The Wrath of God

by Jay Penner

One of them shouts. “Your Majesty, you are being lied to! Those around this table are your most ardent supporters and well-wishers!”

  “Your Majesty, I held your son in my arms, why would I seek to harm him?”

  “Lord, I live in the house you gifted, I eat the food you give, I serve at your pleasure, someone is deceiving you!”

  “I have governed the thirty Northern islands for you for fifteen summers with absolute loyalty!”

  But Hannuruk is unmoved. He gestures to a guard who brings two tied and beaten men. They are naked, afraid, and shaking. All eyes turn to them, and Hannuruk leans forward on his chair and commands them. “Point to those that were in your conspiratorial meetings!” he says.

  One of the men, no older than twenty, with reddish-brown welts visible on every inch of his body, weakly looks at the King and those around. Khaia’s eyes meet his, and she gives the faintest nod.

  The man lifts his feeble arm and points to the banquet table.

  The King asks the other man who does the same.

  Many around the banquet table begin to cry, and some throw up to the sides. The remaining still seated on the stone benches sit like statues, their eyes darting back-and-forth on this scene of unfolding terror. “Let the traitors’ blood flow and drench the food they eat,” he says and waves his hand at Uppiluliuma, the commander of the King’s Guard. And at that moment there is a great roar of anguish as the heavily armed soldiers begin to hack and stab the people on the banquet table. Some try to run, only to be impaled by spears thrust at them, others sit bowed, waiting for the glinting blades to severe their head. Some others fight valiantly with bare hands grappling sharpened edges and metal tips while protesting and shouting their innocence. Khaia looks away, but the wails and screams take minutes to diminish as the efficient soldiers systematically butcher every man and woman around the table.

  Soon, there is silence in the dome. The shell-shocked spectators on the outer benches sit without a sound and many sob quietly wondering if they are next. But it is carnage all around the banquet table—bodies are littered all around, many with heads missing, limbs hacked, impaled, stabbed, heads smashed with maces, or torsos sliced away by sharp blades. Blood runs like a river below and on the table, drenching the floor, the wooden surface of the table, the food, and the cups of wine and water. An acrid stench of iron and loose bowels rises in the air, mixed with the scented smoke from the ceremonial lamps. Some still writhe on the floor. Finally, when there is no sound from a throat and no breath from a body, Hannuruk orders the soldiers to stop. He then collapses on his chair and turns to Khaia. “Do you think this cleans the treasonous filth in my house?”

  She nods.

  There is Kirkos’ head. And there, Pausinur’s hands. Arrogant builder Okonino’s legs. And there, Ululu’s head. And many more. All these men who at various times questioned Oracle’s motives or competency. Now dead.

  The King turns to those on the side. “You have remained my loyal subjects. Come to the table and eat!” he orders. There is some consternation among the few remaining.

  “What are you waiting for!” Hannuruk roars.

  They jump up and walk to the table, each elbowing and trying to outdo the other, in a rush to get to the center. They avoid the dead and fearfully look at the guards who stare down on them. Some are hyperventilating and crying—thinking they are to go next. But the rest seem resigned to their fate. They stand around the table, unsure, and looking at the King and other still on the podium. Khaia feels a tinge of pity but pushes it away as these are her loyalists and will survive.

  They will even have a glorious future with her at the helm.

  “Eat!” Hannuruk screams. He is breathing heavily and sweating profusely.

  There is a hustle at the table. The men and women begin to pull the corpses, most still oozing blood and other fluids, and dump them to the side unceremoniously. They begin to clean the table with their hands—pushing away heads and hands from the table. Then many drain the blood still pooling on the sides by scooping with their bare hands. Then they gingerly start to separate clean plates and food from the contaminated. There is not a sound of protest. Some gag and heave, but no one leaves the banquet.

  Eventually, they all settle on the seats around and begin to pick on the morsels of food. Relief is evident on their faces as the King’s Guard recedes and leaves the chamber. Rishwa sits stone-faced. The wise man refuses to look at Khaia. Apsara has left the hall. Phaistos looks confused and anxious.

  Hannuruk looks exhausted—he is heaving heavy breaths, and his eyes are closed; the servants fan him vigorously. Someone sprinkles water on his face.

  Rishwa abruptly gets up and calls for attention. “What must be done has been done,” he says, “We have completed what we are here for. Get up, and we will leave. We will return once we have word from Egypt or if the gods on our island compel us so.”

  Hannuruk is in no state to respond. The guards usher the small number of survivors and ask them to prepare for the return journey. Only one man with knowledge of the return path is alive, and most of the servants and baggage carriers are still waiting outside on the base of the mountain. It takes just a few hours for the return party to leave the secret enclave as they walk the cobbled stone paths of the exit route that is guarded by statues of past kings.

  All the bodies lie where they are, leaving the murals and the statues to be the mute spectators to the carnage. Khaia wonders what might happen if they never return and if someone else finds this place.

  What would they think?

  As she exits the Second Atalanni and walks down the rough path down the mountain, she looks back at the ledge that hides the entryway. The world around here is serene—the birds chirp, orange hue suffuses the sky, and the winds whisper gently in their ears. The travel back to the sea will take them through golden-yellow landscapes and lovely canyons, different from the island back home.

  She feels a strange sensation in her loins.

  Ambition is like a flowing river of molten rock, she thinks, and it burns whatever is in its way.

  CHAPTER 42.

  THEBES - UPPER EGYPT

  Ahmose stands on a constructed sandstone podium. It is a hot afternoon—the sun beats down on them. The dusty air is on a standstill as if to respect the Pharaoh’s wishes. The towering Palace of Thebes and the gates of the city are a vague outline behind him, and the nobles, warriors, and masses of his Kingdom are before him. His heart is still full of grief—it is an overflowing well of poison. His beloved wife stands next to him, her face resolute and dark eyes flashing fire. Wadjmose, Baba, Viziers, governors of various nomes, and other senior military officials kneel before the Pharaoh.

  Thousands of peasants, from around the farthest towns, are here today. Standing and straining to hear, with men among them to repeat the Pharaoh’s speech in a relay from the front.

  It is a momentous time for Egypt.

  A time of shame.

  A time of resolution.

  A time for vengeance.

  The Uraeus feels cumbersome on the crowned-head, and the solid gold staff weighs on the wrist.

  Pharaoh Ahmose takes a deep breath and addresses his people. “The tears of Amun fell on my head during morning prayers,” he declares, “and they scalded my shoulder. There is a rage in those tears.”

  He pauses for effect. “The Atalanni are cowards. They are low barbarians—their King and his warriors are nothing like their ancestors who wished harmony with Egypt. What ruler kills the Prince of another Kingdom who went there in peace?”

  There is a great roar of anger from the crowd. “Destroy them, Pharaoh. Erase their name from existence!”

  “I have lost my brother, the great Kamose, and he ascended to the heavens. And now I have lost Binpu, a brave and gentle soul, to the beasts that bared their fangs on a fowl that meant no harm. My messengers tell me that Binpu was placed in a pit with ten Atalanni warriors and forced to fight. My brave brother slew six before he was pierced in his back by a
coward who attacked from behind!”

  The people before him shout—

  “Those cowards!”

  “May the shame of the world descend upon them!”

  “Prince Binpu now lives in happiness in the afterlife!”

  Ahmose waits for the lamentations to stop. He thinks of his beloved aunt, Sitkamose, who went willingly, bravely, with noble intentions.

  “My aunt—” he says and blinks his eyes to control his tears. As the living god and their Pharaoh, he knows that emotions must be kept in check. His wife weeps silently. The tears of Ahmose-Nefertari, God’s Wife of Amun, move the crowd, and they sway holding their hands on their chest. Ahmose continues, “May Amun and Horus bless the noble Sitkamose in the afterlife. She could not bear the insult and the loss of her nephew and consecrated herself to the sea.”

  Another mass expression of sorrow rents the air. Ahmose does not know yet if Sitkamose is alive, and all he has are the words of a messenger, who has heard something from another messenger, who heard it from an escapee from the Atalanni capital. But those details do not matter, for what is needed now is anger, and a resolution to strike the Atalanni.

  “The wretched Atalanni forces are returning after we have routed them like the diseased dogs they are. But this time, we shall spare no one.”

  A deafening roar saturates the stifling air in waves.

  “But remember. We will wipe them from our memories. May no man mention their name. May we spare no soldier. May no priest tell their story, and no scribe give them life on their papyrus. Evil from the sea shall vanish like the gods never put them on the earth.”

  “Yes, Pharaoh!”

  “And if I die—” he pauses.

  There is another great shout from the multitude. Ahmose-Nefertari drops to her knees and holds the Pharaoh’s legs. The general and his men prostrate on the ground, and many in the crowd weep. “Our god shall not leave this earth,” chant the priests and others.

  Ahmose blinks away his tears. The love of his people moves him. He gently places his palm on his wife’s lightly bulging belly. “If I die, you will carry on. May no man surrender. My wife will lead you to glory. After her, my son will. Then, his son. We shall embrace them in eternal war!” he says and raises his staff above the head.

  Loud cries and exhortations reverberate for minutes, and as if by cue the vast columns of the army begin to pour out of the gates and march in full splendor on either side of the Pharaoh, saluting him and moving ahead as the onlookers bless them. Fathers, grandfathers, sons, brothers, nephews, friends, co-workers, uncles, brothers-in-law—every boy and man ready for battle walks for the honor of their land as those necessary to maintain administration and food production cheer them on. Mothers, daughters, wives, sisters, aunts, grandmothers, and every other relation laugh and weep as they see their men away. They must be strong and fill the shoes of their men. The women throw flowers, grain, pieces of cloth, bread and dates on the marching men and bless them on.

  Ahmose stands still and watches.

  The cowardice of the Atalanni was what was needed to truly bring the Kingdom to its feet.

  He hopes that this is the beginning of the new kingdom of Egypt, rising from the shame of the last one hundred harvests.

  CHAPTER 43.

  LOWER EGYPT – PERKHURE

  Ahmose looks at the vast assemblage of the enemy before him. They have finally met in a gently undulating field with low-lying hills on either side. This battle will decide the fate of Egypt, he thinks. They have fought these wretched invaders before, but not in a full-scale conflict.

  The surveyors have given their report. The Atalanni forces are arrayed in a grid—they have a large central block of infantry with archers in the front. The emblems suggest that the Prince leads this block. To the left of the Prince is a slightly smaller block, armed similarly, and led by the same general they had faced before. And to the right of the Prince is a similar block. On either side of the forces is a smaller force, standing behind. Wadjmose thinks they are fast-moving, light armor forces that will be used to flank from the sides when needed.

  Wadjmose has advised the Pharaoh to array Egypt’s forces traditionally. They have assembled in a wide, gentle arc. The Pharaoh is in the center with a block of twenty thousand soldiers. On either side are ten thousand—one led by Wadjmose and the other by Baba. The entire formation is twenty-rows deep. The Atalanni, on the other hand, are compressed into a much shorter width, about third of the Egyptians. The formation is puzzling to Ahmose, for his army can now wrap around the enemy like a noose and strangle them. But the Atalanni have something he does not—their divine weapons. They are terrifying, but he has instilled courage in his soldiers. “They may have weapons designed by their gods,” he had said, “And yet they have been unable to conquer us. Do not fear them as they do not have enough of their weapons. We have the numbers.” He hopes that his men will not flee from battle. There is nervousness in the air, and many have the look of fear and the death, but the living god of Egypt trusts his men to fight with everything they have.

  They have a cavalry of thirty horses, and the invaders have none. But Ahmose does not trust the cavalry—it is only to see if they can inflict some damage and support messengers across the battlefield. Wadjmose rides one, for he is a master on it along with a few other experienced men. Ahmose is on a chariot driven by two horses, and he trusts his charioteer. He knows there is great promise in these beasts, but they take time to tame and train.

  There is much flag-waving and clamor from the enemy. His forces shout and create a loud ruckus, and runners carry the war emblems back-and-forth on the frontlines. Finally, when the benevolent Ra reaches the mid-point between the morning and the Zenith, there is stillness in the lines.

  Piercing sounds of conches and horns rises in the warm air, and the two armies rush at each other amidst great battle-cries.

  As dust rises from the running soldiers, Ahmose watches as the lines, a mile-and-half wide on his side, close the gap with the concentrated enemy. He can see them now, the whites of their treacherous eyes visible behind their bronze helmets. The formation protects Ahmose in the middle, but he is wary of the Atalanni weapons. He can now see the Atalanni Prince’s emblem, bright purple-and-orange, in the middle of the block that comes towards him. In no time, the lines clash, and the loud sounds of battle fill the air—the clang of metal swords, the wet, squishing sounds of pierced flesh, the cries of the wounded and dying, the hiss and swoosh of swords and flying spears. The Pharaoh’s chariot wheels are equipped with sharp blades on the slide, and they make excellent work of severing limbs and heads of the enemy that come too close. He is also a master archer, and his arrows pierce the Atalanni armor with ease. The twang of the bowstring gives him comfort, and his years of practice are paying off as his bolts meet their targets with unerring accuracy.

  Strangely, he has so far not heard the sounds of the explosive weapons of the Atalanni. But his hope is short-lived: suddenly a few men ahead to his right explode in a spray of blood, and a small piece of flesh flies by the Pharaoh. There are more explosions—he sees the Atalanni soldiers, dressed in heavy armor and carrying large leather bags on their waist—reaching into the pouches and flinging shining orbs at their lines. These orbs explode in great flashes of fire, killing those that they contact, and setting fire to others nearby. Soon, many soldiers are running engulfed in flames, screaming, flailing, and setting others on fire as they run in blind terror. At the same time, well to his right, he sees greenish fumes rise in the air, and his men collapse screaming. The poisonous fumes appear to cause blisters on contact and suffocate the victims.

  What are these weapons?

  “Do not fall back, stay, and fight!” Ahmose screams, and his commanders relay the shouts, but the front line is panicking. He asks two of his commanders run to the far sides and constrict the Atalanni, but the real risk now is the heavy infantry of the concentrated enemy punching through their center and fracturing the lines.

  N
ow Ahmose understands why the enemy had concentrated positions.

  It is the hammer.

  “Do not give up the center and do not break,” he commands his men as he rushes forward in his chariot, surrounded by his elite guards. He feels the something fire over his head, and in quick succession, two men to his left fall as their chests erupt in blood.

  The Atalanni fire pipes!

  “Spear-men! Target the Atalanni pipe wielders!” he shouts, and on order, the commanders gather some spearmen in the melee to concentrate their missiles on the enemy. The spears cut some down, but the fire pipes continue to wreak havoc. Ahmose defies his bodyguards and orders his charioteer to head right into the pipe-wielders lines. They fire at him, but they miss as the Pharaoh deftly avoids the incoming streaks. His body shakes with anger—how dare they fire on a King? But there is not much time to think. He reaches the enemy line and swings the chariot in a tight arc, cutting down several of these demonic weapon wielders to give an opportunity for his men to recover. But he realizes quickly that his forces are spread too thin. It is now absolute chaos for the Egyptians as the concentrated block of the armored Atalanni begin to crush the Egyptian center. Ahmose does not yet know where Wadjmose is and how he is doing. Even as he frantically wonders what to do, one of his bodyguard’s head explodes and pieces of his brain and skull rain on the Pharaoh.

  No!

  There is mayhem all around. His center is getting pushed in as the Atalanni spearmen begin to impale the Egyptian soldiers and hack others on the side. The commanders struggle to keep control, and the Pharaoh feels the battle slipping away as he swings his chariot back to safety. His eyes sting due to the smoke, and his lungs burn from the sharp acrid odor of the explosions. The stench of death is fresh in the air.

  So close, yet so far, Ahmose thinks as he squints.

  But his army is now falling apart in the middle, the dense mass of the hoard of the invaders is thrusting through his lines, and it is clear if this continues any longer the battle will be forever lost. He raises his face to the blazing sun and begs for intervention.