The Wrath of God

by Jay Penner

  CHAPTER 22.

  LOWER EGYPT

  Pharaoh Ahmose watches as the arrow streaks through the sky like a silver bird and strikes the Atalanni scout. The Pharaoh holds on to his chariot, and the charioteer steadies the horses. Ahmose is still amazed by the agility and power of a horse and chariot—a new capability that Wadjmose has learned from the Asiatics and brought to Egypt. The horses are magnificent beasts, and the Egyptians have much to learn about taming and using them. So far, only the Pharaoh, his general, and the accompanying Vizier ride on chariots. The Pharaoh feels that in the not too distant future, entire armies may be composed of horsemen and their chariots. Wadjmose never tires of saying that the horses are key to the glory of the Egyptian empire.

  “Formation!” Wadjmose thunders. Ahmose is proud of his general—loyal and skilled. It is unfortunate that Wadjmose is childless, for his children would surely bring glory to Egypt. Wadjmose swings his chariot, and the force of six hundred men forms an arc that looks like an open jaw as it moves and angles towards the edge of the low-lying hill behind which the Atalanni walk. This force is a fraction of the army that still waits behind near Hutwaret. There is no doubt that the Atalanni know that they are under attack.

  Ahmose worries about the skill of the soldiers—these are not the best, for the messenger was clear that the Atalanni force was small. But Ahmose hopes that the losses will not be too great.

  It is important to capture the senior men among the Atalanni and understand their motivations and reasons for conflict.

  Twenty horn bearers in the front sound the bugles of battle and the soldiers begin to trot on the soft muddy ground. Ahmose’s chest swells with pride. The archers are in the front line prepared to shower the enemy. Lance, spear, and swordsmen are behind and to their side. The Pharaoh himself is in the center, flanked by the general and his senior men. Vizier Nebhekhufre is on the far left.

  As the wide jaw turns, the enemy forces come to view.

  They are all on foot. Their soldiers have formed a tight formation, and all of them hold bronze shields and spears. A small number of them in the front wear strange masks and hold shiny pipe like contraptions in their hands.

  There is a tall man in the center, wearing traditional Atalanni garb and holding a long spear.

  Ahmose wonders if he should parley with them and understand their intentions, but a powerful rage envelops him.

  The Atalanni were supposed to be trading partners.

  And yet here they were, undermining his authority and trying to align with the wretched Asiatics and plotting to take over Egypt.

  There is nothing to discuss.

  He turns to Wadjmose and nods.

  Wadjmose turns to his men and raises his hand.

  A great shout arises from the multitude, and the archers let loose their arrows. The bolts slice the site and descend on the enemy.

  But the Atalanni seem to be well prepared. They hunch under their shields and interlock them such that the arrows do minor damage. Ahmose is impressed. These mysterious people were not known to be warriors on the land.

  Can dancers with shields really fight?

  Within minutes the curving Egyptian force has the Atalanni men in the center of a wide arc. Ahmose charges the frontlines, ahead of his running men, and Wadjmose swerves to the side. There is great clamoring. Mud and dust kicks up beneath thousands of feet. The Atalanni men are well prepared and armored. Their hair is in buns, and their torso is protected by leather and bronze plates.

  The chariot angles towards a cluster of Atalanni men who are fighting in a tight formation. The Pharaoh’s elite bodyguard force surround the Pharaoh as he disembarks from the wobbling Chariot—still not a fine fighting machine—and together they draw their swords on the enemy. A great shout rises as the group engages the Atalanni.

  The fighting is swift and vicious.

  The Pharaoh’s elite force hacks away at the Atalanni men, who, while they look impressive in their demeanor and physical appearance, are not the best-trained soldiers. Ahmose himself manages to strike a man and hack away his shoulder. Heads and limbs roll onto the wet ground now saturated by blood, and the air is thick with the smell of bodily fluids and the wind with the sounds of despair and fear. It is clear to the Pharaoh that they are gaining ground—they are greater in number, and their arc is tightening around the Atalanni.

  He pauses as his men form a protective ring and Ahmose gets back on his chariot to survey the scene. Men spar in dense pockets. He spots the Atalanni general not too far away, fighting valiantly and dropping his enemies. The Atalanni general must be captured, the Pharaoh thinks. But just when he is about to issue orders to make a concerted effort to kill the Atalanni soldiers but capture their general, there is a great sound of terror from the rear. They are sounds of his own men. Ahmose orders his charioteer to move to a location where they see smoke.

  He is astonished as they near the location.

  Heaps of his men lay dead, many with their faces, chests, and torsos blown off and some with their hair still burning. Some others roll on the ground, screaming as their intestines spill to the ground. And at a distance, there is a row of Atalanni men holding bronze pipes he had seen before. Suddenly there is flame at the end of those pipes and great thunderous claps, and several more Egyptian officers, some standing near the Pharaoh, collapse as their flesh explodes and burns. Ahmose panics. The Atalanni soldiers begin to group behind the men holding their magical weaponry. Ahmose screams for his men to retreat and just then there is another clap, and the Pharaoh feels a streak of heat by his ear as if an invisible bolt of lightning charges the air.

  The charioteer’s head explodes, sprinkling a mess of brain, blood, and skull on the Pharaoh’s face and body. Ahmose stumbles back from the chariot and falls to the ground, terror-stricken.

  Someone is shouting his name.

  Hands drag him to safety.

  There is a great din and sounding of retreat horns. Ahmose thinks he hears Wadjmose but his ears ring like great temple bells and images are unfocused as he tries to make sense. He stumbles back to his feet and sees Wadjmose holding Nebhekhufre in his arms. The old vizier is bleeding profusely, and it looks like half his face is missing.

  There is a loud impact on the ground next to him and something hard strikes Ahmose on his head.

  Then there is darkness.

  CHAPTER 23.

  LOWER EGYPT

  We jog from the battlefield as fast as we can, trying to get away from the Egyptian troops who have retreated and are now just raising dust at a distance. The Prince is safe—he has been protected at the center. I curse myself. The Egyptians had caught us by surprise. I had no time to prepare the Daivoshaktis, and by the time we loaded the weapons with the fire powders, we had already lost many men and were in the danger of being annihilated.

  My heart thunders in my chest. It was so close! To see the enemy appear suddenly and cover the gap was terrifying and a learning experience. We should never have been caught unprepared again in hostile territory!

  I had seen the Pharaoh clearly before the chariot had turned away.

  It was true what they said.

  Ahmose is still a boy.

  He was dressed like a king, and he rode a chariot.

  But he is a boy. The crown and the light armor did little to accentuate the Pharaoh’s teen features. Ahmose is slight in stature and his skin shined in youthful bronze. He has not shirked from his duty to lead his people. Pharaoh Ahmose is no Hannuruk—our King is surely drunk and brooding somewhere.

  Ahmose had escaped. We managed to capture thirteen Egyptian soldiers and forced them to march along. I plan to question them and learn as much as possible about the Pharaoh’s forces and intent.

  All these developments make me nervous.

  Where were our gods?

  Why had they forsaken us?

  What was their wish?

  How did the Asiatics know of our intent?

  And now—

  How did Egyptians k
now where we were?

  Did Khamudi decide to do his dirty work through the Pharaoh’s forces by leaking news of their arrival?

  We travel without a break for hours until it is nightfall. I decide that it is time to rest the troops and confer with the Prince. There has been unusual silence from Nimmuruk’s camp—no orders and no summons.

  We set up camp, and I order an extensive perimeter. We take stock of their situation—more than a hundred are missing. Dead, captured or fell during the march. It is a devastating blow, but it could have been far worse. There are many wounded and barely surviving.

  I finally enter Prince Nimmuruk’s tent.

  The Prince lies under a blanket. He is quiet, and his face looks a deathly pallor. I worry that the Prince is mortally injured, but a quick inspection shows that Nimmuruk is in shock or is still too terrified to speak. I spend the next few minutes calling the Prince’s name, holding his hand, and finally bringing him back to senses. Nimmuruk gasps a few times and sits up, shaking and clearing the cobwebs in his head.

  “What happened to the Egyptians?” He asks weakly, as he reaches to a cup of water.

  “They ran away, Your Highness. We put great terror in them,” I say, at once feeling sorry for the Prince and also disdain for this weakling.

  “They almost—” Nimmuruk says and chokes. I let the Prince be as he gathers his faculties. Nimmuruk has never been on the battlefield, and it is a puzzling surprise the gods hinted to the Oracle that the King nominate the Prince to this sensitive mission. Whatever the case, this entire mission has been a disaster. I know that the Prince has much to answer on his return.

  Me too.

  I change the topic.

  “We have captured some of the Egyptians. There can be much to learn.”

  Suddenly Nimmuruk’s eyes light up. This is great news for the Prince—the chance to parade the prisoners and make claims of valor.

  “Where are they?”

  “They are being held outside.”

  “I want to speak to them,” he says, standing up.

  “Do you not want for us to prepare them for questioning? This is not something you should concern yourself with, Your Majesty. We will interrogate them.”

  I am concerned about what Nimmuruk might do. Besides, there is another problem in talking to the Egyptians—the Atalanni contingent has no translators as the two that came us are missing. And it is too late and too risky to fetch a translator—the only other Atalanni and Egyptian translators are in Khamudi’s palace.

  I order my officers to bring the prisoners to open ground as the sun slowly sinks beneath the western ledge. The sky is a band of orange and blue as the guards bring the prisoners before us. Each man is tied to the other by a rope around the neck. They look tired, beaten, and many bear marks of blades and fresh wounds. But each man looks defiant, their dark eyes reflecting the campfire around which they are made to assemble.

  “Does anyone know our language?” a lieutenant shouts at the group in Atalanni.

  No one answers.

  I know just a few words, enough to make the most basic communication.

  “Understand us?” I ask, in Egyptian. I hope my voice is gentle.

  There is some murmuring. Finally one of the men in the lineup shakes his head. “No.”

  It is not surprising. Most Egyptians have never seen the Atalanni in their entire lives, let alone know the language. After more gesturing and attempts by multiple men to muster whatever Egyptian they know, it becomes clear that not a single Egyptian is of any help and it is almost impossible to extract anything meaningful if they have no means of expressing the question or interpreting the response.

  Nimmuruk grows increasingly angry. He walks towards one of the tied men and delivers a stinging slap. “Speak! Speak you wretched bastards, you think you can kill the great Atalanni?”

  Nimmuruk the brave. Brave only when confronting tied beaten men.

  “May I suggest something, Your Majesty?”

  “What is it?”

  “Let us take them with us. We have interpreters on Kaftu who can talk to them and help us learn more about the Pharaoh and his forces.”

  Nimmuruk does not respond for a minute as he ponders the situation. His sickly face and moist cheeks reflect the pale yellow of the fire in front of him, and yet his eyes reflect little.

  “Your Highness?”

  “I am thinking, Teber,” he says and paces around. He walks away and confers with some of his adjutants, men loyal only to the Prince and not under my command. Nimmuruk then issues an order. Few soldiers accompany an adjutant and vanish in the darkness.

  I begin to worry.

  Nimmuruk comes back to me. “I do not think it wise to take them back with us.”

  “Why not? We have lost many men and still have ample rations. We will have space on our boats.”

  “It is not about logistics. It is how we will be perceived back home.”

  “I do not understand, Your Highness. We go with prisoners who can give us information for our next mission.”

  “You are a fool!” Nimmuruk shouts, drenching my face. “These men saw what happened. Who is to say they will not speak of how we almost lost the battle and that we have gained nothing—“

  “They know nothing about our mission with the Asiatics, Your Highness—”

  “How do you know? What if there are spies in this group? We have no way of finding out. Imagine what my father will do if he learns of what happened here!” Nimmuruk shrieks. His fear is palpable; he thinks his father will turn on him and remove him from any future command.

  Fear of shame. Of being the unworthy son. Perhaps even be cast away like his idiot half-brother.

  “They are just soldiers, Your Highness. They can give us valuable details, and we can show how we defeated the Pharaoh in our first encounter and captured his troops.”

  “Well if they are just soldiers there’s not much they will know, will they?” he asks, shrewdly. There is a strange look in his eyes.

  “What they know—”

  “I have decided, Teber. We will teach them a lesson to attack us.”

  I plead some more but to no avail. Nimmuruk asks them to wait. After a while, the men who left the group return and the adjutant nods to Nimmuruk. I turn to the direction they came from, and at a distance sees flames jutting from the ground.

  Like from a pit.

  Nimmuruk barks orders for the guards to bring the Egyptian captives and they all walk towards the flames. I follow closely, dreading what might happen but still hoping that the Prince wants to threaten the Egyptians again. We reach the location quickly—a fire rages in a crude pit filled with dried wood and leaves. Guards stand around the pit in a circle.

  “Bring them to the front!” The adjutant yells. Guards drag the tied men closer to the pit.

  I realize what this vicious idiot is planning to do.

  “Your Highness, it is against our law to execute unarmed captives! Do not—”

  “Be quiet, Teber!” Nimmuruk shouts. There is more argument. I tell him repeatedly that there is value in preserving the captives.

  “I am warning you, Teber, this is an order. You are to follow it as my general,” Nimmuruk hisses. The Prince’s bodyguards advance menacingly.

  I look at my men; but they are unsure what to do, after all the Prince outranks their General. I back away, knowing this is not the time for conflict. The guards drag the captives towards the pit and the Egyptians, realizing what might happen, begin to resist and shout. They are frantic. Some try to run but drag the others tied to the same rope that goes around their necks. Some fall, causing others to collapse or kneel.

  There is much shouting and imploring. One man prostrates himself and grabs on to the feet of his guards, screaming. They kick his face.

  I realize that the Prince is excited by what he sees. Nimmuruk shouts at the men. “Yes, cry you bastards. This is what happens when you attack us. Push them!”

  The guards club the lying men. They li
ft the fallen and push the line. Three guards hold the rope in front of the leading captive and drag it like men pulling an unwilling bull. Eventually, the captive line comes in parallel to the pit.

  Amidst great cries, the guards shove them all into the fire.

  The Egyptians topple one after the other into the flames, flailing and shouting, like pigs being slaughtered.

  I cannot look. There are heart-rending cries as they burn. The acrid and pungent smell of their charred flesh rises up with the smoke. There is a mass of moving and rolling figures in the bright yellow flames. Some guards laugh and mock. The Prince exhorts the men to throw more wood and leaves into the conflagration.

  It takes minutes for the screams to die.

  What we see disturbs me and some men. My training has taught me not to harm unarmed captives, but I have realized that this intent of war is bringing the worst out of our men.

  And I realize the kind of man Nimmuruk is.

  Once the din settles, I look at what we perpetrated on the men who followed their Pharaoh’s orders. Charred flesh and bones of those who died with no valor.

  “That will teach them a lesson,” Nimmuruk announces loudly. A soldier advances to the edge of the pit and urinates into it, and a few others join the merriment. The Prince is gleeful. His fearful demeanor has vanished and is replaced by the confident strides of someone who has accomplished much.

  “What a worthless swine,” I swear under his breath and Bansabira nods in agreement. Depressed, we walk back to our tent. I hope that the rest of the journey will go uneventfully.

  For the next three days, the force moves North carefully and deliberately, watching out for either the Pharaoh’s troops or the Asiatics. But we eventually make it to our departure point and the boats, hidden in the swamps, are intact.

  But then the augurs and forecasters tell that us we have to wait for the right winds. In that tense atmosphere, with the Prince and I in barely speaking terms, but with a mutual understanding of what we will tell the King, we wait.

  I wonder about what might be happening at home.