J’tan fought his way up the mountain of Serabit El-Khadim. He could not use the path that wound up to the plateau he needed to reach for fear of being spotted, and his legs were weary from fighting the loose surface of his chosen route.
J’tan was surprised to find the temple of Hawt-Hor, which sat on the edge of the plateau, in much better repair than he would have imagined for such a remote place. Two massive stone columns stood at its entrance, linked to an encasing wall. Behind them, a paved plaza led to the temple complex. The walkway leading to its heart, covered into darkness by colossal slabs of stone perched on twelve immense pillars. To either side of the entrance, granite statues of the Goddess stood proudly in the sun. One was Hawt-Hor in her human form, her majestic horns gripping a sun disk to her feathered head. In her left hand, she carried an ankh and on her brow, she wore an ureaus. The other was Hawt-Hor in her animal form, depicted as the great mother cow.
J’tan found a suitable spot to remain concealed, and waited. He could only hope Akhenaten would follow the advice given by Jethro.
Jethro returned to their cave the previous night, weary from his exertions. He told them how Akhenaten subdued the tribe of Amalek and recovered the onyx tablets they guarded. He explained that the tablets contained the information of the original tribe of the First Time, the details of the twelve. He spent the evening showing the group where the twelve now resided in the sky, and how it was possible to track their movements. In order to provide J’tan the opportunity needed, he tried to convince Akhenaten to go up the mount on his own. As he delivered his court, he repeatedly mentioned the true God only placed his blessings upon those who stood by themselves; those untainted by the failings of others. He later found out, from his allies within the priestly ranks, Akhenaten was only going to allow the elders to see the temple, and only from the outside. It would be he, Smenkhkare, and Smenkhkare’s four sons who would be performing the rituals inside the temple.
They spent the evening planning their strategy. Not wanting to pin their hopes on any one idea, they decided that a three-pronged approach would be best. Firstly, J’tan would go to the temple to wait for the Pharaohs, and attempt to retrieve the Ark. Secondly, whilst the Pharaohs were out of camp Samali would try to dissuade the priests from following Akhenaten. If she could succeed, they might start a revolt that would remove his power. Lastly, Jethro and his family would return to the Great City to find out if Miriamne could still be trusted. If she could, she would be brought to meet Akhenaten and attempt to dissuade him from the path he seemed bent upon.
J’tan hugged his father and bade farewell to his family the next morning. The tear visible in Jethro’s eye bore the knowledge that this may be the last time they saw one another in this life, and he fought down his urge to set his emotions free. His father needed to know his son would be strong.
That evening, J’tan and Samali found shelter on the mount. There, by the dying embers of their fire, they spent the night together. It was not as many of his other encounters of that nature, forced and aggressive, the women given to him as prizes. It was gentle and caring; a shared experience that occurred because of an impulse to connect, rather than procreate. It was a fleeting moment of happiness born of respect and admiration, as much as desire. It left him unable to sleep. He cradled her in his arms, consumed within the fullness of her beauty, as she lay naked, warm, and vulnerable at his side. He stroked her hair, as he gazed out toward the heavens, his only instincts to protect and comfort.
They shared a kiss in the morning. It lingered, both of them unsure if it would be their last contact. He held the soft skin of her face and felt the warmth of her cheek as he paused, savouring one last glimpse into her enthralling eyes, before he made off for the temple.
J’tan pushed the thoughts away. Whatever their future now held, it must take its place, second in line, behind what he needed to do.
The first group to arrive was led by Yashu and eleven other guards. With him were Smenkhkare and his four sons, who carried the Ark to the entrance of the temple and placed it just within, hidden in shadow.
Akhenaten and his entourage arrived shortly after, four score in number. The men with him milling furtively in front of the grand entrance as Akhenaten twisted, holding his arms high to silence their chatter.
“We have sacrificed to our lord Israel this morning in the manner handed down by Jethro.” Akhenaten said, ensuring that all the men were listening to his proclamation. “We have cleansed to make ourselves pure in his presence, and we now ask he comes down through the temple of the twelve to show us his might and his glory!”
As if called from the heavens, a monstrous groan issued from inside the temple, resonating off the sides of the structure. A light, more powerful than the midday sun, burst forth and lit the air, precipitating gasps of wonder. Most of the priests fell to their knees, rocking and praying to their God, afraid that looking upon the dazzling spectacle meant death. Others stood in awestruck silence, humbled by the unearthly manifestation before them.
“These are the words you have commanded me, oh lord.” said Akhenaten, bellowing above the groan. “Israel tells me to go into the temple. There he will give me tablets of stone; commandments which he himself has written, so I might teach my followers!”
As quickly as it began, it ended. The light faded and the cacophonous sounds receded.
J’tan could see the disgust pouring from Akhenaten as he strode forward, satisfied his show of power produced the required effect.
“My brother will assist me in preparing for my commune with Israel.” Akhenaten said, curtly. “You may all now leave my presence.”
The men stood and bowed to Akhenaten, before setting off back down the hill. They chatted loudly and were obviously in high spirits after their experience.
“That was an impressive show, my brother. Your skill with the Ark is growing.” said Akhenaten, as Smenkhkare stepped out of the shadows. “Are you and your sons ready for our next task? And Bazaleel is capable of producing an exact representation of the Ark?”
“We are ready, brother.” said Smenkhkare, bowing. “You should not worry about the artisan. Bazaleel’s people say he is the finest worker of gold that has ever lived. They believe he has been given his gift by the Gods themselves, for a great purpose.”
“Then we shall put this gift to the test.” said Akhenaten, with a wicked smile. “Ensure Hur commits his works for eternity in writing. We can then use our copy’s power and upkeep for barter with those loathsome maggots.”
“As you wish, my brother.”
Smenkhkare motioned for the guards to move into the temple, as he and Akhenaten followed behind.
As they disappeared into the darkness, J’tan broke cover. He crept toward the temple and peered down the pillared walkway. It towered above him, and as his sight adjusted, he could see it was decorated in brilliant colours and fine carvings. Each pillar was painted yellow, its writing picked out in bright, vivid red. The massive lintels, stretching over the gap between the pillars to form the roof, were dark blue, with delicate representations of stars etched into them in white. It was an incredible feat of artistry, which held him in silent appreciation.
Snapping his attentions back to his mission, J’tan made his way from pillar to pillar, as he dodged his way toward the far end of the causeway. On the far side, a polished courtyard of stone was surrounded by numerate temples, each in various states of repair. Darting to keep up, he moved through a simple offering chamber to one side of the complex. It linked to an arced walkway, which wound its way toward a sheer rock face. As he turned the corner and faced the mountain, he could see another arch cut into the hillside, and along the edges of the walkway a series of granite stele stood in niches. Although the surfaces of the stele could not be seen from his current position, it was clear they were the focus of the group’s attention.
With the guards still present, there was little for J’tan to do. He found a suitable location to keep an eye on his locale, shaded from view by the ove
rhang of a temple to his rear and hunkered down. Content that his choice offered the possibility for him to maintain a view of the entire area he sipped at his water and waited for his moment to arrive.
As the afternoon passed, J’tan found himself fascinated by what Smenkhkare and his four sons were doing. In Smenkhkare’s grasp, a pair of strange, purple stones shimmered with an unholy, blue glow. Their surfaces were uncommonly smooth, and the midday sun seemed to float above them, casting a haze across anyone stood near.
By night, the stones took on a life of their own. They pulsed from within and lit the side of the mountain in a shimmering mist of sapphire hues. Within the swirl, J’tan could make out shapes. Dots joined by lines, which wavered in and out of focus. He knew the shapes. They were the marks Jethro recently called the twelve. As he watched, Akhenaten came out and joined his brother. They stood in silence, both men transfixed by the display. Behind them, in the room in the mountain, he could see the Ark, its golden surface shimmering in the warming glow of a fire. Around it stood six men, whilst another six lay asleep. He cursed his misfortune. There was no way he could make an attempt for it tonight.
Frustrated, he moved as far from view as he could, determining that rest would have to be his advantage, and soon drifted off into a light sleep.
J’tan awoke to the sounds of movement. It was early morning. The first sprigs of sunlight were barely creeping over the low encompassing wall of the complex. His position was still in full shade and there was little chance someone even only a few strides away would be able to discover him. He looked to the direction of the sounds and could see a group of women laying out baskets of food and jars of water in the simple offering room to his side.
The smell of heavily spiced lamb drifted on the breeze and made his stomach growl. If he could get to the room without being seen, he could retrieve enough food and water to last as long as it took for Yashu and his guards to make a mistake.
Once the women left, J’tan darted from his position into the offering room. On the table were baskets of fruits, breads, and sweet meats, enough for forty men. Underneath the table were jars filled with water and wine.
J’tan ran over to the table and stopped in his tracks. There, heaped atop a fire, were the slowly burning corpses of two, un-skinned lambs. Their throats cut, the last of their life’s essence frothing from the wounds and spitting on the burning logs. He turned his view away from the macabre scene, but only found more. The lamb’s blood was everywhere. The surface of the table was drenched in it. It pooled in globules and drooled off its edges in strings. He turned and looked behind him, his eyes tracing the foul substance to the exit. He ran to the table, picked up a bowl of sweet meats, one of fruit, two of bread, slung a jar of water under his arm, and vacated the room as soon as he could.
J’tan breathed hard as he arrived back at his hiding place. He heard tell of the practice of the burnt offering, but seeing the custom up close turned his stomach. No matter how respected foreign priests were, he suddenly felt relieved to be part of a civilised culture.
It did not take long for the men to make their way to the offering room for food. Akhenaten and Smenkhkare came first, accompanied by six guards. Only when those men returned, did Smenkhkare’s retinue go to the room, accompanied by the other six.
Yashu was organising his people well. All J’tan could do was hope tiredness and lack of ability came over his attending guards, as neither seemed likely to plague his ex-master.
It was midmorning before there was further activity. Eight men came carrying a heavy object, covered by an impressively fine, multi-coloured cloth. They strained under its massive weight, as they took it to the chamber. Akhenaten smiled at its arrival and removed its vibrantly coloured covering to reveal a sarcophagus.
J’tan could tell that the sarcophagus did not belong to a Pharaoh. He strained to read the inscriptions on it, eventually making out a name. It belonged to a man named Simut, whom he knew was chief vizier and architect to Akhenaten’s father.
The Akkadian priests held a belief that Simut, whom they called Yosef, was a minister and prophet of their God. He was still a powerful man during the reign of Akhenaten, and was responsible for organising the grain stores that kept the population alive during the droughts.
However, J’tan knew Simut was a brutal man. He forced the peoples of the south to give up their lands and their freedom in trade for their own grain, Akhenaten’s new city built on the ruins of their homesteads.
Akhenaten flung the beautifully carved lid of the sarcophagus open with complete disregard for its contents and reached inside. To J’tan’s surprise, what he removed was not a body, but a handful of golden jewellery.
Over the course of the afternoon, the men returned repeatedly, each time carrying another object filled with golden trinkets. Smenkhkare worked inside the chamber all the while, taking slithers of each item, and holding it over a flame. If they burned, he placed the piece on a pile in the room. If they did not, he tossed them to one of his sons to take back outside. By late afternoon, there was a pile of gold in the room by the side of the Ark the height of a man.
Once their work was complete, Akhenaten accepted the writings Smenkhkare made whilst scrutinising the stele, and bade his brother well as he set off toward the camp. As soon as Smenkhkare was out of sight, Yashu and his guards were hurried out of the chamber and the brightly coloured cloth from Simut’s sarcophagus hung over the entrance.
Within moments, the entire area began shaking, the rocks around the chamber glowing brilliant yellow and lighting up the night sky. A tumultuous roar resonated out of the heavens with each new pulse and a thick fog began to seep from the gaps around the cloth.
J’tan reeled into his hidden corner, curling into a ball to gain a measure of respite. His brain swam with light and sound, and he began to feel nauseous. He wrapped an arm round his head, his eyelids incapable of resisting the brilliance on their own. However, the booming throb was impossible to avoid. It seemed to penetrate his bones, rattling his teeth and forcing his heart to flutter as it tried to work against its onslaught. He could hear rocks, dislodged by the brutal noise, cracking and tumbling to the ground all around. Fearful for his life, he pushed himself as far into his hidden corner as he could, facing the dense rock, and praying to Horus to save him.
By the first rays of the new morning’s light, he was beaten down by the exquisite torture endured; his mind finding no reprieve when the shaking finally ceased.
J’tan groggily raised himself once he was sure it was over, and scanned his environs. The area was in ruin. The walls that lined the path were shattered and bits of masonry littered the floor, the steles lying pulverised on the heavily cracked walkway. The once beautiful cloth that covered the entranceway scorched to rags, large holes visible along its length, its once majestic colours lost forever.
Akhenaten exited the chamber to the shocked awe of his guards. He was wearing a strange breastplate, delicately crafted into a heavy, woven tunic. A bizarre metallic belt wrapped around his waist, the entire ensemble blackened and dented. However, what scared J’tan the most was Akhenaten’s pallor. His skin glowed with the brilliance of the sun; shining out from behind the garments and making the guards cower.
“My lord, Akhenaten!” a man shouted, as he approached. “You have to come quickly!”
Akhenaten turned to the voice, his face shooting a beam of golden light toward the man, who instantly fell to his knees.
“My lord!”
“Yes, my child.” said Akhenaten, his voice booming.
“There is trouble in the camp, my lord. Some of the people have turned against Israel. A fight has broken out amongst your people.”
“What!” said Akhenaten, his voice so powerful that stones, loosened by the events of the previous evening, tumbled from their precarious positions, clattering to the floor. “And what have my brother and the priests done about this?”
“They can do nothing, my lord.” the man said, his
voice now trembling with fear. “The fight consumes the entire camp. We are at war with ourselves!”
“Yehoshua, fill the casket with the remains of the stele.” said Akhenaten, as he began to stride off. “I and Michaenas will return to the camp and correct my brother’s failure. Bring the remains and the Ark to me there. Do not fail me as well.”
J’tan waited for Yashu and his men to begin the tasks assigned, before he snuck out from his hiding place and began his trek down the mount.
Yashu’s diligence may have put paid to his chances of success in retrieving the Ark, but it appeared Samali’s mission was a success. He could only hope he was not too late to assist.
Chapter 34