Jeremiah I: Prince of Babylon

By Jo Amdahl

So you think you know your Bible History?
1.    Did you know that when King Josiah marched against Egypt, that he did it to protect Babylon’s interests?
2.    Did you know that Jeremiah was the Prophet to the Nations?
3.    Did you know that Jeremiah revealed a highly classifie

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shoshone Publications
• Release date: Jun 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9780997675542

Jo Amdahl

Jo Amdahl is a linguist and anthropologist as well as a former minister with the Assemblies of God. She has served in Latin America, Europe, and Africa as a linguist and language survey specialist with Wycliffe Bible Translators. Jo has spent over 30 years researching the information presented in Empire of God. She lives with her husband and two sons in Wyoming.

Book preview

Introduction

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Babylonia, the queen of the ancient realms—the Empire of Gold spoken of by the prophet Daniel had such power, wealth, and splendor that its legend lives on in the imagination of the world today.

Egypt, realm of the Nile, great in glory, with a tradition of power that stretched back into the distant mists of time—the Upper and Lower realms were reunited at last. Egypt was whole and determined to conquer the world.

Media and Persia, the first of the Aryan Empires, was now pressing into the Middle East, desperate for coastline territories and Mediterranean trade.

Judah, the tiny remnant of the chosen people of God, found itself caught in the middle of the struggles of its titan neighbors and the Prophet Jeremiah struggled to understand God’s plan amid the chaos.

War consumed the world. Everything changed, politically, economically, and religiously. It would never be the same again, and the events have been recorded for us to learn from them.

This story is true. It is a historical work disguised as fiction only in that it is told in the form of a series of novels, and so there is a greater allowance made for inferring the reasons behind the facts.

Empire of Gold is a chronicle crucial to both Christians and Jews, of great interest to historians, and just a good story for anyone else. It is a story of the supernatural and of God’s grace in unendurable trials. It is a story of power, war, treachery, and romance, all in epic proportions. Even better, it actually happened. Who said history was boring?

SYNOPSIS

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Foundations

Jeremiah, a 12-year-old Judean boy, is appointed Prophet to the Nations by the Lord of Hosts. He bears witness to Judah’s sin before King Josiah. The king yields to the divine directive and eliminates idolatry from the land, cleansing the Temple and bringing the Ark of the Covenant back to its place. Though invasion from Assyria seems imminent, Josiah is promised peace for his lifetime.

Nabopolassar usurps the throne in Babylon and conducts war on Assyria, forming a Coalition with Media and Scythia. To cement the Treaty of the Coalition, the Crown Prince of Babylon, Nebuchadnezzar, is betrothed to Princess Amyhia of Media.

Nineveh, Capital of Assyria, is wiped out by the collapse of a gigantic dam. Assyria moves its capital to Harran, but the Coalition soon conquers it too. City after city is swallowed by the Coalition, and ultimately all of Assyria falls.

The Scythian’s uncivilized ways and deeds render them odious to their allies and ensure the future doom of their chieftains at the hands of Uvakshatra, King of Media.

Babylonia, aided by Scythia, defeats Egypt and invades the Egyptian capital city of Sais.

The Prophet Jeremiah, grown from child to young man during the reign of the good King Josiah, takes on the mission of collating and canonizing the Scriptures. Life in Judah is good, but the prophet knows it won’t last. The Peace of Josiah will end with Josiah’s death, and Jeremiah will begin his true mission as Prophet to the Nations.

PART 1: 610 BC

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The Daughter of Egypt

The daughter of Egypt has been put to shame,

Given over to the power of the people of the north.

—Jeremiah 46:24 NASB¹

CHAPTER 1

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Invasion

Sais, Egypt

Ra shone down hot and bright in a sky hazy with dust from the deserts. The heat was severe as the young princess bathed in her private inlet of the Nile. The calm, tranquil beauty of the day was hers by divine right and Amun-Ra watched over her lovingly from above. What had she to fear from the god? His fire would never harm her. She was the chosen of the god’s wife—soon she would be the god’s wife!

The still, translucent water was warm as a bath, and she dived under, swimming right to the bottom. The pure water soothed her and embraced her brown-toned skin.

Princess Nitocris, daughter of Crown Prince Necho, was now twelve years old. Yesterday had been her birthday, and it was time. Queen Nitocris of Thebes, God’s Wife of Amun—the princess’ aunt, for whom she had been named—had traveled from Thebes to see her adoption sealed.¹ The queen had come to collect her adopted daughter so that the princess could begin her training and duties in Thebes. When she became a woman—when her cycle started, and she was ready to wed—the daughter of Psammetik would step down, and the daughter of Necho would ascend to divinity. She would become Amun’s wife, his representative on earth. With that office, she would also become the source of divinity for the entire royal family.

Religious aspirations aside, Nitocris also looked forward to inheriting all the lands and wealth of her aunt. This was vitally important. Of all the people of Egypt, only the priests owned land, the rest were merely tenants, working the land for pharaoh. Only the priests were free. When Princess Nitocris would become the god’s wife, she would be a land-owner, no longer a slave to her grandfather.

The princess and the queen were to leave Sais for Thebes within the ten-day.²

The girl kicked off the sandy bottom and shot back up again. Breaking the surface, she found her three handmaidens standing on the multi-colored tiles of her patio, right where she had left them. Except now, they were staring round-eyed in confusion at an officer of her grandfather’s army. This bizarre apparition had somehow mysteriously appeared in her private court. His presence was so impossible that at first, she doubted her own eyes. Treading water, she blinked and looked again, but no, he was there; a tall, dark man in a light-weight overskirt and linen loincloth, sandals, and wearing a captain’s helmet.

Outraged, she brushed off the water still clinging to her heart-shaped face. What is the meaning of this? she shouted at him. No men are allowed here! He averted his eyes as she quickly swam to the steep, tiled side of the pool and climbed out.

Her maidens hastily wrapped her in a linen robe and set a short wig upon her close-cropped head. The wig’s hundreds of tiny braids chimed with the miniature golden bells woven into them.

Lowering your eyes won’t help you now, she snapped at the intruder. Shaking with anger, she stamped her delicate, perfectly shaped foot in a small puddle of water. It made a slapping sound. You commit this sacrilege, and then you don’t even bow down before your princess! I asked you a question! What are you doing here? How dare you?

The officer turned back to her with anxious eyes. "Highness, I have come at the bidding of the god’s wife, your adoptive mother. Though you are the undoubted glory of the Two Lands, we have no time for formalities, and I apologize for my lack of praise.

You are to come with me. Now. Sais is under attack. The Babylonians are upon us, and you are the heir of all Egypt. You must be seen to safety, even if we lose everything else.

What? Such an announcement was entirely outside her realm of experience. For an instant, her self-confidence wavered. But it was impossible. Such an occurrence was beyond her conception of the universe. After a brief moment of indecision, she dismissed his statement as non-consequential, and her anger returned. Before evening falls, your head certainly will, she declared. Then she frowned, wondering, as the sound of distant shouts and screams reached her ears. What was that?

I don’t have time for this, the officer muttered. I will rejoice, O Scion of the Gods, he told the astonished child, if my head falls this day at your command and not at that of the Babylonians. He scooped her up and tossed her over his shoulder. Then he turned and ran as fast as he could out of the small enclosed garden, encumbered by the princess.

Bouncing up and down on the captain’s shoulder, Nitocris kicked and shrieked. She caught an upside-down glimpse of her maidens, standing in shock and dismay in the midst of the pile of her clothes and jewelry. They stared after her as the soldier carried her through the garden’s gate.

Turning right, the officer headed for the docks.

The princess scratched and bit at the sacrilegious tormentor who dared treat her so. I will have you flayed and quartered! I will nail your skin to the city gates!

If that is your will, he gritted, rubbing a bleeding ear, but he never slowed down, dodging some panicked citizens and elbowing his way past others.

In short order, Nitocris found herself unceremoniously dumped into a small reed boat. The officer, still unheeding of her threats, removed his helmet and threw it into the Nile. He was an officer of the Saite dynasty, and the Saites loved the ancient Egyptian heritage and customs above reason or common sense. As a result, they fought almost naked. The officer wore no uniform. The helmet had been his only identification as a captain of pharaoh’s army. Now, with the helmet sinking to the bottom of the Nile, he was indistinguishable from any passing peasant. The officer jumped into the boat, next to the outraged girl, and pushed off.

Released from the hold the captain had on her, the princess leaped to her feet, nearly upsetting the skiff, but she didn’t seek to escape. As the boat rocked dangerously under her naked feet, the Scion of the Gods attacked the unfortunate soldier with her bare hands, clawing at his face.

It was the captain’s turn to be astonished. Girl, he exclaimed as he caught her slender wrists and flung her back down again, look around you! What do you see?

No one addressed the heir of the god’s wife as girl. It was such a towering impertinence that it stopped her cold for just a moment. That moment was enough for her to actually take in her surroundings. She now realized that the yelling and screaming she had noted in the back of her mind were not the cries of citizens outraged at this treatment of their princess. The dock area was in a panic. She watched the last of the boats cast off from their moorings. It seemed the entire population of the city was attempting to head west, downstream to… what? Her anger was replaced by incredulity. Where are they going? The Fortress of the Milesians? The Great Sea? Why?

The Fortress of the Milesians, the home of Ionian mercenaries, was not far, nor was the sea. Sais was on the Canopic, the western, branch of the Nile, just south of the reed marshes of the delta where it opened to the vastness of the Mediterranean.³

We are under attack, Princess, the officer explained. I have been trying to make you understand. The Babylonians have come! It is a complete surprise. King Nabopolassar should have been heading back to his city. His men need to tend to their fields and families. Since ours do as well, our army has been dismissed. Other than the Milesians, all our mercenaries have returned to Ionia for the year. This city will certainly fall.

That is ridiculous! She snorted, and imperiously bobbed her head. But a small, unfamiliar chill was starting to crawl up her spine.

It is the truth! Princess, you must be kept safe at all costs. You are Egypt’s future. We will attempt to make the Great Sea and the Fortress of the Milesians. From there we can find passage to somewhere safe, perhaps in Ionia.

Leave Egypt? Finally, she began to understand, and she felt fear threaten to overwhelm her. But she was a princess of Egypt. No, she was the princess of Egypt! Her training came through, and she regained her composure. I will allow you to escort me to the Fortress of the Milesians, she declared regally. And I will reconsider the matter of your beheading, at least for the present.

In spite of the situation, the officer grinned briefly, his white teeth flashed in his dark face. I am greatly honored, My Princess. He took up the oars and began to row west, downstream. It is good to know that I may yet live to see the glory of your reign.

Nitocris decided she actually liked him. Perhaps I will have you transferred to my personal guard in Thebes.

He glanced around nervously and rowed harder.

Have you news of my father? She needed information to decide what she should do. Her father was vital. Prince Necho, First Prophet of Amun, was a handsome man in his forties, strong and capable. Nitocris knew that he would prevail in any battle, keeping her secure.

A panicked paysan swam up to the small craft and tried to board, perilously tipping the boat.

The captain beat him off with an oar. He rode with pharaoh against the invaders, the officer explained as he splashed at the water with the paddle. The boat rocked dangerously.

And?

I have heard nothing more.

They outdistanced the swimmer and merged with a group of vessels frantically trying to evacuate. The banks were lined with screaming people; some pushed into the water by the panicked masses behind them, some jumping in willingly, trying to swim to the other side.

The girl ignored the peasants and paused, thinking about the officer’s tidings. Her grandfather, the pharaoh, was old; he should not be riding to war. But her father would protect him. Any news of my mother? Chednitjerbone was a Cushite princess. Nitocris’ beautiful dark complexion and black eyes were an inheritance from her mother, but it was almost the only thing she had inherited from her. Chednitjerbone was docile, tractable, and almost certainly hiding in her rooms.

No, Lady, he responded, confirming the princess’ opinion of her mother’s character. Panting with the effort of hard rowing, he continued, But your adoptive mother sent me to you, as I have said. Queen Nitocris rules Egypt at present. The Queen of Thebes will not leave the throne, so it is crucial that you, at least, be evacuated. Princess Nitocris felt reassured that the government was in her aunt’s capable hands. Things were under control.

Of course. My brother? Prince Psammetik was a young man in his twenties. He was almost as handsome as his father, and he was as dark-skinned as his sister. The princess adored him.

Prince Psammetik rides with the chariots, but your aunt, the God’s Wife, means to see him to safety as well. She has dispatched men to have him intercepted. He is to meet us at the river’s bend, where the Nile turns north again—if he can.

It is well.

But it wasn’t. As they passed out of the capital with the city walls behind them to the east, the officer gasped, and Nitocris turned to follow his gaze. She did not see Prince Psammetik and his entourage as she had expected. Instead, the banks here were littered with the dead and dying.

Strange men with white skin and clothed in gleaming scale armor were riding hairy ponies up and down both banks of the Nile. Yodeling, their high-pitched vocalizations were clear and loud over the screams of the people. Laughing, the barbarians were killing or capturing everything that moved. Their skin was covered in bright tattoos, and they bore long braids of gold, red, or brown hair. Their ponies were wrapped in colorful war cloths, embroidered with yarn, and dripping with mud and water. They were the most alien and uncouth beings the girl had ever seen.

The Babylonians! she cried. For the first time, the seriousness of the situation struck her.

No Princess, the officer corrected and rowed faster. "The Babylonians march or ride in chariots. They could not have reached this side of the city so soon, not with the Nile cresting and flooding the plains. These are their allies, the Scythians. They are barbarians from the far north, and they ride, so they move very quickly. The mud doesn’t bog them down. But they would not be here either if our army remained on the other side of the city, still to be conquered. They have fallen so soon? The city is defenseless!

Get down! Lay down flat in the boat, and we will attempt to pass midstream… His voice was cut off as an arrow struck him in the throat and in a strange slow-motion he fell into the Nile. Nitocris screamed and reached over the side of the boat to try and catch him, but the current carried him away and under.

And then… then a Scythian warrior, with eyes the color of the sky and skin like milk, astride a swimming pony, collided with the boat. He grinned at her and grabbed her arm, yanking her overboard. She clawed at him, but he laughed and threw her across his lunging pony’s neck, babbling at her in what was undoubtedly his vulgar and crude language.

They swam back to the shore. As the shaggy brown pony climbed, leaping and scrambling, up the bank, Nitocris decided that she was having some bizarre dream. This was not real! It couldn’t be. Nothing like this could happen to her. But if she was dreaming, could she be thinking she was dreaming? Could the horse and the man both smell so of sweat? Could she feel so wet? Would she hear the river splash with the plunging horses and struggling people? Would the screams and cries be so piercing? She felt her wig slipping again and grabbed it with both hands, straightening it and holding it in place. Somehow, it seemed important that her tresses remained properly on her head.

Another of the northerners galloped up on a tall bay stallion. Unlike most of his men, he wore plate armor, and his breast piece was completely covered in gold. It was detailed with an absurd mixture of scenes depicting fantastic, Greek mythical creatures cavorting among common laborers, toiling in their fields. He was a huge man, and his long braided hair was a ridiculous bright orange, the color of poppies, and his ruddy face was covered with a ginger beard, also braided, and riddled with gray. Unlike many of the Scythians’ mounts, the stallion was not hampered by a heavy, wet and soggy war cloth. It wore only its bridle, saddle pad and a matching hood and saddle blanket, embroidered with gold, not yarn. Beneath the fanciful, encrusted hood, its eyes rolled wildly, and its nostrils flared red. This enormous apparition looked as if he could have ridden right out of one of the imaginative paintings that covered the walls of the palace and she realized his appearance was meant to strike fear. It succeeded.

The unlikely figure of the northern barbarian was accompanied by a shorter, chunky man, astride a sleek gray mare that also had no war cloth. This man’s skin was tan-colored, much like that of her father’s kin, the Saites. But he was no Saite. He wore his brown hair curled and down past his shoulders. Like Nitocris’ people, he had no facial hair; but his smooth skin declared he did not shave. He was obviously a eunuch. He wore different clothes from the barbarians too; a long robe hitched up around his thighs so he could sit his under-adorned horse.

The northerner with the gold armor and reddish hair chuckled and said something utterly incomprehensible. Nitocris’ captor laughed and answered, jerking her face up and holding her under the chin so that the other could see. She tried to bite, and they both laughed. Golden Armor said something else, shrugged, and began to rein his leggy stallion away.

Did he dismiss her so easily? Rage coursed through her veins. Amun will curse you and this ruffian for daring to lay a finger on the heir! She spat at him. Ra will condemn you to burn forever for looking on his chosen! You will suffer horribly in everlasting fire for this, and your names will be remembered no more!

The eunuch’s eyes went wide, and he spoke for the first time, laying his hand on Golden Armor’s massive, hairy arm. The redheaded chieftain pulled up and looked sharply back at her. His eyes narrowed. He frowned and carried on a brief conversation with the other two.

Nitocris saw her chance and shook her head free. She bit her captor on the hand, and almost managed to jump down off the wet shaggy pony before she was brought back, struggling and kicking, under control. Her barbarian captor sat her upright in front of him, sideways across his mount’s neck. She glared at him.

You are of the royal house? the eunuch asked her from the back of his tall gray. His accent was thick, but she understood him perfectly.

She glowered at him. You speak Demotic?

I am Chaldean, he explained with a deprecating shrug. It is my function to interpret. In this capacity, I am on loan to his Majesty, King Arbaces of Scythia, Chief of the Royal Scythians. He nodded at the warrior with the poppy-orange hair. The king wishes to know, are you truly of the Royal House of Sais as you claim?

I am Nitocris, heir of the god’s wife! She dug her heel hard into her captor’s shin. He yelped but didn’t let go. It is I who will determine who will become pharaoh in the circles to come, the royal status of the House of Sais will hinge on me! And your lives are all forfeit for your sacrilege. The interpreter translated this, and another brief discussion followed.

Then Nitocris’ captor reluctantly lifted her from his mount and seated her astride in front of the Babylonian eunuch on his gray horse. You are to be returned to the palace immediately, the Chaldean told her, speaking in her ear.

CHAPTER 2

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Hostage

Sais, Egypt

Nabopolassar, King of Babylonia, was a man still in the prime of his life. His black beard, carefully curled, showed no trace of gray. His wide-spaced, light-brown eyes in his narrow, long face made him look even younger than he was. His saucer-shaped battle helmet with its wide metal brim sat firmly on his head. His black, square-cut bangs peeked out from underneath the golden helm and thickly covered the tan colored skin of his brow. He was the hero of countless campaigns, and yet he was, first of all, a statesman. His intelligent yet compassionate gaze inspired trust in almost everyone he met.

The king stood tall and straight in his chariot as he rolled to a stop between the massive brick gatehouses of Sais’ eastern city gate. It was good construction, vividly painted with exploits of the Saite chiefs, and Nabo approved. But the gate was not good enough to hold court. He was going to need the palace, and soon. Sais must be secured, as much for the Egyptians’ protection as the Babylonians’.

The city and most especially the Temples of Neith and Osiris were going to need protection, and the king knew it. The Scythians had a well-earned reputation for destroying everything they laid their hands on, including temples. They had managed to despoil two very famous ones in as many years and alienate most of the civilized world in the process. That didn’t bother them because they cared very little for civilization. But for the moment, Nabo’s barbarian allies were occupied outside the city walls, and that gave the king the time he needed.

The Provider of Marduk deployed his armies rapidly. Before the Scyths tired of their sport on the muddy, water-covered fields surrounding the walls and turned their greedy eyes towards the city itself, preparations must be made. Nabo meant to see that Babylon’s elite were stationed at all the gates and before every important building. The king jumped down from the high bed of the massive war chariot and began issuing orders to his officers. Arioch!

Great King, came the instant response. The Captain of the Daggermen—Nabo’s imperial guard—had been trotting along behind the chariot and came instantly to his lord’s side.¹ Tall and lithe as a dancer, Arioch was a man in his early forties and like all the daggermen, fanatically loyal to his king. He briefly bobbed his head and crossed his arms over his chest, snapping his fingers.

Take twelve of the daggermen and a battalion and secure the palace. Place the occupants under house arrest. No harm is to come to any of them. See that the throne room is readied and my field throne established in the place of honor.

At once, Great King. Arioch bobbed his head again, clapped his hands, shook his fist in the air over his head twice and trotted off. Twelve of the guards peeled off from their places to follow their captain. Arioch’s whistle flagged down the commanding officer of a nearby battalion, the Anshars, and their sixty men fell in behind the daggermen, jogging smartly in step towards the palace, their sandals snapping a staccato rhythm on the brick-paved street.

Nabo turned away and motioned a scout forward. Where are the rab mag and rab shaq?

The scout, newly arrived and still breathing hard from running messages, was dusty and scuffed, but he brushed himself off, bowed deeply, and held his arms straight out before him as he snapped his fingers. Great King, he answered, straightening up again, Rab Mag Nergalniari sends word that he had reached the Nile on the west side of the city and that most all of the enemy have surrendered. Rab Shaq Belshumishkun has taken a regiment of the chariot core and two battalions, as you have ordered and he has secured the Temple of Neith and the Temple of Osiris. He reports there has been no damage to the structures or the temple grounds.

Nabo watched his men disperse on their missions, beginning their house to house search. He nodded and dismissed the scout as he leaned back against the nail-studded wheel of his chariot, relaxing at last. Then he started to laugh.

Great King? Nabo’s driver and spearman were both watching their king, puzzled over his mirth.

It’s over, he explained. The war is over! We have peace! He stopped and thought about it. I’ve never known peace before, he mused. I wonder what it will be like?²

None of us has ever known peace, Great King, the driver smiled down at him and shrugged. I’m a chariot driver, so I suppose I’m out of a job. What will I do now?

Nabo laughed again. It is in Marduk’s hands.

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By that evening, Nabopolassar moved his base of operations into the now-secured palace’s throne room. Captain Arioch had Nabo’s field throne placed upon the high dais and moved the gilded throne of Egypt, with its embroidered web seat down to the first step.

Despite the rows of windows high above, it was hot in the thick-walled throne room. The efforts of two frightened-looking fan-bearers—one Saite, one Cushite—moved the stifling air around the suzerain as he mounted the dais. As always, Nabo was surrounded by Captain Arioch and twelve daggermen and accompanied by the king’s annunciator and the king’s scribe.

Nabopolassar was still wearing his armor and the short skirt of battledress as he sat down and surveyed the room. It was large and rectangular; the brick walls plastered with dazzlingly white gypsum. The two side doors and the entrance were secured by daggermen. The colorful paintings on the white-washed walls and the four massive sandstone pillars of the dais portrayed over-sized images of the chieftain, Necho I, and his son, Psammetik. These were surrounded by even larger images of gods and the tiny figures of their citizens and their conquered. The pictures on the walls of Sais’ throne room reminded Nabo of the boasting of Nineveh, but the figures here portrayed were stiffer and far more scantily clad. A canopy of vivid blue accented with purple, black and gold embroidery was stretched from the brightly colored pillars. It sheltered the suzerain like heaven smiling down on him. The canopy’s golden tassels—long as a man’s forearm—waved gently overhead in the sultry breeze of the huge fans made of long poles and ostrich feathers. The Sacred Pool—knee-deep and filled with water from the Nile—stood in the very center of the room, forcing any petitioners to skirt it before approaching their pharaoh.

Nabo signaled to the daggermen to allow entrance to his officers and men. For nearly a half-beru, the Provider of Marduk struggled to bring order out of the chaos of the invasion. He listened to status reports, gave orders, and finally accepted a small meal. The Egyptians brewed an excellent honey beer; he was pleased to note.

During the pause, Rab Shaq Belshumishkun—Nabo’s new cupbearer—brought him pharaoh’s son. Pharaoh Psammetik had been killed almost at the start of the fray, but Prince Necho, the grandson of the Saite chieftain of the same name, had been captured.

Nabo took a large gulp of the beer and handed his cup to the newly arrived cupbearer.

Belshumishkun accepted it without a pause and took his place behind and to the left of his sovereign.

The suzerain studied the prisoner standing before him.

In his mid-forties, tall, muscular, and more handsome than any Greek statue, today the prince appeared as ordinary as a peasant in the marketplace.³ The First Prophet of Amun stood in chains, trembling with barely contained anger, before the suzerain. His royal kerchief with the symbolic braid was missing, exposing his shaven head which was smudged with mud. Barefoot, the heir of Egypt wore only a soiled and tattered linen skirt and loincloth. He should have been utterly humiliated, but no one had informed him of the fact. Necho was physically unharmed—not even a scratch. His almond-shaped eyes blazed and his perfect, sculpted nose flared in rage. He was obviously unafraid.

The prince is not properly grateful for your mercy, Lord, the rab shaq muttered in Nabo’s ear. Actually, he behaves more like a wild ass than a prince. Not a likely candidate for an heir.

That’s Egypt’s problem, not mine, the king answered, eyeing the bedraggled and furious figure before him.

Egypt’s Problem spat on the tiled floor before Nabo’s feet. It is well that you brought your own chair, for if you had defiled my father’s throne by sitting on it, we would have to burn it!

Nabo leaned aside and drawled to the rab shaq, "Aiyah! He speaks Aramaic!" The king was pleased with the development.

He speaks it too well for his own health, Belshumishkun growled.

Both my father and my grandfather were generals in Assyria! Necho returned hotly. Of course, I speak Aramaic. When Babylon falls under Egyptian heels, perhaps we will allow your sons to become our generals and have the privilege of learning Demotic. High Egyptian would still be too good for you!⁴

Nabo laughed. You want us to come live with you and have you risk catching our fleas?

"I am the First Prophet of Amun, Heir of Pharaoh! Your fleas would die before touching me! My grandfather was the Great Chief of the West and carried the blood of the Libyan pharaohs from over 300 circles past. My grandmother was the daughter of Ethiopian kings. My father is… was the son of Ra and the Nile, Pharaoh of Upper and Lower Egypt. My mother was Mehtenweskhet, the daughter of Harsiese, High Priest of Atun at On. My sister is the wife of Amun-Ra himself, and my daughter will be his next wife. You are the son of a lesser son of a lesser son of a defunct house, and your wife is a harlot from the streets of a minor city. That is not really your fault since all of the women of the land between the rivers are harlots!"

Nabo caught his breath and held out his hand, restraining Belshumishkun from rushing forward to strike down the prisoner. From Necho’s perspective, the women of Mesopotamia probably did all look like prostitutes since they all did service to Ishtar before they could be married. If you wish to equate religious devotion to promiscuity, I suppose, he allowed, his voice hard. But I have only one wife because she is a woman the way women are meant to be. I need no other. How many wives do you find necessary, Prince Necho?

He turned to Shum, Have him returned to his family under house arrest until I am ready for him. Once again, he addressed the prince, "You should go and thank your gods that it is Belshumishkun who is your jailer. He is new at his posting as rab shaq. I left my former cupbearer to be the Commander of Carchemish. Belnasir would never suffer a slur on the name of his queen, and my command would not have stopped him. If it were Belnasir who stood here now, you would be dead. I’m not certain that if there were to be another such incident, that my command would stop Belshumishkun either. Think on that as you go.

You are a strange spectacle which has sprung from a strange people, Prince of Egypt. We will speak again once I have had time to properly assess the situation here.

Necho’s guards pushed and pulled the struggling and kicking prince out of the room. He shouted back outraged insults in Egyptian at the King of Babylon as he was dragged away with a total lack of dignity. The annunciator declined to translate, and the sounds of the scuffle faded down the hall outside the throne room.

Nabo gave his immediate attention to other matters as his officers once more began to solicit his orders.

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For a quarter-moon, the Suzerain of Babylonia listened to his officers and the results of their questionings of local inhabitants. Nabopolassar took notes and learned. Slowly, he came to better understand the current political climate and realities that ruled Egypt.

Egypt was a land like no other, alien in every way. The people shaved their heads—and then made themselves wigs to cover their skulls. Indeed, where in every other country in the world, the priests recognized shaving to be a symbol of mourning and so in holiness let their hair grow long, here, the priests refused to wear even the wigs of the general populace and walked about completely bald. The men—considering hair to be a source of uncleanness—shaved their faces. Perversely, their king—recognizing a beard to be a sign of masculinity—donned an obviously fake beard for state occasions. Daughters bore the responsibility for caring for their parents, leaving the sons free to pursue their own interests.

And the system of inheritance was utterly alien. Egypt, like most of Africa, was essentially matriarchal. Apparently, a man could not be confident that he was the father of his wife’s children—therefore, his closest certain heirs were the children of his sister. This explained why, historically, many Egyptians, including their royals, married their own sisters!

In practice, the Saite pharaohs—with their Libyan background and training in the courts of Assyria—were patriarchal rather than matriarchal in heritage. Although they tried to uphold the ancient Egyptian customs as much as possible, they still preferred to see their sons—rather than their nephews—inherit. They, in conjunction with their councils, had generally mandated which of their children would be the heir. But the right to succession could not be passed directly from father to son. It depended upon the blessing of the god’s wife, who must be daughter or sister to the pharaoh. Fascinating.

Finally, the king satisfied himself that he understood the people and the land. Early one morning, he sent for Prince Necho, heir to Osiris Psammetik.

A half-moon had passed, and Prince Necho had had time to reconsider his position. The anger had not left his face, but the prince of Egypt grudgingly acquiesced to all the demands of Babylon. He placed his thumbnail print in the pair of wet clay tablets containing the new treaty of Egypt’s subservience to the Babylonian Empire.

The crowning of the new pharaoh took place the next morning.

Nabopolassar—surrounded by daggermen—walked rapidly through the palace doors, up the aisle and sat down on his throne atop the dais. His heavily embroidered blue and purple robes were those of a statesman. Today he was a king, not a warrior. A broad, gold circlet shown above his black, square-cut bangs; the king did not travel with the tall, cylindrical crown of Babylon.

Nabo’s translator followed him into the room and moved to stand behind him and to his left. The king’s recorder took his seat on the top of the first step, at the feet of his master. The recorder unwrapped his writing kit, then he selected a stylus and took a wax tablet from his belt. He was ready.

The murmur of the crowd filled the audience hall as Egypt’s fortunate few followed the Babylonians into their throne room. The fan-bearers positioned themselves around the room and stood their fans at attention at their sides.

Prince Necho, barefoot and clad in an immaculate white shift entered the room through the massive main doors. He wore a golden collar and royal cobra arm bands on his well-muscled upper arms. Straight and proud, he strode forward, and the crowd hurriedly parted to let their prince through. He did not turn aside at the sacred pool but waded right through, coming from the Nile to the steps of the throne of Egypt. The prince stopped directly before the top step where twin thrones had been set. Necho removed the kerchief of the First Prophet and laid it on the seat of the throne of pharaoh. He stood there with his bald head totally bare.

Entering at Necho’s side was his brother, Chief of Protocol and Fan-Bearer to the Right Hand of the King, Prince Horiraa. Prince Horiraa wore no crown, just a short wig, but his sheer white top was covered with a royal golden collar only slightly less spectacular than Necho’s own, and his white pointed skirt echoed that of his brother, the pharaoh-to-be. He held a golden shepherd’s crook and a flail, much like the ones the pharaoh would take, but without blue stripes. To hold these tokens, Horiraa had put aside the gigantic fan of the fan-bearers. Dressed royally, the prince held only a small ostrich plume with which to symbolically fan the new pharaoh. His duty today was not to move the air but to direct these vital proceedings according to proper etiquette. The fan-bearer was an enormously important office, typically held by a prince, sometimes even the crown prince. Everything in the Egyptian palace must be done according to a strict code of behavior, and the fan-bearer was responsible for seeing that things ran according to plan.⁵ Horiraa skirted the sacred pool and stopped on the second step from the top to the right of the pharaoh’s throne.

Following Prince Horiraa came his second, the Cushite fan-bearer Nabopolassar had noticed earlier. Abdamelek, like the eight fan-bearing slaves now encircling the room, was bare to the waist; his black skin glistened slightly with sweat. He, unlike Horiraa, still bore one of the gigantic fans and he mounted the steps last, standing to the left of the Egyptian throne. That brought the total number of fan-bearers to the exact required number of ten. Abdamelek immediately took up his duty of fanning and at that cue, the eight slaves resumed their fanning as well.

Already surrounding the four pillars of the dais were Necho’s family: his beautiful sister, Queen Nitocris of Thebes and his young daughter, his sister’s heir, Princess Nitocris. There was also his wife, Chednitjerbone, who would soon be queen; and his son and heir, Prince Psammetik. In addition, filling the room, were Necho’s other brothers and sisters, sons and daughters; an assortment of Egyptian nobility; and most notably, sixty of Nabopolassar’s daggermen along with Rab Mag Nergalniari with several other of the Babylonian generals and their entourages.

The Scythians, disinterested and scornful of the Egyptians, declined to be present. Nabo was grateful for that! Who knew what kind of mischief they could cause at such an event? There would undoubtedly be mischief enough before all was finished here.

The emperor turned his attention to the young princess. There she was, standing on the floor directly in front of the dais, beside her stunningly beautiful adoptive mother. Petite and slim, Princess Nitocris did not appear to be nervous at all.

That was because she did not know.

Instead, she stared right back at him, looking him in the eye as if she were examining some exotic creature that was of no more importance than the immediate curiosity she felt.

Nabo was amused, but he also felt a small twinge of sympathy. Princess Nitocris had no idea that it was she who was about to become the exotic creature.

The Queen of Thebes must have noticed the Babylonian’s interest in her ward, because anger suddenly flared up in the woman’s light-brown eyes and she took a protective step forward, between the princess and the suzerain.

Nabo nodded to her. He could see why the Egyptians considered Necho’s sister to be a goddess; she was flawless. Neither the girl nor the woman wore a wig on their smooth-shaven heads, and both were naked to the waist, a contrast of dark and light skin tones.

Queen Nitocris’ lovely face was flushed and drawn tight with the tension of her emotion. The princess reached over and squeezed her aunt’s hand. The queen looked down at the girl, and the hardness of her face eased. She smiled reassuringly and laid her hand briefly on her heir’s bald head.

Nabopolassar frowned. The God’s Wife was actually fond of the girl. Queen Nitocris was a powerful person, and the Emperor was not pleased to be making an enemy of her.

Horiraa, Fan-Bearer to the Right, raised his miniature ostrich feather and began fanning Necho. Horiraa pointed the golden crook of the Minister of Protocol at the musicians, and the ceremony began.

The musicians, a group of ten seated against the wall, began to play. A single note from a flute preceded a low tone, hummed by a single female singer. A small drum tapped twice and then was joined by a harp and two male singers. The remainder of the musicians, another female singer, another flute, a tambourine, a lyre and a lute came in. Flowery scented incense wafted across the area, the scent swirling in the fanners’ vortices. The singers’ sweet voices invited the presence of the gods as a witness and called down blessings upon the new king to be. All but the fanners and their enormous fans grew still, waiting for the song to end and the formal rituals to unfold.

Nabo knew that as far as Egyptian coronations went, this one was compressed in time and symbolism to the point of what the Egyptians considered sacrilege. Prince Necho had not spent the required month at his dead father’s side. He had not descended to Osiris with him in the Duat ceremony. He had not spent the remainder of the months of the year reigning without being coronated. Necho had not killed the white bull with his bare hands, and he had not even performed the ceremony of the Smiting of the Enemy. It was, after all, Egypt which had been smitten. There had been no preliminary feast, and it was doubtful that there would be any celebration feasts in the coronal year to come. Nabo knew the Egyptians were insulted, but he didn’t care. He had no time for all that. The Egyptians refused to eat with foreigners anyway. Besides, the Grand Procession had taken place. They should be satisfied with that!

At the first light of Ra’s appearing, all Sais had become witness to the fact that Necho was taking the throne by the grace of Nabopolassar. Queen Nitocris and Princess Nitocris had stood waist-deep in the Sacred Lake and sang to Ra at his appearing. Then they strode out of the waters and headed towards the palace.

In the sight of all the people, the Wife of Amun-Ra and her daughter were followed, not by Necho, but by the King of Babylon in his immense chariot, surrounded by his guard, all in dress whites and reds. It was only then that Necho could follow, on foot and practically unescorted—save for the two fan-bearers. It all bore a distinct resemblance to a Babylonian triumphal victory pageant. The rest of the people fell in behind, and the procession had made its way from the lake to the palace gates, where the crowd had been dispersed, and only certain nobles were admitted. Nabopolassar had made sure that this travesty of a coronation was going forward with little ceremony and no delays.

The musicians concluded their musical prayers and the music dropped down to a respectful background strumming and humming.

Together, Nitocris, the Queen of Thebes and her heir, Princess Nitocris, stepped forward. The queen was draped in white, the girl in red. Their long, sheer skirts, reaching to their bare feet, hid nothing of their slender figures. They stopped before an ornate table which held five crowns.⁶ There was also a linen cape, a gold and blue striped shepherd’s crook—known as the Heka staff—and a gold and blue striped flail—known as the Nekhakha. Next to these were two slender, golden pitchers.

The woman and the girl lifted two of the crowns. Queen Nitocris bowed slightly and waited while Princess Nitocris reached up and set the Hedjet—the white crown of Upper Egypt, upon her head. The queen was now the incarnation of Nekhbet, the vulture goddess of Upper Egypt. In turn, the sister of Necho set the Deshret—the red crown of Lower Egypt—upon the head of the diminutive daughter of Necho. Princess Nitocris became Wadjet, the cobra goddess of Lower Egypt.

Together, the two goddesses each raised a golden pitcher from the table. They turned and waded into the sacred pool. Stooping down, they filled the pitchers with the water of the Nile. The water drenched their long skirts, making them cling to the short white underskirts of the incarnate deities. Slowly, sedately, they turned and walked back to the waiting prince, a trail of water left in their wake. They stopped directly in front of him.

From a side room, appeared the High Priest of Amun, Mentemhe. He was a direct descendant of the Priest-Kings who had been pharaohs of Upper and Lower Egypt before the Libyans. The Egyptian Priest-Kings had been conquered by the Libyan princes who in turn had given way to the Cushites. The Saites, Libyan princes themselves, had defeated the Cushites and regained power. But the priests of Amun, descendants of the Egyptian Priest-Kings, still ruled in Thebes, their ancient line unbroken. The priest addressed the gods and the prince.

Necho stood there, every hair shaved from his body. His head, chest, and feet were bare; and he stood with his back to the steps and the Babylonian—who sat on the top of the dais itself. The prince’s golden cobra armbands and the pointed white and gold kilt proclaimed his royal status. This ceremony marked Necho’s ascension to godhood. It was the last time that Necho could rightly be addressed directly, in the second person.

By the sacred name of Amun-Ra, by the holy waters of the Nile, the priest chanted as the two goddesses came forward and poured their pitchers over Necho’s head. Water pooled around their feet as Nabopolassar’s translator whispered his translation in the suzerain’s ear. By the witness of Neith of Sais and the righteous judgment of Amut, the crocodile, you have been chosen from among the sons of the earth. You have been born of the waters of the Nile. You are the representative of the gods, the Living One, who is among us. What is your name?

At the question, Necho trembled with rage but said nothing.

Smiling grimly, Nabopolassar rose from his throne, stood high above the crowd, and said in carefully enunciated Egyptian, His name is Wahemibre.

The blood drained from the lovely face of the Queen of the Dead, and she looked askance at her brother. This was an insult to Egypt’s autonomy. But Necho was not sovereign. He could not name himself; it was a father’s right to name his son. Necho nodded, his eyes smoldering. My name is Wahemibre—Ra’s Will is Accomplished.⁷

The priest stood back, and the two goddesses set their pitchers back on the table while the graceful queen sent looks of intentioned murder towards the Babylonian suzerain. Nabo knew she was already his enemy and the worst was yet to come. The goddesses both took hold of the Pschent, the combined red and white crown of Upper and Lower Egypt. The crown held between them, they approached the prince, and the god’s wife leaned forward and breathed on Necho’s face. Receive the ka, the divine breath of the gods, she intoned. Pharaoh is Wahemibre Necho, the Son of Ra; the Son of Horus, the Son of Osiris—Pharaoh—He Who Lives, the God-King of Upper and Lower Egypt.⁸ The queen and the princess raised the crown and held it over Necho’s head.

Before they could lower it, Nabopolassar stepped down and took it from them as they held it there. He set it on the prince’s head. Marduk’s will is accomplished, he said, inserting the Babylonian formula into the Egyptian cult. Then he switched back to Egyptian so all would understand. I shall establish for you your crown on your head.

The music stopped. This was the standard Egyptian phrase from a new pharaoh to the wife he raised to be his queen. It said plainly that Necho’s authority came from Nabopolassar alone. More than that, Necho was now pharaoh, but Nabopolassar had addressed him directly, not in the third person.

In the sudden, shocked silence, the god’s wife drew in an inarticulate gasp and the princess, eyes wide, took a step backward. Then the