Khu: A Tale of Ancient Egypt (23 page)

“No one
is here,” Qeb whispered.

“Look,” Mentuhotep pointed to the
scepter that Khety had flung to the floor earlier. It lay abandoned by a column. One of the guards picked up the scepter and handed it to Mentuhotep.

“Khety was
holding this,” Mentuhotep said, as he angrily recalled how the king of Lower Egypt had appeared when inciting the crowd from the platform in front of the Temple of Osiris. Mentuhotep grit his teeth as he thought of the man who wanted to take his throne from him.

From the distance where Mentuhotep had been watching, he didn’t think that Khety had changed all that much over the years since he last saw him. But he had not been close enough to the northern king to really tell, and darkness had already been settling over the temple. Regardless, Khety still possessed an undeniable presence which left people spellbound. That much was obvious. The crowd’s reaction was evidence enough of Khety’s allure. He most certainly must still possess the striking features with which he had been blessed by the gods. And whatever creases he had acquired over time, and the hardened aspect from all he had suffered, would only have made him more fiercely handsome.

“
Lower Egypt’s crown will be yours one day, Lord King,” Qeb said, as Mentuhotep was recalling how Khety had captivated the crowd. “You will wear the Double Crown, as you are meant to.”

“
When the Prophesy of Neferti is fulfilled,” Mentuhotep said, as he left the scepter where it had been found on the floor, before continuing to look around the courtyard for any signs of the enemy.

The huge columns framing the courtyard shone translucent in the milky light of
the full moon. The lunar god Khonsu had made his appearance in the night, where he took his regal place upon his sky throne. Mentuhotep peered into the thick shadows beyond the colonnaded galleries, but saw nothing.

Nothing sinister moved in the darkness that settled between the columns. Nothing scratched or scurried on the ground
, which was kept immaculately clean by the priests who oversaw the temple rituals, and daily tended to the ancient god’s human needs. Nothing but the sounds of their own movement and breathing disturbed the space around them.

The group moved deeper in
to the hypostyle hall waiting beyond the courtyard. Qeb grabbed two torches flanking the second pylon’s entrance, passing them to two men whom he urged forward before following them inside the roofed structure. Three sets of double-rowed columns rose in what seemed like a petrified forest, appearing taller than the columns in the courtyard. The colossal pillars were topped with papyrus and lotus capitals, gently flaring toward a ceiling pierced by shafts of spectral light, that drifted through openings cut into the sides of its raised center aisle. Although the hypostyle hall was smaller than the courtyard, its limestone opulence dwarfed the men who touched their amulets in awe. They were overwhelmed by the surroundings meant to evoke the densely reeded marshes of the outside world, which screened the holy and secluded dwelling place of the god from unworthy eyes.

The hypostyle
hall was used to perform religious rituals, and was forbidden to the general public. Only the high priests and king were permitted to enter, and only after obligatory purification rituals including meticulous bodily cleansing, and a strict adherence to dietary laws prohibiting the consumption of certain foods like fish and pork, which were considered unclean. But all protocol had been cast aside in order to rid the settlement of the wickedness that had taken refuge within its holiest temple.

Every step through the magnificent space
filled the men with a sense of wonder and trepidation, and their grips on their weapons tightened with the need to feel something tangible in the elusive world of gods, which dazzled mortals. The men holding the torches, swept the flames over the walls surrounding the outer columns, where the darkness was most profound. The fire’s light threw ominous shadows that imbued the paintings with a life of their own. Brightly painted, carved reliefs portrayed religious rituals and scenes of the life of Osiris, and were lavishly decorated with lush plant-life including lotus flowers and papyrus reeds.

In one of the painted scenes,
Isis stood with her hands resting on the shoulders of Osiris, who was seated before her with the crook and flail in his hands. He wore the
Atef
feathered crown, while Isis wore the horned crown of Hathor, symbolizing healing and fertility.

In another painted scene, Osiris stood next to Isis,
while their son Horus, who was wearing the
Pschent
Double Crown of Egypt on his falcon head, stood before them with one foot in front of the other. Horus was holding the
ankh
key of life in his right hand, and the canine-headed
Was
Scepter, symbolizing his divine authority, in his left hand.

T
he eerie play of shadow and light made the gods seem as though they were actually breathing. Even the columns were elaborately carved, depicting more scenes from the life of Osiris, including a painting of the god seated before an offering table heaped with food, drink, oil and incense.  Everywhere in the hall, the paintings, reliefs and the architecture of the temple reminded one of the god whose mythos dominated the structure, and whose essence permeated the very air, which was redolent of smoke and incense.

The men grew tenser as they
moved deeper into the temple, exploring its sacred surroundings for the evil lurking within. Mentuhotep wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. He was perspiring. Qeb just ignored the trickle of sweat running down the side of his face.

They entered the
Sanctuary—the Holy of Holies—in the deepest part of the temple where Osiris lived. But his cult statue had not yet been returned. It was still at the tomb where it would remain for several more days, before once again reclaiming his throne upon the raised shrine enclosed within the monolithic syenite
naos
, which was topped with a decorative cornice and polished to a gleaming shine.

In front of the naos
stood another platform in the room’s center, where the gilded barque was usually stored. That too was missing, as it would be used to transport the god back to the temple from his tomb. The room’s two bronze wall braziers, that were kept burning year-round in the presence of the god, remained unlit in his absence. Nothing but the men’s torchlight illuminated the walls of the room, which were covered in images of gods and goddesses, and in intricate hieroglyphic texts.

From floor to ceiling
, illustrations were carved into the walls, portraying Osiris in different stages of his life. There were images of priests making offerings of food and drink to the beloved god, while scenes of clerics and other ministers were paying homage before him, or serving him in a variety of manners as was befitting to the god.

For a moment no one moved.
Even though Osiris was not there, they felt the god’s omnipresent
Ka
watching them. They held their breaths in reverence, knowing that their presence here would never be warranted under normal circumstances.

Few ever had the chance to enter the temple-mansions of the gods. The priests who did
enter had to undergo a ritual of purification rites before stepping within the hallowed structure. Cleanliness was indeed next to godliness, as they were required to wash and oil their clean-shaven bodies four times daily—twice in the morning and twice at night. They wore no leather or wool, abstained from all intimate relations, followed strict dietary laws, and rinsed their mouths out with a cleansing solution of natron. Even those lesser priests who did not have any contact with the divine cult image, were also required to partake of the ablutions so that they too would be considered ritually pure before stepping within the hallowed temple grounds. 

“Blood!” one man gasped in alarm. He crouched down to examine the drops
which thickened into a trail, smearing its way behind the platform.

Qeb took the torch from
the man, his other hand never leaving the hilt of his scimitar, as he followed the bloody path. Every one of his senses was in a heightened state of alert. He could feel the tiny hairs on his body standing on end as his skin prickled with fear, anticipation, and anger.

The trail led them
behind the shrine to an oval stone basin that was larger than the opening of a well, and set directly into the floor. It was filled with holy water from the Sacred Lake lying just outside the temple, behind its grand structure. The sanctified waters were used in the temple purification rites and offerings. But the once-crystalline water ran dark with the blood of a priest who was sprawled face-down in the basin. Two more priests lay on the floor nearby. Their dead eyes stared blankly ahead, the light of life extinguished and cold, as were the bronze braziers affixed to the walls.

Mentuhotep tore
his gaze from the bloody scene, grabbed a torch from one of the men, and scanned every corner of the vacant room that lay at the very back of the temple.

But no one was there.

King Khety and Ankhtifi had vanished.

King Khety and Ankhtifi
were on a ship bound north to Nen-nesu. The oars bit into the Nile, spreading ripples across the dark water glinting in the moonlight. The ship’s prow rose to a sharpened point on which a metal lion’s head jutted out almost horizontally over the water. Its jaws gaped open in a menacing snarl meant to scare away any evil spirits lurking in the river.

The narrow elongated hull cut through the river, parting it evenly in two. A
large steering oar used to navigate the ship was fastened to the stern, above which rose the bowsprit in a long and graceful curve, its end flaring out like the head of the papyrus reed—the symbol of Lower Egypt.

The ship moved soundlessly through the water with
its cargo of defeated men. It slipped away from the dwindling battle in Abdju, which had been ignited by King Khety’s uprising. Fires continued to burn all through the night, visible along the southern horizon where they destroyed and blackened much of the old necropolis and other parts of the settlement.

The ship moved steadily, looping around wide marshes and mudbanks
where night heron and grebes stalked and foraged through the reeds. The haunting wail of a loon sounded a lonely call echoing in the darkness.

King Khety and Ankhtifi
had escaped from Abdju shortly after the fighting had commenced. They had disguised themselves as pilgrims, and had stolen away through a secret passage hidden within the temple. They had tortured their captives into revealing the entrance to the passage before Ankhtifi killed them inside the sanctuary, and left their lifeless bodies on the defiled floor. It was a sacrilege of the worst kind, a blasphemous desecration of the holiest of holies in the murder of innocent men, whose blood violated the god’s earthly domain.

No purification ritual could wash away the darkness
staining a wicked soul, or the evil festering within an infected heart.

The narrow mouth of the secret passage had been concealed by a thin stone veneer etched in elaborate hieroglyphs, overlaying a thicker slab of limestone in one of the corner walls of the hypostyle hall. It had been difficult to find at first, and even more difficult to pry out. The priests had searched frantically, only pausing to argue amongst themselves as they sought the opening that had not ever been used in their lifetimes.

“Find it,” Khety hissed
at them. “And do it quickly!”

“Y
-Yes Lord King,” one replied in a shaky voice.

All three
priests darted nervous glances at Ankhtifi who was shadowing their every move. His ominous presence rattled and frightened them, making it more difficult to think. They had been right to fear him. For after they finally found the ancient passage, Ankhtifi had killed the priests to silence them forever.

“Hide their bodies,” Khety told him, “but not too well. Let their deaths serve as a warning to anyone who may come searching for us.”

Once they were able to wrench the stone
covering the hidden passage free, Ankhtifi had a hard time fitting through the hole that was slightly smaller than the width of his broad shoulders. But he finally squeezed inside, following after the king of Lower Egypt and three other guards who had also disguised themselves as pilgrims. The chieftain of Nekhen had then carefully replaced the slab and stone veneer after him, with the help of a thin reed rope and the edge of an ax which he used to fit them back over the lip of the opening to the passage, so that no one would be the wiser. Anyone searching for them would not even know where to begin looking. Their only hope for clues now lay dead in a pool of blood.

The
fugitives had taken a torch with them to light the dismal path, which descended several feet beneath the ground. It was a dark tunnel, lined with large rough-hewn stone bricks that clung heavily with a silt-like dust, rising about them like a cloud of spirits from the Netherworld, reducing the visibility to almost nothing. The men moved slowly, having to stoop very low in the tight shaft as they stretched out their hands before them in an attempt to feel their way through the cramped space.