It was nearly an entire season since the events at the mount. The thoughts of the carnage witnessed would still not let him be and Smenkhkare found his sleep uneasy and filled with the demons of the night.
The images of the deaths of the Midianite warriors randomly sparked in his mind, even during the day. Their anguished faces and breathless screams for help as they turned to ash, left a mark he was sure not even time would erase.
Akhenaten promoted the Levites, those who were loyal to Michaenas, into the position of the chief priests of Israel as soon as they left Sinai. He also appointed Michaenas into the position of chief scribe, to replace the fallen Hur.
Smenkhkare had to give his brother credit. He knew this was done to strip power from the Akkadian priests, and it had worked. Their congregation now treated those few who remained with contempt and distrust.
Smenkhkare could not describe the feelings he now experienced. Since he was young and first grasped the concept of his own mortality, he was scared. The thought that terrified his dreams and his every waking moment as a young man being summed up by just three words; no more me. It was such a driving motivation in his life that when he discovered his grandfather was working on locating the Ark, he jumped at the chance to assist in any way he could.
The pursuit of that goal had warped his soul. He had murdered innocents, destroyed families, and abused his power on so many occasions he was sure there was no way he would ever be granted access into the Duat; his eternal afterlife.
Akhenaten repeatedly told him not to worry. He said that once they unlocked the secrets of the Ark and located the Tree of Life, they would no longer have need for an afterlife, for they would be immortal.
After the recent events, this viewpoint had crumbled. Smenkhkare did not fear death anymore, for it was just another stage in the eternal cycle of the serpent. His soul laughed with the revelation and set his sprit free, disintegrating the walls that surrounded his thoughts for so long. The final act of elimination of the hideous person he allowed himself to become occurred when he presented the Midianite leader to his brother.
Golan laughed at Akhenaten, mocking his glowing face and taunting his knowledge of the First Time. In response, Akhenaten ordered he be tortured into giving up his secrets. The poor man howled as the guards pulled his fingernails out by their roots and cut the eyelids from his face. Then water, filtered through sand to pick up its delicate salts, was poured into the wounds. It was a horrible torture, usually reserved for only the deepest of enemies, but one his brother employed with glee.
Golan held on as long as he could, thrashing in agony as waves of pain engulfed him. In the end, when Akhenaten told the guards to remove the man’s extremities and force him to eat them, Golan broke.
In the ensuing, garbled revelation, they learnt of the true nature of the Ark. It was from this information that Akhenaten drew up his plan for the warriors of the Midianites.
Try as he might, Smenkhkare was unable to dissuade Akhenaten from the path he was set upon. He watched on, his horror at the unfeeling way in which his brother was going about committing mass human sacrifice too much to bear.
If it was not for the arrow that hit him at its final stages, Akhenaten would now be on his way to godhood. As it was, the arrow stopped the process from completing and drained Akhenaten of the last of the power gained from the Havilah gold.
Smenkhkare now knew what needed to be done to gain immortality, and the stench of evil surrounding it sickened him to the core. He begged his brother to listen to reason about what he was planning to do, but he would not.
Akhenaten ordered what was left of their followers to set off on a suicidal trek into Retenu, the site of what was once Havilah, which the Akkadian priests knew as Canaan. With every scrap of the good gold accumulated already used, he required much more to recreate the conditions needed to attempt the transference again, and the last place where the gold might be found in large enough quantities was where it was mined, in Havilah itself.
With no other options, Smenkhkare sent for his wife. If anyone could stop Akhenaten now it would be his brother’s daughter. Hopefully, Miriamne would be able to talk Akhenaten out of his chosen path and save Smenkhkare’s people from his brother’s lunacy.
It was with a warm heart that his scout returned, days earlier than expected, and brought him news Miriamne and Jethro were already traversing the desert to be with them. Every single day until this one, the day of their expected arrival, his heart lifted a little more.
Smenkhkare walked into the crisp morning air and stretched his weary limbs, looking around for signs of his brother. When he found none, he made his way across to the tents of the Akkadian priests, a lower caste attendant known as Galil greeting him at the entrance.
Galil was a short, runty man, whose facial hair came out in withered sprouts from his face like the remains of a badly worn rug. The other Akkadian priests teased him about his inability to grow hair properly, as prided as they were on their own lustrous beards.
Galil offered Smenkhkare into the large communal tent where the priests were served their meals.
Smenkhkare liked Akkadian food. It was rich and fragrant, heavily spiced with exotic herbs, and sweet to the taste. When he entered, he bowed respectfully to those already seated; holding out a hand to show the men no return gesture was required.
Smenkhkare found he enjoyed being just another man. For too long in his life, people bowed every time he moved. People bowed when he stood up, bowed when he spoke, and bowed when he ignored them in the street. It was a comforting feeling to be accepted, rather than feared.
Smenkhkare chatted to the priests as he ate, helping himself to multiple portions of the flat, grainy bread the Akkadian women made so well. He asked how his sons were doing and if they still focused on their studies. The priests responded kindly and honestly that his sons were good at learning, but bad at taking orders. He laughed, accepting this was a trait of their positions of old. He rose and thanked them for the food, promising to speak with his sons about their attitudes.
Smenkhkare walked outside, the air still full of pungent odours, and contentedly made his way down to the tent of the Ark.
From the outside, the Tabernacle was laden with brightly coloured cloths and beautifully carved adornments of gold and silver. Made into three structures that interlinked to create a single whole, its scale was truly immense. It covered the same area as thirty standard tents and stood the height of five men. Bazaleel, the Akkadian artisan, had done an incredible job on its construction.
Smenkhkare entered the Tabernacle, already wondering if his sons were inside. He passed delicately twined ropes, which held the entrance cloth to the subtle framework, and walked down the covered passageway to the heart of the structure. Even the floor of the Tabernacle was covered with linen, the wonderfully woven cloth passing on a sense of majesty to the structure. He moved through a fine gossamer veil, which separated the walkway from the main chamber and continued on, beyond the thick coverings of the internal space.
Before Smenkhkare, stood on the raised dais at its core, was Akhenaten. To his brother’s right stood Michaenas, his face a mixture of shock and anguish. On the ground in front of them were the smoking remains of two men. Akhenaten held the staff of the thirteenth toward the corpses, his snarling face telling the story of what happened.
It took a moment for the scene to make sense, Smenkhkare’s heart stopping the instant he realised who lay dead.
“My sons!” Smenkhkare said, instinctively clutching his face and yelling with everything his soul could muster. “What have you done?”
“They came in whilst we worked. I did not realise it was them until it was too late.” said Akhenaten, his glowering features telling the true story of their demise.
“They were loyal! They were no threat!” said Smenkhkare, in disbelief.
“I did not know. They came into a place they were not supposed to. They knew the rules. They paid the price for their disobedience of c
ustom.”
“They what!” Smenkhkare said, running across to his brother and gripping him by the front of his tunic, his eyes burning with fury. “What custom? They were my sons!”
“You should let me be, my brother.” said Akhenaten, meeting Smenkhkare’s glare and pressing the end of the staff into the soft flesh of his cheek. “I would not want you to be accidentally injured as well.”
Smenkhkare’s mind was a blur. He could not comprehend what was happening. He let go of Akhenaten and spun to face his children. Their smouldering forms still held some semblance of humanity and whilst he could remember their faces, he intended to honour them. He knelt down and began to weep, the tears flowing freely, as he prayed to whoever was listening to protect his fallen children on their journey.
“My brother needs time to come to terms with his loss.” said Akhenaten, coldly, as he ushered Michaenas out of the room. “Make sure his sons are well spoken of in the tales of our laws.”
Smenkhkare was left alone with his broken heart. Even though the remains were hideous, he could not see it. He curled his arms under the steaming torsos of his fallen boys and pulled them tight. He rocked them gently, remembering his time spent cradling them as babies, a lifetime of pride and unrequited hope dissolving into his tears.
Smenkhkare was unsure how long passed, before a soft, caring hand began to stroke the back of his head. The tenderness of the contact startled him and he turned, suddenly self-conscious.
“I do not know what to say.” said Miriamne, looking down at her husband with pity.
Smenkhkare could not have asked for a more welcome companion at that moment. Miriamne was not the mother of any of his children, but God willing that day would come. He was blessed with many beautiful courtesans and wives, but not one possessed the same power and presence as Miriamne. Never in his life was he as proud as the day they were joined; the day Miriamne accepted to become Meritaten, his royal wife.
“How did this happen?” Miriamne asked, resting her head on his shoulder in a sign of respectful solidarity.
“He killed them.”
“Who killed them, my husband?”
“Your father. He killed my sons, just as he is preparing to kill everyone else.”
“Why would he do this?”
“He has created the copy of the Ark, so the priests can idolise it, and feel part of his new religion. He plans to put the laws he is having the priests write inside, so they have something to focus their worship upon. He did not want the priests to ever see the writings that are upon the original. My sons were no threat to that secret. They were no threat to anyone.”
Miriamne clutched him to her breast, as he began to bawl again, tears streaming down his face and further dampening the lip of his tunic. She held him tightly and allowed him to weep, as long and hard as his soul desired.
“It is good to have you here. I have much to tell you.” said Smenkhkare, once his cries were ended, curling into a foetal position in Miriamne’s lap.
“Indeed you do.” Miriamne said, as she cradled his head and gently stroked his hair. “Especially about my father. Michaenas tells me he is to take himself another wife, a woman from the southern tribes.”
Smenkhkare turned, startled. He had heard nothing of this decision. “He is to join with a Yamite?”
“You were unaware of his decision?”
“My brother and I are not on speaking terms. I opposed his decision to begin the transference processes we discovered at the mount.”
“What process?”
“Akhenaten has unveiled the secrets of the Ark. He knows of the true nature of the Tree of Life. He has looted every village and town we have travelled through, stripping the inhabitants of the Havilah gold they possess. He is burning it in large quantities, forcing our people to eat it and calling it manna. He is planning to attempt the transference again, when enough of the gold has been consumed.”
“That is not a good sign.”
“Neither is his union with a Yamite. Do you know who she is?”
“Jethro is trying to ascertain that now. It will not bode well for my mother’s health to know he is to bond with yet another female.”
“Nefertiti is well then? I have not seen her since she fled.”
“She is at peace with our people. She lives well in Ur, by the site of the ziggurat.”
“I have never visited the Great City of your people. Maybe someday we will go and I will see the wonders the priests of Akkad have described to me.”
At his words, Miriamne caressed his face and kissed him tenderly on the lips.
When Smenkhkare left to be with Akhenaten, he determined that he would never see Miriamne again. He was once a proud and decent man, much better than his brother. Over the years, he had changed into a similar monster, and any love she once felt for him was surely long since faded. He must correct that oversight. He had been a fool to follow Akhenaten, and an idiot to allow his feelings for Miriamne to be discarded to his past. He looked deep into her eyes, hoping she could tell the Smenkhkare of old, the man she once grew to love, was back with her again. “I am sorry if I ever hurt you.” he said, hanging his head in shame.
“I…” she said, completely unprepared for an apology to ever cross his lips. “You…”
“The man I was is but a distant memory, my love. I will not allow myself to become that which my brother has. I do not long to be a God anymore; I long to be a decent man. I hope you will grant me the chance to prove that.”
Miriamne burst into tears and pulled him close. She kissed the sides of his face and hugged him, suddenly feeling safe, rather than unsure, in her husband’s presence. She let years of fear and anxiety out in a single moment, the straining bonds between them restored in a single act. “There is much for us to do.” she said, finally, cupping his face in her hands. “My grandfather and I are not here to catch up on old times.”
They talked in the silence of the Tabernacle for what seemed like an eternity. She told him of their mission to stop Akhenaten using the Tree of Life.
Smenkhkare told her about the events since they left the city, including the details of what Akhenaten was planning to do.
By the end of their conversation, a joint feeling of purpose descended, a plan devised to wrestle the Ark back from Akhenaten’s grasp.
They left the Tabernacle to arrange for the proper burial of Smenkhkare’s sons, so enraptured in each other that they missed the skulking form of Michaenas moving out from the shadows of the massive tent to follow.
Chapter 39