his skin.
The sound of a man approaching came to him, but Thutmose did not look around. He could not tear his eyes from the mountains. Like a dead beast’s spine – like a fallen, ancient thing, immovable, unchangeable.
“No matter how long you stare at it, Mighty Horus, you’ll never make it crumble, nor bore a hole in it large enough to drive the chariots through.” Tjaneni stood half a step behind Thutmose, hands on hips. “The only way beyond is two days to the south. The hills aren’t so high there.”
Thutmose made no reply. His heart scarcely registered Tjaneni’s words. He had spent countless hours back in Waset – weeks, months studying maps of the region. He had known the mountains existed, had known he must lead his army around them. Yet somehow he had not expected them to be so… insulting . These Set-cursed rocks were more arrogant than any king could ever hope to be. Pharaoh he might be – sepats may rise and fall at his whim, men may live or die, temples and gods prosper or perish – but Thutmose could do nothing to these mountains but stare.
The very fact of the mountains stirred the rage that had carried him this far, many days’ march beyond the traditional border of Egypt – though this was Egypt, too, and had been since his grandfather conquered it. It is my land , his heart thundered, and these are my mountains. It seemed he should be able to strike them down with his fist, tear through them like a knife through wet linen.
The anger that had roiled inside him since Hatshepsut’s death certainly felt potent enough to flatten a mountain range. It had blown his ships north like a gale. It had filled his horses with the speed and endurance of the gods. Now it broke in a desperate, furious foam against the bones of the steep hills, crashing like the salt waves beyond the Delta. His ka moved unceasingly like those very waves, pitching, tipping, roaring.
Tjaneni held out a skin. Thutmose took it absently and drank; the beer was flat and warm, but it tasted distinctly of home: Waset’s fields dreaming peacefully of the harvest to come, the river moving slowly, grandly beneath the hot sky. All at once Thutmose missed Meryet and his son with a wrenching force. He nearly doubled over with the pain of his longing, and might have, had Tjaneni and the mountains not been there to see.
The scribe evidently saw the yearning flicker in Thutmose’s f ace, for he said quietly, “They will be all right, Great Lord – your wife and child.”
Thutmose nodded, and smacked the drinking skin into Tjaneni’s chest with what he hoped was a confident smile. The man gathered up the skin with a look of concern writ plainly on his face. Are my fears so easy for my men to see? Thutmose asked himself.
He had done all any man or king could do to ensure Meryet’s safety. He had assigned Nehesi to her service, admonished the man to be her shadow, day and night, now that his service to Hatshepsut was at an end. Nehesi was old, but still stronger than most men in the guard, and after so many years at Hatshepsut’s side, he was wise in the ways of palace and court alike. And Nehesi had troops – enough trusted men that Meryet would only ever be out of their sight behind her closed chamber doors. Even then, they would patrol her rooftop, her garden wall, and would do the same for Amunhotep and his staff.
I must trust that it will be enough.
Satiah couldn’t leave her own dwelling, much less work her way past Meryet’s palisade of guards. Unless she truly had some magic, some divine intervention that spirited her beyond thick sandstone walls under the very eyes of alert palace watchmen. She had done it once. Might she do it again?
His fists clenched involuntarily at the thought. They rose of their own accord, and he was aware that he must look foolish, childish, on the verge of attacking the insolent mountains with knuckles and feet. But he could not make himself relax. It felt good to make a fist – good and
The sound of a man approaching came to him, but Thutmose did not look around. He could not tear his eyes from the mountains. Like a dead beast’s spine – like a fallen, ancient thing, immovable, unchangeable.
“No matter how long you stare at it, Mighty Horus, you’ll never make it crumble, nor bore a hole in it large enough to drive the chariots through.” Tjaneni stood half a step behind Thutmose, hands on hips. “The only way beyond is two days to the south. The hills aren’t so high there.”
Thutmose made no reply. His heart scarcely registered Tjaneni’s words. He had spent countless hours back in Waset – weeks, months studying maps of the region. He had known the mountains existed, had known he must lead his army around them. Yet somehow he had not expected them to be so… insulting . These Set-cursed rocks were more arrogant than any king could ever hope to be. Pharaoh he might be – sepats may rise and fall at his whim, men may live or die, temples and gods prosper or perish – but Thutmose could do nothing to these mountains but stare.
The very fact of the mountains stirred the rage that had carried him this far, many days’ march beyond the traditional border of Egypt – though this was Egypt, too, and had been since his grandfather conquered it. It is my land , his heart thundered, and these are my mountains. It seemed he should be able to strike them down with his fist, tear through them like a knife through wet linen.
The anger that had roiled inside him since Hatshepsut’s death certainly felt potent enough to flatten a mountain range. It had blown his ships north like a gale. It had filled his horses with the speed and endurance of the gods. Now it broke in a desperate, furious foam against the bones of the steep hills, crashing like the salt waves beyond the Delta. His ka moved unceasingly like those very waves, pitching, tipping, roaring.
Tjaneni held out a skin. Thutmose took it absently and drank; the beer was flat and warm, but it tasted distinctly of home: Waset’s fields dreaming peacefully of the harvest to come, the river moving slowly, grandly beneath the hot sky. All at once Thutmose missed Meryet and his son with a wrenching force. He nearly doubled over with the pain of his longing, and might have, had Tjaneni and the mountains not been there to see.
The scribe evidently saw the yearning flicker in Thutmose’s f ace, for he said quietly, “They will be all right, Great Lord – your wife and child.”
Thutmose nodded, and smacked the drinking skin into Tjaneni’s chest with what he hoped was a confident smile. The man gathered up the skin with a look of concern writ plainly on his face. Are my fears so easy for my men to see? Thutmose asked himself.
He had done all any man or king could do to ensure Meryet’s safety. He had assigned Nehesi to her service, admonished the man to be her shadow, day and night, now that his service to Hatshepsut was at an end. Nehesi was old, but still stronger than most men in the guard, and after so many years at Hatshepsut’s side, he was wise in the ways of palace and court alike. And Nehesi had troops – enough trusted men that Meryet would only ever be out of their sight behind her closed chamber doors. Even then, they would patrol her rooftop, her garden wall, and would do the same for Amunhotep and his staff.
I must trust that it will be enough.
Satiah couldn’t leave her own dwelling, much less work her way past Meryet’s palisade of guards. Unless she truly had some magic, some divine intervention that spirited her beyond thick sandstone walls under the very eyes of alert palace watchmen. She had done it once. Might she do it again?
His fists clenched involuntarily at the thought. They rose of their own accord, and he was aware that he must look foolish, childish, on the verge of attacking the insolent mountains with knuckles and feet. But he could not make himself relax. It felt good to make a fist – good and
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