by Overton, Max
Menkure shrugged. "They will have served their purpose."
Smenkhkare laughed. "What is it about the office of Tjaty that brings out the cunning in a man? You are almost as devious as Ay."
Menkure bowed and his lips twitched with amusement. "I will take that as a compliment, my lord." He thought for a moment, fingering the trimmed beard that helped hide the scars on his face. "I suppose it is that Tjaty is as high as a man can aspire to in our Kemet--or as high as one not born to royalty can rise. A man will do anything to claim such a prize and anything to hold onto it."
"A man can rise further, old friend." Smenkhkare smiled down at his Tjaty, feeling the warmth of friendship and love flow through him. "Until I beget an heir," he said softly. "You are Crown Prince."
"My lord!" Awkwardly, favouring his crippled leg, Menkure threw himself down on the hard earth in front of the throne and grasped his king's ankles. "May you live a million years and father a thousand sons."
"Get up, Menkure. Your place is beside me as Fan-bearer on the King's Right Hand, not groveling in front of me like a peasant." He waited until his Tjaty had risen to his feet. "And I'm never going to father even a dozen sons unless I can win back my Kingdoms. Do you have a plan?"
"Don't I always, Djeser?"
Menkure invited the headmen of the small tribes to a feast, encouraging them to bring along as many men as they felt befitted their honour and their safety. After a little haggling over the terms and place of the meeting, the headmen of the Tu'qa and Q'ema tribes turned up at a large open area on the summit of one of the hills.
Hunters had ranged the hills and wooded valleys for days, bringing in scores of animals that now graced a dozen large fires, the fat crackling and running as the sweet smell of roasted flesh filled the air. Pots of thick, bubbling millet beer stood in readiness and a large circle of ground had been swept and cleared of stones and grass. At three points on the edge of the cleared circle, great thrones stood, elevated above the animal skins prepared for lesser men. The fact that one throne stood higher than the others and that the lesser thrones were closer together, facing the other, was not lost on the headmen.
Psalta, chief of the Tu'qa, arrived first, with a dozen tribal elders and a hundred men carrying short stabbing spears. Menkure sent a pair of heralds, Nubians from the Kemetu army, with an understanding of local customs and language, to seat the guests; and servants to bring cups and bowls of millet beer for the guests. Psalta was a young man still, his short curly black hair showing only the first signs of gray. Muscular and scarred, his body displayed the strength that had carried him to the chieftain's hut and his darting eyes implied an intelligence that had kept him there.
Q'eren, of the Q'ema tribe was as unlike Psalta as it was possible to be. Short and fat and topped by a waving thatch of silver hair, his rounded face seemed perpetually creased in a friendly grin, marred only by his rotting teeth. Accompanying him were his wives and their eldest sons, also fat and mostly in seeming good humour. Again, about a hundred men trotted in behind Q'eren, their lithe bodies showing little sign of the main attribute of their leader.
When both headmen were seated and enjoying their draughts of beer, Smenkhkare joined them, the spectacle of the Kemetu soldiers arousing great interest. A hundred and twenty men marched into the cleared circle, bronze spearheads and curved swords freshly polished and gleaming in the bright sunlight. They marched in formation, almost in step, and the beat of their sandaled feet sounded like war drums. Every man wore gold--the last of the king's treasury beaten thin to form an armband for every soldier and a pectoral for every officer. Such was the power of this spectacle that the warriors of the Tu'qa and Q'ema tribes shifted uneasily and grasped their stabbing spears firmly, ready to defend themselves and their chiefs should treachery arise.
A horn sounded above the tread of the soldiers and they stopped dead, facing the tribesmen, and the silence heightened their unease. The horn came again and the massed soldiers stepped back, leaving a long, narrow aisle down which Smenkhkare walked, resplendent in all the kingly regalia he could muster. The red and white crowns of the Two Kingdoms, Deshret and Hedjet, increased his middling height. The uraeus at his brow, the false beard attached to his freshly shaven face, the crook and flail of kingly authority--all served to heighten his mystery, increase his power. Dressed simply in a gleaming white kilt and an elaborate pectoral of gold and malachite, onyx and agate, the king walked slowly down the corridor between the soldiers of his tiny army, his Tjaty Menkure walking on his right hand and two paces behind, carrying a high fan of spreading ostrich feathers which were shading him from the hot sun.
Smenkhkare stopped just beyond the foremost ranks of his men and faced the tribesmen, his face impassive. Behind him, his men raised their weapons high and cheered, full-throated roars as they made up for their lack of numbers by their enthusiasm. The cheers died abruptly on a signal from the officers and the king turned and walked back to the edge of the circle and mounted the throne, seating himself without haste and staring out over the hundreds of men without emotion. The soldiers withdrew to the edges of the circle and stood down, visibly relaxing. Menkure passed the ostrich feather fan to Shabaqo, one of the surviving commanders, and stepped out into the circle and raised up his voice in praise of his king.
"Let all those desirous of justice and mercy draw near and lift up voices of supplication to Ankhkheperure Djeserkheperu Smenkhkare, Living are the Manifestations of Re, Vigorous is the Soul of Re, Holy of Forms. King of the Two Kingdoms of Kemet, Bull of Ta-Mehu who tramples his enemies in the dust, Lion of Ta Shemau who rends his enemies unto death; Son of Re, Lord of Crowns, Holy of Manifestations, Lord of Wawat and Kush; to whom the gods give life continually. May you live forever, Great King, and may the blessings of your divine father Nebmaetre Amenhotep flow from your mouth. Lift up your hearts and voices in joy and song, all you gathered here, for Djeserkheperu Smenkhkare, Son of Amun-Re, has come among us."
Menkure's voice died away and a great stillness descended on the hilltop gathering. Then from the throats of the Q'ema men rose a high, ululating cry, joined a few moments later by the Tu'qa men. They stamped their feet and sang for several minutes before breaking into an impromptu and informal dance. A Q'ema man left the side of Q'eren and threaded his way through his dancing tribesmen until he stood before Smenkhkare.
"Greetings, Great King," called the man. "My master, Q'eren son of Q'eren, sends his greetings and bids you most welcome to the lands that adjoin his. He desires peace and hopes that his people and yours will find common cause to live together, so that all may benefit."
Menkure stepped forward to answer him, but Smenkhkare stopped him with a gesture, leaning forward on his raised throne and gazing steadily at Q'eren's envoy. "Tell your master that I would have his people and mine live together. Ask him if he will speak to me face to face rather than through intermediaries."
The man bowed. "I will convey your words, Great King." He hurried off to where his own tribe was still dancing and singing, hardly any of them having taken notice of their chief's actions.
The Tu'qa men, on the other hand, watched the exchange of words between the Q'ema and Kemetu with great interest. A man came running from Psalta, lean and muscular. He struck a pose in front of the Kemetu king.
"I am Psaro, eldest son of Psalta, and I bring you the greetings of my father. However, my father charges me with the task of finding out your purpose here. King Djeserkheperu, as son of the divine Nebmaetre you are welcome, but we have lived at peace with your fore-fathers for many generations. Why do you disturb our lives now?"
"Psaro," Smenkhkare replied. "It is true that I am the eldest son of divine Nebmaetre, son also of Amun and Re, Lord of these lands, yet I do not come to take anything that is not freely given. Will your father Psalta meet with me, man to man, that we may discuss these matters?"
Psaro stared at Smenkhkare, meeting his gaze without flinching. He nodded. "I will tell him, Djeserkheperu." Turning, the young man loped back to his waitin
g tribe.
"Now what?" Menkure murmured.
"Now we wait." Smenkhkare laid aside his regalia and crowns, handing them back to another of his commanders, Kashta, behind the throne. He was handed a Nemes headdress in return and he slipped it on, appreciating the coolness of the striped linen cloth after the weight and heat of the Double Crown. "Menkure," he said. "Provide some entertainment for our guests while we wait. Have the men do some drill or...or better yet, have a mock fight. Let them see how a Kemetu soldier fights."
Menkure bowed and, calling the commanders to him, issued a string of commands. In very short order, two groups of men ran out from the Kemetu ranks and stood facing each other. They grasped short, curved copper swords and light wicker-work shields. The Tjaty walked between the two small groups and addressed them in a low voice.
"Give them a show, men. I want no killing but the last five standing will have a woman apiece when we find some. Now, wait for the horn and make it look good." He sauntered back to the ranks and nodded to a musician who sounded a high-pitched bleat on his ram's horn.
Immediately, the two groups of men hurled themselves at each other with loud cries, their copper blades flashing red in the sun. Metal clashed and shields thumped against bodies as the men strove to batter each other into submission. Soon men started falling away, limping on injured legs, clutching heads or body, some with blood dripping onto the dusty arena. Two lay senseless, and a physician rushed out from the ranks to render assistance.
When the horn sounded, the Q'ema and Tu'qa tribesmen stopped dancing and gathered to watch, at first in silence, but as the blood started to flow, with increasing enthusiasm. The first man fell, and they let out their ululating cry again. They started clapping; stamping their feet in unison and the noise grew into a thunder that surrounded the fighting men. Soon, all but five had staggered away bleeding or collapsed to the ground, but the survivors, instead of claiming their reward, turned on each other with renewed ferocity until only one remained. The Tu'qa men poured forward and lifted the exhausted victor to their shoulders and carried him around the arena, stamping and ululating.
The Q'ema tribesmen ran out into the centre, led by Q'eren's envoy. They brandished their short spears and whirled into a frenzied dance, kicking high with bare feet, their loin cloths flapping. The movements of the group were uncoordinated however, and men got in each other's way, bumping and the flashing spears soon had blood spurting. They retired to the side of the circle and grabbed pots of beer, quenching their thirsts.
Psalta gestured and Psaro led a dozen Tu'qa into the middle, armed with short bows and quivers of arrows. Other men ran to erect poles rammed into the earth, from which dangled live pigeons, secured by one foot. The birds fluttered and swung, beating their way upward only to be jerked back as the cords around their legs tautened. One by one the archers took aim and loosed, the arrows flitting across the open ground and one after another the pigeons jerked and died, impaled by the arrows.
"Impressive," Menkure murmured. "They'll be useful."
"That is more than can be said for the Q'ema spearmen," Smenkhkare grumbled. "They'd do more harm to their own side than the enemy."
"Have some faith, Djeser. Let my officers instill a bit of discipline and they'll do."
The king grunted. "Providing we can secure their aid."
After some more beer drinking by all three parties, Psaro and the Q'ema envoy approached the Kemetu king with the news that both chieftains were prepared to meet with the son of Amun. The three thrones were carried into the middle of the arena and the assembled tribesmen and Kemetu withdrew to the edge of the circle and sat down, laying their weapons on the ground.
Smenkhkare and Menkure advanced to the centre, and a few moments later Psalta and his son Psaro emerged from the Tu'qa ranks. Q'eren and the envoy walked from the Q'ema position and the six men met in the middle.
"My son Bilis," Q'eren said, indicating his envoy.
Smenkhkare nodded. "My Tjaty, my first minister Menkure. Please," he indicated the thrones. "Let us be seated. We have much to discuss."
When all three leaders had made themselves comfortable, their attendants standing to the side, Smenkhkare leaned forward and looked at Psalta and Q'eren in turn.
"As you are aware," he said softly, "I am the king of Kemet and Lord of Wawat and Kush, son of Nebmaetre and of Amun. You rule your tribes under my right hand. As your Lord, I can command your obedience, but I would like your friendship and willing assistance. In return, not only can I offer much when I once more take up my throne in Waset, but I can also defeat your enemies, for the enemy of my people is my enemy too."
Q'eren inclined his head graciously at Smenkhkare's words, but said nothing. Psalta, however, lifted his head and stared arrogantly back at the king from the north.
"Your claim to kingship of Kemet is spurious, for you have been deposed. What you really want is our help in gaining your throne back from your brother." Psalta laughed at the fury on Menkure's face. "You think we are ignorant peasants here in Kush? We come from a race of kings, though now we till the soil and hunt. Why should we spend our blood to help you?"
Q'eren nodded. "My brother speaks true. You are known as Son of Sobek the crocodile god. You have been hunted by the armies of Kemet, and for all we know, are hunted by them still. When you say you will fight our enemy, you mean the armies of Kemet, but they are not our enemy. We wish only to live in peace."
Smenkhkare frowned. "You are wrong when you say I am deposed. A king of Kemet is anointed by Amun and as eldest surviving son of Nebmaetre the throne is mine, no matter what pretender sits upon it, and no matter what name people call me. As for needing you," the king lounged back on his throne and smiled. "I think you need me more than I need you."
"Words," Psalta sneered. "We need nothing from you. Leave us in peace and we will not molest you. You think you are strong, but I can count as well as you. You have a hundred and twenty men. The Tu'qa has two hundred men who can hold a spear or a bow. I'm sure our brothers the Q'ema can do the same." Q'eren nodded. "Nearly two hundred."
"So why should we fear you?" Psalta went on. "You may be king but you are toothless."
"A hundred and twenty trained soldiers against four hundred farmers," Menkure said quietly. "Who do you really think would win?" Psalta and his son grimaced while Q'eren shifted uncomfortably on his throne. "It would be a costly victory though, and totally unnecessary--for we are not your enemies."
"What is it you want then?" Q'eren asked.
"To live in peace," Smenkhkare said. "But we are threatened by another tribe, the Suri Kan. Do you know of them?"
"We know," Psalta growled. "We have long paid tribute to keep their warriors away from our villages."
"And our cattle," Q'eren added.
"And our women," Bilis said.
"Why do you not rise up and throw off your oppressors?" Menkure asked. "If you are indeed men."
"You have never met a Suri Kan warrior," Psaro grumbled. "If you had you would not ask such foolish questions."
"As a matter of fact, I have," Menkure said. "My king sent me south to contact the Suri Kan, to see whether we might live in peace."
"I wonder that they spared your life," Bilis said.
"They are not savages, but civilised people--if somewhat more bloodthirsty than most. I was an envoy and they treated me well."
"Then why have you not forged an alliance with them?" Psalta asked.
"They told me they had no need of allies, nor were we welcome in their lands after they swept north to the Great River and beyond."
Q'eren leaped to his feet as fast as his bulk would allow. "The Suri Kan are coming north? To the river?"
"Surely not," Bilis quavered. "We pay them tribute to leave us alone. Why would they..."
"They did say something about wanting all this land for their cattle," Menkure said. "But perhaps you are right. You know the Suri Kan better than I."
Psalta shook his grizzled head and rose to his feet. "
You bring bad news, man of Kemet. I must bid you farewell and return home. If we start now, we may be far away when the Suri Kan get here." Q'eren nodded vigorously.
Smenkhkare yawned ostentatiously. "You may flee like women if you like, but I will stay and fight the Suri Kan."
"You will lose," Psalta said flatly. "They can field a thousand men."
"Perhaps, but if I win, I will claim your lands as my own and the rich herds of Suri Kan cattle will graze in your fields and yield beef and milk for my table. Yes, perhaps it is best you run away, then I will not have to share the spoils with you."
Psalta stared hard at Smenkhkare as he sat relaxed on the fur-covered throne, and at Menkure standing beside him. He looked past them to the Kemetu soldiers with their bright weapons and armbands of gold. "You are so sure of victory?" he asked.
"My men are exceedingly well-trained. I would match my men against all of yours and Q'eren's without a qualm. I have heard my envoy's assessment of the Suri Kan and each of mine is worth five of theirs."
"That still leaves you five hundred short."
"Indeed. I had hoped you would join me in the plunder, because your four hundred would then match theirs. Add in the special training my officers can provide and the element of surprise; and the Suri Kan will regret having ventured north." Smenkhkare yawned again. "Still, that is all immaterial. You have decided to meekly allow yourselves to be pushed out of your homelands."
The Tu'qa chief and his son walked over to the Q'ema men and drew them aside, whispering. Smenkhkare raised an eyebrow questioningly and beckoned to Menkure.
"I think we have them."
"They will want concessions," Menkure replied softly. "Let me make the promises for a king should not be seen to break his word."
The tribal chiefs reached an agreement and marched back to their thrones, while the sons, Psaro and Bilis, approached Smenkhkare.
"We are willing to stay and fight for our lands against the Suri Kan," Psaro said.
"But this puts our peoples in great danger," Bilis added. "What will be our reward for standing alongside your soldiers?"
