with the men of the village, to strengthen and support them. Also to protect them if the lion breaks out."

  "Willingly, Djeser," nodded Psamtek. He looked up at the sinking sun, then around at the dry landscape. "Baki? Any chance of some hunting? We could always do with some meat for tonight."

  Baki shook his head. "The land is too dry for much game, which may be why the lion has come close to the villages. There may be a few antelope around, but I could not say where. There is little forage."

  Raia frowned. "It is hard to believe there is nothing. What about you, Bey? Do you know of anything?"

  "Me? No, sir, I don' know nothin'. I is just a farmer, sir. I knows nothin' 'bout 'untin'."

  "Meat will not be a problem, sirs," Baki said. "I have arranged for several goats to be brought out from the village."

  "Goat?" Psamtek mimicked being sick. "Well, I suppose if there's nothing else..."

  "There are always the ostriches," Raia grinned. "They can be quite tasty."

  "Try and think of something beyond your stomachs, gentlemen." Smenkhkare shook his head gently. "We are not at a palace banquet. There will be time for hunting game after we have disposed of the lion." He pointed toward the setting sun, now touching the horizon. "Let us give praise to Re and pray that he will look upon our hunt tomorrow with favour." The king raised his arms to the golden-red light and lifted his voice in song, the others joining in after a heartbeat.

  "Praise be to Re," Smenkhkare sang. "Giver of light and banisher of the dark places. Praise be to Re, who makes all things grow. The plants praise him, lifting up their limbs toward the light. The good animals walk abroad in his light, partaking of his sustenance, while the wicked animal shuns the light of day, hunting by night. Yet even he must face the day, when the golden eye of Re seeks out his iniquities. Let Re look down on us tomorrow and guide our hands, giving us a resolute eye and filling our hearts with courage that we may slay the killer who hunts by night. Praise to you, O Re! Bless us, thy sons."

  Smenkhkare went on for several minutes, chanting the words, some of them the old words of praise from the ancient songs of the priests, others newer, from the heart. His friends followed along, their repetition a syllable or two behind. The voices died away at last as the last edge of the sun disc dipped below the edge of the world, a brief flash of emerald green teasing the eyes, gone almost before it was seen.

  The king turned to his friends and smiled. "Come, supper awaits us." He led the way through the twilight to the camp under the trees where a roaring fire, tents and the scent of roasting goat meat welcomed them.

  Three tents comprised the camp--one for the king, a second for his five friends and the third for the dozen or so servants. The guides slept outside, huddled near a smaller fire for warmth and security against a possible man-killer that stalked the night. Smenkhkare sat up late, at least until the waxing moon rose, shedding a pearly light over the barren landscape. His friends sat with him, companionable yet quiet, respecting his mood. His edict, issued over dinner, restricted their drinking, so they sipped on wine rather than drinking great draughts, and told stories over the campfire.

  "It is quiet," Smenkhkare remarked, sitting in his carved wooden chair and staring out over the dry stream bed to the plain beyond. Below him, from the pool's edge, came faint sounds as small nocturnal creatures braved the presence of men to slake their tiny thirsts. From further away, crickets and other insects kept up a constant muted chirring, underscoring the silence. Far out over the plains a night bird called, once, twice, high and piercing. The smell of wood smoke and charring meats lingered faintly in the still air.

  "A lovely night, Djeser," Raia agreed. He, and the others, sat cross-legged or sprawled out on the sandy soil beside the king's informal throne. Menkure and Siwadj murmured together and Psamtek was drawing designs in the sand with a broken twig. Merybast had his head over the edge of the small drop to the pool below, straining his eyes into the night, in the hopes of seeing whichever animal was drinking. "So quiet and peaceful."

  "Too quiet. There is a lion out there, hurt and hungry. Why is he not proclaiming his presence?"

  "Perhaps he is not hungry," Psamtek said from the shadows. "Maybe he killed today and is lying up with his meat, content to survey his kingdom."

  Merybast turned and looked back toward the others, grinning. "Rather like you, Djeser. You killed today and now you sit with a full belly, regarding your kingdom."

  Smenkhkare laughed. "Two kings cannot share a kingdom. Tomorrow, one of us must die."

  "Hsst! Do not speak words of ill-omen, my lord." Psamtek threw down his stick. "Say a prayer to Heru, averter of evil."

  "I saw my brother Heru in his house today. He will protect me."

  "I pray so, Djeser," Raia said. "But my lord, you know that tomorrow is an unlucky day. Why do you not put off the hunt until the next lucky one?"

  "And when is that, Raia?

  "Three days hence, Djeser."

  Menkure broke off his low conversation with Siwadj. "How is it you know which day is lucky and unlucky, Raia? I have to ask the priests when I want to know."

  "My father is Controller of Funeral Artists. It is important that the sacred artwork is only carried out on lucky days."

  "And how many lucky days are there in a month?"

  "It varies. Between nine and thirteen."

  Menkure laughed. "I must become a funeral artist. I can have most of the month off."

  Raia shook his head disapprovingly. "They can work on unlucky days too. They just have to offer up a sacrifice through the priests to avert the evil."

  "Ah. So if I really want a rewarding life I should become a priest and have all the artists bring me meat."

  "Enough," Smenkhkare laughed. "But you see why I cannot wait for the next lucky day, Raia? There are too few of them and the villagers are relying on us to kill the lion. We will just have to make tomorrow a lucky day."

  The next day's sun rose redly, casting a bloody look over a thin mist that swathed the landscape. Raia looked worried but said nothing, helping to prepare for the hunt. The sun mounted through the morning sky, yellowing to its usual blazing disc set in a lapis sky. The heat increased and the mist disappeared. As if they had been hidden by the mist, people appeared, men and women both, carrying an assortment of drums, horns and sticks. Baki and Bey set about organizing them into chattering groups, giving them their instructions and at last, led by the village elders, they trooped off into the plain. Raia, Psamtek and Siwadj went with them, armed with spears and bows.

  Baki returned to the king and his other two friends. "If you would follow me, sirs." He bowed and led the way down into the dry stream bed, turning east and south toward the distant river. Smenkhkare carried a double-curved Nubian bow with a quiver of a dozen strong bronze-tipped arrows. Menkure had armed himself with a long leather sling and watched the ground as he walked, stooping to select rounded stones the size of pigeon's eggs.

  "Are you any good with that?" Merybast asked. He thumped the shaft of his long spear into the sand close to Menkure's hand as he reached down for another stone. "Or am I going to have to guard you while you throw stones at rabbits?"

  "Good enough," Menkure replied coolly. "I can hit a target at fifty paces four times out of five."

  Merybast nodded grudgingly. "Better than me with my spear."

  "Please sirs." Baki turned with an apologetic look, a finger placed on his lips. "We must be quiet now or the lion may hear us. If he hears sounds from here, he may escape in another direction."

  They walked further along the stream bed, moving more cautiously as the vegetation grew thicker on both sides of the stream bed. A
t last Baki called a halt and pointed toward the northern side. "See, the track the lion takes."

  Smenkhkare trotted over to where the path disappeared into the trees and started casting about in the loose sand.

  "Sir, sir," Baki hissed. "With respect, the lion will appear from the other direction. From the southern thicket."

  "He may appear from there Baki, but he does not leave by this path. There are no pug marks, no footprints, save those of ibex." He turned and stared at the guide quizzically. "Why not?"

  Baki shrugged. "I know not, sir, but I have seen him myself walk across this stream bed and disappear into the trees just there."

  "A lion leaves tracks, Baki, yet this one does not." Smenkhkare scrambled back down to the dry bed and confronted the guide. "I can think of two reasons why not, and I do not like either of them."

  Menkure looked puzzled. "A lion without tracks? Are we talking about a ghost lion?" He glanced toward the trees uneasily.

  "Three reasons, then, though I think yours very unlikely. No, either our guide has brought us to the wrong place or he has lied from the start."

  "Lied how?" Merybast leaned on his spear and looked at the impassive guide with interest.

  "Well, Baki? What is the answer?" Smenkhkare slipped an arrow out of the quiver and swiftly fitted it to his bow without taking his eyes off the man. "I think you had better start talking, Baki."

  "Talking about what? What lie?" Merybast stared at his king, then at the guide. "What are they talking about, Menkure?"

  "The man lied to us," Menkure growled. "There is no lion."

  "No roaring during the night," Smenkhkare said softly. "And now no tracks to be seen." He glanced at his two companions. "Have either one of you seen any actual evidence that there is a lion here?"

  "Sir, you are mistaken," Baki muttered. "I tell the truth. There is a lion here that kills our livestock."

  "What I want to know is why I have been lied to." Smenkhkare brought his bow up slowly until the sharp arrow point covered the man's heart. "Speak, Baki. Why have I been brought here?"

  Sweat broke out on the guide's face and he swallowed convulsively. "Have mercy, great king. I have not lied. There is a lion and in all probability he lies in yonder thicket awaiting the beaters to drive him out." As if waiting for his words a horn sounded in the distance and a great shout arose, drums beating and sticks rattling a cacophony.

  Smenkhkare's eyes never left the guide's face. "Merybast," he said. "Run and tell them to stop. There is no need..."

  The din faltered and an echoing roar of rage split the air. Merybast, in the act of turning to run up the slope, stopped dead, head turning back in consternation. Smenkhkare's stare wavered and he lowered the bow slightly, easing his aim from Baki's chest.

  Baki licked his lips. "You hear, my lord?" he croaked. "The lion comes."

  "I think he's right, Djeser," Menkure muttered. He shifted from foot to foot, drawing the sling cord through his fingers.

  Smenkhkare nodded, reaching a decision. "Baki, stand back out of the way. Merybast, on my right, Menkure, guard my left." The king positioned himself a couple of paces in front of his companions, facing the dense southern thicket and the narrow game trail that debouched from it into the stream bed.

  The noise of the drums and horns grew louder, and the tension grew. Merybast wiped first one hand, then the other, on his kilt, while Menkure swung the sling in his right hand, the left in the pouch at his waist, the clicking of river pebbles loud in the still air.

  "Quiet, Menkure," Smenkhkare said coolly. He drew several arrows out of his quiver and stuck them into the sand in front of him, calmly selecting one and eyeing its true lines before fitting it to his bow.

  "He comes," Merybast murmured.

  A tawny shadow slipped through the undergrowth from right to left, heading for the opening that led over the lip of the stream bank. A large head, surrounded by a great dark mane, thrust itself over the edge, then, muscles rippling, the huge cat bounded down the slope toward them. Abruptly it paused, its legs digging into the sand as it caught sight of the three men in its path. It crouched and stared, its round yellow eyes boring into them, assessing the risk. The lion snarled, and then changed its tone to a guttural cough that grew into a shattering roar of anger and defiance, its hind legs gathering under it for the charge.

  A bowstring thrummed and an arrow leapt at the moment the hind legs released their energy, launching the great cat forward. A rock slid under one paw and for an instant the lion stumbled, lurching downward, the sharp-tipped arrow piercing the lower jaw and glancing off the bone rather than burying itself in the feline chest. The deep roar climbed to a scream of rage and the lion threw itself forward again.

  Smenkhkare snatched at the next arrow and knocked it sideways. He reached for the next and pulled it into his bow blindly, never taking his eyes off the rapidly closing beast. Something whistled past his ear and hit the lion a crack on its skull. The charge slowed a fraction and another stone hurtled in, cracking a cheek bone. The lion's head whipped to the side and upward as the pain made it flinch. Smenkhkare's second arrow plunged deep into the base of the beast's neck. Still it came on, slower now, stumbling forward, death in its eyes and blood pouring from its mouth and nostrils, jaws agape and slavering. Another stone thudded into it, knocking it to the side. Merybast threw his spear, the point scoring a red line down the lion's flank.

  Smenkhkare stood and watched the lion coming, a third arrow fitted and ready. Hot blood from its mouth sprayed his legs as it roared again in pain and frustration. It lurched and the king stepped swiftly to one side and loosed his last arrow into the side of the lion as it brushed by him. The shaft ripped through the golden hide at point-blank range, tearing through muscle and sinew, passing between the ribs and burying itself in the massive heart. With a sigh, the great beast toppled and fell forward, one paw reaching out with talons spread to claw at its tormentors even as life fled. Menkure staggered back, one hand clutched to his raked leg.

  The three men stood in silence and looked down at the lion stretched out on the ground. Merybast walked past the lion on shaky legs to retrieve his spear, while Menkure sat down abruptly, looking in wonder at the claw marks on his leg.

  "A noble sight indeed, Smenkhkare." A cool voice issued from the edge of the thicket behind them. "What a pity your bravery will never be known."

  Smenkhkare turned. Baki jumped down from the stream bank, a dozen soldiers behind him. More appeared from the scrub, spears leveled at the king.

  "What is the meaning of this, Baki? Who are these men?" The king looked past the guide to a soldier displaying an officer's armband. "What unit do you belong to? What are you doing here?"

  "He will not answer you, Smenkhkare. He does not understand Kemetu, only Assyrian."

  Smenkhkare's eyes narrowed but he said nothing. He glanced quickly down and spotted his quiver with at least six arrows lying a few paces away. "What is an Assyrian officer doing in the heart of Kemet?" He took a step sideways, casually, as if coming to Menkure's aid. Merybast moved forward, worry showing on his face, his spear clutched tightly in both hands.

  The Assyrian officer snapped a command and the soldiers spread out in a semicircle, drawing their crescent swords.

  "You dare to draw weapons in the presence of the king," Menkure hissed. Forgetting his wounded leg, he jumped up, moving in front of Smenkhkare. "Tell them to put up their swords." The king took another step closer to the quiver, stumbling a bit to make it look as if he was avoiding Menkure.

  "I think not," Baki said smoothly. He added a few phrases in Assyrian and the officer nodded. "Please do not take this personally, Smenkhkare. You are a decent man and you treated me with respect, but I have my orders."

  "Which are?"

  "I regret to say that Kemet must have a new king, one who will lead us back to Amun. To accomplish this, I am afraid that..." Baki shrugged. "Well, you are a king and a god. You will be welcomed into the afterlife."

  Smenkhkare st
aggered another pace to the side, lifting a hand to his forehead and bowed his head. "Who? Who has ordered this?" He stifled a sob.

  Baki sneered. "I thought you were braver than this Smenkhkare."

  "It was Ay?"

  Baki nodded. "Enough of this." He snapped an order to the Assyrian officer.

  Smenkhkare dived for the quiver, snatching it up as he rolled, one of the arrows slipping into place and being loosed as he came onto his back. It struck one of the soldiers in the thigh and he went down with a curse. The king continued his movement, rising to one knee. Another arrow--and another soldier fell. Now the sling whistled its arc and a man fell as if pole-axed. Another clutched his throat and fell choking. Baki screamed and urged the remaining soldiers in the thicket above, down into the stream bed.

  The king and his companions fell back toward the path across the stream bed, past the dead lion. Smenkhkare's bow strummed again and Menkure's sling slashed the air again.

  Merybast hung onto his spear, stabbing at any soldier who got too close. "We are winning," he panted. "They only have swords and they are six down, seven. Soon our friends will be here."

  "I have two arrows left," Smenkhkare remarked calmly. "What of you, Menkure?"

  "Down to my last stone." He glanced down at the sand as they backed away. "Nothing here either." Glancing at his king, he jerked his head toward the path leading north and east through the thicket. "Go, Djeser. Merybast and I will hold them as long as we can."

  "Look!" Merybast screamed. "It is Siwadj...and Raia." He pointed up the stream bed to where two men had emerged from the edge of the southern scrub and were racing toward them. Behind them streamed more men, glints of metal on head and breast and hand showing their profession. Tiny darts rose and fell like gnats and their two friends died, sprawling loose-limbed in the sand. The men behind came on at a run.

  "We are dead if we stay," Smenkhkare said. "Use your last stone, Menkure." He loosed an arrow, striking down the Assyrian officer. "Throw your spear, Merybast, then run. Maybe we can make it to the river." The last arrow found its mark and he cast away the bow, grabbing Menkure and pushing him toward the path. "Merybast, come!" Smenkhkare turned and raced after Menkure as the remaining soldiers surged forward. He glanced back as they reached the scrub and saw that Merybast had disobeyed his king for the first and last time.