The Wrath of God

by Jay Penner

  Binpu bleeds profusely; his face turns white, and his eyes glassy. The physician attempts to stem the bleeding, but it is clear from his expressions that there is no hope. The Atalanni obsidian dagger is a fine weapon of exceptional sharpness, and the serrated edges easily slice through flesh as if it were honey. The fallen Prince convulses as blood rises in his throat and oozes out of his mouth.

  There is much wailing by the Egyptians. The Princess cries, holding Binpu to her chest. She speaks to him, but he is unresponsive. Finally, in the arms of Sitkamose, the daughter of the great Kamose, Binpu, brother of the divine Pharaoh of Egypt, dies in the court of the Atalanni.

  Sitkamose sits up. Her cheeks are wet with tears and the blood of her cousin. Her throat, chest, and her royal gown are all drenched in red. Her splendid hair falls on her face, hiding an eye. She raises her right hand and points it to the King on the throne.

  She then whispers something ominously.

  The translator next to me says in a faint voice. “Wrath of god. She says the wrath of god will burn our houses and wipe our names from history.”

  CHAPTER 40.

  KALLISTU

  I hold her gently in the darkness and feel her tears run down my chest. She smells of lilac, cinnamon, and sweat. Her soft body exudes a glowing warmth. She is disheveled and the rough surface, while not made for making love to a Queen, is a luxury given the circumstances. Our secret meeting place is still hidden from most, and this is the last time we will meet before I rush back to Kaftu to head onward to what we believe will be the decisive invasion of Egypt.

  She seems to be doing better. She says the King has moved away from treating her with violence to being cold and indifferent. Then the discussion turns to something else.

  “Why do we need this war?” she asks, whispering.

  “Because the gods want it. Because our rulers want it. Because the Oracle says so.”

  “And you believe all that?”

  I am surprised by her question. “Do your people not heed to the call of your high priests and the signs of your gods?”

  She is quiet for a while. “We do. But our gods have never sought war. The rulers solely made those decisions. Our priests limit themselves to matters of ceremony and righteous living.”

  “It seems each kingdom and their gods act differently,” I say, unsure but I know nothing better. I have my suspicions and questions, but I do not want to offend powers I do not understand.

  I can feel her breath as she nudges her face to the nook of my neck. I hold her and enjoy the feeling. She is restless.

  “Is there something else on your mind?”

  “You can already make out how I feel?” she asks and giggles.

  “When you start twitching and breathing in that particular way, it usually means there is something you want to say,” I say, and smile in the darkness.

  “It feels like we are married,” she says. And she squeezes my hand.

  “We are, and yet we are not. Tell me, what is it?”

  She pauses.

  “You know you can tell me anything. We are way past secrets, Apsara,” I say.

  “I will not anger you?”

  “Nothing you say will anger me, love. No,” I say, smoothing her hair. It is soft to touch.

  She is quiet for a while and sighs. “What do you think of your Oracle?”

  “What do you mean?” I am surprised by the question.

  “Is she… does she not have too much power over your King?”

  “In what way?”

  “It seems that Hannuruk does what she asks. So far, she has been the one who has influenced the biggest decisions—the invasion of Egypt and evacuation.”

  “But is it not based on the signs of the gods?” I ask.

  I can sense her struggling to respond. “But—but what if those signs have nothing to do with what she is asking.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “How do you know that it is not that?” she retorts. I realize that our absolute acceptance of Khaia’s words means we have nothing to defend ourselves from a messenger of the gods.

  But what if the messenger is lying?

  I feel a chill I have never felt before, for the Oracle’s words and acts I have never questioned. It is blasphemous to the Atalanni, but Apsara still has the freedom of her mind and experiences of her land.

  “I do not know, Apsara. We have grown to believe the Oracle and trust that she watches for the well-being of the Kingdom.”

  Apsara falls silent. I know that she is not happy with my answer. Apsara is sharp.

  “Khaia visited me privately when you were away on your mission to Egypt,” she says. This surprises me. Why would the Oracle visit the Queen privately?

  “Why?”

  She turns and presses against me. “She is an unpleasant woman,” Apsara whispers, her voice low and conspiratorial. “For some reason, she has taken a great interest in my marital woes.”

  I am at a loss for words. “Why does that concern her?”

  “You are a fool sometimes, Teber,” she teases me.

  “I am a happy fool for having fallen in love with the wife of a King,” I say, and hug her harder. “Why is she concerned?”

  “She speaks incessantly about the lack of issue. She knows that it is not I that is the cause for the lack of a child, and yet she seeks to place the blame on my feet. She seeks to drive me to—”

  I cut her off. “How does that matter to her?” I ask again, for the reason still eludes me. What is it that Apsara sees that I do not?

  “Do you not see it? Minos died in the lunch she sought. She sent Nimmuruk—”

  A light comes on in the distant corridor. These lamps come to life only when there is movement. I whisper urgently to her, “Get dressed, you must leave!”

  “Teber, listen to me—”

  I hush her. She scrambles to her feet and arranges her garments. We cannot even say a peaceful goodbye!

  I grab her in a hurry and kiss her deeply.

  “Come back to me, General,” she says in an urgency, her sweet breath in my ears.

  “I will move mountains, my Queen,” I whisper back.

  And then in a flash, she turns and vanishes into the darkness.

  CHAPTER 41.

  THE EAST

  The flowing wind is cold and caresses Khaia’s neck like a lover’s gentle fingers as she looks out to the sea. The evening hues of gray-and-blue are entwined in an embrace. The boat sways gently as the easterly winds move her boat towards the shores of Levant. This mission has been in haste—over a hundred Atalanni boats, with the King himself at the head of the fleet, are on a mission to transfer the greatest possessions to the secret enclave in the desert, the one they call “The Second Atalanni.”

  Prime Minister Rishwa sits next to her on the bench; his pale, bony face showing no emotion as he intently watches birds that make their way to the island of Cyprus, a hazy outline far away, and one of their primary sources of tin.

  She knows that his mind, just as hers, is unable to rest. “The Prince is a fool. A court monkey has more intelligence than Nimmuruk,” she says.

  Rishwa blinks and sighs. “He is the Prince, Oracle. The monkey has more legitimacy and authority than any man except his father.”

  “And his father has no control over the idiot—why have you not persuaded the King to dismiss him from his post, Prime Minister? Killing a royal on our land—this is a shame we will never erase,” she says.

  Rishwa smoothens the necklace on his gaunt chest and smiles. “Well, you were unable to convince him. What makes you think he would listen to my counsel about his only thinking son?”

  “I did try. He listens to me when my messages are conveyed from the gods. Otherwise, I am just a woman, and you know that. Gods don’t give me succession plans,” she says, indignantly.

  “Don’t test fate, Khaia. The more you try to influence his war and administrative strategy, the angrier he gets. He has already complained to me more than once that yo
u are exceeding your bounds,” he says. Khaia knows that the King, while under her control for certain matters, has no desire to listen to her on war operations or his son’s behavior.

  “Our strategy to win Egypt is in flames now. I was hoping that once we secure military victories and depose the Pharaoh, we could promise cleaner towns, greater prosperity, education, and health to the peasants and bring them under control—”

  “And if they find out what happened to Binpu, there will be no compromise. This war will last a long time, Khaia. Nimmuruk is a short-tempered idiot and has ensured the loss of thousands of lives.”

  “We have to somehow let them know that Binpu died in an accident,” she says. The Atalanni invasion fleet is on its way to Egypt at the same time, with Teber and Nimmuruk leading charge. The Egyptian princess is in a comfortable prison, and no one is sure whether or when she will be released.

  “You hope too much,” Rishwa says, “news always leaks. We are about to face an enraged Egyptian army.”

  Khaia pauses to reach into a plate in front of her. She picks honey-drenched dates and sucks on the syrup. It is sweet and sticky, and she loses herself in the sweetness and the fragrant aroma. She licks her fingers to clean the honey. Rishwa too partakes in the snack.

  “I hope we win,” she says, sucking on her finger, and her voice trails away. A large white bird swoops down in an elegant arc to snatch the food, and Khaia screams in surprise. The bird flaps its wings and slaps her in the face as it makes an unsuccessful attempt to grab the dates.

  They both laugh, and Khaia’s cheeks flush with embarrassment.

  “Was that a sign from the gods, Khaia? Is the bird slapping you a message from someone?” Rishwa teases her. The Prime Minister has his moments.

  “Your humor is the greatest in all of Atalanni, Rishwa,” says Khaia, smiling. “Unfortunately, this was just an unruly bird.”

  Khaia is tired of talking about Nimmuruk.

  “How long before we reach the shores?”

  “Two more days on sea and a seven-day trek to the mountains,” he says.

  “How long are we staying there?”

  “Has the King not told you? We will be there only briefly. We first transfer all the treasure and weapons, you will bless the enclave, we will celebrate the seeding of our Kingdom outside the island, and then we return. Should be no more than a few days. We must return to catch the winds.”

  “He only told me to be there for the blessing. The old man has even forgotten where his balls are,” she says.

  “Be careful. Even an Oracle can only survive so long on a loose tongue.”

  “Of course,” she says, and her mind drifts to the future. The sun has vanished beneath the waves and only bands of dark blue streak across the sky and merge with the gentle lapping waters.

  But Khaia knows that turbulence is ahead.

  Khaia’s mind is preoccupied as she prepares to bless the magnificent enclave carved into the rocks. Apsara and Nimmuruk are still alive, which poses a problem, but the King has become a senile blathering idiot under her firm control, and Minos is dead.

  Some of Khaia’s plans have already been disturbed, but she would persevere.

  One step at a time.

  Khaia looks at the assemblage of the elite before her—the King and his advisors, High Priestesses and Senior Engineers, the Prime Minister, the designers and architects of the enclave, and many nobles and high-born staunchly loyal to the king. They had already spent hours touring the incredible facility with its multitude of passageways and chambers. This enclave in the rocks is enormous.

  She looks around the gorgeous dome and marvels at all she has seen so far.

  The means of finding the place from outside is ingenious.

  The entry passage is almost magical—lamps light up as they walk. Colorful paintings of royals and commoners adorn the walls. Intricate statues of their ancestors guard the doors. Those doors lead to passageways that go deeper into the mountain and open into vast chambers that house immense treasures, weapons, living quarters, and the sacred library. All around are high lamps lighting up the otherwise dark cathedral. The weapon rooms hold a robust cache of the Daivoshaktis. The walls show fierce and frightening images of Atalanni attacks on Egypt—some based on recent events, and some imagined. The paint is fresh—these are recent. The libraries, deep in the system, hold immeasurable tomes of Atalanni wisdom. The treasure room holds sarcophagi of spectacular treasures, including loot from Egypt.

  She returns to the present and turns to the statues by the passageway doors of the dome. On each statue is a plaque with Atalanni sacred writing.

  The gods of the Atalanni

  Bless this enclave

  Welcome ambassadors

  Be awed at our mighty intellect and wisdom

  Beware, intruder,

  Of the terrifying power of our anger

  O’ Kings of lands around

  The Atalanni shall be your rulers all

  Khaia opens the ceremony with a chant, and her priestesses go around the circular seating and sprinkle holy water on the attendees. The nobles, governors of smaller islands, and other high born, loyal to the King, sit in a semi-circular seating arrangement. The King, the Prime Minister, and her engineers sit behind her on a temporary platform. The architects and the civil engineers with all the knowledge of the construction are among those in attendance.

  Once the chants are over the Oracle walks around the chamber touching the head of each attendee to bless them. It is time for the King to make his speech. King Hannuruk is lucid today. He has been surprisingly clear-minded the last few days as Khaia slowly poured poison in his ears, but she knows it is his actions that matter.

  Hannuruk rises to his feet. Apsara is beside him, and she looks slightly unwell, but the voyage over the sea and the trek across the desert over the last month has not been too easy for everyone.

  The audience bows as the aged King takes the podium. His voice is deep and clear in this large chamber.

  “The invasion must have landed in Egypt as we speak. We are here inaugurating our magnificent hidden city—for the Atalanni plan for our contingencies, and we do it in a manner no other Kingdom can even imagine!”

  There are great shouts of acceptance.

  He motions towards the expanse of the chamber in a sweeping arc. “Yes, the deception of the Egyptians has caused us to leave our beloved Capital. We have moved much of our prized possessions and secret knowledge here. Once we have Egypt, we shall seed the Kingdom with what we have here.”

  Many nods in the crowd.

  “What mind on earth, except the Atalanni, could conjure and design this brilliance? Do we not carry the soul of gods?” he asks, as he looks around him. “There is no such thing as this place. Not in Thebes. Not in Babylon.”

  “Not in any corner of the Earth, Your Majesty,” shouts one of the excited noblemen.

  “Not in the backward citadels of Mycenae. Not among the primitive mud huts of Mitanni,” he says, not forgetting to insult his wife’s homeland. Apsara, Khaia notices, shows no reaction.

  “Great work has gone into building what we see. We are here to bless this for eternity, and to celebrate those that had a hand in this work,” he says, and exuberantly raises both his hands above his head and clenches his fists. The crowd erupts in more cheers.

  “We must eat now,” he says and gestures at the slaves standing by the sides. “The first to eat shall be the nobles, the governors, the builders, and the chiefs of logistics and men who have found this place and know the way to it so intimately,” he declares. There are murmurs in the hall and many rise from their seats, to the cheer of the people around, and make their way to a large wooden banquet table that can seat hundreds.

  “Not all of you. I will honor specific members first,” he says, and a member of the King’s Guard walks around with a scroll reading off names asking them to move to the banquet seating. Khaia hears the names called—Kirkos. Umarru. Auscetas. Rhaistos. Pausinur. Okoninos. Ululu.
So on until the seating is complete.

  They take their places on the benches as slaves bring sumptuous food and place it all along on the table. Khaia watches quietly. The King asks his adjutants to ask some to leave their seat and return to the stone benches. After blessings for lunch, the people begin to eat. There is happy chatter, and the diners feast on quail, eggs, pomegranates, olive oil and excellent bread, wine, salted goat, cakes, grapes, and fragrant honey water. Khaia watches as soldiers from the King’s Guard arrive discreetly in the chamber and take positions behind the stone benches closer to the dome wall.

  A guard rings a bell, and all eyes turn back to the podium on which the King stands. He is wearing his ceremonial bull crown and in his right hand is a glistening gold dagger laden with gemstones.

  He starts again. “You enjoy my hospitality, eat my food and live on my grace,” he says. A hard edge replaces the softness in his voice. There is suddenly silence in the cavernous dome and all the jingles and sounds of cutlery stop. The waiters and waitresses recede into the background.

  Khaia clasps her palms and looks down.

  Hannuruk continues. “And yet you seek to undermine my rule, thwart our efforts, and tear down everything my ancestors and I built!”

  Murmurs rise from the people on the stone benches, but those at the banquet table are immobile—the fear palpable in their faces. One of the noble tries to rise, “Your Majesty, what are you—”

  A King’s Guard moves in front and tells him to sit down and be quiet.

  “It is because of your betrayal that the Asiatics knew our original mission. It is because of your plotting that Minos died! And I have now learned of a heinous conspiracy to kill me, my wife, my son, and the Oracle, so someone else may usurp the throne—traitors!” he shouts as he points to the banquet table.

  Gasps of panic rise from the table. The King’s Guard swiftly surround the banquet and point swords and spears at them. Fear descends on the men and women around the banquet table. Hot heaviness envelopes the room with suffocating strength.