by Jay Penner
“I understand the prudence of waiting to equip the army to its fullest and invading when the time is right. But it is clear from the signs that the gods do not reward those who wait but those who make their fortunes against seemingly insurmountable odds.”
I can guess what is about to happen. Hannuruk looks at each member intently. Nimmuruk sits with a proud face. Khaia nods. Rishwa has no expression. And Phaistos’ eyes show crinkles by the side, hinting a smile. The King continues. “We will not wait. The more we train hidden in our lands like cowards, the stronger Egypt gets. It is our delay that will lead to our failure and dishonor in the eyes of our gods.”
Then Hannuruk takes a deep breath, as if unwilling to say the next words. “It is decided. We will attack in three moons. Phaistos, you oversee ramping up all efforts to prepare for the invasion. Ensure we run the trade routes quietly to the North and East and have enough import of tin and copper. Nimmuruk, the gods see you in charge, and you will continue as commander of the forces.”
Nimmuruk bows to his father. I hope that the Prince has more sense and strategic vision this time.
“Teber. The Oracle insists you must remain here, in charge of order and defense of Kallistu and Kaftu, but my son wishes you to join him. The gods do not dictate military assignments,” he says, glaring at Khaia, “the King does. You will go with him. And this time do not come back with defeat,” he says, his voice stern. Khaia shakes her head.
There is nothing to say, especially when they have come to a decision. That Rishwa did not object means there is little hope of persuading anyone. Besides, what can Rishwa say, because he has never led an invasion either!
And as the council debates preparation and tactics until night, it is not the empire on my mind; it is not invasion and glory on my mind, it is not Ahmose or Khamudi on my mind, it is not the gods or divine powers on his mind.
There is just one thing—
Will I be able to see Apsara once before I return to Kaftu in two days?
Circumstances make it impossible for me to contact Apsara. I see her several times over the next two days, always at a distance, talking to me through her eyes and smiles.
But there is great sadness in those eyes. Once, with no one looking, she makes a sign of holding her palms on each other and placing it on her chest—a sign that we share, one that of affection and deep longing.
Finally, my last chance to see her up close is when the King and his principals come to bid their good-byes and dispatch final orders. Her eyes never leave me, and my mind struggles to concentrate on the King’s words. And every chance we get, we convey our love through the eyes. And when I bow to the royals and give my final salute before walking to my boat, Apsara makes a sign that only we share.
Goodbye, my love, and the may the gods bless you if we never see each other again.
CHAPTER 28.
LOWER EGYPT
Pharaoh Ahmose is distraught after the ambush. He questions his divinity as he knows he came close to death. His beloved uncle and Vizier of Lower Egypt, Nebhekhufre, is dead. The wise man’s face had been blown away by the fiery weapons of the Atalanni, and if it were not for the Egyptian forces’ superior numbers, they might all be dead or captured by now.
The savagery had not ended with the battle. Two days later men reported a pit with burned soldiers—executed by their captors. One man barely survived, and with what little words he spoke before he died, he had told them how the Atalanni had thrown them into a pit and set them alight, with no chance to plead for their lives.
“Savages. Burned the bodies to rob them of their chance in the second life,” Ahmose lamented to his priests. He had ordered special prayers so that the men are regenerated in their afterlife.
It eludes Ahmose and his generals as to what it is that the Atalanni seek. The Asiatics have been secretive—they have fortified their defenses and have retreated from their offensive positions as if waiting for something. Ahmose has spent the last three days in prayer, along with his wife, paying obeisance and offerings to the Amun, seeking his guidance.
Pharaoh Ahmose, his wife Ahmose-Nefertari, Wadjmose and two of his commanders walk along the palace corridors. With Nebhekhufre gone and the Vizier of the Upper Kingdom far away in Nubia, Chief Priest of the temple of Amun, hem-netjer-tepi, the first priest of god, Menkheperre, accompanies them.
“What do they want?” the Pharaoh says out loudly.
“It seems to me that they seek Egypt, Your Majesty, why else would they try to talk to the Asiatics and attack us? Why has our Ambassador not returned? May gods help us, but we now must accept that Kingdom of the Atalanni and the men of Keftiu seek to wage war.”
Ahmose is quiet. He reflects on the recent developments and his own situation. The harvest has not been plentiful, his Vizier is dead, the Asiatics are fortifying their positions, and now a grave new threat looms from beyond the Green Sea. To fight two forces would not only strain all their resources and finances; it might doom Egypt.
Besides, there is the confounding question of the almost magical weaponry of the Atalanni.
“What do you make of their weapons, Wadjmose? That they spit invisible force, it is as if the Atalanni gods direct them. The power far exceeds what we have.”
“I have given it much thought, Your Majesty. They may be of nature we do not understand. But have you not seen that they did not have enough? They also needed time to launch, just like our arrows. While they may inflict great harm, with cunning, observation, and planning, we can withstand their onslaught. Even capture their weapons and design our own.”
Ahmose appreciates Wadjmose’s counsel and assurance. The formidable general is not easily cowed—he has seen much in his battles with the Asiatics when he served the great Kamose. Ahmose pushes the thoughts of weaponry aside and returns to a greater question.
“We cannot fight two fronts. And we do not know how long we have before they decide to invade, and we do not know if they are joining forces with the wretched Asiatics.”
“You speak like an experienced general, Your Majesty,” Wadjmose says, with pride and respect for his Pharaoh in his voice. “You are right. Our resources are stretched. Our men are not ready for a war on two fronts. We must find a way to keep the Asiatics at bay if we are to fight the Atalanni.”
“But how?” asks the Pharaoh. He has some thoughts, but a satisfactory solution eludes.
“Deception,” says Wadjmose.
Ahmose raises an eyebrow. “Go ahead, what clever idea grows in your mind, Wadjmose?”
Wadjmose stops and turns towards the royal couple. He wipes his bald head, and his lowers his voice conspiratorially, even though there is no one else around. “We know that the Atalanni visited the Asiatics, but they did not stay long. And when we engaged them, there were no Asiatics, and our spies have relayed that there was some sort of a conflict between the delegation and the Asiatics.”
“Go on.”
“If there was no agreement, then the alliance that the Atalanni proposed was not of interest to the impostors. At least for now.”
“What do you think they came with?”
Wadjmose smiles as if he is proud of his theory. And confident. “They go to the Asiatics. Why? Because they wish to align with the Asiatics to fight us as a combined force. But then why do they go back with their tails tucked between their legs? Khamudi is no fool; he suspects that once battle is over, the Atalanni might turn on him after he has depleted his forces fighting us.”
Ahmose nods in agreement. “If Khamudi had no intention of cooperating, then he sees weaknesses in the Atalanni and does not see them as a terrible threat.”
“You read my mind, Your Majesty. Amun has blessed you with brilliance,” Wadjmose says, and Menkheperre makes gestures of spiritual blessings. Ahmose is pleased by his general’s encouragement.
“What is your plan, then?”
Wadjmose rubs the sole of his feet on the sandstone flooring and rocks on his heels.
“We send an emissary to t
he court of Khamudi. We tell him that the Atalanni have sent us a messenger and asked if we need help to defeat them.”
“Clever. You wish to sow seeds of distrust. But will that not make Khamudi go back to the Atalanni and secure their cooperation first?”
“My deception is not about sending the message, Your Majesty,” Wadjmose says, his eyes smiling even as his lips stay serious. “We tell Khamudi that the Atalanni referred to them as animals and that we have refused the Atalanni overture because Egypt will not accept a third force into our land. We will fight for what is ours as brothers. No neighbor shall have a say in our dispute.”
Ahmose briefly bristles at the suggestion that Khamudi could even be called brother, but then sees the cunning in Wadjmose’s plan. The Pharaoh laughs and turns to his wife, who smiles and nods her understanding to what is being said.
“We make it seem to Khamudi that we accept them as having a right on this land and that we manage our disputes and treat them as equals while painting the Atalanni as intruders to Egypt—their land!” Ahmose-Nefertari says in her soft voice, and the Pharaoh and his general nod appreciatively.
“The God’s Wife of Amun says what is in our minds, Your Majesty,” says Wadjmose admiringly.
“And your plan may yet work, general,” says Nefertari, as she gently pushes her hair back behind her ears. Ahmose is distracted by his wife’s beauty and intelligence. But the Pharaoh is not surprised—after all, his wife is the granddaughter of his formidable grandmother, Tetisheri, and his powerful mother Ahhotep—his father’s favorite wife and the woman who brought up her two brave sons.
They all stand quietly, contemplating their move. After a while, Ahmose turns towards Menkheperre. “Prepare for three more days of prayer, Chief Priest. I must appeal to our gods with the greatest effort.”
The Priest nods his assent and leaves.
Ahmose then turns to Wadjmose. “Send our emissary to Khamudi. Meanwhile, prepare our battalions. Send word to Nubia that they shall send their men in support. Send word to the Canaanite tribes that Egypt asks them to stay out of disputes that may arise soon. Come to me with a plan on when we will be ready for the Atalanni if they invade.”
Wadjmose bows. “Anything else, Your Majesty?”
Ahmose ponders. “One more thing—issue a royal decree that there shall be no mention of the Atalanni anywhere. Not in our tales. Not on our walls. Not on our Papyrus. Not on our tablets or silver scrolls. Let them not exist until we wipe them out.”
Wadjmose kneels before the Pharaoh and the Queen. “As you say, Your Majesty. You are Egypt, Nebpehtire, and your word will be done.”
Ahmose touches the kneeling general’s shoulder with his scepter. Wadjmose rises and leaves to begin preparations.
It is now just Ahmose and his wife. He reaches to her affectionately and holds her by the waist. The couple walk slowly towards the royal quarters, and Ahmose wonders what stories the walls of temples and tombs will tell about them when they die and ascend the stairs to heaven.
CHAPTER 29.
KALLISTU
While she mourns Minos’ passing, Khaia is certain that his death was necessary. But the news from Egypt has not been to her best interest—the Prince lives, and now there is a pause until the army ready to invade.
Khamudi. That short-sighted fool.
With Minos dispensed, it is time to visit Apsara again, but this time in the presence of the King. She has already sent word that she must meet the royal couple, and they await her in the throne room. It is meant to be a closed audience—only the couple, Rishwa, and Khaia. Prince Nimmuruk has left to Kaftu. The boy is afraid of his father after the last disaster of a mission and would rather be anywhere than here.
Once they settle, Khaia broaches the topic directly with the King, avoiding the Queen’s eyes.
“The gods have been quiet and appear to be content with your decision, Your Majesty,” she says, but her brows furrow in worry. She rubs her temple and holds a finger on the tip of her nose as if in deep thought.
“And yet something bothers you,” he says.
“I worry about the success of their mission. May gods have their divine grace on the Prince, but I hope he survives and returns with all his strength and faculty intact.”
Hannuruk nods. He is a little drunk again, and it seems the periods of lucidity are decreasing by the week. The King has put on weight; the rich food, little exercise, and unbound luxuries are making him soft. There is a gray stubble on his aging facing, and his eyes droop. When he holds his wine cup, his hands shake, and his words stutter.
“A King needs more than one heir, Your Majesty, these are dangerous times,” says Khaia. She hears a sharp intake of breath from Apsara.
“Are you insinuating that my son will die?”
“No, Your Majesty, but war is war. Even the bravest sometimes give their lives to the good of the land, and while we all wish that not a hair on the Prince be harmed, one must be realistic.”
Rishwa looks on thoughtfully but says nothing.
“My second son is incapable of wiping his own bottom, let alone rule an empire,” Hannuruk says, “And Minos, who might have been a worthy successor…”
Rishwa clears his throat. “We have a great wolf proud on its territory, and yet its pack is missing. Our constitution allowed the King to anoint the governor of Kaftu as successor, but he is gone now,” he says, watching Khaia intently.
The King nods, and his eyes wander towards nothing. He sighs loudly and burps.
“We need an heir,” Khaia says, more forcefully this time. And her eyes lock on the Queen’s. If she must poke a beehive, so be it.
“Why is this such a great concern of yours, Khaia?” Apsara asks, and her voice shakes as she forces the words.
“You be quiet!” The King admonishes her. “Be quiet! You are a barren ornament! I must consult with the Oracle, and you keep your mouth shut.”
“I am your wife and the Queen—”
Hannuruk raises his hand as if to slap her, and she flinches. But the King’s shaking hands fail to strike Apsara, and he gives up. Her face turns a deep shade of red with humiliation. Khaia feels a passing remorse for her action, but it is necessary. The Atalanni are not known to strike their women and yet here is the shameful King himself raising his hand, she thinks.
“You be quiet and listen. I am stuck with you, a wife in name!”
“Your Majesty, kindness towards your Queen is needed if you must produce a child. The strength of your seed will overcome her barren womb,” Khaia says.
Apsara is about to say something but bites her lip. She tries to control herself, but a tear drops down her cheek. The King turns his face away.
“What are you suggesting, Khaia?” he asks.
“That you or the Queen will do the right thing, Your Majesty,” she says, cryptically.
She knows that Apsara hears her.
The group is silent.
“Well, what right thing can I do?” Hannuruk shouts, “This barren heap will give me no child! There is nothing I can do while she eats, sleeps, and grows fatter!”
Tears begin to flow on Apsara’s cheeks; she is red and frozen.
“There must be a—” Khaia starts again.
Hannuruk turns his drunken, bloodshot eyes at his Queen, and cuts Khaia off. “Maybe the gods will make her kill herself, perhaps that is our only salvation.”
There is absolute silence in the room, and Rishwa places his hand on the King’s shoulder.
Apsara gasps.
She springs to her feet and runs out.
Hannuruk slumps on his throne and mumbles incoherently with wine and food dripping on his chest, while the Prime Minister calls the aides to clean the King and take him back to his quarters. Rishwa’s eyes look accusingly at Khaia as if to question her cruelty at this hour.
Khaia looks back defiantly. The road to ambition is not paved with smooth sandstone.
CHAPTER 30.
KAFTU AND THE GREAT SEA
On th
e fourteenth day after prayers to the Trikaia, the augurs clear the navy to leave the harbors of Kaftu to begin the invasion. The sun rises in the sky, and the Oracle blesses us; the King speaks of a new era of conquest, victory, and expansion of the Atalanni empire to all corners of the world.
We have prepared as best as we can. Phaistos has done a remarkable job—much to my surprise he has managed to prepare an expeditionary force of nearly thirty-thousand men and seven-hundred boats of size no other Kingdom has ever seen. He has equipped the Navy with enough food and weaponry to last a year though we are woefully short of our Daivoshaktis. He has also secured engineers, mechanics, boat builders, road builders, physicians, augurs, weathermen, healers, singers, cooks, cleaners, sweepers, garbage men, scouts, runners, translators, and caregivers. I am told that the Kingdom’s resources are stretched and yet there is great excitement in air.
I have been unable to meet Apsara before I left. And she stood silent at the final ceremony, and I was afforded no chance to be near her to address her. In the end, as I walked to the plank to my boat, Apsara made her sign of love. And when the harbor receded from view, all I could think of was her, looking at me.
Only the gods know if I will ever see her again.
But my longing is replaced by the monumental task at hand—to lead the force to victory in an ancient land guarded by powerful gods. I hoped that our divinity saw our preparation, willingness, and bold actions in the last few moons as testament to our loyalty to them and that they would protect us from the gods of Egypt.
The scene behind me is as exhilarating as it is majestic. Hundreds of Atalanni boats follow us in a wide, elegant formation. There are sails but no flags or markings on the boats. We have detailed plans on what we will do on arrival in Egypt—our brilliant planners and I have spent great amount of time devising various methods to confound and terrorize the Egyptians. The Prince has been sullen for days; it has finally dawned upon him that we are about to wage a real war from which we may not return. Quiet contemplation has replaced his rudeness, and I let him be.
