Khu: A Tale of Ancient Egypt (21 page)

“Stop
…” Qeb raised a hand to halt the procession of men as they marched past the derelict grave.

Qeb
had been walking about fifty paces ahead of the king, to scout for possible danger lurking on the outskirts of Abdju, when he suddenly spoke up. He crouched down to examine something on the ground.

Khu saw
a thick cloud of flies buzzing loudly around Qeb, and some buzzards perched on a scraggly tree with thorny branches, stripped of leaves. The dark-feathered birds were hunched and brooding as they observed the landscape below, with beady eyes feigning indifference. Their yellow, dagger-like beaks were stained with blood.

Qeb
was still crouched on the ground when the king arrived by his side. All was quiet except for the angry flies that had been disturbed from their bloody feasting. Even the buzzards waited patiently, biding their time in the tree, which cast a fragmented shadow on the uneven ground strewn with sand, rocks and brush.

Mentuhotep said nothing as he approached the grisly scene with caution. Nakhti and Khu had followed, curious to see what was there. Khu heard his brother’s sharp intake of breath as Nakhti stifled his shock. It was not the first time the boys had seen a mutilated body. They had witnessed prisoners punished, men whipped
and caned, and others put to death for high crimes against the king that included treason and attempted grave robbing among other offenses. But they had never seen a body torn apart with such savagery, it almost seemed inhuman.

Khu cast a sidelong glance at his father. The king’
s face remained stoic. Only a barely discernible flexing of a muscle in his neck betrayed an implacable fury seething behind his eyes, which were fixed on what was left of the face of one of the men he had sent ahead to Abdju with Sudi, to spy on Ankhtifi.

“It is Pili,” Qeb said in a low voice, mindful of the dead man’s spirit
which probably roamed restlessly nearby.

Mentuhotep just
lowered his head, closing his eyes as he slowly exhaled. Then he turned away to stare at the horizon, waiting beyond the limestone bluffs, that shone pink in the glow of the dying day.

***

Pili had inadvertently discovered King Khety staying at the home of an official in Abdju, when he had split up from his other two partners to comb the town for information. He lingered near some of the more lavish residences of the town, in an attempt to find out more about the Nen-nesian ruler’s plans. It had been three days before the Going Forth of Osiris commemoration that would culminate the religious proceedings of the annual festival, before the people lost themselves in the reveling.

Khety had been
biding his time to make his appearance after the effigy of Osiris had been laid to rest in his mastaba tomb. He had been partaking in secret meetings to perfectly orchestrate the last touches of the events, which were unfolding just as he had planned for so long. The king of Lower Egypt was talking with someone in the courtyard, beyond the gardens near the official’s residence where he was staying, when Pili happened by. Pili quickly ducked and hid behind one of the thick columns supporting a pergola, under which a small shrine dedicated to Isis stood. He thought he recognized King Khety from his striking presence, though he could not be sure since he had never actually seen him from up close before. It was the response of the king’s companion, and how the man had addressed the king, that pricked Pili’s ears and removed all doubt as to Khety’s identity.

“Yes, Lord King,” the man ha
d said. “Everything is ready for you.”

“Good,” King Khety
gave a curt nod. His
kohl
-lined eyes sparkled a pale shade of slate. It was hard to look into those eyes without feeling discomfited. He was not wearing his ceremonial wig, and his smooth-shaven head shone golden in the dappled light filtering through the leaves of a sycamore fig tree. The tree’s wide-spreading branches bore thick clusters of fruit in varying stages of ripeness. It was the sacred tree of life connecting the two worlds of life and death. Khety picked a small cluster of the figs which had ripened into red succulent orbs. He blew the dust off one of them and popped the whole thing into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully for a while as his mind continued to work. “Have the priests agreed to support us then?”

“Some of them, Sire. We just need a little more time to convince the others.” The man looked a bit nervous. He knew Khety would not be happy to hear this.

“Hmm,” the king looked away as he thought of the stubborn priests who refused to pledge their loyalty to him. If he could not have their allegiance willingly, he would take it by force. “Tell Ankhtifi to join me when he is finished for today,” he looked back at the man who was eager to leave.

But the man did not need to tell Ankhtifi anything. The chieftain of Nekhen had
overheard them speaking as he made his way over from the town’s center. He saw Pili listening in the shadow of a column, like a mongoose eyeing a snake. Ankhtifi gripped the handle of his mace and ducked behind another column. He moved without a sound, inching closer to the man he knew instinctively was an enemy. And as he moved from behind one column to another, Khety spotted him from across the courtyard.

“Ankhtifi!” he
greeted approvingly, unaware that Pili was there.

Pili whipped his head around in time to see Ankhtifi
bearing down on him like a wolf closing in for the kill. The dark, lupine eyes of the chieftain were fixed on the smaller man, who did not stand a chance. Pili backed into a column as his panicked eyes darted around frantically, but there was no place for him to go. He could not outrun him. A terrible fear and indecision immobilized his limbs.

T
he last thing Pili saw before dying, was the wolf-man’s baleful glare, and the copper-headed mace shining in the light before crushing his skull.

***

“We cannot leave him here,” Mentuhotep said of Pili.

Khu and Nakhti
had stepped away from the gruesome scene after staring wide-eyed at the carnage. Blood stained the ground where the buzzards had been tearing at the flesh of the dead man. The boys glanced at each other, wondering what the king had in mind. They knew the buzzards and other wild animals would only finish what they had started, leaving nothing but his thin, brittle bones and a thatch of blood-matted hair, to bleach in the sun. The man’s remains had to be buried in order to free his spirit.

“I could take him back to the ship, Lord King,” one of the soldiers offered.

“Very well,” Mentuhotep nodded as he touched his amulet. “At least take what is left. And go with someone else.” He looked up at the tree where the buzzards waited patiently. A few of them were preening their dark feathers, some of which were stained with Pili’s blood. “I wonder…” the king let the words trail off.

“Wonder what, Lord King?” Qeb asked. He had stepped out of the way of
the two men who were gently wrapping Pili’s remains in a plain linen cloth. It would have to do for now, at least until his body could be taken back to Thebes where it would be cleansed, purified, and receive all the necessary ablutions before a proper burial could take place, so that his spirit could be sent to the Afterlife to rest for all eternity.

But the king just shook his head and kept his thoughts to himself. He waved at the flies
landing on the ground that was sticky with congealed blood.

“Cover this with sand,” he pointed to the blood, “so the flies go away.”

But nothing could mask the stench of death that had fouled the day, foreshadowing the battle lying ahead.

Mentuhotep divided his army so they
could infiltrate Abdju in smaller groups without drawing much attention to themselves. Some had gone to wait close to the west bank of the Nile, so they could block the enemy from attempting to escape by way of the river. The king sent more men over to the temple complex dominating the town’s center. They were barely able to get through the mass of people who were vying to get closer to King Khety, as he captivated the mob with his larger-than-life persona. Mentuhotep split up the rest of his men into smaller bands surrounding the town, while he, Qeb, Nakhti, Khu and several other men positioned themselves at a shrine which stood more than 150 paces from the Temple of Osiris.

Nobody thought it strange that soldiers moved among the crowd. The temple priests had their own soldiers positioned to keep over-zealous pilgrims from getting too close
to the temple. Those men stood on bare, thickly calloused feet, watching the crowd impassively with their large ox-hide shields stretched over wooden frames, and their bronze-tipped spears glinting in the sun. With so many people flooding the town for the annual celebration, more soldiers had been employed to keep the peace, maintain harmony, and be on the lookout against the inevitable parasites which followed the pilgrims in hopes of profiting from the festival by less than honorable means.

Khu was not able to see Ankhtifi
’s face from this distance. All he saw was the group of men standing with their three hooded prisoners in front of the Temple of Osiris, where King Khety was speaking to the crowd.

The torch fires threw long
, skulking shadows that undulated in the dry breeze. Khu narrowed his eyes at the king of Lower Egypt who was bewitching the mob with lies. He had never seen him before this night. And although he could not make out the features of Ankhtifi and the other men guarding the Nen-nesian king, he felt the malevolence seeping from Ankhtifi’s soul like the foul secretion of an infected pustule. A strange tingling sensation spread through Khu’s fingers and toes, and his heart beat faster. He watched, transfixed, as the captive priest was forced to his knees before the king. Qeb had already drawn the string of his bow, with the bronze arrow tip aiming at the northern king.

In the chaos unleashed
by the fiery arrows, Mentuhotep’s army infiltrated the crowd with a single purpose: to crush King Khety’s supporters. People were running and screaming as the opposing armies withdrew their weapons and began slashing at each other in the maelstrom. But Mentuhotep wanted to face Khety on his own terms. Qeb’s arrow had barely missed the northern king, who had quickly disappeared into the temple with his entourage.

This was not the first uprising staged by the House of Khety from
Lower Egypt’s Akhtoy lineage in Nen-nesu. After the last of the Inebou-Hedjou kings died childless, the provincial leader of Nen-nesu jumped on the opportunity to declare himself god-king of Egypt.

But he had not been the only one.

The Theban leaders also staked their claim, as did other governors in the ensuing chaos which led to civil war between all the opposing powers. Like a pack of wolves, they all competed for power after the alpha male god-king had deceased and left his supreme position open.

King Khety’s
father had attacked Mentuhotep’s grandfather King Wah-ankh Intef II, in an attempt to crush his enemies and eliminate the rest of the competition that also vied for the
Pschent
Double Crown of Upper and Lower Egypt. Their bloody battle had occurred in the city of Tjeny—just north of Abdju. And just as Abdju would suffer much ruin from King Khety’s revolt, the battle at Tjeny had also resulted in the desecration of its tombs and utter ruin of its city.

It was after a subsequent skirmish years later, that Mentuhotep saw Khety for the very first time in his life. Mentuhotep was about nine years old when Khety—a grown man about fourteen years his senior—had met with Mentuhotep’s father briefly on a diplomatic mission. By that time Khety was already king of Lower Egypt, and Mentuhotep’s father—King Nakhtnebtepnefer Intef III—occupied the Theban throne. The meeting took place shortly after Intef III successfully defended one of his territories north of Thebes, where he had quickly quashed the beginnings of a small rebellion, and in doing so, managed to keep the duration of his short reign peaceful.

Mentuhotep recalled seeing Khety
step inside the room where his father waited with his advisors. Young Mentuhotep was standing off to one side with a tutor, from where he quietly observed the proceedings, as was required of the crown prince who would one day follow to take his father’s place as king.

Neither of the kings had bowed to each other, but they had behaved courteously, treating each other with the respect and dignity their positions
warranted. Mentuhotep was struck by King Khety’s tall, regal bearing and handsome looks. There was a casual grace and confidence to the way he moved.

A hush claimed the room the moment Khety had stepped inside, and all eyes turned to him. He
stood out from the crowd like something shining in the desert sand. From the way the two kings had spoken together, it almost seemed as though they might have been friends if their kingdoms had not opposed each other.

“It is a pity he occupies the northern throne,”
Intef had later said, long after their meeting was over.

“Why Father?” young Mentuhotep had asked.

“Because he is not a bad man,” Intef replied with a nod.