by Marc Graham
“And what of Tadua’s army?”
A bellicose voice cut through Bilkis’s clouded thoughts. She tore her eyes from her rivals and focused on the other stranger amid Auriyah’s councillors. His burnished skin told of one who spent his time out-of-doors. The pale scar along his jaw and the fresh red one across his shoulder proclaimed him a man accustomed to violence.
“What of it, Cousin?” Auriyah asked bitterly.
Cousin? Bilkis mused. Has all of Tadua’s family turned against him?
“Your father has run,” the warrior said, “but it is only a question of time before he assembles enough men to threaten Urusalim. And your throne.”
Auriyah laughed loudly and a handful of sycophants joined in with him. “What have I to fear from an old man and an army of shepherds?”
“I have fought by the side of that old man since before you were a tickle in his loincloth. He has seen trials far more desperate than this and has overcome them all.”
“Yes, yes, Ayub, I know,” Auriyah groaned. “I have heard the stories. How he slew the lion with his bare hands. How he killed giant Gulatu with a mere pebble. How he crawled through a newly fertilized field and came out smelling of olibanum.”
Ayub’s eyes came alight as Auriyah summarized his father’s legendary feats. This warrior might serve a new king, but the flames of love and respect for the old still burned.
“What would you have me do?” Auriyah continued. “Rally my Hatti? Raise the host of Yisrael?”
“If need be, yes,” Ayub insisted. “If you value your throne, you will do all that and more.”
“Perhaps we should call upon the priests of Yah,” Abiattar suggested. “Let them blast their rams’ horns and summon the Host of Heaven to fight for us.” He paused to let the laughter subside. “The lion has been declawed, defanged, and gelded. Raising an army against him would only bolster his reputation and demean your own, my lord.”
Auriyah weighed Abiattar’s words, and the sly one pressed on before anyone else could speak.
“Besides, our law prohibits a man from taking up arms within the year of his marriage. The king has only just brought his bride under his roof.” Abiattar made a sweeping gesture toward Bilkis. “And I suspect he will have his fill of brides within the week.”
Some of the men made crude gestures. Bilkis felt her insides twist as Tadua’s wives whimpered and consoled one another.
Auriyah tugged at his short beard, his brow wrinkled. His gaze settled on the women at the far end of the hall, and hunger replaced ambivalence. He reached for Bilkis’s hand, and she managed not to pull away in disgust.
“What say you, my queen? What course do you advise?”
Bilkis could not meet his eyes and would not look at the other women. She surveyed the eyes of the councilors, from Abdi-Havah’s righteous fire to Ayub’s martial zeal to Abiattar’s—what? The man’s expression was inscrutable, but Bilkis sensed whatever lay behind it might be turned to her favor.
She vowed to discover what it was.
“Do as seems right to my lord,” she at last said to Auriyah. “The king must see to his throne.”
While I see to mine.
18
Yetzer
Yetzer pushed himself to his knees, muscles protesting the previous day’s abuse and the night spent upon hard ground. He turned toward the rising sun and spread his arms. “Blessed Shapash,” he prayed, “Queen of Heaven. As you mount the heavens upon the wings of dawn, may your hand direct my path. So even may your right hand hold me fast.”
Yamu barked with derisive laughter and slapped a broad hand on Yetzer’s scarred shoulders.
“A singer and a priest,” he said. “Save your prayers, boy. Didn’t they tell you? The gods can’t hear us nameless ones.”
Yetzer ignored him and his ceaseless prattle as they filed through the gateway to receive a breakfast of stale bread. The picks remained dull from countless days of use. Yetzer kept his eyes down as he passed Inteb the overseer and found his place along the narrow trench gouged into the limestone.
He gripped the handle of his pick and began to sing. My heart rejoiced when they called unto me. Swing.
The tune was a common one, sung at festivals throughout Kemet, from the southern cataracts to the northern marshlands.
Come, now, to the temple of Amun. Swing.
Yetzer felt the other men’s stares, heard their pitiless laughter.
Let your feet stand in Uaset’s gate. Swing.
Footfalls rapidly drew near, gravel crunching beneath leather sandals. “I told you not to sing, slave.”
Yetzer fought to keep a straight face at the child’s voice issuing from the giant’s body. “With respect,” he said, keeping the tempo of his swings, “you told me to go faster.” Swing. “Not to stop singing.”
“Then go faster, dog.”
Inteb swung back the flail then lashed forward. The knotted cords bit into Yetzer’s back, tearing open day-old wounds and carving out new ones. Yetzer braced against the pain. He edged one foot forward to keep his balance and managed to hold his tempo.
“I think you’ll find,” he said through clenched teeth, “that this really”—Swing—“Is the best pace, and singing helps keep the pace.”
“Foreign pig.” The overseer’s voice climbed nearly an octave. “You will work faster.”
From the corner of his eye Yetzer watched Inteb’s shadow reel back the flail.
In the walls of Uaset, built by gods.
CRACK.
Swing.
Teeth clenched, Yetzer managed not to scream as pain mounted upon pain.
There gather the faithful of Kemet.
CRACK.
Swing.
Sinuhe’s voice, wavering with age, joined Yetzer’s.
There Pharaoh sits in righteous judgment.
CRACK.
Swing.
A handful of others added to the harmony, softly lest they draw Inteb’s attention away from the mad singer from Kenahn.
Whence peace flows throughout the lands.
The last word hung on Yetzer’s lips when the overseer unleashed his fury. He struck the backs of Yetzer’s legs so hard they buckled. Yetzer fell to his knees. The impact snapped his teeth together upon his tongue. Blood filled his mouth even as more lashes fell across his back, his shoulders, his chest, his head.
Yetzer rolled onto his side. He pulled his knees to his chest just in time to block a kick to his belly. There was little he could do but smile as the big man raised a foot and drove it toward his head.
A cool cloth soothed Yetzer’s forehead. He kept his eye closed as he assessed his injuries.
Toes wiggled. Shins were bruised, knees battered. Along the length of his body he found more of the same, pain but no severe injury. That pattern changed when he reached his head.
His jaw ached when he tested it. His tongue lay swollen against loosened teeth. From temple to crown, his skull felt as though squeezed in a carpenter’s vise. He willed his eye open. After several attempts he managed to peer through a blurry slit. A figure moved over him against a sky fired by evening’s last light. Yetzer fleetingly hoped it was Ameniye. Hoped the past few days, the years, had been but a bad dream. Hoped he would wake upon his cot in Pharaoh’s palace.
When his eye focused, it revealed withered brown skin and a gap-toothed grin. Sinuhe’s lips moved, but no words sounded. It was then Yetzer noticed the ringing in his ears.
“A damned fool, I tell you.” Sinuhe’s voice sifted through the din, and Yetzer recognized more humor than recrimination. “I’m running out of favors,” the old man continued, “and you’re beginning to smell like a tavern’s alley.”
Yetzer smiled. The effort sent boulders crashing through his skull.
“How many?” he asked when the rockslide stopped.
The physician smeared salve across Yetzer’s tattered chest.
“Twelve.”
Twelve. Out of fifty men. Nearly one man in four had followed Yetzer’s
lead.
“Of course, they fell into their own rhythms once Inteb finished with you,” Sinuhe added.
“Then we start again in the morning,” Yetzer said.
The old man gave a short laugh and shook his head. “It’s morning now.”
Yetzer lurched onto his elbows to scan the sky, then fell back as dizziness overwhelmed him. Sinuhe had spoken true. The sun lay behind the quarry, not the western mountains.
“I slept through a day and a night?”
“It would seem you needed the rest,” Sinuhe said. “A good knock on the head can be a fine thing from time to time.”
“I have to get to the quarry.” Yetzer pushed himself up again, and managed to remain sitting.
“Steady, boy.” Sinuhe placed a hand on Yetzer’s shoulder. “You’ll do no work today.”
“But the others.” Yetzer slurred as pain and nausea wrapped around him. “I can’t let them see Inteb win.”
“They saw it well enough yesterday,” Yamu said with a coarse laugh as he approached behind the old physician. “If you need me to piss on him, Sinuhe, I’m happy to help.”
“Osaure turns water to wine.” The old man winked at Yetzer. “All this one’s good for is turning cold water to warm urine. But there will be no work for you today, nor anyone else. Today is tenth-day.”
Yetzer blinked at that. He’d lost track of time since entering the quarry. Throughout the land of Kemet, each tenth day was dedicated to the gods, free of secular pursuits and labor.
“Your only duty today is rest.” Sinuhe reached into his cloth bundle and held out a piece of bread.
“It’s only half of yesterday’s,” Yetzer observed.
“No work, not as much needed,” Yamu said as he eyed Yetzer’s meager share.
Yetzer took the bread. “It will do.”
With dawn’s light, Yetzer rose, welcomed the sun, and filed out with the other men. His muscles more stiff than sore, Yetzer swung his arms to loosen them. The picks, he saw, had been hammered down to tolerably sharp points. The handle fit his hand so well, it seemed a part of himself. An otherworldly peace settled over him. A slave he might be, forgotten by Kemet’s gods. But he knew himself, and with his pick in his hands, he was master over his lot.
All praise to Amun who lifts me up, he sang, unable to contain the incongruous joy of the morning.
To Osaure, who plucked my ka from Duat. Some of the other men sang in response to the familiar verse.
Sing praises to Amun and all the gods.
Give thanks for all their goodness. More men joined in the response, smiles spreading from face to face.
Though their anger be fierce, like darkest storms.
Still, life abounds ’neath their mercy.
Though night brings fear and tears of grief.
In the dawn come laughter and singing.
The overseers waited at the entrance to the quarry. Inteb held his arms folded across his chest. His flail tapped against his shoulder in time with the men’s song, and he sneered as Yetzer passed by.
“I hope you’re well rested, slave,” he said, and Yetzer grinned back at him.
“I was going to say the same to you.”
Inteb’s sneer turned to a scowl, the muscles of his jaws tensed, and veins stood out on his neck. Yetzer laughed. He was the one in bonds, yet he had the power to dictate this freeman’s actions.
He followed the others into the quarry. During the two days he’d been there, not one block of stone had been freed from the rocky bed. A properly run crew of this size should have been able to turn out five rough ashlars in a day. He resolved to see what he could make of these men.
Yamu and a few others set immediately to work, their picks beating out disparate tempos that filled the quarry with dissonance. Yetzer spit in his palms then looked at the two-score men who eyed him expectantly. He set his stance and drew back his pick.
How mighty are your works, great Amun.
Swing.
The sound of the men’s grunts, followed by the ringing of the copper blades, made the very stones sing in harmony.
Each one formed and filled with wisdom.
Swing.
Yetzer’s heart soared as dozens of voices joined in the song.
Ageless Geb is full with your creation.
Swing.
“Faster!”
Yetzer braced himself for the blow, but kept his eyes fixed on the trench in front of him.
Yam’s waves teem with your creatures.
Swing.
CRACK.
The whistle and snap of the lashes echoed from the rock walls, but it was not Yetzer’s voice that cried out with pain.
“Work, dog,” the overseer screamed at Yamu, and delivered another set of stripes to the big man’s back. “All of you, set to.”
Every pick had fallen silent as men stood bemused by the turn of events. Not wishing Inteb’s wrath to fall on any of the men who had cast their lots with his, Yetzer quickly resumed the rhythm.
It is Amun who causes Iteru to flow.
Swing.
From the cataracts its waters feed the land.
Swing.
Causing grain to grow from the earth, for bread.
Swing.
And wine to enliven man’s heart.
Swing.
19
Bilkis
“More milk?”
Bilkis and Rahab looked up toward their host. Abdi-Havah stooped across a low table.
“No, Grandfather,” Bilkis replied, and clasped his cold, gnarled hand. “I need only your company and your wisdom.”
The old priest smiled and patted her hand as a servant eased him to his chair. “I am old enough to know flattery when I hear it,” Abdi-Havah said, then leaned toward Rahab as toward a conspirator. “And vain enough not to mind.”
Priest, queen, and handmaid sat in silence for a time, looking out over the Kederon Valley. Not eight days earlier Bilkis had watched the dust rise in the valley from Tadua’s retreat. Instead of dust, there now rose smoke from hundreds of campfires as the host of Yisrael gathered in support of the new king to hunt down the old.
For his part, King Auriyah remained in Tsion. To Bilkis’s revulsion, if not her surprise, her husband had followed Abiattar’s advice. Beneath a pavilion erected on the roof of the palace, Auriyah took his father’s wives into his own bed. First and, mercifully, the quickest had been his mother Maacah, followed by Mikhel, and Ahinoam. The king had taken considerably more time with the latter two, drawing out the humiliation for Tadua’s principal wife and the mother of Amun-On, the prince who had despoiled Auriyah’s sister.
“You really should eat something more.” Rahab broke the silence and gestured toward the table. “You’ve hardly taken any food or wine these last few days.”
Abdi-Havah had invited the queen to his hilltop villa outside the walls of Urusalim, but it was not so far from the palace that Bilkis could not see the shameful display atop her own roof. The planted rows of olive trees, however, screened the view, and the distance removed Bilkis from the jeers of the crowd gathered to watch the spectacle.
“Eat,” Rahab insisted, and slid a platter toward her.
Bilkis tore off a bit of bread and dipped it in olive oil. She ate the morsel and followed it with a deep draft of wine.
Rahab turned to the old priest. “What will happen when the army catches up with the king?” She looked sheepishly at Bilkis. “I mean, when they catch up with Tadua.”
Abdi-Havah fumbled on the table for a knife, which the servant snatched up to carve off a piece of cheese for him. “I’m not yet an invalid,” the old man snapped even as he accepted the food. Speaking between bites he said, “That depends on where they find him. If they meet on the open plain, Auriyah’s Hatti cavalry will sweep Tadua’s troops straight to Sheol.”
“And if they don’t?” Bilkis asked, unable to refrain from the conversation.
“The Vale of Yarden is a wild land, riddled with caves and narrow passes
. Tadua fought and thrived in such terrain for years, first as a war chief, then as a renegade, and finally as a king.”
The old man accepted a goblet of wine from his servant. “Thank you, Gad. Yes, Tadua is clever as a hyrax and fearsome as an adder. If Ayub leads the host into those defiles, Auriyah’s whole army will be lost.”
Bilkis gaped at the great assembly spread across the valley floor. “There must be five thousand warriors. How could Tadua possibly defeat them with a band of only a few hundred?”
“Five thousand men,” Abdi-Havah allowed, “but likely not more than one in ten is a seasoned fighter. The rest are farmers or shepherds called from their fields. All of Tadua’s men are warriors trained to the bow or spear from the time they left their nursemaids’ breasts.”
“But how could so few kill so many?” Rahab asked.
“They needn’t kill them all,” the priest explained. “It will start with a foraging party. Little by little, men will vanish and uncertainty will rise among the ranks. When the hands or heads of the missing reappear, panic will spread through the army, and the conscripts will flee to their homes.” Abdi-Havah gave a mirthless laugh and shook his head. “Tadua is a master of terror. By such methods he won his kingdom and captured the most impregnable fortress in all Kenahn.”
“Urusalim?” Bilkis guessed.
The onetime king nodded. “Men of my line have served in Urusalim as Melchi-tzedekim, as priest-kings, from time immemorial. When Abram, patriarch of the Habiru, paid tribute to my ancestor, we had already reigned here for a thousand years. Ever since man has looked to the heavens and seen the great works of Yah and looked about the earth to witness the marvels of great mother Havah, for as long as we have called upon the gods, a Melchitzedek has served here.”
The old man’s hands trembled as he reached for his wine. He drank, and a trickle of red stained his white beard. “And in one day,” he continued, “it all ended. Because of my folly, because of my trust in man rather than the gods, the legacy of a hundred generations of priest-kings has come to an end.” The old man sat back on his couch, his good eye taking on a far-away look.
