"We don't," the divine Ra said. His voice didn't come from him. Rather it came from light radiating from his face. It reverberated throughout the room. Imhotep felt it in his bones. "There are many surrounding kingdoms who do."
"Those kingdoms will not just give us men, Great Ra. Their rulers will demand a high price, and our storehouses are not limitless. What will we give them in return?"
The light shining from the god intensified. Even with his eyes nearly touching the ground, Imhotep had to shut them tight to guard against the brightness. Ra's voice shook the air.
"We will take what we want and put the rest to the sword!"
••
A fly bit Imhotep's neck. He swatted at it and cursed. It was so hot out here. This was no place for a high priest of Ra, but he was the only one who understood how the stones fit together. He knew it was inspiration from Ra himself. Why else would the god have spoken for him? He tried to explain his vision to lesser men, but they weren't wise enough, or pure enough, or worthy enough to understand. This task was his alone. He winced at the sound of a whip cracking. A man fell and didn't get up again. Imhotep looked away. This was for the glory of Egypt. That was what mattered. After a year of building, it still looked like the work had barely started.
"They're not working fast enough," Imhotep said.
"Sir, they're tired. They need food and rest," the slave master said.
"We don't have more food for them, but give them what rest you think they need."
Three days later, Imhotep was summoned to appear before Djoser. Imhotep spent hours preparing himself for the meeting. He tried to make himself appear every bit the high priest of Ra. He donned purple robes and trimmed his dark beard. He tried to brush out the sand, but he could never get all of it. Finally he gave up and went to his audience, not sure how he would explain. Thankfully, the divine Ra wasn't present.
"Rise," Djsoder said after Imhotep had entered.
The priest looked up at the Pharaoh. The golden headdress shone in the firelight, and strands of the precious metal were woven through his beard. There was a scowl on his dark face, and his deep brown eyes stared into Imhotep's soul.
"Your progress is less than anticipated, High Priest," the Pharaoh said. "Ra is most displeased, as am I. You will explain your failure.”
"Divine Djsoder," Imhotep said. He tried to keep his voice from cracking. "These foreigners are incapable of understanding their holy task. They complain of not having enough food and rest. I need more food."
Djsoder shook his head. "Wheat is expensive. I'll not open my coffers just to provide bread for slaves. Men are cheap. When the next wave of prisoners arrive, use them to supplement your work. As for rest, that isn't necessary. Push them harder. Get the work done as soon as you can."
"By your command."
Imhotep swallowed the bile in his throat. He would have to reverse the order for rest he'd given earlier. More people would die, but it was for the glory of Egypt. He would just have to redouble his efforts so that he wouldn't have to be at the construction site. That would be for the best.
••
It took Imhotep years to complete the work on the first pyramid. On the day he finished, Imhotep had a dream of walking its halls. He knew every stone as if his own hand had laid it, and he could hear the voices of those whose blood lay between the stones. He found himself walking faster until he reached the chamber that would be Djsoder's final resting place.
The room was bright, almost blinding. He didn't realize he was looking at the face of his god until Ra spoke.
"Don't be afraid, Imhotep." The voice came from everywhere. "You are not seeing me in the flesh. This is no blasphemy. Know that I am well pleased. Men will speak of your pyramid long after you are dust and bones. Others will imitate you, but you are the first, and you have built something greater than the Trickster or the Mother ever did."
Ra smiled, though how Imhotep could see the smile through all the light, he could not say. As the god turned to walk away, Imhotep woke. He looked out over the pyramid, the first one ever constructed, and he wondered if he'd really created something men would emulate. How many would be built, and how many would die? It was a blasphemous thought. It was for the glory of Egypt. He kept telling himself that until he almost believed it.
The Tamer of Horses
by Tiffany John
The years are but memories to me. I often wondered what fate the gods had for my country. I have cast my shadow on the fields of battle, but I never stood as tall as others claimed I had. I am but a man in the face of a war brought to my home by one who always sat closest to me. My brother, where is he now? I only hope that he will pull my family away from seeing this. This war is based on his love for a woman and his claim that the gods gave him their blessing to steal another man's wife. I find this hard to believe, but Paris is my brother; that is why I fight for him.
The man in front of me has murder in his eyes. He wears armour that shines beneath the shadow of the sun. Men claim he is a hero to Greece, but I don’t see it. They say he is unbeatable, but no man will ever hold that title. Death is the one sure thing in this world.
I feel the tip of his blade on my throat; the clashing of swords echoes all around us. His attention shifts only to the soldiers who go to strike him, but when he has taken their lives he always returns to me. I, the eldest Prince of Troy, am a man bleeding on the very sands I grew to love as a child. He knows I am not going anywhere. I have lost the feeling in my right arm. No matter how hard I try, I cannot grip my sword.
“Get up, Hector. I am not done with you.” His name is Achilles.
My men retreat back into the city where the walls will keep them safe. I stand and grip the shield on my left arm. The sand crunches beneath our feet. His sword smashes down on my defence, but I don’t stagger. My momentum drives me forward. Achilles rolls to my right and lunges again. My instincts tell me to move, but my body is weary. All reflex is gone. I feel his blade slide just beneath my armour and into my side. I drop to my knees. Achilles follows. He holds his blade in place and grabs the back of my neck with his free hand.
“Are you afraid, Hector?” The voice is deep.
I strain to look at Achilles, but he doesn’t move. Around us, the battlefield stands still. “What – ”
To the side of Achilles stands a lingering darkness. “You Trojans and Greeks are so much fun to play with.”
I close my eyes. “Who – ”
A laugh echoes. “Look into the abyss, Hector. You know who I am.”
I feel a hand grip my throat. I open my eyes only to be faced with a shadow. “The Trickster...”
“Not many would fight Achilles. You look like you have seen better days.”
“That’s enough.” A woman’s voice speaks behind me.
The grip on my throat disappears. “Ah, so the Mother does care for this one. I always wondered.”
Several moments pass while a leaf falls from the sky and lands in front of me. Its presence is warm. “This is not the place for you, Trickster.”
“On the contrary, this is the perfect place for me.” The darkness grows and yet the light of the leaf grows as well. “You know my time is coming.”
“Yes, but it is not yet here.” Her voice is calm.
The darkness pulses. “You underestimate these humans. They are evolving without you, sister. They need adventure, perhaps a journey home?”
I go to move. “What brother speaks to his sister in this way?”
The woman whispers in my ear. “Calm yourself, Hector. We all have our places.”
“Don't calm him. I would love to see his rage.” The darkness melts away.
I don’t say anything. I can still feel Achilles’ hand on the back of my neck. His hold remains strong.
“You know, Achilles is a strange one. The world we live in is nothing without entertainment. I suppose you could kill the Greek. Perhaps all you need is some strength?” The Trickster’s words do not come without pain. “Or mayb
e I should leave that to Paris? So many decisions...”
“Ah!” I yell as the grip on my neck tightens and Achilles twists the sword in my side.
The battle has resumed.
“You’re going to help me crush your city.” He pulls out his sword.
I drop my shield and hunch over like a child.
He stands and picks up a fallen spear. “Pathetic.”
Beside me, covered in sand, is my sword. The blood on its edge is from the Greeks I defeated before.
“Hector, stay down.” The Mother’s voice whispers.
Achilles smiles. “I'm going to bury Troy, Hector.”
“He'll kill your family.” Rage is what I feel. My fists shake as the darkness touches my face. Within seconds the pain from my wounds fade. Though my right arm rests immobile, my left grasps the hilt of my sword.
I stand. “No, he won't.”
The Mother approaches. “Hector – ”
But I pull away and charge. His movement is precise. The cries of fallen soldiers fill my ears.
My sword strikes his bare arm, but there is no blood; not even a mark. “What is this?”
Achilles counters. The spear tears through my armour, shattering my collarbone. Within seconds he lets go, allowing my body to slump to the ground.
“I am the one who will become legend.” Achilles grabs my ankle and starts dragging me towards the ocean.
The Mother pauses. “Brother...”
I feel the shift in the air. It’s going to rain soon, though it won’t be a storm; the wind isn’t bitter enough. It feels almost forgiving.
“Oh Achilles, if only you could see your future.” The last thing I see is the darkness standing next his sister. She looks at him and bows. War seldom has an ending everyone is content with.
Of His Wondrous Guile Sing, O Muse
by Stephen Kotowych
"Wine!" Odysseus demanded of no one. He was the only man left at the council fire as the sun set behind the walls of Ilium. "This whole camp is full of amphorae – why can I find no wine?"
Recriminations had started early among the captains that evening, no longer waiting for wine to loosen tongues. Ten years of war grated even on kings.
The council was abandoned once the brawl broke up – Diomedes had goaded Menelaus into trying to kill him, again – and the captains left behind fur cloaks, plates full of flatbread and olives, even weapons. Surely there was a wineskin.
"Clever Odysseus," said a voice he barely remembered, "I see you're in need of advice." The old man seemed to melt from the smoke and darkness.
Same grey robes, same fringe of white hair. Ten years had changed nothing about the soothsayer. Odysseus scoffed. "You've picked a fine time to reappear."
Panexypnos nodded. Odysseus continued rooting amongst the abandoned goods, upending a bench.
"You didn't expect it, did you?" Panexypnos said. "What Menelaus did."
"It wasn't a surprise, if that's what you mean," said Odysseus, giving up his search. "Everyone knew Menelaus would try to kill Diomedes. The only question was how he'd get at him this time."
The Spartan king had leapt through the fire pit, sword in hand, to get at Diomedes. The brave kings tumbled in the dirt, clawing at each other until Agamemnon pulled them apart.
"Speak your counsel!" Odysseus demanded of the old man, and sat on a log by the fire.
"The world is about to change, Odysseus. A new age comes: an age of iron. Troy must fall," Panexypnos said. "Last act of an old age, the first of a new."
"That's all you have to say? You've returned after a decade simply to waste my time? The men are at the point of desertion! They've spent too long away from their families, too long from their fields, with nothing to show for it but dead friends."
After a long moment Odysseus, casting a sidelong glance, said, "I would drink again of your wine."
"You must be thirsty, indeed," said Panexypnos, sitting on the log himself.
"It is not thirst that drives me," said Odysseus, "but desperation."
His first taste of Panexypnos's wine of prophecy had shown the Achaean princes who courted Helen and feuded over her hand, threatening war if their suit was rejected, finally living in peace with one another. Odysseus had devised an oath to make it happen: binding all suitors to defend whomever King Tyndareus chose as husband for his daughter, and Menelaus and Helen were wed.
Odysseus still recalled how he'd cursed his cleverness the day news of Paris and Helen’s treachery reached him. We’re only fighting this damned war because Menelaus couldn’t keep his wife at home, he thought.
Panexypnos drew a wineskin from beneath his cloak and passed it without a word.
Odysseus uncorked the wine and sniffed. Nothing had smelled unusual the last time, either. Steeling himself, Odysseus took a deep glug.
In an instant he stood in the cobbled agora of Ilium as all around him the city burned. He felt the heat of the flame, smelled smoke on the air, heard scattered screams throughout the city. Odysseus watched Achaeans drag off slaves and plunder, laughing as they looted. Above it all, standing black against the burning towers, loomed a great presence –
Odysseus cried out, breaking the vision. Hurling the wineskin into the fire he staggered to his feet, gripping his head. The pain was worse than the last time.
Panexypnos seemed to blur and flex. Several of him – several versions of him – overlapped, sharing space. The old man, a young man, a woman. Even hints of a bird, and perhaps a wolf.
None of that happened before when Odysseus saw the future. Was he still in the vision? With something like awe in his voice he said: "The men are right – the gods have taken sides in this war. The wine... Are you Dionysus?"
"I have many names. That is one. Panexypnos is another." The creature resolved itself again into Panexypnos.
"My brother's age comes. He means to make the Trojans a great people for the work he intends – already he defends them during this war, dragging it on. But if you destroy the Trojans my brother will have no choice but to turn to your people, make the Achaeans great."
"I saw Ilium burning," Odysseus said, half giddy at the prospect.
"Then you have it within you to find a solution, to make the might-be you saw into must-be," said Panexypnos. "That is what the wine shows – only what you have the power to make happen. As you did when your oath forged peace amongst the Achaeans."
That twigged something within Odysseus, something unsettling.
"The last time you appeared to me you said I had to prevent the Achaeans from going to war with one another." Odysseus began to circle the man – or was it god? – warily. "Now you appear again after ten years, needing something. Why did you care who won Helen's hand? Why do you want Troy to fall?"
A dam burst in Odysseus's mind at that moment, memories and certainties of the last decade tossing and tumbling wildly.
"You wanted this war." There was venom in Odysseus's accusation. "You knew this would happen, wanted the Achaeans fighting Troy instead of each other."
Panexypnos smiled. "I didn't know," he said, "but I hoped. And I did what I could. Who was it, do you think, that introduced Paris to Helen in the first place?"
Odysseus drew his sword in a rage, though he knew it a hollow gesture against a god. "You started this war!"
"To stop the Trojans! The Greeks can give the world something the Trojans never could: philosophy, science, mathematics, drama. All precious to me! My brother would build empires, but even after they are dust your achievements shall live on. Your heritage shall endure forever."
"How can I trust you now?"
"You surprise me," said Panexypnos, "You, cleverest of all men. I come to you because of all Achaeans, you alone have the potential to – "
"Wait – " Odysseus interrupted. "'Surprise?'" He began to pace.
"Menelaus tried to kill Diomedes but it didn't work because there was no surprise. He keeps trying the same thing, just in different ways. The Trojans expect attack, again and again.
What we need is surprise – to do a different thing, and unexpectedly."
"A different thing?" asked Panexypnos.
"We give up," said Odysseus with an air of realization. "We withdraw and go home."
Panexypnos's face darkened, but Odysseus held up a hand to forestall him.
"At least we appear to," Odysseus continued. "We strike camp, and set off in the fleet. Then, when the Trojans no longer expect an attack, we make one last assault."
Panexypnos nodded. "Clever Odysseus."
Odysseus closed his eyes, calling back the cascade of vision images. He focused on the great looming presence he'd sensed...
"A horse," he said at last, opening his eyes. "There was a great horse."
Panexypnos nodded, considering. "The horse is sacred to the Trojans. They have many such statues in the city."
"But it was a wooden horse," said Odysseus, "and Achaean in style, as if built by our shipwrights. As if a vessel."
Odysseus smiled, the certainty of a plan forming in his mind. "Tell me – " he said, putting an arm around Panexypnos's shoulders " – what do you know of carpentry?" And he led him off into the darkness beyond the Achaean camp.
Warrior Poet
by Joshua Schwartzkopf
The blind, old man sat on the deck of the warship as the oarsmen carved their way through the angry waves of the Mediterranean. As if he could see, he stared across the bay at cliffs that rose from the green water like earth-coloured teeth. While the salty brine crashed against the side of the trireme, a boy on the verge of becoming a man watched his master. He felt relieved that the old man had not noticed him standing there. That is, until he spoke.
"I know you're there, boy," the old man croaked. "Now come and tell me what you see. But don't use your simple words. I'll know the difference because..."
"...I could see once upon a time," the boy finished, joining his master on the deck. Ever since he met the man, he’d been fascinated and aggravated. He'd heard others whisper that his master knew great truths – even the Eleusian mysteries – truths that would someday set the world free. Truths that would reveal the three deities who fought for control. But he refused to share this knowledge with anyone.
The Book of the Emissaries: An Animism Short Fiction Anthology Page 8
