The Wrath of God

by Jay Penner

  Minos stands sullenly. I know that the Governor longs to be part of this mission. I have no doubt he will hound the King to regain the opportunity to part of the war.

  The King sways where he stands, and his Queen and two attendants balance him. He pushes her away, and drool spills from the corner of his mouth. This man repulses me, and it is a travesty that the woman I love is in his grip.

  I pray for victory to the Atalanni, and for me to take her away. Finally, with great pomp, sounds of drumbeats and trumpets, we get to our boats.

  As we sail away, Apsara puts her head down and cries. And only the gods know when I can return to wipe her tears.

  PART II

  “Other kingdoms are primitive. They act as if gods sit on a throne and direct man’s every affair. The divine has placed us on this earth for a reason and given us the intelligence to understand the world. And that is why, unlike the Egyptians, we do not spend most of our lives in meaningless rituals…”

  DAIVOSHASTRA CH. IX: “ROLE OF GODS”

  CHAPTER 18.

  HUTWARET

  I have never traveled so far on water, and the beauty all around mesmerizes me. The days pass peacefully, with little interaction between the Prince and me. He keeps his counsel, and I oversee the journey. A few men get sick on the way, unable to handle the heaving, but they get better as time passes.

  Many days later, we finally arrive near the shores of Egypt. The hazy outline is thrilling to see—for we all desire this land. With us, we have men who have previously visited Egypt for trade, and they will act as our guides until we connect with King Khamudi’s men. We land in an isolated strip of the coast—a marshy wetland not too far away from where Egypt’s great river’s tributaries drain into the sea. We have heard that this river snakes up this vast land, and then splits to more than fifteen branches that empty to the sea. Our plan is to travel east by foot along the coast until we reach a muddy road by marked by two low lying hills and a temple dedicated to the Asiatics’ gods. The guides say that it is hard to miss, and it is there that we should expect to meet the messenger who will take us to their King.

  The weather here is quite humid, and with foul critters and insects harassing us day and night, we finally make it to the temple in six days. It is a sorry dedication to a god. Made of clay and loose stones bound by brittle mortar, it is nothing but a bare room with a man’s statue inside it. No beauty exists within its walls.

  Our instructions are to climb the roof and hoist a fire and leave it burning through the night. The travel has brought sickness to many of the men. I think they are the curse of the local gods and our physicians tend to men that shiver even in the warm sun.

  The early morning after we hoisted the fire, guards wake me, alerting me of several men approaching on horses. A horse is a magnificent beast! These muscular creatures are known to have come from the lands far east, and the Asiatics have learned to domesticate and apply them in war. Minos told me once that he tried to rear them in Kaftu but was unsuccessful. I have even heard rumors that the Atalanni Engineers trained the horse traders in the Levant to learn how to build chariots of war and use horses to draw them. We do not have horses and buying them for the Atalanni army is one of the topics of our conversation with Khamudi.

  The riders approach rapidly, raising dust behind them. I ask my soldiers to take position behind me. The horses slow down as they approach, and the riders stop at a distance. The tall rider in the front dismounts and walks towards me. Once he nears, he extends his arms to show he is unarmed. He summons another man, who I learn is the interpreter.

  “Iben-Har,” he says, as he bows to me. Iben-Har is a strange man—he is dressed like an Egyptian with his kilt and waistband. His body is smooth without hair. And yet on his head are dark curls like the Asiatics, and he wears a long, carefully manicured thick black beard. Iben-Har says he is one of the commanders in Khamudi’s army. “King Khamudi welcomes the contingent of the Keftiu.”

  I am surprised at his announcement in our language. I bow to him. “You speak our tongue! I am Teber of the Atalanni. I am here on the orders of King Hannuruk, and I serve Prince Nimmuruk in this delegation.”

  “We have men from your lands in our palaces, Teber of the Atalanni. I can converse in the basics of your language.”

  I nod appreciatively. His mastery is better than he indicates. At my signal, two messengers trot towards the Prince who is in his litter, and they bring the Prince to Iben-Har who kneels in respect.

  “King Khamudi looks forward to your visit, Prince Nimmuruk,” he says. After the pleasantries, the Prince retires to his tent, and we welcome the Asiatics to my tent and provide them food—salted fish, olives, and water. I then regroup with Iben-Har and his men to plan the travel ahead.

  “How far is your King’s capital from here?” I ask as we stand inside the tent to escape the heat outside.

  “Three days walk if your men can keep pace,” he says, “five otherwise.”

  I recollect that some of our men are sick, and we are in no hurry to reach a day early. “We will take five days,” I say, and he nods. “Tell your advance riders not to draw attention to our arrival and for the King not to plan a grand welcome.”

  He smirks. “The King has no plans for a great welcome. We have traded with you before, though this arrangement with high ranking officers and the Prince himself is unusual.”

  “Do we have a risk of Egyptian forces?”

  He gives me a strange look. “We are Egyptian, general Teber. The pathetic weaklings in the far south call us the Hyk-Khase, but it is they who are no longer the rightful owners of this land.”

  I curse myself for having forgotten Minister Rishwa’s lectures. The Asiatics had incorporated most of the native Egyptian customs with their own and now saw themselves as the legitimate rulers of the land. “My apologies, I am unfamiliar with the land. But we must keep ourselves careful of any incursions.”

  “Yes, of course. We are aware that the boy-Pharaoh and his bandits are growing bolder, but our King will crush them like the insects they are.”

  I nod. The messages I have heard say the Pharaoh is gaining the upper hand, but with our assistance, we hope the Asiatics will beat the Egyptians down before we take over both.

  He continues. “There is no danger in these paths. These are well-trodden and patrolled. The Egyptians have no presence in this corner,” he says, unconsciously referring to the Pharaoh’s people as ‘Egyptians.’

  I say nothing to the man. We agree that we will begin our march south at the earnest as soon as we can get the men ready. It is noon as the sun beats down on us before we can begin. Iben-Har and I walk as his men trudge along slowly ahead of us in the horses. They tell us to watch out for a strange beast known as the Hippopotamus and not to be lulled by its portly form.

  The landscape here is greener than it is back home. Date palm, sycamore, and acacia trees dot the fields. We walk along the meandering river, which, Iben-Har says, eventually merges with the Great River that snakes down to the far unknown in the South. There are a smattering of villages, and the people look on curiously as we march. Poverty is rife in these lands. We have better homes even in our poorest quarters, and I have no doubt that we are superior in intellect. The stench of human waste is pervasive as we cross every village and the people so meager in their dwelling made of sunburnt brick. Frequently we pass Egyptian temples—they are impressive and appeal to their many gods. It is as if the gods have all the comfort and the peasants none. The Asiatics call their god Ba’al, but they have few temples in his name. I feel uneasy as I cross every Egyptian god’s abode, wondering if they know our purpose and prepare to strike us dead. But I trust that our gods watch over us.

  Iben-Har is condescending. He sees my age as worthy of derision. But I have no desire to argue with him, for my purpose is not with him but his King. As we march, my mind repeatedly drifts to Apsara. Her beautiful eyes. Her hair. Her nose. Her lips. The smile. The fragrant skin. The curve of her—I take myself out
of my reverie. It is as if the gods have cursed me. I pray for her safety, for Hannuruk is surely losing his mind. I hope Khaia will protect her.

  There is some laughter. I look to my left and see one of my men throwing stones at something. Iben-Har notices it too, and he shouts, “tell him to stop!”

  Then, suddenly, a dark, lumbering form charges across the grassy embankment towards the stone thrower.

  A Hippopotamus!

  I am amazed at the speed of this animal; it is swift like a horse even though it deceives us with its girth. The beast opens its extraordinary mouth—I am struck by the large, sharp teeth. It slams into the man, and before our men can react, it clamps its giant jaws around his waist.

  With a single snap, it severs the man’s torso, rips his entrails, and tosses half of him like a rag doll into the grassy ground. It then turns upon those that are trying to attack it. Just then Iben-Har holds my forearm. “My men will handle it.”

  The ferocious animal now charges at another group. They harass it with their pathetic swords and spears, but it has a thick hide and brushes off the attackers. It tramples another man as I look in alarm, but by then Iben-Har’s men, equipped with thick nooses and curved, long hook-like spears surround it. It takes another man’s life before the combination of rope around its neck and limbs, and spears to its belly fells it. The Hippopotamus finally dies after much effort, leaving carnage in its wake. We pass instructions to the men to stay far away when they see these hulking monsters feed or rest by the riverbanks. I complain to Iben-Har that he should have warned me.

  “I thought you wise men knew,” he smirks, much to my annoyance. “It runs like a horse and swims like a fish.”

  “We have heard of lions,” I say.

  “The Hippopotamus kills many more than lions, general. People under-estimate it for it looks like a jolly gentle giant. They have a terrible temper,” he says.

  His men then deftly chop the carcass—they even eat this animal in these parts. That night we are given a taste of salted Hippopotamus meat, and I am surprised that it tastes acceptable with the local beer. I sternly admonish my men and tell them to stay away from mischief.

  We march for five days, and finally near the walls of Hutwaret.

  “Our city,” declares Iben-Har. We can see nothing but the walls, but I assume an impressive city hides behind. We first cross another tributary of the Great River. The bridge is heavily guarded. We finally come to the massive wooden doors of the city gate. It is our agreement that only our delegation enters the city and our forces will stay behind the tributary.

  What is beyond the gates surprises me.

  Ahead is a large palace. Its roof is low, and the architecture is flat with rectangular sections. It looks like a much larger version of some of the temples I have seen on the way. Ochre colonnades front every building, and each section has a flower garden in front of it—jasmine, rose, daisy, chrysanthemum. It is beautiful, not as much as our palaces, but not so backward as I had imagined.

  We finally come to a stop at a large quadrangle. The smell of flowers and sycamore trees mixes with the odors of poorer humanity at a distance. Our towns are clean, and they have toilets. These barbarians have no belief in the cleanliness of the body!

  Iben-Har asks us to wait.

  After several minutes, the Prince pokes his head out of his litter. “What is the wait?” he asks, irritated. His pudgy face is slick with sweat.

  “I do not know, Your Majesty,” I say, and I too bristle at this disrespect of the Asiatics.

  There is some commotion, and suddenly many well-armed soldiers jog into the quadrangle. They take position on both our sides. Iben-Har returns and whispers to me to ask the Prince to get down from the litter. I hurry to the Prince and ask that he dismount and prepare to be greeted. He gets down, and I stand behind him.

  Iben-Har then announces loudly. “King Khamudi, Lord of Upper and Lower Egypt, Son of Ba’al, Blessed of Amun, Greatest of the Virile, and Warrior of Warriors.”

  The King of the Asiatics is a slight man. He is the same height as the Prince, but he is thin and wiry. He moves energetically towards us. He wears a bronze chest armor. A bright white gown falls below the knees, tied with a gold studded belt. His head is shaved, and he wears a false beard, black and curled, hiding specs of gray and white hair underneath. He has a thick black-dyed mustache, and his eyebrows are accentuated with black kohl. His men kneel as he moves along the line. The protocol allows the highest-ranked official from our side to remain standing to greet the king, but the rest must kneel—so I get down and wait for The King to meet The Prince. Interpreters find their place by the royals.

  “We welcome you to our great land, Prince Nimmuruk,” Khamudi says, holding out his hands.

  “I am honored by your greeting, King Khamudi,” says Nimmuruk. “And I am humbled by your strength and wisdom.”

  The two men embrace. I wonder how Nimmuruk’s ample belly would feel against the warm bronze of Khamudi’s armor. I had been told that Khamudi’s embrace was reserved only in exceptional circumstances. This is a good start.

  I rise to my feet, but the King does not acknowledge me.

  They lead our delegation through beautiful colonnaded corridors. The walls are an orange hue, but there is sparse painting on any surface. The King stops at one point and whispers at us. “You must see this.”

  We turn into a small adjacent chamber that is devoid of any furniture or ornamentation and bend to get through a low door. But I am astonished when I rise on the other side—the walls of this room are painted in vibrant colors and spectacular imagery that we have in our palaces! There are deer, lions, dolphins, floral patterns, antelopes, bull dancers, priestesses, dancing girls, bull acrobats, olive trees, boats—all in blue, red, ochre, orange, green.

  Beautiful! So far away from home, and yet it is as if I am at home.

  “We have always enjoyed your artists and dancers, Prince Nimmuruk. Their skills surpass what we see in this land. We have people in this court that once lived in your lands,” he says, as the Prince looks around. I surreptitiously brush my palms on the paintings.

  They lead us to a waiting room to rest. Slaves serve clay pot cooled water infused with honey, and we eat a fulfilling meal of lentils with garlic paste, fish, dates, honey, and bread with beer. Iben-Har tells us that we will have an audience with the king after we rest. The Prince and I had spoken in length about our strategy for these conversations, and we have no inkling on how the king would open the discussions.

  “He seems quite friendly and appreciative of our visit, Your Highness,” I say. The Prince is not convinced.

  “You know little of the high-born, Teber,” he smiles, “the greetings mean little. He sees us as weaklings; here to trade. His behavior is not one of trust. It feels like he is humoring us.”

  I choose not to question him. The food is refreshing and brings energy to the body and clarity to the mind. The Prince is taken to a special room reserved for royals while we rest in the painted room. When I am finally awoken, the sun has begun to set, and I can hear chants from the temples. We wipe our faces to rid of the effects of deep slumber and arrange our garments in preparation for the audience with the King in his court. Iben-Har arrives and leads us to the throne room.

  The throne room is modest. Khamudi sits on a granite throne. There are no magical lighting lamps and no beautiful priestesses. He is surrounded by rough-looking men in long gowns. Iben-Har is three positions to the right of his king. Slaves bring a comfortable seat for the Prince to sit opposite the King, but without a supporting platform, the Prince is forced to look up at the ruler of the Asiatics.

  Intentional.

  At first, there is much talk of trade and taxes. Khamudi’s complains how our people do not assimilate and how our food pales in comparison to theirs. He also complains of the price of our wine, vases, and copper. Finally, after the banter, we finally settle to business.

  “So, what is it that you seek, Prince Nimmuruk? It appears you d
o not care much to speak about trade,” says Khamudi, now serious. His piercing eyes focus on the Prince. He twirls his false beard.

  “An alliance, King Khamudi. My father seeks to assist you against the Pharaoh.”

  I am surprised at the Prince’s directness. Khamudi leans back and looks at his men as if he has misheard the Prince’s words. “Alliance? For what do we need an alliance, Prince Nimmuruk?”

  The Prince pauses. I hope he can navigate these treacherous rivers of diplomacy deftly.

  “You are losing to the Pharaoh,” says Nimmuruk. His voice rings in the hollow chambers of the throne room. Khamudi does not react for a moment, and he then turns towards Iben-Har and points at him, without saying a word.

  Iben-Har almost jumps from his seat and prostrates before the king. “I have had no role in this statement, Your Majesty!” he wails.

  Khamudi’s face is tight with anger. He flicks his finger for Iben-Har to rise and turns to the Prince. “What makes you say so, Prince Nimmuruk?”

  “We have our messengers who report the happenings, Your Majesty,” says Nimmuruk. His voice a higher pitch. He is already stressed by the encounter.

  “Do you have spies in our kingdom?” Khamudi asks. His voice is low and raspy. Accusatory. It has lost all its warmth.

  “Do not accuse me—“ the Prince starts, and I decide it is time to intervene. Nimmuruk’s ego can kill any hopes of discussion.

  “We have no spies, Your Majesty, but it is in our interest to know what happens in this great kingdom and understand the impact to our trade.”