by Overton, Max
Horemheb looked down at his blood-stained curved sword and grunted, throwing it to the ground. "Why have you killed my men?"
"Your men? Are not all soldiers the king's men?"
"A king does not kill except through necessity. You slaughtered these men."
"Have a care," yelled the stocky man. He advanced a limping pace forward, the point of the arrow barely moving as he did so. "I will kill you if you insult the king."
"'Enough, Menkure," Smenkhkare said, laying a hand gently on the archer's bowhand. "Horemheb is a friend...is he not, Horemheb?"
The general stared back at the pair, his mind in turmoil. "I am a friend to the king," he said slowly.
Smenkhkare laughed; an edge of bitterness in his voice. "You'll have to do better than that."
Horemheb suddenly tired of the word games, the politics. "Then speak plainly."
"Very well. I am your anointed king, Ankhkheperure Djeserkheperu Smenkhkare. It is agreed that my brother Waenre Akhenaten rules in his City of the Aten and I rule the rest of Kemet. Why then, does my Tjaty Ay crown that fool of a boy, my younger brother Tutankhaten as king in my place?"
"Because you are dead, Smenkhkare. Dead and buried but you do not yet realize it."
"I want my kingdoms back, Horemheb."
The general shrugged. "Then take them. If the gods recognise your cause they will oust the usurper in Waset. Why have you not tried before now?"
"I was six months just recovering from my injuries. By then there was a new king on the throne of the Two Kingdoms and Ay was controlling matters behind the throne. I had only Menkure here," Smenkhkare reached out and touched the arm of the other man gently. "But no army. How could I claim what was rightfully mine?"
Horemheb nodded slowly. "With difficulty," he agreed.
"And you? Where do your loyalties lie?"
"With Kemet."
Smenkhkare smiled and moved into the shade of a large thorn tree. "Now I must ask you to speak plainly."
Horemheb moved into the shade also, keeping a few paces from the king and his glowering attendant. He sat down on a rock and stretched his legs out in front of him. "Kemet was strong in the days of your father Nebmaetre. Under Akhenaten and his heresy..."
"Which you supported," Menkure interrupted.
"Only that I might keep the army strong," Horemheb shot back. "As I was saying, Akhenaten weakened Kemet and you did little better."
Menkure growled, but said nothing. "I did not have much time," Smenkhkare observed mildly. "Even so, I reintroduced the old worship of the gods and curbed the worst excesses of the Amun priests. I also helped the common man."
"Who gives a fig for the common man? You neglected your power base, Smenkhkare, the army and the nobles. You alienated Ay and look where it got you."
"Ay was ruining the country with his greed. I would not allow his schemes so he tried to control me. I reminded him who was king and dismissed him. He was to retire at the end of the month."
"Ah, so that was the reason."
"The reason for what?"
"Your death."
"Explain yourself."
"Your death...or your apparent death...shook the country. There were riots and uprisings, quelled quickly and firmly by the army, I might add. Still, confidence was shaken and if Ay had not crowned Tutankhaten king after the seventy days, chaos would have resulted."
Smenkhkare grunted. "And if I return?"
"Many will flock to your banner. As many will support Ay, saying that you are an imposter. The balance, the Ma'at of Kemet, will be disturbed."
"Forget the many--what do you say, Horemheb? Am I Smenkhkare or an imposter?"
"Here and now, between the three of us, I say you are Smenkhkare."
"What will you say when you report to Ay?"
Horemheb raised an eyebrow. "I am to live then? I shall tell him the truth. That you are the king, that you survived his assassination attempt and that you intend to return."
Smenkhkare looked up sharply. "You knew of the attempt? You know for a fact of Ay's guilt?" His eyebrows came together in a suspicious frown. "Did you know of the plot before or after?"
"If I had known beforehand, I would have stopped it, even if it meant killing Ay."
Smenkhkare nodded, his face relaxing and a small smile struggling through his thick beard. "Of course. Upright Horemheb. I did not think you a traitor."
"Do not mock me, Smenkhkare. I do what is right for Kemet."
"What is right for Kemet then, in your eyes?"
"You are not the only one affected by all this. Many people live and die through an action of yours, a careless word, and an ill-considered judgment. Kings live so far above their subjects they think the laws do not apply to them." Horemheb leaned closer and stared earnestly into the bearded man's eyes. "Many died when you did."
Smenkhkare paled beneath his hirsute features and his hand trembled slightly. "Who has died? It was six months before I started to get news. Akhenaten is dead then? What...what of my sister?"
"Akhenaten still rules in his City of the Sun. Ay tried to kill the whole of the King's Council, but he did not succeed. Sutau is dead, so is Kensthoth, Meres, Kenamun..."
"I am not interested in those men. Tell me of my sister, of Beketaten. Is she dead?"
"No-one knows. She and the farm lad Khu disappeared on the night the Council was imprisoned. Aanen and Nebhotep escaped later. Mahuhy...well I would imagine he has gone back to his old haunts and is keeping out of sight."
"Nobody has seen my sister since?"
"Rumors only. You know what rumors are like. She is nowhere and everywhere."
"Then I will hope she is alive still," Smenkhkare said simply. "Now, what am I to do with you, General Horemheb? Will you and your legion support your rightful king?"
"What are your intentions?"
"To reclaim my throne of course. With your help I can march on Waset at once, without it I will have to delay another year or so until I build my army. What do you say?"
"I say no, Smenkhkare," Horemheb said gently. "I will not help plunge this land into civil war."
"You will not fight for me, but you will fight for the traitor Ay."
Horemheb shook his head. "I will fight for Kemet and its anointed king Tutankhaten. In the eyes of virtually everyone, you are dead. Be content with what the gods have given you. Go south and carve yourself out a kingdom if you must, but give up your thirst for Kemet."
"That is your final word?"
"It is."
"I should kill you," Smenkhkare said softly. "You are Kemet's best commander. I do not want you fighting for my enemies."
Horemheb shrugged and stood up. "Perhaps you should. I do not hate you but I will not allow you to destroy the Two Lands."
"Let me, your majesty." Menkure limped forward, the arrow back in his bow and the string of the short, strongly curved weapon hummed in anticipation. The honed bronze tip glinted in the afternoon sunlight as it came to bear on Horemheb's chest.
"No."
"Your majesty, he is dangerous and an enemy. Let me kill him."
"I command you, Menkure." An edge of bronze crept into the king's voice. The other man lowered his bow slowly and spat on the ground at the general's feet.
"I have a proposition for you, Horemheb. You came out here to catch or kill me. I am going to give you that chance. Five days march to the south, down the valley, lies an open plain, just before you get to the river. It is a perfect battleground, flat and firm. Meet me there with your legion in ten days and let us settle this issue."
"You would stand and fight me? Why?"
"You are a gifted General, but I have sharpened my skills these last four years. I also have a good army--small but a match for yours. Meet me in open battle and we can decide the future of Kemet. If you win I will take my men south, should I survive, and trouble you no more. If I win, you join me and help me take back the throne."
"You would do this?" An edge of excitement crept into Horemheb's voice and h
e damped it down quickly. Smenkhkare nodded. "Very well. I agree. Ten days time it is."
Horemheb left, walking through the men of Smenkhkare's army as they drifted back to join their king. Once out of sight, he set off at a run and soon made it back to the camped legion.
"Signal the recall, at once," he snapped. "Penno, come with me." Horemheb led the Lieutenant to one side and explained the situation to him.
Penno looked skeptical. "It is Smenkhkare then? He will fight us, in open battle? And you believe he will do so?"
"He wants me to fight for him. When I refused he offered this." Horemheb laughed. "The hot sun has addled his mind if he thinks his band of misfits and renegades can beat a trained legion. I intend to show him his mistake."
The Amun legion camped there for the night, though Horemheb still insisted on a fully guarded perimeter. The night passed without incident and at first light the general led the troops in a hymn of praise to Re before striking camp.
From a hillside overlooking the Kurgun Valley, two bearded men, both scarred terribly, stood and watched as the legion set off to the south, soon disappearing into the scrub.
"He fell for it," Menkure said.
"I thought he would."
"Why did you not just have me kill him and be rid of him that way?"
"He was a prisoner. It would not have been honourable. Besides, he is Kemet's foremost general, I cannot waste such talents. When I am king again and Kemet is at peace, he will give me his allegiance once more." Smenkhkare clapped his friend on the shoulder and grinned. "Assemble the men. We march at once."
"Yes, your majesty. In which direction?"
"North. We march for Waset. It is time to take my throne back."
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Chapter Thirty
Scarab knew the day and the hour of her child's conception. More important than the day of birth was the circumstance of begetting. The tiny tent in the desert where a man and a woman had engendered a new life was in itself a womb in the hostile wilderness of the northern plains. Whirlwinds danced in the baking air beneath their little hill of rock and sand, and the breath of Set moved in time with the rhythmic pulse of lust. Love was there too; else Scarab could not have brought herself to do it. A girlish fantasy, a longing for the strong and handsome soldier had slowly grown to become love and, when the man realized that he too felt something more than tenderness for the princess in his charge, love had found a way. Scarab knew the child was a boy. Nebhotep had done the tests with wheat and barley, and the Khabiru midwives confirmed it. In the weeks following her meeting with Jeheshua, she had grown to respect the old man and had acceded to his request that she get to know her Khabiru relatives.
"You will need proper midwives," he had said, "Not an army butcher."
The day fast approached when the boy was due, then it passed and Scarab grew anxious. The father, Paramessu, was in the north with the army, and she longed for his presence, his touch, his kiss, to dispel her fears and worries.
"First children are often late," said the midwives. "He will come in his own time."
There was another reason for Scarab's anxiety. Without the father, who would name the boy? She remembered her own childhood when her father Nebmaetre had been struck down just before her birth. Unable to utter her birth name she had remained nameless for four years, four years in which had she died, she would have wandered in darkness for eternity. To be nameless was hard for a girl but it was disastrous for a boy. Scarab was determined this would not happen to her son and had arranged for Nebhotep the physician to stand in for the father and utter the name at sunrise the next day. It was not according to custom but in the eyes of the gods it might suffice until Paramessu could repeat the ceremony when he returned.
She even knew the name, though they had never discussed it. In fact, Paramessu had left to rejoin his army never knowing his woman was with child. Scarab smiled to herself at the thought. She was 'his woman' and he had fathered a child on her, one who would be blessed by the gods for he would bear the name of a god, one of the Nine of Iunu. Set would be his name--to some a name of ill omen--but to a soldier a very fitting name. Set was god of the red deserts and he had been present when her son was conceived. It felt right, though she told no-one, least of all the Khabiru midwives. They identified the Kemetu god of chaos and destruction with their own Ba'al, a thunder deity of the north and adversary to their own nameless god. Scarab would not risk their certain displeasure before the birth. After, when they saw his beauty they would not care what his name was.
Nebhotep acted in a most peculiar manner during Scarab's pregnancy. Physicians were expected to have no part in the birth of a child and his keen interest in her, even to the extent of measuring her growth and examining her intimately at intervals was seen more as a perversion than good medicine. Scarab allowed it because she could see no harm in it and was in any case lonely and thrived on the attention. Khu was suspicious and steadfastly refused to leave her side during the examinations. Nebhotep's response was to nod and smile and put the lad to work grinding herbs and mixing unguents. Eventually, however, as her term neared its culmination, the Khabiru women got wind of the scandal and whisked Scarab off to their tents, refusing to let Nebhotep, or even Khu, anywhere near her. Birthing was women's work, always had been. The man's contribution was nine months in the past, and now the real work fell to the women, as usual.
Scarab was in pain. Labor itself was still hours or days away, there had been no hint yet of the trials ahead, but still she hurt. Under the care of Nebhotep and Khu she could still enjoy a shadow of the pampered life of a princess with two men at her beck and call. Here in the tents of the Khabiru she was expected to do her share of the chores. The only concession the tribeswomen made to her condition was to assign her a young girl, Meryam, to be her companion.
"It's not fair," Scarab whined. "I should be sitting down in the shade, not carrying bundles of washing to the canal." She stopped and threw her belly forward, one hand pressed to the small of her back. Despite the tented nature of the voluminous Khabiru robes, no-one could mistake her bulge for anything else. With a grimace she waddled on after her young companion. "Wait, Meryam. I can't walk as fast as you, and my feet hurt. I can't even see my feet," she added.
"Do all Kemetu complain so much, or is it just princesses?" Meryam grinned and turned back, hitching the bundle of linen and wool clothing under one arm. She took Scarab's elbow and gave her some support as they resumed their journey to the canal.
"You're not to call me that; we don't know who might be listening." She scanned the people nervously, but all seemed to be ignoring her, going about their own business. "My name is Scarab, Meryam, please use it."
"Yes princess Scarab," Meryam said meekly. She tried to dip in the strange half bow half squat her people called a curtsy, and almost dropped the washing.
With a laugh, Scarab steadied the young girl and together they went looking for a suitable place on the banks of the canal. The Khabiru had brought in stones and carved away a section of the bank to make a gentle slope to the water's edge, lining the basin with rock and building several small stone jetties in the shallow water. On these jetties, and along the bank of the canal, Khabiru women knelt, sat or squatted, or even stood knee-deep in the clear water, their robes tucked up into waistbands showing their brown legs unashamedly.
Meryam found a place several paces away from the other women and unrolled her bundle of washing. She dipped a robe into the water, pushing it under until the air trapped inside the fibres bubbled out and it sank. Fishing it out she dumped it on the rocks beside Scarab for her to rub the soap into the fabric. Scarab picked up the large bar of yellowish soap with a small moue of distaste and tentatively dabbed at the robe with the bar.
"Scrub it in hard," Meryam instructed. "Otherwise it'll never lift the dirt."
"It smells and it has bits in it. Don't you put in perfume? The soap in the palace always smelled of flowers."
Meryam
shook her head. "We are a desert people. Where would we get flowers? And for that matter, why would we want to? Soap cleans perfectly well the way it is."
Scarab put a bit more effort into her scrubbing and when Meryam pronounced herself satisfied, passed the robe back to the young girl. She dunked it under the water again, rinsing it thoroughly before beating it against the rocks, sending a spray of soapy water over them both. While Meryam worked on getting the soap out, Scarab started on the next item of clothing. An hour or two later, the work was done, both girls were soaked and the clothes lay around them on the rocks, drying in the sun's heat. They lay back amongst the garments and dozed, letting the heat dry them.
Scarab scratched at her woolen robe where it mounded over her belly. She shifted awkwardly, trying to get comfortable. "I don't know how you can live in these heavy robes, Meryam. I've only been in them a few months and I still want to scratch and pull them off. I think our way is much better."
Meryam opened one eye. "What? Going around in your flimsy linens?"
"It's much cooler."
"But you're...you'd be almost naked." Meryam opened her other eye and propped herself up on one elbow. "People could...men could see your..." The young girl blushed deeply. "...Your breasts," she finished in a whisper.
Scarab looked at the embarrassed young girl with curiosity. "What of it? I used to walk around like that without a thought. Nobody looks...well, nobody who matters. When I was in Akhet-Aten I often saw the king and queen and their children wandering around naked or just with a thin dress that hid nothing." She smiled at Meryam's horrified expression. "Nobody thinks anything of it. And it is much cooler and freer," she added. "Besides, you've lived in Zarw all your life; you must have seen many naked or nearly naked Kemetu."
"Some," Meryam admitted. "But the young girls are not encouraged to leave our own city and not many Kemetu pass through our tents. She blushed again and hid her face. "I remember when you came to Zarw with that caravan a year ago and walked through the camp wearing only your thin kilt and dress that...that showed everything. Do you remember how the women reacted?"
