Akhenaten glared at the array of priests cowering in the entrance of his tent. He felt little pity for them. Their various attempts to document his great exodus from Egypt were acceptable, but only one stood out.
A young priest named Hur’s description of Akhenaten as a mighty leader was exactly what he was looking for. Hur was a diligent scribe, who rolled up the works of his lineage into the narrative. The scribe’s ability to meld truth with heartfelt flights of fancy gave his text an appeal that would stand the test of time, the whole story flowing from the page to the reader.
Once given the task, Hur asked Akhenaten for a title he could use to add gravitas to the story. He decided on the one given to his grandfather, Mosis. It meant ‘the living image of God’. Hur said this was an excellent choice, as it matched the name the priests of Akkad gave to one of their forefathers, King Sargon.
Saved from a period of infanticide, the young King Sargon was set adrift by his mother in a reed basket on the mighty Euphrates, before being rescued by a handmaiden of the King and raised as his son. The title Mo-Uses was used to describe King Sargon and meant ‘to be drawn from the water’. Merging this story with his own, the start of the life of Mosis soon held a mythical quality that reflected Akhenaten’s stature as a living God.
Akhenaten’s thoughts returned to the priests of Akkad. Seen as knowledgeable and pious, they held great sway within his ranks. Their understanding of history was unrivalled, and their ability to track the heavens was greater than anything the priests of Iunu or even the sailors of Rhacotis were able to match. He needed to wrestle their authority from them, and hopefully his latest scheme would ensure this.
“Are you certain that you want to ready the men for an attack, my lord?” a priest asked.
“Yehoshua tells me that he needs at least another thousand men to assist his army.” said Akhenaten, his voice loaded with disgust. “I suggest you provide him with them. Or would you prefer to die of thirst?”
“We only asked if we could share some of the royal allowance. Your caravan has enough water for a few thousand men and there are…”
“That water is mine!” screamed Akhenaten, as the men trembled. “How am I to keep myself clean for my communion with Israel if I am dirty? Do you not know Israel requires all his servants to be without stain in his presence? The lord, Israel, bade me know all those that enter within his house should be sanctified for three days. Their clothes should be washed and they should be clean of foot. He will strike down, with furious vengeance, all who oppose his word. Do you think we have enough water so we all may commune with Israel? Leave my presence and spread the word to raise an army against Amalek. We strike at midday.”
Not knowing what else to say, the priests turned and left, not one willing to question Akhenaten again.
“They came asking for water because they are dying of thirst and you sent them away to raise an army?” said Smenkhkare, in a distasteful tone.
“Yes, my brother, I did. Hopefully, they will send their most powerful and loyal followers. It should remove most of our opposition and some of their strength.”
“You cannot be serious? You are purposefully sending these men to their deaths!”
“You forget your place.” said Akhenaten, his tolerance for his brother at an end. “We knew there would be losses along the way. We were kings of Egypt! If blood is sacrificed for me, then so be it!”
“We should not be slaughtering our flock whilst it still has so much work to do.” said Smenkhkare. “The marshes took a heavy toll. Some say we lost one in five of the goats and a few thousand good men. Please see reason, my brother. I am working hard with Hur to ensure what he writes makes some sense to the priests. It is difficult however, when you contradict what you have said before. You cannot keep telling these people they simply have not remembered things that do not exist, and never have. Eventually you will be challenged, and I may not be able to help.”
“You will assist me until your last breath, brother. No matter what is asked of you. Or you will find that I have lost my forgiving nature.”
Akhenaten looked down at the cringing form of Smenkhkare with utter repulsion. There was once a time when he would have listened to everything he said. His brother was an able student and his knowledge of the history of his people was unmatched. However, ever since their trek began that feeling of trust had slowly dissolved. Now, his brother was nothing more than a sore, constantly requiring attention and distracting his every thought. It would be so easy to pick up a loose item from one of the small tables, feel its weight fill his palm and use it to smash his brother’s skull in, ridding himself of the squirming little man’s tiresome presence. However, he knew it was not the right time. Soon, perhaps after Smenkhkare finished his translation at the mount, the correct moment to exercise that sweet relief would present itself.
“My lords.” a man called, stepping through the entrance.
“May we assist you, priest?” said Smenkhkare.
“My lord, I bring news from the edge of camp. Your father-in-law is here. He brings word from your daughter.”
Akhenaten smiled. Jethro’s arrival offered an opportunity. Schooled by the priests of Akkad, Jethro had always been a loyal servant. If he could get him to speak to the priests, he may yet bend them to his will.
“Have the servants raise a feast in his honour.” said Akhenaten, plotting how best to turn Jethro’s arrival to his advantage. “Tell the men to make him feel as welcome as they would I. I shall meet him in the banqueting tent.”
“Your will be done, my lord.” said the priest, backing out.
“We must find out what news Jethro brings from the Great City.” said Akhenaten, barely able to look at Smenkhkare. “Whilst I am gone, I expect you to start the process of sifting through the gold Yehoshua brought. We will need as much of it as possible when we reach the mount.”
Without waiting for response, Akhenaten began walking through the camp. His people bowed as he marched by, whispering prayers to Israel and holding still until he was out of sight. It appeared his lowly followers were not as prone to disobedience as his priests. His plan for Jethro could be exactly what was needed.
Eventually, Akhenaten reached a simple linen tent; its peak marked with fourteen stars formed into a circle, following a graceful arc. It was the residence of his scribe, Hur.
The symbol above the entrance was instantly recognisable as the one used for the great serpentine Goddess Tawaret, who legends told circled the standing spot in the night sky. To Hur, Tawaret was in fact a male deity named Targumanu, the great teacher serpent, but his ignorance mattered little.
As Akhenaten walked beyond the tent and continued his march toward his rendezvous with Jethro, the snivelling priest shuffled out to catch up.
Hur was young and eager, and held a strong belief that to serve was to be closer to his God. It was pleasing to have a man like him around. An intelligent servant was worth hundreds of ordinary men.
They reached the large banqueting tent in short order. Arranged in long rows and surrounded by plush pillows, wooden feasting tables filled its interior. To one edge of the tent, Jethro waited with one of his daughters, an untouched girl called Aia.
“My son.” said Jethro, bowing gracefully as Akhenaten strode inside. “I trust the Gods find you comfortably disposed.”
“They do indeed, Jethro.” said Akhenaten, distracted by the vision of womanhood to his side. “I did not expect to see you here.”
“I am merely an envoy this day.” said Jethro, his lined face belying no subterfuge. “I bring news from your daughter. She says her task was completed without incident.”
“That is good news. Come, sit and eat.” Akhenaten said, taking up a seat to Jethro’s left in total deference to custom. “I hope not too much harm came by your family in the city.”
“There were many who were unfortunate.” said Jethro, his aged skin wrinkling with his recollections. “My family however, did not suffer greatly.”
“That is a
sign from Israel. It shows you are blessed amongst the people of the lands and that in his grace, all your fruits will come to harvest.” Akhenaten knew Jethro was too wise a sage to believe this statement, but Hur was not. If added correctly, comments such as these would give lustre and power to their documents, which may prove invaluable in times to come. “Tell me, Jethro, will the father of my wife do me the honour of holding council with the priests? I need a wise and respected man to explain the correct etiquette of authority to them, so I may speak unhindered.”
“I accept to do this for you, my son.” Jethro said, with a graceful tilt of his head. “I will need an enclosure setting up in the manner of court. I require four lambs, two of the female and two of the male so I can sacrifice them before the entrance. Only by passing the sanctity marked by the death of innocents can the priest’s sins be absolved and their judgement be fair.”
“I shall see this is done.” said Akhenaten, pleased his plan was coming together.
Akhenaten continued to share small talk with Jethro until just before noon. He lingered, attempting to see if there was another motive to his presence. In the end, when nothing was forthcoming, he bade his father-in-law well and walked outside.
Akhenaten strolled happily through the crowded camp, pleased he would get chance to sit in judgement of the priests who had caused him so much trouble. When he arrived back at his tent, Smenkhkare stood at the entrance, awaiting him.
“How go the war preparations, my brother?” asked Smenkhkare, at his approach.
“We are ready.” said Akhenaten, curtly. He was still angered by his brother’s actions. He needed some way to torture him, make his brother feel the same pain he did whenever he lingered in his presence. “I need you to ask the priests to perform a duty, as a sign of the men’s obedience.”
“What is your will, my brother?” asked Smenkhkare, no doubt curious about the request.
“All men within the camp should undertake the ritual of circumcision, if they have not done so already. No matter their age.” said Akhenaten, looking into the distance.
“But the practise should only be carried out on the young! You know the risks of doing this at a later age are…”
Akhenaten cut Smenkhkare’s reply short, grabbing his shoulder and pulling him close. “Do not make me ask you again, brother. This we do to test the men’s commitment. Do not test mine!”
Smenkhkare skulked from the tent to do as asked, Akhenaten straining to hold back his laughter until his brother was out of earshot. Getting the men to undergo this ritual was a wicked thing to do, but the scheme had two great advantages. Firstly, it would seem as though the decree came from Smenkhkare and that would weaken his position, and secondly, all who refused would show their disloyalty by their inaction. It was perfect. There was not a single drawback.
Content with his decisions, Akhenaten returned his focus to the organising of his army.
Crossing to the top row of tents, he stared down at the gathering masses of men and beasts forming below.
The ranks of warriors were at least ten thousand strong. Yehoshua was at the front with his cavalrymen, his ceremonial sword held high above his head.
Akhenaten liked Yehoshua’s flair for the dramatic. He was a skilled warrior and diplomat, and his devotion was second to none. When this day was done, he would ensure Hur made him a central figure in their story.
With a last flourish of his blade, Yehoshua led the vast army toward the hills surrounding their encampment. The baying multitude chanted prayers to Israel to protect them, as they followed the horsemen into battle.
Through the noise of the departing army, Akhenaten did not notice Smenkhkare arrive at his side. He scowled, his moment ruined.
“Is the staff ready?” Akhenaten asked, uninterested in conversing about anything else.
“It is, my brother.” said Smenkhkare, bowing.
“Then bring it.” said Akhenaten, moving to leave. “We shall make our way to the hillside overlooking the valley. The might of Israel is within the staff. We will use it to help Yehoshua win this day and Hur will join us to document our great victory.”
The ride to the edge of the valley of the Amalekites did not take long. A small trail wound up the side of a hill to the edge of their vast army. Ahead, almost out of range through the midday haze, he could see the forming might of their opponents.
Each of the Amalekites was half as big again as his fiercest warriors. Over their shoulders and legs they wore spiked scales akin to carapaces; black, chitin-like armour that glistened in the rays of the sun. In their hands, they carried a multitude of exotic armaments. Some wielded hideously spiked clubs, whilst others bore gnarled shafts of wood, coated by barbs of metal.
No matter how many times Akhenaten scanned their opponent’s lines he could not see a moment of doubt or fear on any of their hulking faces. The only thing that stood in their favour was that they outnumbered their opponents at least ten to one.
Yehoshua looked down the line of cavalry at his disposal and nodded to his lieutenants. Slowly, the rank of horses began to split in two, leaving a sizeable hole in the centre of their army. Behind them, the men rallied by the priests readied their assault.
As soon as the horses were far enough apart, a shrill cheer of Israel echoed round the valley and the priests charged.
Akhenaten watched in awe as the battle began. From his position, he could see the mighty Amalekites tear swathes through the priests’ force. Fully-grown men, hit by the mighty weapons of their towering opponents, flew from the collision point like child’s playthings.
The Amalekites wasted no time in dispatching the priests, suffering not a single loss of their own. As soon as the last of the priests fell, they made their charge.
The wave of armoured hell slammed into Akhenaten’s remaining forces with such force that the front two rows simply crumpled under the weight of the impact. The Amalekites did not even pause for breath, as they strode over the fallen in their path, crushing bones as they went. They moved swiftly, laying into his army’s very heart, cries of fear and panic spreading as they advanced.
As Akhenaten watched, he caught sight of his cavalry on the slopes, turned and pointed back toward the battle. Yehoshua waved his sword, the gleaming metal of its blade flashing in the midday sun. In response to this signal, he moved to stand on the largest boulder he could find and levelled his staff directly at one of the Amalekites.
As Akhenaten focused his concentration on the distant opponent, everything else in his field of vision faded. He reached out with his mind, willing the staff to comply with his wishes, as a cool chill began to run up his spine.
The air around the staff crackled, a crimson bolt of lightning shooting outward. The brilliant shard streaked across the sky, connecting with the Amalekite head on. The huge man let out a howl that would have scared Set himself, as the vicious light engulfed him. A moment later, his entire form burst into flames. With a brilliant flash he was gone, a tower of smoke rising where he once stood.
Yehoshua’s men knew what to do next. They charged into the fray, their horses thundering down the slope and crashing into the flanks of the distracted Amalekite army from both sides.
Once it began, the end came swiftly. Yehoshua’s men took no pity on their foes. Surrounded and in disarray, the Amelakites fought valiantly, but with futility. Every time it looked as though some small pocket would restore their grip on the battle, Akhenaten would level off another blast from the staff and take away any hope.
Each time it was used, Akhenaten could feel the staff clawing at his very being. Soon, he could feel the skin on his face become drawn, his mouth drying, and his breath faltering. In the end, Smenkhkare and Hur needed to hold his arms aloft so he could continue to wield it.
As the sun ducked below the tops of the mountains, the battle ended. Akhenaten watched, as half of Yehoshua’s remaining force spread out into the mountains. The groups of a hundred or so men fanning out to look for the hiding place
of the tablets, whilst the remainder began the process of pillaging the dead.
The looters held no respect for anything on the valley floor. Whether it be to rip teeth from their fallen foes, or to cut fingers from their own comrades to acquire their rings, the barbarism of man displayed was unsettling.
Not wanting to linger, Akhenaten asked Hur to assist him back to camp. His bones hurt and his chest heaved for breath. There was no doubt, using the artefacts took a heavy toll.
Akhenaten went straight to his bed to sleep, but his rest was stifled and uneasy. It was almost a relief to his tortured attempts that shortly after nightfall, Hur and Yehoshua barged through the entrance, a pair of purple stones in their hands.
Jumping from his bed, Akhenaten scrambled over and snatched a stone from Hur’s grasp. It radiated from within with a bright blue glow, which twinkled through its semi-transparent surface. On each side, lines connected stars. Next to the patterns, a strange, flowing text ran in lengths. He flipped the stone over a few times taking in the way the moonlight seemed to roll off its surface.
“It is the twelve, my brother. The text matches the inscription on the Ark.” said Smenkhkare.
“Excellent.” said Akhenaten, his eyes wide. “We shall break camp after the court of judgements is complete and make our way to the temple. Our destiny is finally within reach.”
Chapter 32