J’tan stirred. A cold cloth dribbled cool liquid across his forehead and down his cheek, and he could feel it pooling where the back of his head met the hard floor. He scanned the area for signs of activity, but found none. He was alone in the secret vault of his father’s temple.
Gingerly rising, he made his way up the stairs, trying to ascertain where everyone had gone. The scene of devastation that met him outside shook him to the core. The temple was a crumbled wreck. Half of one side of the building lay collapsed and the statues that once lined its walls lay smashed into hundreds of pieces.
Through the enormous gap in the structure, he could see the city. The buildings ablaze and many disintegrated to smouldering husks. A terrifying tower of black smoke billowed out from the heart of what remained and choked the light from the sky. He looked round the floor at his feet and terrifyingly began to pick out the faces of the bodies strewn there.
To his right were the lifeless forms of two of his sisters. Both sliced along the lengths of their backs, attacked as they attempted to flee. Turning, he saw his beloved father’s broken body draped over the cracked remains of the altar, the last of his life’s blood dripping from a hideous wound across his throat. Finally, he gazed out toward the exit and his eyes landed on the form of his companion. Her white tunic stained with a gruesome mix of blood and other vital fluids, which made it cling to her once perfect skin in horrid, twisted knots. To her side, the children of the mason lay face down in the dirt, slaughtered as they ran. It was clear Samali had died as she had lived, in loyal protection.
J’tan’s mind reeled from the gruesome sight, and he found himself floundering out of the temple and into the square, gagging.
However, there was no solace in the open; the bodies of the dead lay everywhere. Blood from the corpses made a thick red paste of the sand and it squelched under J’tan’s feet, clinging to the hairs on his legs, as he staggered, bewildered, through the streets of the once impressive city. Every road was the same, the people who once lived there exterminated.
J’tan reached the main market plaza, his mind still scrambled, as his senses alerted him to a danger his eyes did not yet see. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and a cold chill descended his spine. He spun, searching for the location of the enemy his subconscious was screaming at him to see.
From off to one side of his field of vision, he could make out the main gates to the city. There, just at its base, an intense white light flared out. Yet somewhere, shrouded by the cloak of the brilliant rays, a figure stood motionless, blanketed by the dazzling distraction.
J’tan made his way toward it cautiously. He dodged between tables, trying to get to the source unnoticed. When he got within touching distance, its luminescence was almost unimaginable. He reached out an arm, his fingers cautiously feeling for cloth. As soon as his hand touched the fine material, the light disappeared, only to be replaced by a guttural snarl.
The figure leapt at J’tan with frightening pace, clasping its hands round his throat, and squeezing with force. His knees buckled, as he crumpled to the floor, clawing at his neck. He looked up, frantic to see who was attacking him, as his mind recoiled in horror. It was his son, Malachi.
J’tan bolted upright from his dream; his head clattering into something hard, and forcing him back down.
“Be careful.” Samali said. “You have already done enough damage to yourself. Why did you wake up when we are in the smallest space we could be in?”
J’tan stopped wriggling and took stock of where he was. He was on a low ledge in the back of a tiny cave. To one side was Samali, and to the other were two horses. He looked toward the dim glow that drifted through the cave mouth and saw a raging sandstorm outside. “Samali?” he said, trying to rise, “What is…”
Samali curtailed his query, pushing him down and replacing the cloth against his brow. “You should be still. Your injuries were quite severe. You are lucky to be with us.”
J’tan’s mind was a mess. The only thing he could see when he tried to recall the last few days was the lifeless face of his son. He shooed the image away. What was in the past was done; he could no longer change it.
“Where are we?” J’tan asked, taking his mind away from the demons of thought experienced.
“We are out in the desert, heading toward the Reed Sea. When you did not wake after the events in the Temple, I had no choice but to continue our mission with you unconscious.”
“I had a dream.”
“You have had many over the past few days. You have been delirious.”
The air was full of the scent of slowly roasting meat and J’tan could smell the distinctive aroma of the herbal water infusion Samali was so partial to.
“Are you hungry?” Samali asked, holding up a bowl of lamb stew for him to take.
J’tan grunted a response, took the bowl from her grasp, and began to eat frantically, as the hot broth scorched his fingers.
Samali shook her head at the barbarity on display and picked up her zhù, the sculpted sticks she used to eat. She held her steaming bowl just below her chin and delicately tossed clumps of meat and vegetables into her mouth with consummate skill, savouring the rich, sweet food.
Their meal completed, J’tan checked his range of movements. The injuries he suffered would slow him down, and he would have to protect the worse for fear of reopening them, but at least he was fit enough to travel.
On their journey, Samali described the horrific scenes witnessed in the Great City. The tortured howls of the women who lined the streets filled the air, as they held the dead bodies of their children to the heavens and prayed to their Gods to reap vengeance upon those who committed the vile atrocities. Jethro had stayed so he could tend to the fallen and take, as promised, the children of the mason to the house of Rishorn. He would follow when he could.
J’tan knew his father would want to stay and assist where he could, but that did not mean it removed his anxiety over his safety. With Malachi gone, Jethro was all the family he had left.
At the age of six, J’tan left for his training. For seven long years, he toiled under the brutal training regimes of Yashu, always remembering that to be accepted would make his family proud. However, his parents died before his training completed, the plagues following the droughts taking away his mother, then his father, and eventually his baby sister. At the age of thirteen, not even under the entitlements of a man, he was alone. It was a numbing feeling to know there was no one left in your life that loved you, or even anyone who thought kindly of you. He did not want to feel that way again. As they rode onward, he prayed to Horus to protect his family from whatever evils they may still encounter.
As they reached the summit of the last of the low hills before the start of the marshes, it was nearly midday. The waters were kind today. Set, the God of the underworld, was dragging the moon and the waters with him as he departed the sky, and their early progress was good.
As they traversed the Reed Sea, they occasionally came across the remains of unfortunate animals, lost in the shifting silt. As the distance between them and the shore increased, the frequency of such sightings became worryingly frequent, until eventually, they were picking their way through a multitude of rotting corpses.
For the next hour, they rode around the carcases of the priests of Iunu. Hundreds of men and beasts, covered in carrion flies and scavengers of every ilk, lay decomposing in the stinking sludge beneath their horses. By the time the afternoon sun was working its way into the underworld, they were drawing up the banks, the dead numbering into the thousands.
They made their way across the low plateau at the edge of the marshes and began to follow the trail of animal droppings left by the packs that served the Pharaoh’s caravan. They tracked the trail of excrement through the valleys until by nightfall on the third evening they found themselves peering over a rocky ledge, perched above Akhenaten’s encampment. Even with the deaths witnessed, his force was tens of thousands strong.
“I am not sure ho
w these people are coping. I have not seen fresh water for two days. We have little left.” said Samali, carefully packing up their remaining rations.
“These lands are inhospitable at the best of times. There has been no water on these mounts for many seasons. The only waters that will still run will be at the twelve wells, two valleys from here. However, I do not think even the Pharaoh would be foolish enough to enter that place. Those are the lands of the tribe of Amalek.” said J’tan, his lined forehead belying his feelings. “Some say they are the sons of the Gods themselves, what the followers of Abram call the Nephilim. They are half man, half giant.”
“You really believe there are giants in these mountains?”
“I have seen them with my own eyes. When I was a young pupil, we were sent to the jewel mines that lay south of here. On our way back we could see them lining the hills, watching us.”
Samali was surprised. J’tan did not seem like the sort of man who believed in foolishness such as giants. Yet here he was, clearly afraid of what lay ahead, and convinced in the truth of his words. “Have you had chance to think about how we might get to the Ark?” she asked, changing the topic to something more helpful.
“I was hoping we would be presented an opportunity before Yashu caught back up with us. Now he is here, we stand little chance of taking them through force. We may have to steal ahead of the group and prepare an ambush on the holy mountain, at the El-Khadim temple.”
Their conversation was cut short by the sound of footfalls and shifting rubble from outside their cave. As the noises drew closer, it became possible to pick out voices.
“I know there is someone in the cave! I am old, not blind!” said a familiar voice, with irritation.
“Sorry, father.” said another.
J’tan smiled and walked out of the cave. “We are in here, father.”
“Oh!” said Jethro, pulling his stubborn horse along the unsure ground. “Thank the Gods it is you. I had maybe thought you perished in the marshes.”
“Do not concern yourself with that now. Hurry inside before you are noticed.”
Jethro was travelling with J’tan’s sister Aia, who smiled pleasantly as she continued to urge Jethro on.
As the pair made their way into the large cave, J’tan removed their bedrolls from their mounts, offering them seats by the small fire.
“Come, sit with us whilst we eat, my son.” said Jethro, gesturing for J’tan to join him.
J’tan complied and took a position to the right and slightly to the rear of his father, as was tradition.
“We have travelled far this day, my son. The fire and the shelter are most welcome.”
“You have travelled quickly, father. We have been pushing hard to cover the ground ourselves.”
“Our animals were well rested and the Gods blessed us by creating a sandstorm in front of our path. We chased it across the desert. No doubt it hampered your progress?”
“We sheltered from it for a whole day perhaps.” said J’tan, looking at Samali for confirmation.
“Then you have not been slow in your progress either.”
J’tan was pleased to see his father, but worried about the timing of his arrival. If Samali’s details of the state of the Great City were accurate, surely Jethro would have stayed longer, assisted more. He needed to know exactly why they were here so soon.
“I am still unsure of Akhenaten’s purpose in these mountains, father. The only thing I can think is that his ultimate goal is to reach the temple mount at El-Khadim.” said J’tan, leading the conversation to a topic that would him allow his questions to be seen as indirect.
“He wishes to travel to the mount of the First Time?” said Jethro, his already heavily lined face creasing even further. “Then I can tell you why he is here. The tribesmen of Amalek are the last of the keepers of the First Time. They are the direct descendants of the sons of the Gods. Their priests possess two tablets of onyx, covered with the writings of the Gods. These tablets cannot fall into the hands of the fool. With them, he can finally unlock the writings on the temple walls and open the path to the Tree of Life.”
“The Tree of Life is real?” asked J’tan, always assuming the stories were fables.
“The tree is what gave our ancestors the ability to live long and fruitful lives.” said Jethro, appraising his son. He looked quizzical, as if the fact was something J’tan should already know. He sighed, stretching his shoulders, as he thought of how best to continue. “The earliest Adamma were given their lifeblood by Enlil at Ekur after the great flood. The first Adamma was almost a fifth of a sun old when he was finally taken to rest with the Gods. Being able to manipulate the tree allows its owner to live forever through the correct use of the star fire stone, which the priests of Ra still mistakenly believe is the fruit of the tree itself.”
J’tan knew this story. It was from the lands of Jethro’s origins, the mighty city of Ur. Although there were minor differences to his accounts, Jethro had once explained how all the ancient stories of the flood held the same origin. Hearing the words again, gave confirmation to what Samali told him about the stories from her lands. He hung his head. He should have listened to his father’s words a long time before now, and to Samali. He was an ignorant fool, but most worryingly of all, he could not rule out whether that ignorance may have led to the death of his son.
“What can we do? It will be impossible to get near the Pharaohs.” J’tan said, desperate for a chance at salvation.
“For now we will eat and rest.” said Jethro, as Aia began to lay out sweet breads and meat on the rocks by the fire. “Tomorrow I will make my way to see them.”
“But you will be killed on sight, surely father.”
“Akhenaten loves Miriamne above all others. If I tell him we are here at her request, it will be easy to get an audience.” said Jethro, light-heartedly. “Do not fret J’tan. I will find out as much as I can, and hopefully advise badly enough on what Akhenaten should do next to present you an opportunity to strike before he can reach the temple. I hope this will be enough.”
J’tan bowed his head low. He knew that Jethro was taking a risk by going to see Akhenaten. He also realised, as his father did, that their chances of successfully retrieving the Ark and its artefacts were diminishing fast.
As the group settled down for the night and one by one began to fall asleep, J’tan made his way outside.
His thoughts would not let him be, as he looked out into the beautiful sky above. The Duat, the holiest place in the heavens, where the Gods themselves lived, beamed more brightly this evening than J’tan could ever remember. As he stared at its magnificence, he wondered if he would get the chance to make amends for his mistakes, and if Horus was looking down to guide his hands. But mostly, he hoped his God was holding up the end of the bargain he made with him as a young man, and was taking good care of his son.
Chapter 30