The first glint of morning hue broke through the entrance of the tent and quickly erased the languid chill inside.
Akhenaten roused, something other than sunlight disturbing his peace. He looked across at his brother, as shrill voices swarmed into focus. He could hear the raised cries as they approached the entrance, his mind racing to snap him from the shackles of sleep.
“My lords! My lords!” came a panicked call. “My lords, you must wake.”
The noise was given form as their head priest Michaenas barged into the tent, flinging screaming shots of golden light bristling inside, momentarily blinding his fragile eyes.
Michaenas was a tall and slender man. His features were slight and he wore his hair in long, brightly adorned knots that ran down his face. He was once Akhenaten’s second vizier, and his steadfast devotion to his duty was unmatched. His many years of study of the history of the lands made him a widely respected and intelligent ally.
“My lords! There is movement from behind us. A large mass of men and beasts.” said Michaenas, out of breath.
“Is it Yehoshua?” Akhenaten asked, as he righted himself with a stretched yawn.
“No, my lord. They are led by the priests of Iunu.”
What Akhenaten feared had come to pass. Yashu had not yet returned to give his retinue protection and their enemies were upon them. There was little they could do but flee.
“Go back into the masses and tell them to make ready our departure.” said Akhenaten, struggling to get dressed. “How far are they behind us?”
“Not long, my lord. My men ran into them whilst searching for the scouts. They say they will be on top of us before the dawn is out.” said Michaenas, bowing deeply in show of servitude. “I shall go and ready the men to leave.”
Akhenaten let out a growl, as he started stashing his possessions in a series of boxes. There was no time.
“How long until the waters have receded from the marsh, my brother?” said Smenkhkare, as he fumbled with his vestments.
“If we are just beyond first light then we have some time to wait yet. The army of the priests may be upon us before they have fallen enough. It will be close.”
Outside the tent, the priests worked tirelessly to ensure their followers were ready. The ramshackle tents that covered the dunes around the outskirts of the Reed Sea hastily dismantled and stowed upon every conceivable beast of burden. Farmers and shepherds rounded their flocks to traverse the expanse, as women hastily made food for the day’s travel.
Akhenaten stood atop the last dune before the marshlands. To his rear, he could see the slowly approaching dust plume of his enemies, silhouetted against the horizon. He could feel the warmth of the first sirocco billowing, as if sucked toward the mouth of the sun itself. He looked out at the lightly shimmering view of the marshlands and knew that many would die in their crossing. The waters must fall to half their current level before he could be sure they would be safe, but they were out of options. To remain would mean certain doom. All he could hope was that he could pick his way across the small islands exposed by the water’s passing in a manner that saved as many as possible.
Akhenaten could feel the urgency of the ranks behind him. He could hear the crowd beginning to fret and moan, their allegiance waning in the light of their assumed death. He lifted his arms into the air, his palms open and fingers splayed, as if to hold back the tide. He turned and looked at his brother, who sensing the same air of unease in their followers made his way to the carriage of the Ark.
Akhenaten watched and waited, as Smenkhkare stepped inside and began his task. Moments later, a huge tower of flame and smoke burst forth from its roof and shot into the sky.
This was the signal Akhenaten needed to begin their journey; one that he, as the best tracker among them, would have to lead. “For Israel and for eternity!” he said, his voice carried far on the morning wind, as he lowered his hands back to his sides in a gesture of strength.
Akhenaten began his march to the rapturous applause of the priests. In unison, it spread throughout his followers, until the deafening cacophony of noise turned into a living roar that almost placed him on the marsh’s edge.
The saline waters were still above his ankles as Akhenaten began his trek. He moved as quickly as he could, drifting from bank to bank, always looking for where the roots of the reeds were tight and held the sands firmly. Behind him, the masses moved to follow the Ark. They walked no more than twelve men abreast, cautiously trailing the footfalls of those they shadowed.
By the time the sun’s power was warming the last puddles of water that lingered around his toes, Akhenaten was beginning to lose sight of the foothills at his back. Two Nubian males, each a clear arm’s length taller than he, shaded his head with palm leaves as he walked. Occasionally, a priest would join him and tell him of shepherd’s flocks that wandered too far off the course he was setting, gone forever in the silt that engulfed them. He told the priests they should see this as a test from their God, a sign that all who strayed from the path he laid before them would be doomed to the eternal damnation of a sandy tomb. The priests obeyed, but their pleading tones for a slower pace became ever more frantic as the morning progressed until eventually, a priest arrived in full-blown panic.
“My lord!” the man yelled, as he approached. “The armies of Iunu have been spotted making their way out into the marshes.”
Akhenaten knew this moment would arrive. He chose the narrowest point of the Reed Sea to cross, but even he would not be on the far side until well into the afternoon. That meant the remainder of his followers would be destroyed long before they reached safety. He turned to face the man, to command him to tell the people to move as fast as they could, but his eyes did not fall upon his priest. There, slowly coming into focus through the haze of the midday sun was a sight far more fearsome than any army. Drifting toward his people, a massive, raging wall of sand reared out of the horizon.
“Tell the people to run. Tell them to follow as quickly as they can. We have to get out of the marshlands!” Akhenaten said, spinning the man and pointing.
“Israel save us!” said the priest, his mouth agape.
“He will, my child. But you must hurry and get word to our people.”
Akhenaten turned his attention back to the marsh and began to move. His walk quickening in pace, as he strode his way across the dunes toward the far side. As he ran, he began to notice the water getting deeper and cooler. The tide was rising again. For what seemed like an eternity, he jogged between the thick reeds and across the small dunes, which made up the marshes.
Eventually, Akhenaten could see the land in front of him beginning to rise. Soon, he was running with his head up between the tall grasses that lined the edge of the marshland. He could see his followers, straggled out over the marshes. They scrambled along the route, twisting like a giant serpent. Behind them, he could see the army of the priests. It was condensed and moving fast, the sandstorm at their backs. He could see the panic in its ranks, as men pushed their mounts on, headless of the dangers surrounding them.
To stay in this sandstorm would mean certain doom. Akhenaten knew the fine dust blown up by the storm would mix with the moisture in the air and form a thick paste in the throat that would make breathing difficult. It would not be long before anyone trapped on the marshes would be blinded by the sandstorm and wander from the path, their hellish doom sealed. He watched helplessly, as the fast approaching sandstorm engulfed his pursuers’ army and waited to see how many of his people would be next.
The great wall of sand surged onward, driven by the desert wind. It was moving quickly enough to pass horses in full flight, but it only appeared to creep through the sky, casually billowing here and wandering there. As it approached the back ranks of his followers, it spread total disorder. Shepherds, heedless to the dangers around them, ran at full speed across the quickly disappearing dunes, their flocks becoming dispersed. Pack animals, young children and the old, the terror that engulfed them made no distinction.
“It does not bode well, my brother.” said Smenkhkare, arriving at his side breathing hard.
“No, it does not. The storm will soon be upon us. Have the priests organise the erection of the tents in protective circles facing the hillside.”
“And what should I tell them about the people still in the marshes?”
“Tell them that Israel’s judgement is coming down. Tell them that all who oppose him will fall before his power, because he is a jealous God; a God of might and war.”
Smenkhkare acted quickly to organise the people, as arcs of tents were placed against the sheer face of the cliffs. Each tent tied to its neighbour and moored against any outcroppings found.
Akhenaten made his way to his tent. Surrounded by the shelters of their priests, and perched on a ledge above the heaving throngs of his followers, it allowed him a vantage point from which to watch what was happening.
The storm was now a giant wave of brown that obliterated the horizon, and Akhenaten could feel the first whipping stings of sand from its leading edge.
“You should get to safety, my lord.” said Michaenas, looking on worriedly from his tent’s entrance.
“I will be fine. I am the right hand of my God. I do not fear his wrath; I embrace it. You however, are not.”
Michaenas bowed, disappearing inside the heavy cloth structure, as Smenkhkare walked over, a frown across his face.
“Do you have to play with the priest’s image of their new God?” said Smenkhkare, his voice whiny. “If you continue to force the belief upon them that you are something other than they will accept, it may become difficult to keep them in line. The Akkadian priests are already saying Israel is not truly the same God their prophet Abram worshipped.”
Smenkhkare’s comments were quickly becoming an irksome addition to their endeavours Akhenaten could well do without. If his brother did not find a way of holding his tongue soon, he would have Michaenas remove it from his mouth.
“The priests need to have their faith imposed or their belief will not be strong enough for what lies ahead.” said Akhenaten, almost spitting the words from his pursed lips. “You should not question how I enforce devotion from my people!”
“I know what we need to do, but we are playing a game whose outcome we are unsure of, my brother.” said Smenkhkare, his voice so tinged with pathetic uncertainty it revolted Akhenaten to listen to it. “We are attempting to hold together a group of people who were at war with each other no more than three generations ago. We should not give them reason to question what they are doing, or their fragile allegiance may give way to their historic enmity.”
Akhenaten glared at Smenkhkare. This was the third time his wishes had been questioned. There would be no more chances. This time was the last, no matter how useful his brother’s knowledge was.
“This conversation has reached its conclusion, brother.” said Akhenaten, moving close to Smenkhkare and letting him feel the heat of his breath as he spoke. “As has my patience. Do not try me again.”
The sandstorm swirled around the tents throughout what was left of the afternoon. When the sun’s heat fell enough to take the strength from the air and collapse the storm, it was well into the evening.
Akhenaten stepped outside as soon as the first streams of reddish light were visible again through the entrance, walking toward the edge of bluff and surveying the scene below.
People were out, busily ensuring livestock and family members were safe. It looked as though little was lost from their camp to the storm. The same could not be said for the marshland.
The slowly fading sun gave the scant waters an ethereal tinge akin to blood. Pockets of dead animals and people, caught by the sand traps that lined it, exposed by the falling waterline. Other unfortunates, those who probably succumbed through gagging, floated lifelessly on the water’s surface. The sea was littered with such corpses, as far as the eye could see.
Akhenaten could see people looking up at him, as he raised his staff high into the air. “Behold!” he said, ensuring that all who heard his voice knew to listen. “Look at what Israel has brought upon the unrighteous! He has delivered us safely across the Reed Sea and devoured his enemies who dared chase his people! His might and his justice know no bounds! His wisdom and compassion toward those who follow his words is unmatched! Israel be praised!”
A roar went up at his words and Akhenaten bathed in the glory of his people’s adulation. As he stood, basking in the subservience he elicited, the words of the Zep Tepi rang round his head.
This is how the first man and woman, who the Akkadian priests called Adamma, must have felt as they stood atop the hillside with the serpent. The thought filled him with pride, as a crooked smile of contempt crawled across his face.
With the priest’s army vanquished, very little now stood between him and Godhood.
Chapter 28