by Jay Penner
“It had to be done,” I say.
“The gods forced your hand, General,” he says. He then turns to the others and announces loudly. “General Teber is now our supreme commander. May no man speak of what happened.”
The men quietly raise their hands in response. It is as if a shroud of evil has been lifted off them. Perhaps now there will be a victory against the Pharaoh.
But I long for peace.
CHAPTER 46.
KALLISTU
Khaia sits by the garden overlooking the bay, holding her wiggling little daughter—now over two summers of age and with an unruly mind of her own. Khaia’s necklace attracts Akhi, and she pulls at it, babbling. “No, you cannot have them,” Khaia says and tries to pry the fingers away. “No. No. No,” repeats the girl, shaking her head vigorously. Her luxurious hair shimmers. Then Akhi’s attention turns to something else, and she wants to get down and run. Khaia holds her tightly, and the toddler squirms and protests her mother’s grip. “No, Akhi, you cannot run around here. It’s dangerous.”
But Khaia’s mind is pre-occupied.
It has been over three moons since the declaration of evacuation of the prized possessions of the Atalanni. Much has happened in these days, and Khaia is pleased. Her journey to the secret enclave and the destruction of the King’s loyalists is complete. While there is no news yet from Egypt, she hopes the invasion is going well. From what she knows, there are no significant fortifications in Egypt, so a long siege is unlikely. She hopes that Teber has prevailed. She has great affection for the general.
Her grip on power has strengthened. Her loyalists are gaining prominence though there are still many powerful men that protect the King and ensure his constitutional right to the throne. She sometimes misses Minos, but his death was necessary. King Hannuruk is slowly losing his mind—the old monarch alternatively rages and philosophizes. He speaks of the days gone by, of peace, of harmony, of the Atalanni superiority in the arts and architecture.
He bores those around him with his endless monologues and stories of courage, real and mostly conjured. She humors him.
It is only a matter of time.
But Apsara continues to be a concern and a thorn in her way. The girl has proved to be a survivor. She has patrons Khaia does not know of, and getting access to the Queen has been challenging. Apsara unquestionably resents her, and there have been too few occasions to engage with the Queen. But Khaia has managed to find someone willing to whisper into her ears the life of the Queen. The woman, a young and impressionable member of the Queen’s court, is in awe and fear of the Oracle and willing to do her bidding. Khaia has been meeting this woman every few days with the hopes of getting any information that might be of use.
Today is another day.
The girl comes with great alacrity. Her bosom heaves with the strain of walking uphill to where Khaia sits.
“Greetings, sacred Khaia,” she says, and bows to the Oracle.
Khaia hands over her daughter to an attendant nearby and asks him to keep the energetic child busy. Akhi protests and holds on to Khaia’s tunic with her chubby little fingers, until the attendant gently pries them away and hauls away the screaming toddler.
“You are early today, Aranare,” says Khaia. “Is nothing happening to keep you busy?”
“I wanted to report something that might be of great interest to you, sacred Khaia,” she says, surreptitiously, and her eyes dart back and forth.
“Well, you are alone with me here, stop behaving as if you are surrounded by the Queen’s guards, what is it?” Khaia snaps.
“My apologies, sacred Khaia. You know I risk— “
“Your risks have come with rewards.”
The woman bows and comes closer to Khaia. “I cannot be sure,” she whispers. “But I am quite confident—”
“What is it?” Khaia rebukes the woman and slaps her arm.
The woman shirks back and apologizes profusely before being admonished one again for stalling. “The Queen…”
“Yes, what about her?”
“She might be pregnant!”
PART IV
“We seek to find reason and define our actions based on what we see, hear, feel, and smell, and not what we believe the gods tell us in our dreams…”
DAIVOSHASTRA CH. XII: “ACTIONS”
CHAPTER 47.
KALLISTU
King Hannuruk rages in the chamber. His bloodshot eyes have a manic appearance, and his face is red and hair disheveled. The King paces around, pushing lamps and decorative ornaments off of their pedestals, kicking and slapping the slaves who cower with terror. He grabs his own hair time to time and curses under his breath.
“I have no news from my son, and now this,” he shouts, clenching his fists.
Prime Minister Rishwa and Khaia are the only two others in the room—the most senior members of the Kingdom other than the King. They wait for the King to calm down. The topic is too sensitive for anyone else to be part of the conversation.
“This!” the King screams, “Who would have thought it would come to this? She is pregnant, and your priestess tells me that I may not be the father!”
He turns to Khaia and stares at her, his chest heaving with the exertion. The old King looks every bit a mad man, but a dangerous mad man. “I don’t know if I must believe your priestess,” he says again.
“It is at your discretion, Your Majesty,” Khaia says, “But a decision must be made soon before the Queen’s belly makes it abundantly clear to all.”
“I am not a fool. I have not lain with that whore. She is incapable of arousing desire in me,” he says and spits to the side. “It cannot be my child.”
Rishwa and Khaia remain silent.
“What should I do, Khaia? Why do the gods punish me so?” he wails. “If I pretend nothing happened, I will raise a child that is not mine. I will not have a bastard child borne of my wife’s adultery. I am King!”
“You have an option, Your Majesty,” Khaia says.
Rishwa clears his throat. “No mountain is impassable and no sea unnavigable. You can divorce her. The constitution says that the King may separate from his wife if there is a hint of adultery. No shame will come to you, Your Majesty, for that is our law. The Supreme Council will recognize it. You can secretively exile her.”
Khaia does not mention execution, and neither does Rishwa. She knows the King will take the course on his own.
“I am not a coward to let her go for what she has done. Tongues will wag, no matter how many I cut away as I seek to find her lover,” he says, as his eyes burn with shame and anger. “I cannot see her. I do not want her presence near me. But as King, I cannot let this go so easily. I could execute her now, but that would be too easy,” he says, and a red shroud of cruelty slowly descends on his face.
“Of course, Your Majesty, but—” starts Rishwa.
“I will invoke the haimskaia,” Hannuruk says.
Khaia feels like her someone punched her chest. She catches the horror on the Prime Minister’s face. “Your Majesty,” she says, with urgency in her voice, “the haimskaia is to be administered only in the extreme cases where a Queen bears a child that is not the King’s and also actively plots the King’s death.”
Hannuruk looks at her with his wild eyes. For the first time, Khaia is afraid of the King. “How do you know she is not plotting for my death? How do we know her lover is not planning a coup? This wretched Mitanni scum shames our Kingdom and me,” he rages.
Khaia recoils at the rotten stench from his diseased mouth.
“Your Majesty, no gods will look kindly upon the cruelty. No Queen has ever been subject to it. It was a law written long ago. Divorce her and let her vanish from our memories. But if you cannot do that, then execute her swiftly and announce that she killed herself,” says Rishwa, his voice almost pleading.
Hannuruk turns to his long-standing advisor and spits on him. Rishwa recoils but stays immobile. “Cruelty? The gods have stopped looking down upon us with kindnes
s. They have abandoned me! The lack of news of my son and these tremors of the last fifty days are an indication that our gods are unhappy with what she did and demand justice. Right Khaia—”
“She is still a child. Let her die quietly, Your Majesty. Show mercy, and the gods will look kindly upon you. Their messages—“
“Enough! Enough of your divine messages! I should have her tortured, but I will not. But she has one hundred days to tell me who her lover is and everyone who conspired with her; otherwise, she dies under haimskaia. Let the people see that the King does not take betrayal lightly. Guard,” he screams and summons Uppiluliuma, the Chief of the King’s Guard. “Take your men. Arrest the Queen.”
Rishwa and Khaia try in vain to persuade the King for a swift execution, but he is unmoved. Uppiluliuma bows to the King and walks away quietly. Hannuruk dismisses them and retreats to his dark chamber, as sullen as his mind.
Khaia is still as stone. This was not how she wanted it to be. Rishwa looks at her accusingly. There is anger in those wise eyes. “Did you instruct your priestess to tell the King that Apsara is pregnant?” he asks.
“How dare you accuse me? Did I have to tell—”
Rishwa cuts her and waves his hand dismissively. “Apsara does not deserve such a death,” he shouts. It is rare for him to raise his voice. The words echo in the empty room from which it appears all life has been sucked out. “We were a peaceful, lawful Kingdom, Khaia, look what we have descended to,” he says, his voice trembling.
She feels blood rush into her face—whether due to the sting of Rishwa’s insinuations or to what she has brought on the young Queen. She recollects her interactions with Apsara, and Khaia feels surprised as tears well up in her eye.
Rishwa composes himself. “The people will be repulsed. They are already angry and anxious about our war. We have always been a peaceful people except when we defended ourselves. This is enough,” he says, his voice low with exhaustion. “We will have a revolt on our hands.”
Khaia’s mind conjures an opportunity. She could abandon Egypt—after all, the Egyptians had no navy to attack the Atalanni.
But now she needed help here.
Help to quell any rebellion or revolt. And at the same time leave the Prince in the remote deserts. She would eventually find a way to get rid of the King. She needed an effective and respected military commander here, while Phaistos guarded Kaftu. She needed a general by her side, and the ones still on the Island were ineffective and useless. She turns to Rishwa. “I wish to lend a hand to bring peace, Rishwa; perhaps it is time for us to recognize our situation.”
“What do you suggest?” asks the Prime Minister.
“I propose that we declare Prince Nimmuruk the King of Egypt, and order Teber to conclude his mission in three moons and return, no matter what. He can control the security of this island. The Prince can continue for another summer.”
CHAPTER 48.
LOWER EGYPT – PERKHURE
Our campaign has ground to a halt. The season is dry again. Hot winds flow from the west and kick up dust. The fine grains of sand get into our eyes, nose, mouth, and torment us. My men are exhausted. We have conducted many skirmishes that have only eroded our manpower and reserves. Morale is low, and our one major confrontation with the Egyptians after the death of the Prince was a stand-off with no victors.
I have determined that this war is a lost cause—with no continuous supply from Kaftu, we are in no position to mount a potent offense. This war of attrition will grind us down to nothing. The Egyptians have a significant advantage—this is their land, and their supply is endless. The Pharaoh of Egypt has turned out to be a formidable adversary, and his general is exceptional. They have sent us emissaries, but they only demand our surrender. We have tried many times to tell them that the death of their Prince was an accident and that their Princess may still be alive, but our words have lost their honor. Too many stories have circulated about how the Egyptian died in our court—that he was tortured, set on fire, left to starve, thrown to beasts, hung by a post, stabbed by an aide, dismembered by the guard, thrown off a cliff, drowned in a ceremony, thrown in an arena to fight without weapons, beheaded by the priests—they are endless. The Pharaoh has no interest in negotiations, and we will not surrender. I think this travesty is a result of the wickedness of the Prince and our unbridled ambition. But now he is dead, and I hope that our offers of peace will appease the gods of Egypt and also make our divine see reason!
Our exceptional weapons were too few and poorly supplied for us to make a genuine difference. To add to our injury, a substantial portion of the weapons were ferried away to the secret enclave in the desert, for reasons I have never understood.
There has been no news from our King. I do not care for what he says, but I worry about my land. About Apsara. I do not want to die here—alone, away, and under the baleful watch of foreign gods. But there is one final plan. A strategy for one last great push that will either result in us breaking the Egyptian resolve, or end in our annihilation. If I die, I hope that it is in glory, and I hope the Apsara will find a way out of her pain.
They are just hopes.
I look at the leathery faces and hard expressions of my most senior commanders who sit in front of me in preparation for our ultimate battle. Two days ago, we received news that Ahmose had rejected our truce and his army was moving towards us again. They now are in our visual distance—just ten miles away and camping.
“Bansabira, describe to the men our plans.”
Bansabira nods. My most capable officer has recovered, and his loyalty to me has multiplied a hundred-fold. I have named him my successor if I die, and he knows how I think. My men have told me more than once that they are still alive because of my maneuvers, and I hope that they are not lying.
“We will use a new formation right for this terrain,” Bansabira says, “General Teber calls it the temple. We will have a wide wedge in the front, with the slopes of the wedge made of spearmen. The archers will form the front lines. The wedge will punch through their center. Behind the wedge will be what we call the Phalanx. We have never tested it, but we think that is the best way to withstand the Egyptians hordes and advance.”
He walks up to the wooden table and the clay bed on it and draws the formation. The men stand around, and one of them asks. “What is the Phalanx?”
I am excited to explain what it is. I gently push Bansabira aside from the table and place my arms on the table and lean. “We will create blocks of sixty-four men wide and sixty-four deep. They will all place shields in the front and use their spears. They will move forward as an immutable unit and act as a wall. As the front line of the block tires, I have devised a way for the ones behind to move forward and take their place. This way, the unit stays fit and continues to advance.” I use a stick to draw a representation and describe to them how it had worked brilliantly in several practice runs held in secret.
They nod in admiration. “It is brilliant!” says one man, parting the long hair on his wide-set face and rubbing his beard.
“Do you think it will work, General?”
“I have studied their formations many times. The Egyptians are not innovative in their strategy. Their strength is numbers and resolve, but this time if we can hold our ground and smash them, I think they will finally give up. It is our best hope.”
“What is the situation with our Daivoshaktis?”
“All our supplies are depleted. The powders and poisons that power the weapons have all run out,” says the weapons controller. “If we had a steady supply then we would be in Thebes with the Pharaoh at our feet by now.”
The commanders are frustrated. We had everything we needed to win, and yet bad decisions had put us at a severe disadvantage. I secretly no longer believe that our gods hold sway over the Egyptians, and I suspect that the Oracle has other motives. Apsara’s words before we left in a hurry remained in my memory, and I had not yet made full sense of what she was implying.
“What is the
attack plan, General?”
“We move in three days. This time we will not wait. We march at night in two days and launch our final attack at dawn. With the blessings of our gods, we will destroy the Pharaoh’s army and begin our march to—”
A messenger rushes into the tent and interrupts the conversation. I turn to him irritated, “Why are you—”
“We have a senior messenger with news and orders from the King.”
We scramble to our feet, and I walk out. In a few minutes, seven haggard-looking men appear from behind the guards. The leader, a gaunt, tall man with a silver hair and a rough stubble, salutes me. “Sinaruk, Chief Messenger from the Palace and servant of his majesty King Hannuruk, with orders to you and the Prince, sir.”
I eye him. So, they do not know about the Prince’s death, and no one has told them yet.
“Verify your identity that you are who you say you are, Sinaruk,” I say.
Sinaruk nods to one of his men. They produce an intricate seal with a series of etchings. I study the disk—I am trained to decode these seals. There is no doubt; this is an authentic seal with the name of the King, the Oracle, and symbols that allude to the time when the order was created.
“How did you find us?”
“We took all precautions,” he says, smiling and pointing to his attire. They look like poor peasants.
“State the orders.”
“We must deliver it in the presence of the Prince, sir.”
There is some nervous shuffling around me.
“Do you not know?” I ask Sinaruk.
“Sir?”
“The Prince is dead. Felled in battle.”
The men gasp. Sinaruk’s eyes search mine for more answers.
“Come inside, let us speak,” I order them. Sinaruk’s men hurry into the tent, and we all sit in silence as they drink and eat to nourish themselves. They are hungry, and there is not a word until they finish their meals.
