People of the Inner Sea (The Age of Bronze) (33 page)

Péleyu impatiently patted her hand to drive away the memory.  "Forget the past for a moment, my good wife, and consider the child's future.  She is illegitimate and cannot inherit the throne."

"Mm," T'éti mused, frowning.  "When Púrwo imports a wife, our poor granddaughter may not be welcome in her own country."  King and queen looked at each other a moment, saying nothing.  The queen broke into a smile and shook a finger at her husband.  "I know what you are thinking, Péleyu," she said with an attempt at a frown.  "You are going to suggest we adopt her as our own."

He nodded.  "She is our own flesh and blood, after all.  And 'Iqodámeya claims that our son promised to marry her when they returned from Tróya.  What do you think?"

"Inheritance should indeed pass through the female line," T'éti said firmly.  "It is an excellent idea.  And you may keep the child's mother in the palace as her nursemaid."  She nodded once to indicate that the matter was settled and Péleyu repeated the gesture.

But the king was not finished.  "That will still leave us with a problem.  What will happen to our granddaughter when Púrwo goes south to marry?  And he will go, you know.  The boy is proud.  He will leave T'eshalíya, looking for a wife with a throne as her dowry.  Suppose our granddaughter's husband takes it into his head to beat her?  A woman without brothers to protect her is almost as helpless as a widow."

Again, T'éti smiled in response.  "I know you too well, Péleyu.  You want us to adopt Andrómak'e's little boy, also."

He shrugged.  "Why stop there?  The captive children are all still babies.  They will not remember any other parents but us, by the time they are grown."

"Adopt them all?" the queen asked in surprise.  She stared open-mouthed at the wánaks, as he waited for her reply.  "Ai," said T'éti with another brief nod, "why not?"

aaa

At the festival of the vernal equinox, the king of Mízriya received reports from his vast territories with an impassive air.  Mirniptáha was not a tall man nor was he broad in the shoulders, and he was nearly swallowed by his gilded, wooden throne with its carved scenes of war, inlaid with gold, silver, and precious stones.  A raised stool of equally elaborate design held the sandaled feet that otherwise would have dangled in the air.  His bony shoulders sagged under the weight of an enormous, golden collar and sweat trickled down his cheeks from beneath the two massive crowns on his head, a high, white cap inside a low, red one.  Through the diaphanous, white fabric of his long tunic could be seen the king's prominent ribs, as well as the bright reds and blues of his short underskirt.  His clean-shaven face was gaunt, falling in a mass of wrinkles over a braided, false beard of black sheep’s wool that was tied to his chin.  But the king's expression was without emotion, as if unaware of his own physical frailty.

Dressed in matching cloaks of transparent linen, two high-born officials bowed low before their monarch, touching their foreheads to the ground.  Both the clean-shaven men adjusted the short wigs on their heads, as they rose to their elegantly sandaled feet once more.  Lesser ranked men in similar wigs and short kilts hurried forward with their necks and knees appropriately bent, to hand rolls of inked papyrus to their superiors.

"O golden Harú," called out the heftier of the two men of highest rank.  Perspiring profusely with anxiety, he moved forward to rest a sandaled foot on the first step of the king's raised dais.  "O Strong Bull of Mízriya, my royal father, Mirniptáha Hutpí-hírma, with dreadful regret that weighs down my heart, I bring you most unwelcome, evil news."

His taller, thinner companion shot him a furious look.  "Be still, Amun-musís," he interrupted loudly.  "As supreme governor of Upper Mízriya, I should give my report first."

"But, Siptáha," hissed the shorter man.  "This is important!"

Ignoring the stocky man beside him, Siptáha strode forward on long, spindly legs, his eyes on the king.  "O Great House of Upper and Lower Mízriya, may you have a life of a thousand years, prosperity beyond imagining, and eternally excellent health!  O beloved of the two noble goddesses, king Mirniptáha, your tax-collectors' first reports are in and once again your Divine Father, Ra, shining in the sky, has blessed your lands with a wondrous harvest."

The aging monarch did not speak.  His immobile features displayed no more awareness of the squabbling officials before him than he did of the weight of his crown and collar.  As if carved of granite, he stared past his overseers in their ankle-length garments, silent and unmoving.

Behind him stood four men, two of them waving tall fans to cool the royal limbs.  Their banners of ostrich feathers created a breeze that occasionally moved the lion's tail that hung, limply, from the back of the king's belt.  The slight stirring of the emblem, visible between the thin legs of the monarch's chair, made the king seem even more like a statue.  The fan-bearers' skin was lighter than that of the officials before the dais, their hair less curly.  And Amun-musís glared at them with malevolence, hating them for their very presence, despising them all the more because they were obviously foreigners in his native land.

The stocky official's gaze fell with no more favor upon the other two men behind the throne.  These servants held parasols, shading the royal head from Mízriya's already hot sun, though the day had scarcely begun.  Their short hair was as tightly curled as that of the wigs worn by the highest ranking officials.  Unlike the fan-wavers, the parasol bearers' skin was as dark as their eyes, marking them as foreigners from the opposite end of the earth from the former.

"O protector of the Black Land, lord of the Two Kingdoms, life, prosperity and health be yours forever and ever!  I beseech you, send these barbarians away," Amun-musís urged the Great King, waving at the four, in their short, white kilts, cropped hair, and bare chins.  "I have momentous and terrible news that is fit only for imperial ears."  His gauzy tunic clung to his damp skin and he pulled the wig from his head to wipe the sweat from his head.  "My report concerns the city of the sun.  The fate of holy Un is at stake."

His prominent nose in the air, tall Siptáha called out more loudly than ever, "The people's hearts swell with joy at your name, and the plants and animals of the nation rejoice, O shining child of the Sun's Disk, O Mirniptáha, for you will overthrow all the lands of the wicked barbarians, as your father and your grandfather did before you!  The gods have set you upon the throne of Mízriya and you will reign for millions and millions of years, shining among men upon your dais, as the Sun shines in the sky, as your father shines in heaven!  May life, prosperity, and health be yours forever and ever!  I will now read to you the amount of taxes so far collected in each province of the Upper Kingdom…."

But as Siptáha paused for breath and rolled out his papyrus scroll, the shorter official began to speak.  "O Great House of the sacred Black Land," Amun-musís called out, reciting only the briefest titles and speaking as hurriedly as possible.  "King Mirniptáha, life, prosperity, health to you, if you will not send your slaves away, I will just have to give my report in their presence.  I absolutely must describe our situation to you.  The situation is dire!  The whole of the western desert is on the move!  The Libúwans have been raiding Lower Mízriya ever since the Aigúpto was in full flood.  I got the news late because of the unprecedented height of the waters and I did not realize myself how serious the problem was.  I thought this was just another cattle raid, at first, one such as your father and grandfather endured many times.  A few Káushan mercenaries went to the fortresses in the delta to deal with the Libúwans, but…."

Annoyed by the interruption, the long-limbed Siptáha angrily waved his scroll at the speaker.  "Brother, you will curb your tongue until I have finished my report to the king.  You will have plenty of time to discuss these mundane matters after I am done with the tax lists."

"By Ra and Amún and Awsít himself!" cursed Amunmusís, "you try my patience, Siptáha.  If we do not deal with this crisis now, Mízriya will soon have no Great House to praise!"  Turning back to the immovable king, the shorter man shouted, "The whole of the Lower Kingdom is overrun!  The Libúwans hold the western delta all the way from the edge of the desert as far as the Aigúpto's banks.  Still worse has befallen the eastern delta.  The chieftain Mirurí has returned from exile with allies from all the northern islands.  These barbarian sea people have laid waste to the eastern half of the Lower Kingdom.  Even holy cities are being sacked and plundered without compunction!  The temples in Bubást have been emptied of all the treasures allotted them by your illustrious father, may he rest in Ra's horizon forever!"

Enraged, Siptáha opened his mouth to speak.  But the king on the throne seemed suddenly to waken at the final phrase.  "What is the tax report from the Lower Kingdom?" he asked, his voice tremulous with age.

"Tax report!" Amunmusís cried, tossing his papyrus scroll to the ground and throwing his broad hands in the air.  "I cannot collect any taxes at all!  My great royal father obviously does not comprehend the gravity of the situation.  You are no longer lord of the two lands, O son of Ra, life, prosperity and so on, but only of the one, the Upper Kingdom by itself.  Nothing can come to you from the delta but an invading army!  And that it will do, indeed, I can promise you, before this harvest is in!  If you do nothing, holy Un itself will fall to the barbarians before the next month ends!  From there it is but a short march to Manufrí."

"Manufrí!" Siptáha exclaimed, the blood draining from his face.  "Here?"

"Yes!" Amunmusís shouted, waving his arms frantically, "unless we stop them now, and I do mean immediately, the two armies of the invaders will meet here at Manufrí before the New Year festival!"

Siptáha gasped and choked.  His lanky frame shook so violently that his knobby knees banged together.  The lesser nobles, in row upon row behind the two high officials, began to shout at one another in alarm.  On his gilded throne, Mirniptáha kept his inscrutable eyes straight ahead, as oblivious to the onrushing danger as he had been, earlier, to the praise and the briefing.

Siptáha glanced from the immobile king to the furiously pacing official beside him.  "But, but," the tall overseer of Upper Mízriya sputtered, "a few of those miserable, mud-brick towns of the north fall every year to Libúwan hands.  That is simply part of the uncivilized tradition of Mízriya's lesser kingdom.  The people there are used to such things.  It has never kept them from paying their taxes before."  A clamor rose from the assembled nobility, agreeing with Siptáha.  The crowd of high born Mízriyans clad in white linen pressed forward to hear the shorter official's reply.

"Speak," commanded the Great House, his shrill, imperial voice instantly silencing the assembly.  Without turning his head under its heavy, double crown, Mirniptáha raised a beneficent, if shriveled hand.  All eyes turned to the sovereign to note the old man addressing a kilted soldier.  The warrior had trotted to the very foot of the royal dais, escaping the notice of the bickering officials.  Kneeling now upon his leather apron, the panting soldier called out, "O Great House, I am Bikurnár, commander of your mercenary troops from Kanaqán.  I have just come from Un and I have momentous news!  The camp of the invaders has been located, just a day's march from the city's walls."

"By Amún!" cried the broad-shouldered Amun-musís, "You must hear me now, my lord.  Listen!"  This time Siptáha did not interrupt his shorter brother, but sank down upon the steps of the dais, stricken with terror.  But Amun-musís addressed the warrior first, quietly asking, "What word has come from the rest of the delta?  How many fortresses have fallen?"

The soldier shook his head.  "We do not know.  No written message can penetrate the enemy lines to find out.  Only a few officials of low rank have come from the north to take refuge in Un.  Even so, each man tells roughly the same tale.  All the small towns have fallen into the invaders' hands.  If the citadels have not yet been sacked and burned, they are certainly under siege and cut off from each other and from us.  The situation is truly critical now.  The Libúwans have even overrun the southern oases.  The whole of the Lower Kingdom is lost."

Amun-musís shook his fists in the air in frustration.  He made an abbreviated bow toward the throne, shouting, "My royal father, life, prosperity, and health, you must act now!  Give me your command, but give it immediately.  Say the word so that I can assemble an army to drive these invaders from our lands.  You would not listen to me before, nor would your father, may he rest in Ra's horizon!  For uncounted years our southern-born kings have come and gone from the throne without addressing the problem of the Libúwans.  No Káushan bowmen have been stationed in the north to protect the palaces and temples there.  Now all of Mízriya will suffer for that neglect.  How can I make it any clearer to you?  These invaders love death and hate life.  They go about the countryside, fighting daily.  That is all they live for.  Do you see now?  They earn their very bread and beer with spears and arrows.  The whole delta is desolate, as if the sterile sands of the Red Land had covered it over.  All of the livestock has been removed from the lands of the nobles and even from the sacred estates of the temples.  Many of the people are even sending tribute to the Libúwan chief now.  I mean to say, they are paying taxes to the chieftain Dawúd rather than here to their rightful sovereign in the south!"