A Time of Defeat | Ahhotep

Sedjefatawy, 1575 BC

Ahhotep could not withdraw her eyes from her brother-husband’s gaping mouth—open in a final silent scream. Her knees weakened as the enemy’s servants lowered his mangled body before her; the double ax wound in his forehead and above his right eye blurred in her sight. The wails of her children, called to witness their father’s defeat, faded in her ears. But the small whimper from her mother’s closed, pinched lips pierced the quiet veil Ahhotep had fallen under. Her eyes slid to Tetisheri standing beside her. The whimper had come from her, had it not? Yet through her peer at the woman’s stone countenance, she second-guessed her perceptions. Her mother would not show any weakness to the Aamu, the Asiatic enemy who had brought her son home.

Ahhotep returned her sights to her brother-husband, and the burning flame at the back of her throat incinerated the yell of agony she held there. She swallowed its ashes and blinked back hot tears. She had to stand strong, if not for the enemy, for her children, for Kemet: Egypt.

A red hue overcame her darkened cheeks. They had called her children to view their father’s corpse as it was when he was slain. No dressing had occurred. No cedar dust to preserve his flesh had been sprinkled. Not even a wipe of the blood splattered around his wounds had been afforded. Such dishonor. Such disdain. Such disgust.

She would give the enemy the chance to speak for their actions against her family, but in the end, she doubted she would let them leave Sedjefatawy, their palace, even if they were only messengers.

The four Aamu servants who had carried her brother-husband’s body into the throne room and laid it before the dais on which she stood backed away, allowing two royal Aamu messengers to step forward. One stood at the dead man’s head and the other at his feet. Their knee-length pleated shendyts were tied with blue lapis-embedded leather belts. Their collars rivaled the celestial blues and golds of Ahhotep’s and her mother’s. The stolen wealth spoke for itself.

The Aamu clapped twice—hard—to demand the attention of those in the pillared throne room. Yet only the young naked children silenced out of fear.

Ahhotep’s breath came shakily out of her nostrils, afraid of what would happen if she were to speak. Her mother, as shrewd as she was, always knew when to step in for her.

Tetisheri raised her hands, and the room became quiet at the Great Wife’s unspoken command. She raised her chin and eyed the Aamu. Her voice—bold, as usual—pounded in the new silence.

“You bring home the body of my son and solicit us with a clap like we are dogs?” Her eyes narrowed. “There will be no such—”

“You and the nomes of Upper Kemet are the defeated,” he simply said, regarding the provinces in rebellion. “And our King sends this message.”

He pulled a clay tablet from his sling and read aloud.

“With the slain Prince of Waset, Seqenenre Tao, it is King Aegyptus’ expectation, Waset and the other nomes’ princes of Upper Kemet lay down their weapons and again submit into peaceful accord . . .”

He read on, but Ahhotep did not hear him. She snapped her gaze from her husband’s gruesome, ashen face to the messenger speaking and interrupted. “You dare ask for our cooperation after slaying the true King of Kemet?” The break in her voice garnered the averted eyes of the royal guards and the Waset soldiers in the throne room. Her lip curled in disgust at herself for showing weakness but also at the enemy, who smirked back. The break had been unexpected, but her eyes, welling with searing tears, choked her words. Her mother leered in disappointment at her.

The messenger scoffed and held the tablet out so one of the Aamu servants could take it. “Your prince is slain, and your rebellion perishes with him.” After the tablet left his hand, he firmly gripped the handle of the superior weapon on his belt: the khopesh. The long, thick bronze body with a sickle at the end sharpened to take a man’s head from his shoulders.

“King Aegyptus has sent home the bodies of your prince, his general, and admiral as an offering of peace, Chief Wife of the slain Seqenenre Tao. As you well know, traitors to the throne are burned, so they never have immortal life in the Field of Reeds. But he has spared this sentence for your family. Do not make King Aegyptus shed more blood in this matter. Do not sentence your kin and soldiers to eternal restlessness.”

Ahhotep’s fingers curled into her palms, and her tongue grew thick in her mouth. Every muscle strewn tight, she kept her tears from falling, but the room blurred despite her efforts. She knew the Aamu King of the Hekka Khasut, the foreign rulers, would not be so generous if they were to fail again.

The Aamu locked eyes with her as he spoke again. “Think of your son, the heir to the Waset prince’s crown. Would you have his blood spilled too? Are you willing to sacrifice your son’s immortality in the Field of Reeds in a useless attempt to drive us out of Kemet? Nay, baseless attempt.”

The question lingered in the stale inner room air, and her children’s eyes turned to her, all except her eldest son’s.

Kamose.

Her gaze shifted to him. The blood had drained from his knuckles as he wrenched a dagger in his hand. A scowl lived on his lips. Hate boiled in his eyes.