The Wrath of God

by Jay Penner

  He then holds the necklace to his chest.

  A great wave appears behind him—it is ten, no twenty, no thirty, no forty, no fifty, no six—, over a hundred feet high, and the boat disappears beneath the great fist of the God of the Seas.

  PART VI

  “It is the nature of the world that it continues its eternal march with no regard to the acts of men and beasts; their station or travails; their joy or sorrow; their greed or ambition; their love or hate. For such is the world the gods have bestowed upon us…”*

  DAIVOSHASTRA CH. XXII: “RHYTHMS”

  CHAPTER 65.

  KAFTU

  Phaistos stands on the hill and looks at the coastline. The devastation is immense—the important trading ports of Ihnuma, Pennaraya, Asarata—are all completely destroyed in the monstrous waves from the sea that smashed the towns like an angry fist of the Sea God and burned everything with hot ash and ferocious winds. The water and superheated ash have obliterated the navy. The harbors and the shipbuilding facilities, lifeblood of their empire, have vanished.

  Phaistos despairs—what are the Atalanni without their navy and trading partners?

  That was their life.

  That was their means to prosperity.

  That was what they knew.

  The Divine Council is no more, taking immeasurable knowledge with them to the afterlife.

  For days, the air has been poisoned by fine ash and dust that rained from the sky, causing all sorts of ailments. After that shameful spectacle of the Queen’s execution Phaistos had managed to get out, with the assent of the Prime Minister, to take control of Kaftu and wait for the arrival of the King and other senior members.

  The Great Palace of Kaftu has survived, but with some damage. But he has no idea how he would resist any attacks from the aggressive Mycenaeans or even the angry Egyptians. So far, there has been no news at all from the capital. Two boats sent out to scout have returned speaking of how nothing existed anymore and that the island was a flaming wreckage and the sea a turbulent mass of debris and mud so thick that no boat could go closer.

  Not a hint of life and it is as if Kallistu never existed, they say. Phaistos looks around sadly once again. He rubs his scalp and squeezes his temple.

  Will my people ever survive this or vanish from the pages of history, he wonders.

  “We will do what we can,” says a voice beside him. Phaistos looks at Rishwa and nods sadly.

  The two men ponder their future.

  CHAPTER 66.

  WESTERN DESERT - EGYPT

  __

  Bansabira stumbles and falls to his knees. The sun is beating down, and there is nothing but fine yellow sand all around. Of all those that escaped the massacre at the hands of the Egyptians, only twenty remain.

  The plan was to hide deep in the western deserts and bide their time. The men that gave them directions had long vanished, so Bansabira did not know if they had been deliberately mislead or if he and his men had simply gotten lost. Instead of a path that supposedly had a small oasis, they had entered a sandy and rocky wilderness where nothing, not even a shrub, grew. They had one last mission as they escaped from the battlefield—to secure the blueprints, burned in clay and written on papyrus—for the Daivoshaktis. Bansabira carries them in his leather bag. Teber had told them to protect these blueprints and keep them away from the Egyptians.

  Someday, he hopes, the Atalanni will return.

  Teber will return with an army to end the Egyptians.

  One of his men grunts something. He turns, and at a distance, there are ominous shadows in the sky.

  Sandstorm!

  He is by a cliffside. Dark rocks jut out from the sand, and there is a little cave. He crawls inside the small cave. His mouth too parched to order and his body too tired to escape, Bansabira gently removes his backpack and lies down on the sand.

  Far ahead, at a great distance, he thinks he sees a speck of green.

  Oasis?

  But he is tired. Most of his men all drop as well; their bodies no longer willing to move. A few of them stumble onwards aimlessly, their legs sinking into the sand.

  The wind picks up speed, kicking up dust on their faces.

  Bansabira wonders if the gods of Egypt have sent a storm after them as retribution. He removes his upper garment and ties it against his face, protecting it from the fine grains of sand that feel like sharp pinpricks.

  He hopes to wait until the storm passes.

  But the wind does not die—instead, the storm picks up speed and ferocity. Soon, the sky is dark, and dust and sand assault him with brute force.

  He can no longer see or hear his men.

  Bansabira turns and lies on his stomach, attempting to protect his face. He closes his eyes and prays to his gods. He feels someone calls his name, and someone tugs at his backpack—but he clutches to it until they let go.

  And then there are no more human sounds. Only the whispers and songs of swirling sands.

  He dreams of his home and the love of his parents, as the storm piles massive quantities of fine grain on him.

  The sand feels immensely heavy. It feels like he is in a boiling pot. It becomes harder and harder to breathe.

  Bansabira feels like he is floating on a forest and a falcon is shielding his eyes from the sun.

  Then, there is eternal darkness.

  CHAPTER 67.

  THEBES - UPPER EGYPT

  Pharaoh Ahmose watches as the workers erect the great stele. It speaks of a great tempest, storm surges in the Great River, and destruction of buildings and temples. He has commissioned this stele to speak of both the invasion of the Atalanni and the darkness it brought to the kingdom, and also the mysterious and terrible weather that they had experienced soon after the conclusion of the war with the Atalanni.

  Messengers say that gods have destroyed the Atalanni. There have been scant reports of an indescribable catastrophe in the far islands of the Keftiu. But Ahmose has stuck to his word to his nobles, priests, and the military—that the name of the invaders shall never make their way to the written word. His only interest is trying to uncover the secrets of the Atalanni and their fire weapons. But those secrets are buried somewhere.

  His aunt, Sitkamose, has returned. She has a remarkable story, but one that must not be uttered in public. Ahmose has told her plainly that she will remain hidden for life, and her story must remain on her lips. Sitkamose understands. She pleads for the life of Teber, the Atalanni General. Ahmose has made no promises, and besides, no one knows if he even lives.

  Ahmose has issued a proscription on the Atalanni and anyone from the lands of the Keftiu. He squeezes his lovely wife’s hand and looks affectionately at his baby, Amenhotep, in her hands. Ahmose-Nefertari knows that her young husband’s mission has only begun. Now that the Atalanni threat is over, it is time to turn towards the Hyk-Khase. Khamudi still reigns in Lower Egypt—a matter of great shame. The scourge of these invaders must be destroyed.

  “The god of Egypt makes his father and brother proud,” says Wadjmose, standing by his side.

  “And my hand is strengthened by your hands, Wadjmose,” Ahmose says with affection towards his general. Wadjmose lost his hand in the last major battle with the Atalanni, but he is now the supreme advisor to the Pharaoh. Baba is turning out to be a fine commander and is preparing for the fight against the Asiatics.

  But there is so much to do now—to restore the Egyptian health and spirit, to reward those that stood by him in these hours of darkness, and to punish those that stood in his way. The granaries are stretched; families are despondent with the loss of their loved ones; armament workshops are low on metal and wood; two nomes in the Northern regions threaten to revolt.

  Pharaoh Ahmose, He of the Sedge and the Bee, benevolent god of the great people of Egypt, looks at the magnificent temples and the throngs that adore him.

  It is time to prepare for a long struggle ahead.

  CHAPTER 68.

  SAIS - LOWER EGYPT

  The hag
gard man and the pregnant woman smile at each other. A little girl holds the man’s hand. The high priest of the great temple of Amun at Sais has finally granted them audience. The attendant beckons them, and they rise to their feet and follow him.

  It is a glorious temple—not as great as the one from the land they came from—but it is the place of worship. The cobbled, uneven stone floors are cool to the feet. The painted sandstone walls show Pharaohs and their wives, mothers, and concubines. Statues of cross-armed Pharaohs look down sternly by the sides of the large open doors. The corridor becomes increasingly gloomy as they walk further, illuminated by only a few flickering oil lamps affixed to the walls by crude fasteners.

  “Are we safe—” she whispers to him. The attendant, a clean-shaven young man wearing a crisp white tunic and small gold bangles around his wrist, looks back at them. “Quiet!” He admonishes.

  The man grips the woman’s palm assuringly and slows down to walk beside her as she makes her unsteady steps. They finally arrive at the inner sanctum—the holiest of the places in the temple.

  The attendant whispers to them. “Wait.”

  The woman nods.

  She understands some Egyptian that she has picked up with the help of a kind Egyptian farmer in the last few moons as they made their way here. After some time, two women come and take the little girl with them, enticing her with little thread-dolls. “We will bring her back to you after your audience,” they tell the woman and the man.

  The man and the woman stand respectfully by an ornate wooden door that is slightly ajar. Inside they hear chants and the soft clang of bronze bells striking a plate.

  A ritual to the gods.

  Lovely fragrance wafts through the crack.

  “Come,” the attendant says. The man and the woman step onto the cold, painted floor. Someone shuts the door behind them. It is dark inside except a few lamps that reflect off various objects. But in front of a tall pedestal for the god Amun sits a figure heavily cloaked in a black garment.

  “Sit down, children,” says the gentle voice. The woman whispers the translation to the man who has not yet grasped the basics of the language. They kneel on the floor, and she struggles to support herself. Someone brings a soft pillow for her to rest her back. She bows to the figure.

  “A Princess,” the figure says. It is an old, gentle, and deep voice of a man.

  His observation startles her. She says, “May the gods bless you for your kindness, Your Holiness.”

  There is silence and only the sound of breathing. And then the man says in clear and halting Mitanni, “A Princess of the Mitanni.”

  Apsara scrambles and prostrates with significant effort before the High Priest of Sais. “Yes, your holiness,” she says, in her native tongue.

  “Sit back. Do not exert yourself. Your husband does not speak your tongue,” he says.

  “He does not.”

  There is more of the old man’s raspy breathing. “He bears scars of battle, and his land is no more.”

  Apsara holds the man’s palm and squeezes it.

  “The wrath of god was upon you,” continues the high priest. “Pharaoh Ahmose has a proscription on the Atalanni.”

  Apsara bows again. “And yet here we are to seek your blessings and protection, Your Holiness.”

  The high priest sprinkles some cool water on them. Apsara calms down. “This is a sanctuary, and no harm will come to you. But this is also a temple of ancient knowledge,” he continues. “And every traveler tells us a story. You must also perform duties to the temple for three harvests. Is that acceptable?”

  Apsara nods vigorously. The man looks apprehensive. She squeezes his palms again. “Itaja,” she whispers. He looks at her. There is love and devotion in his eyes.

  “Yes, of course,” he says, and prostrates to the high priest.

  Apsara holds Itaja’s hand.

  She thinks fondly of Teber.

  But there is no news of him. There are already tales of how the gods punished the Atalanni and how in a night and day of great fires and quakes the island had vanished below the sea. Teber’s trusted lieutenant had got her to safety and was unabashedly besotted by the Queen of the Atalanni. He had agreed to rear the child as his own and already suggested a few more with him. Deep in grief and yet bound by circumstance, Apsara had stayed with Itaja.

  She is slowly growing fond of him.

  “The time is now, child. Tell me.”

  “Do you not want someone to write…?” She asks.

  He laughs. “We carry our knowledge in our minds. It has been so for thousands of harvests, and so it will be. From father to son, from priest to his next.”

  Apsara nods. “What do you wish to know?”

  “What you wish to tell,” he says.

  The priests have to light their lamps twice as Apsara speaks of her childhood, her land and her family, her marriage, and her life in the Atalanni.

  She talks of the greed, the madness, and the destruction.

  There are tears, exaggerations, modifications, and omissions, but the high priest listens attentively, asking barely a question. When it is all over, he says quietly, “A tale of greed and hubris.”

  She nods.

  “A remarkable story of the Atalantis,” he says, mispronouncing the name, but Apsara does not correct him.

  The name means nothing to her anymore.

  They rest for some time and eat a sparse, simple meal of bread with beer. She receives fruit for the child and her womb.

  Once that is done, the high priest speaks to her again. “Why have you not gone to your homeland?”

  She smiles, wistfully. “I know they will not accept me or the man who is with me.”

  The old man ruffles his garment. “Your child grows of a brave and powerful man.”

  She smiles and rubs her belly.

  “I foresee much greatness for him.”

  “Is it a boy?” She asks, surprised.

  “Yes. And we must name him now for this is the most auspicious time.”

  Apsara dithers. She has not thought of a name for the baby. “I have not thought of a name, Your Holiness,” she says. She translates their conversation to the Itaja, who haltingly expresses his reservation.

  “You have sought mercy of our gods. You eat our food and drink our water. You will now be Egyptian and seek the blessings of our gods and live our life, will you not?” The high priest asks sternly.

  “Of course,” she says, and Itaja agrees. They have accepted Egypt. It was not a difficult decision. Egypt had done no wrong to them, and the gods had spared their lives.

  “Then come forward and kneel,” he orders.

  Apsara gets up with support from Itaja. She then kneels before the high priest and moves the fabric covering her belly, exposing it. The old man presses his palm to her stomach.

  Apsara feels a powerful kick, and she winces. The high priest laughs, a deep-throated, happy laugh. He presses his hand again and feels another kick.

  Satisfied, he leans back.

  “Your son will bring glory,” he says. The lamps crackle on the side and a gentle breeze swims through the doors illuminating the idol of Amun that looks like he is smiling at them. Apsara feels a great power in her as if a lightning bolt has infused the strength of the universe into her and her child.

  “You will hereafter be known as Seneseneb,” the old man says. Apsara acknowledges his words.

  “I am Seneseneb,” she repeats.

  The high priest places his palm flat once again on her belly. “You say his father comes from the land of profound knowledge and that he is of strength and intelligence,” he says.

  Apsara takes a sharp breath and nods.

  The priest rasps. “Then you shall call your child the one born of Thoth.”

  “Thutmose…,” Apsara whispers.

  The priest inhales deeply. His wiry, rough hands gently grip Apsara’s palms, and he holds them near his chest. He then utters the words.

  “…And your son shall one day
fight for a Pharaoh and become Pharaoh himself.”

  Thank You

  March with an army of fifty-thousand on the way to burn the sacred temple of Ammon, in the next exciting book, The Curse of Ammon

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  Don’t leave yet. If you’re a history buff you’ll want to read the notes at the end.

  ALSO BY JAY PENNER

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  The Wrath of God

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  The Curse of Ammon

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  Sinister Sands

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  NOTES

  Where do I even begin! While one could write an entire novel-length history book explaining the historical references (and liberties taken) within this novel, I will cover a few interesting aspects that may have caught the reader’s attention. I strive to blend fact with fiction/fantasy in my works and where possible I have used historical precedence as basis for descriptions, names, and events. In these notes you can see (some of) the connection(s) between the novel and known history of the era. I would ask for your kindness when you see departure from known history because this is, after all, a thriller, and not an academic paper!