by Jerry Dubs
Pharaoh Thutmose poured wine into a golden goblet and then turned back to sit on his stool. Resting the golden plate on his lap, he picked up a duck leg and began to eat.
“Ah, yes, Lord Pharaoh, you have been living with the army for a year,” Puimre said as he tore off a piece of bread; he found that the meals rested easier if he first laid a pillow of bread in his stomach.
“I have been thinking about the Two Lands,” Pharaoh Thutmose said.
Puimre swallowed quickly and said, “Your thoughts are the lifeblood of the Two Lands.”
“I was raised in the temple of Amun ... ”
“Praise to Amun,” Puimre said quietly and then reached for a lettuce leaf in which he could wrap some of the oily fish.
“ ... and I value contemplation,” Pharaoh Thutmose said.
“Ptah conceives the world by the thought of his heart and gives life through the magic of his Word,” Puimre said.
“Yet, there must be action,” Pharaoh Thutmose said, staring into his wine cup.
Puimre knew, as all of the Two Lands knew, that until this sojourn with the army, Pharaoh Thutmose had spent his sixteen years inactive, hidden away in the Temple of Amun while his step-mother ruled.
The priest felt a chill, wondering if he was hearing the awakening of Pharaoh Thutmose’s ambition. The thought took life and Puimre imagined a time of upheaval, perhaps a civil war. Could the Two Lands stand if the man sitting here decided to take the throne from Pharaoh Hatshepsut?
Puimre blinked as Pharaoh Thutmose extended his arm, his hand open, the fingers pointing at the priest.
“An open hand,” Pharaoh Thutmose said. Then he slowly closed his fingers. “At the command of my thoughts the hand becomes a fist.” He looked over his fist at Puimre. “And my fist is the Fist of Amun.”
Pharaoh Thutmose returned his gaze to his hand. He rotated his wrist, turned his hand palm up and opened the fingers.
“My thoughts give rise to this action and to this action ... ”
Puimre found himself holding his breath.
“But the action,” Pharaoh Thutmose continued, a smile growing on his face, “can only be true if it rises from my ka. So first, I must know my soul. From that knowledge will flow my thoughts. They will direct my actions.”
“And this,” he reformed his fist, “will shape the Two Lands.”
Puimre stared at Pharaoh Thutmose and thought: This hawk is preparing to strike.
Pharaoh Thutmose looked into his wine cup for a moment. Then, smiling, he raised his eyes to Puimre.
“Send men to prepare my boat. I am returning to Waset.”
Kebu and the hunters
Kebu leaned against a smooth tree trunk and, head hanging, slowly began to slide to the ground. His bare heels pushed across the loamy soil leaving faint furrows on the bed of leaves that covered the ground.
Resting against the tree, he tilted his head back and stared unseeing at the underside of the dark leaves towering above him.
This is where I die, he thought, a feeling of relief swelling against his hunger and weariness. Soon I will walk in the eternal Field of Reeds.
The sky began to darken and high above a tree branch swayed as a hawk landed. He heard leaves brushing against each other and off to his right he heard the slippery notes of water washing against rocks. They were good sounds.
He was hungry, but he had grown used to that. His leg wound had refused to heal and he could feel the muscles within moving in anger. He was used to that, too.
Through the leafy canopy he could see glimpses of the sky. He wondered what Duat would be like and how difficult it would be to find his way through it to the Field of Reeds.
The hawk pushed back into the air, shaking the leaves once more. Kebu watched it soar higher and higher, circling as it rose.
My ka will soar like that.
Now there was a new sound, the rustling of leaves and the scuffling of feet on the ground. He gripped his spear and looked toward the sound, wondering what would take him: A hump-shouldered hyena, or the lion he had chased away from the baboons, or some unimagined beast that would charge and quickly kill him, or wait patiently until he lost consciousness?
Holding his spear he closed his eyes and prayed to the gods that it would end quickly.
When he finished calling on the gods, his heavy eyes refused to open and Kebu gave himself to the darkness.
***
Cool water ran over his face, wetting his lips and dripping against his dry tongue.
The sound of the river was different, harsher and harder. It stopped and started and changed pitch and Kebu realized that it was not the water playing with the rocks that he heard, it was the sound of voices. And the voices were not the cries of bushbabies or the screeches of baboons, they were voices that spoke to him.
Now his head jostled and he felt hands, not paws or claws, but hands pressing against his shoulders.
He opened his eyes and the face in front of his smiled and called out, “He lives!”
***
The hunters made a litter from branches and vines and heavy-veined leaves. As they slid Kebu onto it they asked him who he was, why he was here, what had happened, was he alone and a dozen other questions.
Too weak to speak, Kebu smiled mindlessly.
Dragging a weary arm across his chest, he put his open hand on his throat. He could feel the muscles within move, but his throat felt constricted and the air passed through him without carrying sound.
He looked at the man who was leaning toward him. His black face was worried, yet amused. He smiled and patted Kebu’s chest.
“Don’t worry, brother. We will take you to Kerma and you will find your voice there.”
Kebu nodded and mouthed the word, “governor.”
“You want to see the governor?”
Kebu nodded.
The man laughed, his lips pressing against his huge teeth. “You think the governor wants to see you?”
Kebu nodded.
“He wants to see the governor,” the man told his friends. They crowded around the litter and stared at the half-dead man who wanted to see the governor.
While the others laughed, a thin-shouldered man came close and leaned down to look closely at Kebu and at the ritual scars on his shoulders. “Are you a Medjay?” the man asked.
Kebu nodded.
“Were you with Yuya?”
Kebu nodded again and mouthed the word “dead.”
“Yuya is dead?” the man said, his eyes wide.
Kebu tried to nod, but suddenly any strength he felt drained away and darkness came again.
***
A cool cloth moved across his chest, gray shadows played across his eye lids and the acrid smell of burning oil worked its way through his nose and down his throat.
Is this Duat?
He tried to open his eyes, found that the lids were too heavy to move and tried to raise his hand to his face.
“Welcome back,” a soft voice said.
A soft, cool weight patted at his eyes and then at his mouth.
“You have been asleep for two days. You are in the governor’s palace. My name is Bintanath. When you are able, Sabestet will talk with you. He is chamberlain to Governor Seni. Do you understand?”
Kebu squeezed his eyelids shut and then tried once more to pry them open. This time they moved and a dark silhouette took shape before him. The shadow moved and he heard a scraping sound as a stone scraped on stone. He turned his head and saw the low flame of burning oil atop a rounded stone lamp. The flame came closer.
When he turned back to the shadow the light let him see a round face with a wide nose and heavy lips that were set in a smile.
“Is that better?” Bintanath asked.
Kebu smiled.
“I have some broth,” she said. “Let’s see if you can sit.”
***
After Kebu had eaten, Bintanath said she needed to notify Sabestet that he was awake.
Lying on the hard, narrow b
ed, he watched her leave and allowed the embers of happiness to glow within.
I will soon complete my duty.
***
“Yuya is dead?” Sabestet said, his eyes wide in shock.
“There were too many of them, my lord,” Kebu said.
“Yuya was a rock, a mountain,” Sabestet said, looking down and shaking his head. “And the women live?”
Kebu tried to shrug but managed only a small frown and grunt. “I did not hear any wailing, my lord. There were soldiers of the Two Lands and warriors from Ta Netjer. Someone saw us leave the jungle and sounded an alarm.”
“The governor is sailing into danger,” Sabestet mumbled to himself. He tried to think of how to warn him.
He couldn’t send a letter; it could be intercepted and he would be implicated.
He couldn’t send a messenger; he could be questioned, and Sabestet was reluctant to share the idea of a plot to assassinate Pharaoh Hatshepsut with any more people.
He looked at Kebu lying weakly on the bed. Bintanath had said he was no longer dying.
“You must go to Waset and tell Governor Seni what happened,” Sabestet told Kebu.
Kebu though that the chamberlain must be making a joke, but the man didn’t look capable of humor.
Before Kebu could say anything, Sabestet turned and shouted to a guard.
“Arrange a boat. Find four men, no, eight men, to row. This man must be taken to Waset immediately.”
He turned back to Kebu. He leaned forward and patted the man’s shoulder. “You’ll be fine. Bintanath said you are healing nicely.” As he spoke, Sabestet caught a whiff of a foul smell coming from Kebu’s festering leg wound. He blinked away his distaste.
“We’ll get you to Governor Seni, you can tell him what happened, and then,” he looked away. “Then all will be well.”
He glanced toward the doorway.
I must pack and leave Kerma. The anger of Pharaoh Hatshepsut will sweep up the river faster than the strike of a snake.
A secret meeting
A torch in his left hand, a thick cudgel in his right, Mahu led Governor Seni through the night streets of Waset.
Feral cats slid silently in the shadows as they stalked the shuffling scratches of scavenging rats. They passed a man squatting to relieve himself in an alley. Grunting loudly, the man woke a tethered goat that bleated its annoyance into the night. Nearby, waste water splashed in a yard and all around them the smell of wood smoke wove through the air.
Holding a hand over his mouth, Governor Seni followed his nephew through the slums of the capital of the Two Lands, his eyes wide in fear, his belly filled with disgust.
“Why could we not take a litter?” he asked, his words muffled by his hand.
“Litters can be traced,” Mahu answered.
“Traced?”
“Yes.”
Seni staggered to a stop and bent as a sudden fit of coughing came over him. He felt thick liquid move from his chest to his throat. He growled and spit to clear his throat.
Bent over, hands on his knees, he thought, Hathor was right, I will soon rest from this life. Slowly standing straight, he wiped his arm across his mouth and took in a deep breath. The air clawed into his lungs and he began to cough again.
It won’t be long, he told himself when the spasm had passed. I’ll send Hatshepsut to the Field of Reeds and then I’ll follow her there.
When Seni finally stopped coughing, Mahu said, “The barracks are only a little farther, uncle.” He looked at the frail man and wondered if the fate of the world was really clinging to his narrow shoulders.
“Who would track a litter?” Seni gasped, standing and taking a tentative breath.
“The police. Someone like me,” Mahu said.
He breathed deeply and worried that he was making a mistake taking his uncle to Minmose. But his friend had been excited when Mahu told him of Seni’s hatred for Pharaoh Hatshepsut. Mahu shook his head. It didn’t matter, as long as he was able to hand his uncle and his treasonous ideas off to someone else.
“We must be careful, uncle. This is Waset. There are eyes everywhere. If you are unsuccessful, the palace guards will want to know everyone you met, every place you went.”
“But ... ”
“And,” Mahu said, overriding Seni’s protest, “if you are successful, the palace cannot turn a blind eye. It doesn’t matter if Thutmose decides to recognize you as his grandfather and gives you a pension and a house in the country. The palace guards and the city police will need someone to blame for the death of Pharaoh Hatshepsut. I don’t want to be that someone.”
“But, it doesn’t matter, Mahu,” Seni insisted. “I will be dead. Wepwawet is stalking me. The goddess Hathor has told me so.”
“Yes, but I won’t be dead,” Mahu said. “And I need to distance myself from your actions.” He turned to Seni. “The words you spoke in my house could send my ka to eternal death. Those words could kill Thuya.
“I am doing this,” he looked up the street, “because I understand that you won’t be stopped. If I just turn you out, you’ll do something rash and be caught. Then where will I be?
“No, you’ll meet with Minmose and he will help you. Then I’ll have your possessions taken to an inn. You were never at my house, dear uncle from Ta-Seti. You are nothing more than a distant relative, known only by his name.”
***
“The Hittite chariots stretched across the plain, from the hills of dawn to the distant western horizon,” Pawura said, pointing to his left and then to his right.
“The Hittite chariots are huge,” he said, lifting his cup of beer. “Twice the size of ours. They carry a driver, an archer, and a shield-bearer armed with a spear. But,” he took a slow drink of beer, savoring both the drink and the attention of the other men in the barracks. He swallowed and winked, making sure all the men were leaning forward to hear the story he had told dozens of times since his return to Waset.
“Although the Hittite chariots are huge, they are slow. And their drivers couldn’t lead a donkey through the market without getting lost,” he ended with a laugh.
“Still, there were so many,” one of the men said, leaning on the low table in the barracks, his excited eyes locked on Pawura.
“Yes, yes,” Pawura said. “Thousands of them and we numbered but twenty-five. They could never catch us. So,” he leaned forward, scanning the faces of the men, “I knew we would wheel about and leave them in our dust. I looked to Menena, he was driving Pharaoh Thutmose’s chariot.”
“What is his chariot like? I heard it was made of solid gold,” one of the men asked.
“That would be too heavy,” Pawura said, thrown off by the interruption. Then he thought of a new embellishment to enrich his story. “It is covered with electrum. And jewels. The wheels flash in the sunlight as it moves.”
“I would love to see it,” the listener said.
“Can’t. Pharaoh Thutmose left it behind in the desert. Just walked away without a backward glance. That’s how he is.” Pawura waved his cup. “None of this matters. Not to him. I mean, it all matters, but he lives in a different world.”
“Yeah, the palace,” one of the men said and the others began to laugh.
Pawura, pulled his knife from his belt and drove it into the table top. The men stopped laughing and stepped back.
“He looked on a thousand Hittite chariots and didn’t hesitate to attack. A thousand against a handful! His chariot was in the lead as we charged, his hands already nocking an arrow. And then he let it fly, higher and higher until the arrow disappeared from sight.”
He lowered his voice and the men leaned forward.
“Then the arrow began to fall, and as it did, Pharaoh Thutmose began a powerful chant calling on Shu to raise the land and destroy our enemy. And the land did rise,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper now. “It swept over us, roaring like a thousand desert lions, heading for the Hittite army. As the sand and soil swept over us, Pharaoh Thutmose ordered us
to overturn our chariots and, like turtles, we hid from the storm.”
Pawura took a long drink as the men murmured in approval. They each pictured themselves following a fearless god into battle. Always brave. Always victorious.
“The storm buried me in the belly of Geb,” Pawura said after the men had turned their attention back to him. “There was no air, just walls of dirt. And then I heard a scratching sound. And then there was air and light. And then the hand of Pharaoh Thutmose pushed through the earth and took my hand and pulled me back to life.”
He pulled the knife from the table and turned to the soldiers. Quickly he reached out and grabbed the arm of the man who had joked about Pharaoh Thutmose. Holding the man’s wrist, Pawura pulled him to the table and leaned his weight to pin the man’s hand on the rough wood.
“Pharaoh Thutmose, whose name should never come from your mouth again, does not worship gold or jewels like you do,” he said, his eyes taking in the room of men. “When we win a victory, do you know what he demands? He doesn’t ask for shields, or golden bracelets or precious stones.”
Holding the squirming man’s arm, he raised his knife in the air.
“He demands hands!” he shouted and brought the knife down, burying the blade in the wood beside the man’s hand.
As the man roared in shock and staggered backward, the oil lamps flickered and Mahu entered, trailed by Governor Seni.
Mahu and Seni looked at the rough soldiers, their faces flushed with beer and emotion, all of their eyes on the square table where Pawura’s knife still trembled. Pawura was standing, his head turning from man to man, looking for a challenge. The soldier whose arm he had grabbed was rubbing his wrist and backing away from the table.
At the edge of the crowd, Mahu’s eyes found a wide-shouldered man with a deep scar across his forehead. Seeing Mahu, the man tilted his head toward a darkened doorway along the side wall of the mudbrick room.
Mahu put his hand on Seni’s shoulder and nudged him toward the edge of the shadowy room and the looming doorway.
