Khu: A Tale of Ancient Egypt (37 page)

For now.

The fighting continued long after dawn brightened the sky in glowing shades of persimmon and plum, illuminating the wealthy province that was the cult center of the funerary gods Anubis and Wepwawet. Zawty had been largely independent during the time following the disintegration of the Old Kingdom, but then it sided with Khety against Mentuhotep in the struggle for control between the opposing kingdoms. It supported the Nen-nesian ruler with its troops and its treasury, knowing that it would be rewarded well once Khety defeated Mentuhotep.

Khety
’s spies had kept him abreast of Mentuhotep’s wins and losses over the years, and he knew that his nemesis’s army had grown stronger, even with the setback at Swentet. But the price of the information had been steep—costing him the lives of three of his most cunning emissaries, after they were discovered by several of the Theban generals. And like Odji, whose head was sent back to Mentuhotep in Thebes, Khety had received a mysterious package wrapped in coarse linen, with the heads of those three emissaries.

Included
in the package was a small scroll with a simple message: “Thrice over has the gift been repaid.”

The Nen-nesian king had turned his face away when the package was opened
, and the message was read. The lines between his brows had deepened as he turned away and shut his eyes.

Khety
sent fewer spies after that; at least he was more careful about where he sent them, so that their lives were not at risk. Unlike Ankhtifi who had not shown any remorse or emotion whatsoever after losing some of his own men in battle, Khety valued the lives of the men who served him. But Ankhtifi’s only concern was with the inconvenience their deaths had cost him. 

Khety
had since focused on hiring new mercenaries, conscripting more men into his army, and on quashing any revolts or attacks from the nomadic invaders infiltrating Lower Egypt from the Nile Delta. And while his army had grown stronger, Khety knew that Mentuhotep’s had as well.

“He has hired and trained many more men,” one of his generals had reported two years before.

“But he has lost men too,” another countered, referring to the battle at Swentet. “
He has lost men, including his military chancellor who nearly died. The man lost an arm, and has since been replaced.”

“By whom?”
Khety had asked. He had never met Qeb, but he had heard of the exceptional Kushite warrior.

“One of his
own sons,” the man answered, shrugging as though it meant nothing.

Khety
did not know whether or not to believe the reports he had heard regarding the number of Theban troops, and he listened with a measure of skepticism. Either way, he knew that he would have to face those troops again. And if Mentuhotep’s army was indeed larger than his own, he would have to rely on more than brute strength.

H
e would have to somehow outwit his archenemy.

Outwitting the enemy is precisely what b
oth sides attempted to do now, as they grappled for control over Zawty. Men fought along the riverbank and harbor, throughout the town’s narrow roads, near the orderly blocks of mud-brick homes, inside structures or on rooftops where some of the enemy waited in ambush, through the open marketplaces that were presently deserted, and by the shrines, temples and monuments dominating the wealthy province.

Men
shrieked and shouted to mask their own fear, as they swung, stabbed and slashed at each other in a welter of rage and destruction. Others jeered, throwing insults and challenges as they alternately parried and thrust at their opponents. They spit curses at each other, invoking their gods to strike them down, blight their crops, disease their livestock, and sicken their families.

Mentuhotep’s men fought knowing
that everything they cherished and believed in was at stake with this battle, while Khety’s men fought hard to protect the Nen-nesian king, and to keep the Theban forces from capturing the town.

Qeb remained by Mentuhotep’s side, fighting like a demon
each time they confronted the enemy. The king was strong and skilled with his weapons, but Qeb possessed a certain grace that made him swift and nimble despite his disability and his larger size. As men attacked the Kushite warrior, mistaking him for easy prey, Qeb would sidestep or leap backwards, letting some of the blows go unparried as his opponents lunged more savagely each time, trying to break his rhythm. He would suddenly catch them off guard as he edged unexpectedly closer before delivering a roundhouse kick to the head, or a front kick to the groin, finishing with a death stroke of his scimitar to the belly or throat.

The former military chancellor
remained a force to be reckoned with. He was adept at fighting with his legs as he was with his good arm. Those men who were foolish enough to underestimate and attack him, were defeated like a troop of unwary baboons confronting a fearless leopard.

The
Theban army steadily gained the upper hand in the battle, leading some of Khety’s men to panic and flee. Although Mentuhotep had sustained losses in the fighting, most of which were in the early part of the battle and during the ambush on the Nile, the heaviest losses were suffered by Khety’s army, which was indeed smaller than that of the Theban king, despite the backing of Zawty’s forces. Morale among Khety’s men quickly plummeted as more and more of his supporters were caught, subdued, and pinioned with their arms behind their backs, many of whom were treated like traitors, and killed with a swift fatal blow to the head. While others who surrendered promptly were given quarter and their lives were spared.

King
Khety fought hard despite the odds against him. This was not like the previous battle years before in Abdju. There was nowhere for him to go from here; nowhere to recoup his losses, no pilgrims to sway to his cause, no more settlements to conquer, and no army to lead after the last of his men were defeated. He was getting older and had also grown embittered and demoralized as the glorious vision of a kingdom under his rule faded with the years.

A
lthough it did not take long for Khety to suspect that defeat was inevitable and his cause was lost, he was too proud to flee. He refused to run away like a coward and abandon the men who had remained faithful to his cause. He refused to betray their trust and their loyalty. They had fought for him and a dream that had all but vanished. And so he remained, fighting like a victor defending the men who had sworn their lives to him. He fought with every fiber of his being.

But A
nkhtifi had no such intention.

At first the former chieftain of Nekhen fought
determinedly by Khety’s side, despite his limp from the leg wound he had suffered from Khu in Abdju years before. The strongest of Ankhtifi’s soldiers accompanied them as they used their daggers, axes and maces to kill as many of Mentuhotep’s men as possible. They hammered and hacked at their opponents, killing or driving away those men who dared to attack them. But as the fighting grew fiercer, and their army dwindled in the slaughter, Ankhtifi finally left Khety’s side.

Like the wolves and jackals
that are opportunistic hunters, preying on what is convenient and available, Ankhtifi saw no opportunity nor benefit in sacrificing himself for Khety’s dying cause. He did not believe in self-sacrifice.

The only cause he truly believed in was his very own.

If there was nothing to be gained for himself, he would waste no time, nor put forth any effort which would not be of benefit to him. So he extracted himself from the chaos, and quietly slipped away in the midst of the fighting, to try and flee the settlement. He loped silently away like a low-ranking, cowardly wolf.

L
eaving Khety and the others to fend for themselves alone.

Ankhtifi
headed for Zawty’s harbor after deserting Khety. He left alone, not wanting to be bothered or hindered by anyone else. But when he saw Mentuhotep’s men guarding the port, he backed away again into the town.

He thought of his
escape options.

The best and easiest route on the Nile was no longer available to him.
The Theban fleet had secured the river north and south of Zawty’s harbor, with explicit instructions to keep anyone other than Mentuhotep’s forces, from entering or leaving the province. Absconding on foot through the desert beyond the floodplain was not feasible either, especially with his lame leg that made it difficult to walk for any distance or length of time. He thought of hiding in one of the temples where he could wait until nightfall, but dismissed the idea before long since he would only be trapping himself inside.

Ankhtifi
had seen the Theban soldiers searching the perimeter of the temple complex, and had left the area promptly to avoid being caught. Although he did not recognize Khu and his men when they had neared the Temple of Anubis, he instinctively knew they were enemies. And he slunk away to avoid them.

The lupine warrior had shrunk over the years since his leg injury. It was mostly due to the stoop in his posture which he had acquired from his awkward gait. He was eerily calm despite his circumstances, and believed he would escape
easily as he had always gotten away with things in the past. But he blamed others for his own failures, including Khety who had only made him lose his settlement in Nekhen after the revolt in Abdju. While supporting Khety had made him prosperous over the years, it had eventually led to the forfeiture of his settlement.

Ankhtifi kept to the shadows
by the mud-brick buildings as he hobbled through the town. He moved slowly, scanning the streets with his dark eyes, and ducking out of sight whenever he heard or saw someone coming his way. After exploring his limited options, an idea began to take shape in his mind. If he could not escape through obvious means, he would do so another way. Sometimes hiding in plain sight is the best way to elude capture. He knew he was smarter than everyone else, and he knew how to manipulate even the direst circumstances to his best advantage. So he glanced behind him once again, drawing his cloak over his head, as he skulked through the streets in silence.

***

It was toward the end of the fighting that Mentuhotep and Khety finally came face-to-face.

The sun-go
d Re had already journeyed halfway across the sky in his Mandjet solar boat, from where he watched Khety’s entire fleet burn to ashes before being swallowed up by the Nile as it sank beneath its murky surface. The great smoke cloud smeared across the clear sky, drifting south as the winds scattered the dark fumes over the river.

Little damage was done to the town in the swiftness of the battle, and most of its buildings were left untouched. Even Anubis remained seated over the pylon’s entrance, where he continued to gaze out over the grounds that had been witness to the fighting. The jackal-god of the dead watched in silence, his expression unreadable, as the enemy’s soldiers were apprehended and led away, including the temple priests who had remained
sequestered within their mud-brick homes during much of the fighting. They too were led away with their heads bowed under the linen cloaks they had drawn protectively about themselves. 

King Khety
ran into Mentuhotep in an open area that had been used as a marketplace previously. It was deserted now. Empty tables and overturned reed baskets lying on the dirt ground are all that remained in the forgotten stalls.

Mentuho
tep was with a group of his men, while Khety was alone with only two soldiers who had stayed faithfully by his side. Everyone else had been killed, wounded, or captured in battle or when they had tried to flee.

The two monarchs
said nothing at first. They stopped and stared at each other silently, as one appraises a foe for his strengths and weaknesses. The air was charged with a current of apprehension, as though the very gods themselves were watching the events unfold.

Khety’s shaven head was bare, and he was armed with only a dagger. Although he was
cut and bruised with minor injuries and lacerations, and his kilt was torn, dirty and stained with blood, his bearing was as regal as always.

Mentuhotep wore his blue war crown over his shaven head, and had an aura of authority
radiating from him. The difference in their ages was made more obvious now that the two rulers stood several paces across from each other. The strain of the last decade had taken its toll on Khety, and he looked worn and tired. But he remained poised like an aged lion whose glorious mane has thinned and faded with time. An aged lion facing a younger foe in his prime, during a territorial claim.

“So it has come to this,” Khet
y finally spoke after he neared Mentuhotep’s group. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly through his nose.

Mentuhotep
just watched the Nen-nesian king, his expression guarded. Even now Khety still possessed an undeniable aura that commanded respect, and Mentuhotep could not help feeling momentarily awed by his presence.

“You are a formidable
adversary,” Khety said, a note of admiration in his tone.