The Wrath of God
Page 1
Dedication
To my wife, for her support, and my daughter, for her endless curiosity
The Wrath of God Copyright © 2019 by Jay Penner.
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Jay Penner (https://www.jaypenner.com)
Cover designed by Jay Penner
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing: Jun 2019
v3.6 2020.03.13.21.07.20
Table of Contents
AUTHOR’S NOTES
ANACHRONISM
HISTORICAL BASIS
CHAPTER 1.
CHAPTER 2.
CHAPTER 3.
CHAPTER 4.
CHAPTER 5.
CHAPTER 6.
CHAPTER 7.
CHAPTER 8.
CHAPTER 9.
CHAPTER 10.
CHAPTER 11.
CHAPTER 12.
CHAPTER 13.
CHAPTER 14.
CHAPTER 15.
CHAPTER 16.
CHAPTER 17.
CHAPTER 18.
CHAPTER 19.
CHAPTER 20.
CHAPTER 21.
CHAPTER 22.
CHAPTER 23.
CHAPTER 24.
CHAPTER 25.
CHAPTER 26.
CHAPTER 27.
CHAPTER 28.
CHAPTER 29.
CHAPTER 30.
CHAPTER 31.
CHAPTER 32.
CHAPTER 33.
CHAPTER 34.
CHAPTER 35.
CHAPTER 36.
CHAPTER 37.
CHAPTER 38.
CHAPTER 39.
CHAPTER 40.
CHAPTER 41.
CHAPTER 42.
CHAPTER 43.
CHAPTER 44.
CHAPTER 45.
CHAPTER 46.
CHAPTER 47.
CHAPTER 48.
CHAPTER 49.
CHAPTER 50.
CHAPTER 51.
CHAPTER 52.
CHAPTER 53.
CHAPTER 54.
CHAPTER 55.
CHAPTER 56.
CHAPTER 57.
CHAPTER 58.
CHAPTER 59.
CHAPTER 60.
CHAPTER 61.
CHAPTER 62.
CHAPTER 63.
CHAPTER 64.
CHAPTER 65.
CHAPTER 66.
CHAPTER 67.
CHAPTER 68.
Thank You
NOTES
THE CURSE OF AMMON
CREDITS
ALSO BY JAY PENNER
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AUTHOR’S NOTES
Writing ancient historical fiction poses its own interesting challenges. How do you describe concepts that did not exist at that time (be pedantic or accept anachronisms)? How close do you stay to history (go academic or take liberties)? Do you stay true to ancient sensibilities (e.g., treatment of women)? Can your hero be flawed, or should he be perfect? How much violence do you depict (too much for some, too little for some others)? I have tried to navigate these waters, and I hope that you will enjoy the book. If you notice any editing gremlins that have still escaped watchful eyes, please let me know.
ONCE YOU FINISH
I ask for your kindness and support through a few words (or even just ratings) after reading. I’ve provided review links in the end, and it will only take a few seconds (or minutes). Thank you in advance!
ANACHRONISM
an act of attributing a custom, event, or object to a period to which it does not belong
Writing in the ancient past sometimes makes it difficult to explain everyday terms. Therefore, I have taken certain liberties so that the reading is not burdened by linguistic gymnastics. My usage is meant to convey the meaning behind the term, rather than striving for historical accuracy. I hope that you, reader, will come along for the ride, even as you notice that certain concepts may not have existed during the period of the book. For example -
Directions—North, South, East, West.
Time—Minutes and Hours for smaller periods.
Distance—Miles.
Other concepts—Imperial, Stoic.
HISTORICAL BASIS
I have a short section called “Notes” at the end of this book. If you are a history buff, stop by and spend a few minutes to see the connection between the book and known history. I publish a blog covering topics that may be of interest and I’d love for you to come over!
Also worth remembering, that when we say “Upper Egypt” it actually refers to Southern Egypt, and “Lower Egypt” is Northern Egypt. The Upper and Lower are anchored to the origin and direction of the Nile river.
ONCE YOU FINISH
If you enjoyed the book, it would make a world of difference to me if you took a few minutes to rate the book on Goodreads and/or on Amazon. You can now leave an Amazon star rating from your device without text.
ATALANNI
Hannuruk—King / Apsara—Queen
Nimmuruk—Crown Prince
Khaia—Oracle
Rishwa—Prime Minister
Minos—Governor
Teber—General
EGYPT
Ahmose—Pharaoh / Ahmose-Nefertari—Queen
Wadjmose—General
Khamudi—King of the Hyk-Khase
Iben-Har—Captain of the Hyk-Khase
PART I
A LONG TIME AGO
“The gods have imbued this world with wondrous properties—earth, water, fire, air. Our role is to understand the world, interpret its behavior, and bend it to our will…”*
DAIVOSHASTRA CH. VII: “NATURE”
CHAPTER 1.
KALLISTU
The rumblings begin soon after the afternoon prayers and supplications to the holy Trikaia—the three principal gods of the Atalanni—the Great God of the Seas, Goddess Mother of Earth, and Sky Father. First, the Earth shakes gently, like a mother’s loving cradling of her infant, but as the minutes wear, the kindness makes way to anger, and the beautiful, patterned floor begins to crack. The priests look in horror as one of the two thirty-foot bronze statues of the sacred bull, positioned on the side of the inner sanctum, topples and crashes into the limestone column next to it, bringing the column down and crushing an altar boy who is frantically trying to make his way out. The blue-orange frescoes of the chamber—bulls, dancers, warriors, trees, birds, boats, and deer—crack, and their glory dims as if a young woman’s face has aged in an instant.
But the most wondrous scene is that there is now a gaping hole in the earth near the fallen bull. Bright orange liquid oozes from it, burning the ceremonial garments draped around the fallen statue.
“Run!” The head priest screams, and he, along with two men and two women, make swift strides across the polished basalt causeway that connects the temple to the mainland.
It is a mile to safety.
Few are on the causeway today, for it is the day of prayers, and royal
ty, nobles, warriors. Commoners are forbidden to visit the temple complex and the holy island. The men and women run as fast as they can as cracks open beneath their feet. The sea churns, splashing foamy water on them. One man screams as a wave rises from the side and grabs him.
It is as if the sea and earth are locked in a ferocious wrestling match.
In the holding pens in the back corner of the complex, sacrificial bulls and goats create a ruckus and bellow in fear. The crashing waves and shaking earth drowns the panic and pleading from the prisoners destined to be sacrificed along with the animals. Manacled and shackled, the condemned shout for the guards and pull on their metal cuffs until their skin rips and bleeds raw. Their pleas go unheard as waves come crashing through their cell windows.
The roof collapses, ending their lives before their blood is spilled before the gods of the Atalanni.
The head priest glances behind him as he runs. The glorious one-thousand-column colonnade is still holding up, even though some of the proud fifty-foot tall columns are groaning as the ground beneath them continues to shake and shift. The colonnade roof has cracked, and the head priest prays for it not to come crashing down. They reach the end of the causeway within minutes, gasping for breath, with soldiers and other concerned citizens ushering them on.
The head priest is the first to arrive at the rock-cut steps. As he springs up, he hears the screams of his acolytes and the crashing of a column.
King Hannuruk looks at the destruction with despair. He wonders what caused the earth to shake and fire to ooze from the ground, that too on the sacred day of prayers! Hannuruk’s leathery, pock-marked face twitches uncontrollably. He turns to Rishwa, his long-serving advisor and Prime Minister. “None of my ancestors suffered such devastation!”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“This is not the first time that the ground has displayed anger—the last time the earth rumbled a few summers ago I even built new shrines and decorated the temple complex with breathtaking opulence,” he complains bitterly.
“That is true, Your Majesty,” Rishwa says, allowing the King to vent his frustration.
“I have offered sacrifices of deer, birds, bulls. Even people!” Hannuruk says, slapping on the windowsill.
Rishwa nods. He is aware that the King had gone against the advice of his priests when he had turned to human sacrifice.
But today, the signs are far more distressing. Hannuruk has heard tales of the Kingdom’s ancient past, that long ago the earth had shaken too, and that great plumes of ash and fire had been ejected from the ground, but that was when the Atalanni had angered the gods by building palaces and towns, but not monuments of worship. Since then the Kings had built numerous temples, and finally Hannuruk’s grandfather had spent many summers constructing the most magnificent temple complex in all of the world, the temple of the Trikaia—Great God of the Seas, Goddess Mother of Earth, and the Sky Father—and Hannuruk’s father had further increased its magnificence.
What gods would not like what the Atalanni had built for them?
What about the magnificent central temple with the giant bronze statues of the gods?
And what about the ringed canals that channeled the sea around them into teal and green glory that encircled the temple?
What of the greatest inner harbor in all of the earth?
Now this?
The causeway, the colonnade, the curved outer walls, the circular canals, the central chambers, the numerous masterpieces of wall art and statues, and the inner sanctum—all bear wounds of the violence inflicted upon them just hours ago. He can still see dark smoke rising from the inner sanctum, a result of what the head priest claims was molten rock from the bowels of the earth. It all made little sense, for the only structure damaged in this shaking of the earth is the most sacred complex and the holy island. There is barely a hint of the quake anywhere else except some fallen rocks and small portions of collapsed cliffs.
How should he interpret these signs?
“The gods send us a message, there is no doubt,” Hannuruk says, looking up at the sky. “We should seek guidance.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
The King turns to an attendant. “Tell Khaia I wish to consult.”
CHAPTER 2.
KALLISTU
Khaia stands on the balcony overlooking the bay.
What a glorious sight.
The towering cliffs rise from the seas in a graceful arc, surrounding the remarkable temple complex with its statues, frescoes, boat-width canals, colonnade, and glimmering basalt sculptures and flooring. And yet that complex is now a smoking wreck—not destroyed, but damaged enough that it would take many summers of work to restore it to the former magnificence. She fiddles with her bracelet—her favorite jewelry that she has worn since was twelve. It was given to her by her predecessor. The bracelet is made of the finest gold from Egypt—on it, the Atalanni craftsmen have engraved a griffin, a lion, a bull, tree of the island, and symbols that signify the sacred Oracle’s position. She touches it gently—it gives her comfort.
She knows that King Hannuruk would be enraged.
He would seek answers, for to what end had he commissioned all the enhancements and accouterments to the great temple, only to watch it shake and break, and that too on an auspicious day?
The old man is known for his fits and outbursts.
Some no doubt caused by his age.
Some by his inflamed tooth that he refused to have extracted because of a belief that it would weaken his virility.
Besides, His Majesty was never of sound mind, unlike his highly revered father.
Her eyes drift to her young daughter Akhi, only a harvest of age, cooing in the arms of a nurse. In two harvests, she would leave her mother and become one of the palace wards. The Atalanni law forbade the members of the Divine Council to rear children. The boys eventually joined the military, and the girls became singers, dancers, courtesans, or gods’ attendants.
A sadness passes over Khaia.
This would be her second child to lose.
The father, a soldier of the army and ritually allowed to lay with her, had vanished beneath the waves in a battle with the bloodthirsty Mycenaeans from the North.
A knock on the door brings Khaia out of her thoughts.
“My respects, sacred Khaia, His Majesty King Hannuruk requests to see the Divine Council,” says the attendant, peeking through the crack.
“Does he not know that it is forbidden for royalty to summon divinity today?” she asks, knowing fully well that protocol is something Hannuruk only paid lip service so long as it suited his purposes.
The attendant bows. “His Majesty only asked me to convey his wishes, sacred Khaia. I am only a messenger,” he says, wringing his hands.
“Very well, then. I will meet the King in the throne room.”
Khaia prepares herself for the meeting. She disrobes and dons a shimmering blue gown that she secures at the waist with an elegant gold and silver cord. She paints her nails orange and ties a red ribbon around her temple. Her hair falls in curls around her stern, imperial face. She looks at herself in the obsidian mirror and is pleased with what she sees. At thirty-five, she is still healthy, her face shows little sign of the age, her breasts still hold proud, and her stomach has not yet descended on the folds of the garment around her waist.
She knows men still lust after her.
Was it because of her forbidden stature or her beauty? She is unsure. She may be the Oracle of the Atalanni, but men’s desires were still a mystery to her.
Khaia makes her way from her quarters to the palace, a walk along the edge of the inner cliffs. It is a beautiful day, the disaster notwithstanding. Her attendant fans her along the way to alleviate the heat of the sun’s afternoon rays. On one side is the green pathway and fences of the royal quarters, and the on the other is the magnificent inlet with the temple complex. Gods have bestowed this beauty on them, she thinks, and yet she feels a chill even in the warm afternoon. Khaia hurrie
s and reaches the Palace. After walking through the labyrinthine halls, she arrives at the wide-open throne room. She has made her way here twice a year, every year, for the last twenty since she was nominated the Oracle of the Atalanni. She is still impressed by the opulence that surrounds her in this room where decisions of life, death, and the future of the Kingdom are made.
The room descends to a hush when she enters.
The audience bows in respect. The members of her Divine Council kneel in obeisance, and a messenger proclaims loudly, “His Majesty, King Hannuruk, welcomes sacred Khaia, the Oracle of the Atalanni.”
Khaia looks around and bows to the King and the Queen. She then walks to her seat, an elegant, simple stool made of Egyptian papyrus.
The room is calm, but she knows that there would be tempest soon.
“You honor us with your visit, sacred Khaia,” says Hannuruk, as he clutches his graying beard and smoothens it.
“And you with your invitation, Your Majesty,” she says.
They exchange pleasantries and settle down to discuss the matter for which the King had summoned the group.
Hannuruk starts. “We have all—”
Khaia cuts him off mid-sentence. “Today was not the day to summon the Council, Your Majesty.”
Hannuruk bristles but keeps his composure. Khaia can see his color darken. She continues, “And yet the hour demands that laws be set aside when great danger confronts us.”
Hannuruk relaxes, his ego soothed by her concession. He leans forward, “This was not supposed to happen.”
Khaia recognizes accusation in the King’s tone. To him, the Oracle was accountable for keeping the gods happy, regardless of whether his own actions offended or pleased the divine.