The Amarnan Kings, Book 2: Scarab - Smenkhkare

by Overton, Max

  "I am your king," he repeated. "It is my right and my duty to lead my people." Without conscious thought, the nobility gathered around broke into applause. Tutankhaten beamed and stuck his chest out. "I will lead my loyal troops into battle and win a glorious victory over the enemies of our Kemet."

  "My lord king, that is not a good idea." Ay stood with his fists clenched and a black scowl on his face. The applause died away to a few desultory claps and faces turned, cautious but expectant, waiting for the clash of the king with his Tjaty and uncle. "You have never led troops into battle and those enemies you say you will defeat are fellow Kemetu for the most part. This is not a time for glory but for survival."

  Tutankhaten paled and his queen gasped in outrage. "How dare you speak to me like that?" the king said, his voice rising into a shrill treble. "Guards, guards, a...arrest the Tjaty."

  Ay did not even trouble to look at the sudden flustered indecision of the guards but reached out and grabbed the boy king by his upper arm and strode across to the edge of the wall, dragging Tutankhaten with him. He ignored the cries of 'Sacrilege' and 'Treason', instead pointing out toward the armies. Ay lowered his voice and spoke quietly but very firmly into the king's ear.

  "Men are dying out there--for you. Willingly for the most part, but it is not a game, it is not an exercise with toy soldiers; it is not an opportunity for glory. They are doing it so we can stop the greatest danger we have faced in many years. That is your brother Smenkhkare who faces us. He wants to rip Kemet apart in a civil war and kill you so he can rule alone. Make no mistake, young Nebkheperure, your brother is a skilled soldier and if you went out there he would cut you down without having to think about it." Ay relaxed his grip on the king's arm and put his arm around his shoulders. "You will not go out there. Do you understand?"

  Tutankhaten sniffed loudly and rubbed his bruised upper arm with his other hand. "I told them I would. I cannot go back on my word." His words shook as he fought down the fear that consumed him whenever he heard anger in his uncle's voice.

  "You can and you will," Ay snapped. "General Nakhtmin will lead our troops out to help Horemheb, when I judge the time to be ripe. Now, you have something to tell your court, do you not?"

  Tutankhaten shivered and brushed away years. "What...what do I say, uncle?"

  Ay smiled and stroked the boy's head gently. "You say that you have reconsidered the situation, taking into account the advice of your experienced counselors and have decided to place General Nakhtmin in command. In such an important battle, nothing must be left to chance." He pushed his king gently back toward his scowling queen and unhappy courtiers.

  Tutankhaten stumbled through his speech before seeking solace in the arms of Ankhesenpaaten. The young woman adopted a scornful visage but refrained from saying what was obviously on her mind. The courtiers decided it was really none of their business and tried to look disinterested in the whole affair.

  Ay addressed Nakhtmin and formally ordered him to assemble the garrison troops and Medjay together by the South Gate, in preparation to leading them out against Smenkhkare's rebels. Nakhtmin saluted and strode off, barking orders to his officers.

  Standing to one side, his face muffled by bandages and a thin cloak, Mahuhy heard the orders and, murmuring to the men standing beside him, issued his own instructions. The group of ordinary citizens left their duties on the wall and hurried after the general. As they started down the wooden scaffolding that was the means of access for the common people, Mahuhy heard a woman scream with excitement, "Look, the battle is starting!"

  From the plains to the south of the city, arose a roar of men's voices. Horemheb's soldiers drummed their short, curved bronze swords on their small, circular leather shields, the rhythmic noise stirring the senses as men's heartbeats matched the pounding beat. With a yell of derision they leapt forward, charging down on the spearmen.

  Smenkhkare's men stood firm, their long spears leveled and poking out a full man length ahead of them, a great bronze-tipped forest of death. Soldiers threw themselves forward and died, impaled. Others took their places, screaming insults to keep their courage up, hacking futilely at the spearmen still out of reach. Then a young man fell, the enemy's spear ripping through his chest and out through his back. The spearman could not free his weapon and it was plucked from his grasp as his victim collapsed. A friend of the young man danced into the gap and plunged his sword into the defenceless spearman. Others in the formation could not turn their spears swiftly enough, nor, being engaged in fighting for their lives, could they put their spears down and attack the enemy in their midst with swords. The hole grew larger, then another appeared and between one thrust of the spears and the next, the whole company disintegrated, the front lines of both armies breaking up into pairs of soldiers desperately trying to kill each other.

  The weight of Horemheb's centre started to push the disorganized spearmen back. At the same time, the long horns of the army started forward and out, running lithely across the sand as they drew the enemy out of his formation in an effort to remain in contact. Smenkhkare's infantry companies stretched and lost their cohesiveness, becoming another column of running men, matching the movements of their enemies.

  "Curse the man. They are breaking our formations," Menkure yelled, forgetting himself so much in the excitement of the moment that he thumped his king on his arm.

  "I see it," Smenkhkare agreed. "Send the archers out." The ram's horn sounded again and Shabaqo and Kashta led their squads of archers out wide, racing a hundred paces past the infantry columns before spreading out. They knelt and proceeded to unleash a devastating hail of arrows into the flanks and backs of Horemheb's army. A flint-barbed missile struck the priest holding the banner of Amun aloft and the emblem of the Amun legion disappeared into the clouds of dust churned up by thousands of feet. Smenkhkare's men roared in triumph, but a few moments later it rose again as another priest raised it aloft.

  Horemheb gave a command and squads of men ran out to engage the archers and halt their depredations. The Nubian commanders were under no illusions as to their men's ability to withstand armed and armored soldiers and they all took to their heels. Being unencumbered by anything heavier than bows and bundles of arrows, they quickly outdistanced them, before suddenly turning and delivering a concentrated hail of arrows on their pursuers. The survivors from Horemheb's squads limped back to the relative security of the massed army and the archers moved in again.

  Three times Horemheb tried to smash the archers and three times he failed. The trumpets sounded at last and the horns of the bull withdrew into the head. Here the heavily armed men were still moving forward, pushing the centre of Smenkhkare's army back. The spearmen now lost all cohesiveness and as their ranks disintegrated, they threw down their long spears and hefted the swords and clubs they carried in their belts. The battle became a milling mass of men fighting a thousand duels, stabbing, thrusting and hacking.

  The weight of numbers started to tell and though there were no specific commands given or tactics displayed, Horemheb's men started to push Smenkhkare's men back toward Waset, slipping and stumbling over the blood-slicked ground and the bodies lying like a wheat field after a summer storm. Many of the fallen still lived and hauled themselves with limbs crushed or amputated, entrails spilling out, toward the others still, daggers in hand. Those who had lost their weapons found more strewn about the battlefield, or else forsook arms altogether, using fingernails and teeth to extract the life of the enemy. Above everything hung the stench of blood and burst guts, and a cry ascended through the choking dust to the azure heavens from a thousand tortured bodies.

  "We cannot go on," Menkure screamed, his eyes wide in his dusty and sweat-soaked face. He slashed at a soldier who stumbled within reach and took a step backward. "The only men we are not using are the archers and they cannot shoot for fear of hitting us."

  Smenkhkare laid about him with his own sword, his right arm covered with bright blood. His once-white kilt now was streaked and st
ained with sweat and gore and he panted as he fought, grudgingly retreating before the press of the enemy. "If we lose here...we are dead...they'll never...leave us...alive."

  Psuro fought his way to the king's side. A savage cut across his chest had released a flood of blood, now caked and drying on his dark skin. "You must retreat, my lord king. My spearmen, such as they are, will hold the enemy long enough to give you a chance."

  Smenkhkare scowled, but dropped back, leaning on his wounded commander. "Hold them to a count of a hundred, Psuro. No more. Then you turn and run. If we can get a gap between the armies again, the archers could yet win for us."

  Psuro nodded and turned away, seeking out his surviving officers and forcing some order into the struggling remnants of his command. Smenkhkare sent runners to Shabaqo and Kashta if they still survived and gathered the signalers with their ram's horns. He saw Scarab and her friends under the care of Amentes and grimaced, limping across to them.

  "There is no safe place, sister," the king said simply. "I need Amentes, so you must stay close to me."

  "You are wounded. Let Nebhotep treat your leg."

  "It is nothing. He can do so later, if we live."

  "Then let me fight, brother. You need swords."

  "I need the gods more, can you deliver them?" Smenkhkare laughed humorlessly. "Yes, arm yourselves and do what you can. I am about to throw the dice one last time."

  Smenkhkare limped off again with Amentes and his squad. The horns sounded, a wail of despair, and Smenkhkare's army turned and ran, suddenly opening a ragged gap between the two armies. Horemheb's men rushed after but the remains of Psuro's spearmen threw themselves forward, many onto the swords of the enemy, clutching their opponents as they died. The gap opened a little more. The horn sounded again and through the dust clouds a storm of arrows fell again, slaughtering the spearmen and the front ranks of Horemheb's army. Psuro threw himself forward and disappeared under a crush of struggling men.

  "He has done it!" Menkure exulted. "Stop running, you fools," he yelled as his own men streamed past him. "Turn and fight again."

  The insistent sound of the horn and the officers with the whips of their rank rallied the men and forced them into a rough semblance of company formations again. Another swathe of the enemy fell under a volley of arrows and the front ranks of Horemheb's army wavered. In the instant before the general's army fell back, the Great South Gate of Waset creaked open and five hundred garrison guards and Medjay poured out, the powerful figure of General Nakhtmin at their head.

  Smenkhkare raised his sword to signal the attack on Horemheb's wavering army but the noise made him turn and stare at the tight formation of armed men charging into his rear. His shoulders slumped and he frantically yelled to the rear ranks to turn. Too slowly they answered the call and the Waset troops, inexperienced but fresh, crashed into the rear of Smenkhkare's line, rolling them up. Moments later, as Horemheb saw what was happening; he threw his own men forward in one last effort and caught the king's army in a vice of hardened bronze.

  Within the city, Mahuhy's summons had brought the beggars and the dock workers, the idle and the criminals out in force. Many of them remembered the former king and his sister fondly and entertained visions of the gratitude he would show when he was restored to his throne. The gang leaders were less enthusiastic and opted for the less dangerous and infinitely more rewarding task of relieving the citizenry of the city of their remaining wealth while their attention lay elsewhere. If their arson and violence helped Mahuhy, well, they would be sure to remind him of it later. Instead of the thousand men Mahuhy hoped to lead against Ay's men, he found himself leading a rabble of cripples and totally inexperienced fighters out of the South Gate minutes after the troops ran through. Mouthing curses, he set off at a run for the battle, screaming at the others to follow.

  A stiffening of street fighters from the Sons of Re and the Sons of Set might have made Mahuhy's tiny army a force to be reckoned with. Instead, they broke on the rock of older legionnaires and Medjay and smashed apart. They died fast, but they provided a distraction and even brought about a few deaths in the rampaging madness of the battle. Smenkhkare's men extricated themselves and inched back toward the river, laboriously defending themselves.

  A knot of soldiers saw the king under his banner, only a few ranks from the ragged front line. Yelling fiercely they launched themselves at him, hacking down the intervening fighters, friend and foe alike. Amentes saw them coming and screamed a warning, interposing himself and dying bloodily under their blades. The king, with Menkure by his side, stabbed and slashed, taking their toll. Menkure fell with a spear through his thigh, leaving his king's back exposed. Khu rushed in, killed a man and fell back before the onslaught of another two. Scarab, dirty and bloodied and gasping for breath, stumbled forward to protect her brother's back and fell beneath a backswing of a sword as it reached the end of its curve. A wound opened on her forehead and blood drenched her face, blinding her. Nebhotep grabbed her and hauled her back out of the way, whipping off his kilt and wrapping it around her head.

  Smenkhkare dispatched another man and lowered his sword, holding his side and looking around in a lull in the fighting. He saw Menkure on the ground and stumbled toward him, concern on his face.

  "Are you hurt, old friend?"

  "I'll live, my lord king." Menkure tried to grin and winced. His eyes widened suddenly. "Behind you, Djeser."

  An officer bearing the insignia of one of Horemheb's Leader of One Hundred leaped forward, his bronze blade high and sweeping down toward the king's unprotected back. Smenkhkare turned, his blade rising slowly, knowing he could not stop death. A man jumped forward, unarmed and threw himself into the path of the curved sword. It bit deep and blood fountained out of the man's lungs, bright and frothy as he screamed briefly. He was knocked back into the king and Smenkhkare stumbled, feeling the body tugged aside as the soldier tried to free his blade. The king's blade flashed and the officer fell.

  "Who was he?" Smenkhkare panted, pointing at the corpse of the unarmed man. "He deserves to be remembered for his valor."

  Menkure, now back up on one knee, shook his head. "Never seen him before. We had a lot join up since Edfu."

  Nobody else knew either and very soon, the king had other things on his mind. The battle had swung against him and despite his fury and determination to carry on the fight; he knew this battle was lost. He directed the remnants of his army back to the river where his boats lay, and they fought for every pace, leaving the plains of Waset littered with Kemetu and Nubian dead. Horemheb led the charge, determined that Smenkhkare would not escape; while General Nakhtmin swept over the battlefield with his elderly troops and Medjay, routing the last pockets of resistance.

  Two boats pulled away from the bloodied banks of the river and turned upriver, crabbing slowly across the current as exhausted men fought now against the river's flow as they had fought all day against the troops loyal to Ay and King Tutankhaten. The ships lay heavy in the water, though none then thought to ask why. It was only days later when all pursuit ceased, that the holds were examined and the contents of the crates revealed. The two boats contained the royal treasury of Smenkhkare--not a great sum as compared to that of his father Nebmaetre, whom men called 'golden', but far more than that of his brothers Akhenaten and Tutankhaten. They put in to the western shore and carried it to a safe spot for burial until such time as the king would have need of it.

  Smenkhkare stood in the stern of the second boat as it crept round a bend in the river, watching the tall pylons of Waset disappear into the distance and the dusk. Tears filled his eyes as he recalled so many good men killed and maimed. So few had survived and even his sister had been wounded fighting for him. He lifted his arms and cried out loudly, "May all the gods of Kemet bear witness to my oath. I will return and wrest my crown back from the traitor Ay."

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  Epilogue

  "I am not sorry to be leaving Waset behind. I l
oved the city of my birth and my childhood, the people in the streets, the cool dark temples and the loud and gaudy festivals, but my uncle Ay has changed all that. Waset to me now is a place of suspicion and death, somewhere I'd rather not be. I know we will return one day, for my brother means to be king again, but in the secret places of my heart I hope it is not soon.

  "My brother Smenkhkare has changed in the year or more we have been apart. That is not surprising, looking at what he has been through. He fell from the highest position in the Kingdoms into death, only to be resurrected again. The story is not unlike that of Asar, whom Set killed and who resurrected into great Heru. All that is missing is the presence of Asar's faithful wife Auset. In some ways I have been cast as Auset, one of the Nine of Iunu, yet I will not marry my brother, even for the sake of the gods. Another has claimed my heart and body and I will marry him as soon as the gods bring us together again, and we will spend the rest of our lives raising our son Set to be a soldier like his father.

  "I miss him so. The further south we travel the more my heart is ripped apart. I know my son is in good and loving hands, his grandparents will dote on him, and my all-but-husband Paramessu will raise him until I can be there. I pray to the gods it is soon.

  "My brother has an almost impossible task ahead of him. The armies of Kemet commanded by the best generals will surely contest his claim to the throne. Smenkhkare will need to find an army from somewhere. He believes Kush to be the answer, but that may be only because he once found help there. It was not enough then and I fear it will not be again, but what else is he to do? He is king--Ankhkheperure Djeserkheperu Smenkhkare, anointed one of the Two Kingdoms, King of Upper and Lower Kemet, Son of Re, Lord of Crowns--may he live forever. And I? I was once Princess Beketaten, daughter and sister of kings, but of what use is a princess now? I will be Scarab again, truly Scarab, Khepri, aspect of the Sun, and I will find a way to help my brother regain his throne, find a way to be reunited with my Paramessu, and find a way to love and care for my son.