Osorkon: War of Shadows

By Ryan Pope

The terror unleashed by the renegade priests of Karnak has been ended. Those responsible have been annihilated, in body and name, denied rebirth in an act of heavy-handed wrath. Yet, the whispers of unease and discontent endure. Is the Crown Prince Osorkon of sound mind or will the wrathful fires of his Meshwesh blood see yet more burn?

The Two Lands are at a temporary peace. The war between Tanis and Thebes, Egypt’s two mightiest cities, has come to a temporary truce, neither side possessing the strength to overcome the other, but the strain of war weights heavy on Takelot, more than any can truly know. The allied forces of Hermopolis arrive home to a city in ruins, their role in the civil strife over, while an old black-hearted enemy returns from the dead to threaten the Theban coalition's unity.

The time for honourable battle has past, for a new field of conflict emerges, one that operates only in the shadows. The cost of failure has never been higher, and Thebes threatens to fall deeper into chaos and confusion before it finds peace.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ryan Pope
• Release date: Nov 6, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005879600

Ryan Pope

Ryan Pope is an Australian historical fiction author. Born in 1992 on a northern mountain inhabited by snakes, kangaroos and an echidna named Rex, his parents later saw sense and moved south. He grew up on the Sunshine Coast, a place deceptively named as it often rained. As such, he developed a love of books and reading early on. He has been fascinated by ancient cultures all his life and would visit more if they weren’t all so far away.Based now on the Sunshine Coast, Ryan has worked as a magazine editor, curriculum editor and freelance writer/editor. At university, he studied Communication and Writing and completed a Master’s thesis titled “Fictional Languages and Identity in Fantasy and Science Fiction”.

Book preview

Prologue

High above a land torn asunder by the bitter fury of battle, the creatures of the charnel wastes, vultures, ravens and more, awaited their chance to land and feast. They flocked to the scent of blood, even as it yet soaked into the dry, desert sands. The carrion beasts eyed the armed men warily, sensing competition perhaps for the banquet yet to come. As the birds landed and the wild dogs yelped and scuffled, the scavengers sniffed the air in confusion, for while the stench of death was all around, there was nothing here with which to sate their eternal hunger.

One of the armed men, a great blue crown atop his brow, stared at the scavengers with distaste. There would be slim pickings for the ravenous creatures of Set. Despite the animosity between both sides, neither would countenance leaving even his enemy’s dead to be picked clean. To do so would not only condemn the souls of their foes, but stain one’s own soul in the eyes of the gods.

In a short time, shorter perhaps than any assembled here imagined, the evidence of days of hard fighting would be swept away. The blood would soak into the desert sands and the winds from the east would bring new topsoil to cover the scars of battle as though they had never been.

For now, though, those scars were all too fresh.

Tortured and ripped earth marred the battle site, and here and there the glassy reminders of fire forged into an instrument of death could still be seen. Fragments of scorched and shattered pottery lay all around, vestiges of a weapon unleashed by the Pharaoh of Thebes.

To the battlefield’s west, on the shores of the great river, lay the shattered hulls of broken warships, already sinking deeper and deeper into the silt-laden mud. Broken open in battle or set alight by sabotage, few wrecks were even recognisable as the ships they had been, their keels snapped like bone, and their timbers protruding like ribs, fire-blackened and exposed. The torn banners of both sides fluttered listlessly on leaning masts, and the birds and beasts of the river flocked to the charred wrecks, feasting on the sunken corpses and sodden foodstuffs within.

But for the carrion eaters and the host at his back, there was but one other sign of life that drew the crowned man’s attention.

Takelot, Pharaoh of Thebes and rightful Lord of the Two Lands, stood and watched as the thin black line of the forces of Tanis retreated. It was not victory that sent his enemy home, but the final breaking of a stalemate, brought about by strife in the Tanite colonies of Assyria. Without that distant threat to Egypt’s holdings, Takelot knew his foe would be here still, ordering his soldiers into the fray again and again, until they were either victorious or dead.

Takelot and his generals waited upon a rise. The king wanted this moment for himself, to witness his rival, Shoshenq III, Pharaoh of Tanis, and his forces to be the first to quit the field. No one spoke, for the grief of battle was still too near. Only when the host of Tanis dipped below the horizon, lost to sight like the setting sun, did Takelot turn and speak.

‘Let us go,’ he said, and so the order was given.

The officers let their king go first, pausing to give the battlefield one last look, for all of them were leaving behind good men buried deep beneath its sands. Few signs of death remained for the carrion birds on the battlefield itself, for the two enemies, as bitter as they were, remained Egyptian at heart. On the final day of fighting, after the two rival kings had quit the field, soldiers from both sides collected their dead under the banner of truce. The fallen were hastily embalmed and entombed in mass graves beneath the battlefield, still wearing their broken armour and bearing the bent and broken weapons they had held in their moments of death.

This place was haunted now, and though the fallen would be remembered, the site would be mercifully lost to time, the scars of the battlefield swept under wind and sand as though the war had never been.

The souls of the survivors would take far longer to recover, for the trek home was weighed down with heavy and leaden hearts. The march south to Herakleopolis was long, and many a man had hours to brood with his comrades in companionable silence. At night though, as the camp quietened and the sentries were all that stirred, images of fire burned themselves into men’s dreams and the hideous shrieks of terrified soldiers rent the midnight air.

It was many days before the talk turned from war to home, as the army marched further south to the sight of towns untouched by civil strife. Even so, their stories were hushed and the songs that so often accompanied marching men were absent entirely, though a morose kind of kinship had developed among the soldiers of the Theban coalition.

Men from the great cities of Thebes, Herakleopolis and Hermopolis all marched together, their ranks blurred and their companies intermingled in the aftermath of the battle. Their brotherhood was cemented in ways it had not been before, and men from distant cities now camped and ate together without organisation or military structure.

This far south, and in relative safety, their commanders did not have the heart to discipline them, for even at the highest level of command, friendships had formed and solidified between the cities. With the death of the Theban general Kaphiri in his attack on the Tanite flagship, General Ukhesh of Hermopolis was now the ranking commander under Pharaoh Takelot. The two spent long hours poring over logistical reports and reliving their battles, drinking the last of the king’s wine and grieving together what the war had cost their cities.

Great Chief Pediese of the Meshwesh had often joined them, until his warriors’ impatience had seen his forces depart at dawn on the fourth day, racing ahead of the main host to the small towns of his people that had risen near the Theban stronghold of Herakleopolis. The Libyan nomads had made a comfortable home for themselves along the river’s banks, though barely more than half were returning to enjoy it.

Finally, more than a week after he had turned his back on the war, Takelot called the column to a halt and gazed upon his city in victory. He knew that Shoshenq, usurper king and thief of his grandfather’s legacy, would even now be toasting a similar victory in Tanis.

Formerly his own brother’s seat of power, Takelot had wrested Herakleopolis from him when Nomarch Khonsefankh had betrayed Takelot in a fit of madness. Now the city was his, the heart of his kingdom in Middle Egypt that stretched from Memphis in the north to the First Cataract in the deep south.

Beside Takelot, Ukhesh halted his own chariot and looked out over the great city. He grunted as the pain of his healing wounds brought a deep grimace to his craggy features.

‘You will give us the honour of offering you and your men our hospitality a little longer I hope, general?’ asked Takelot. Sweat beaded his skin, running in fine rivulets down his temples and nose, the heavy cloth of the blue war crown sodden with the exertion of simply remaining upright.

‘If your wine stores are deep enough, then aye,’ Ukhesh replied, sharing the king’s thin smile as they ordered the advance once more.

The gates opened long before Takelot reached them, the news of his coming spreading through the city within the hour. As was his right, the king was the first one through the gates, leading his thousands of soldiers down the main way. The road reached from the northern walls to the marketplaces and temple precincts, but it was the nomarch’s palace that drew Takelot’s attention, where he knew the light of his life would be waiting for him.

Cheering throngs lined the streets, the mood of the people joyous for the moment, as they celebrated their king’s safe return and jostled one another in their search for loved ones. Takelot’s glittering scale armour shimmered in the sunlight, a dazzling sight that captured him in the image of the sun god Ra. He raised a hand in greeting, his gaze fixed straight ahead, and the civilians of the city cried out his name in adoration.

As they went further in, the people of Herakleopolis cast bundles of flowers and herbs and seeds of grain in his path, the offerings almost floating before him like a cloud before they fell to the ground and new offerings were cast up a moment later.

Takelot let the adulation wash over him, but found it did little to cleanse him of the worries and fears that haunted him. His left hand held the gilded railing of the chariot tightly. In his right hand, he held his great war bow. As tall as the king himself, it was a reminder of the reach of his royal power. He held it high and hundreds of faces gazed upon the weapon in awe. None, save for his driver, would ever see the trembling, white-knuckled grip of their king.

Takelot stirred at a hiss of pain behind him as the general’s chariot caught a hole in the road. Ukhesh’s wounds ran deep, and they would take many weeks to heal completely, though Takelot considered that the general’s newfound, gruff temperament would take far longer to soothe.

Ukhesh waved away his king’s concern, forcing a smile through his discomfort.

Takelot understood well enough, remaining upright by force of will alone. A bone-deep weariness had set in that would not be eased, not by sleep nor by wine. By the campaign’s end, both had been in short supply. He had not slept the night before, spending hours in prayer and ritual ablution, perfecting his image as the living link between earth and underworld. Thick lines of kohl around his eyes obscured most of his fatigue and powdered cosmetics the colour of ochre gave his skin a healthy glow, concealing the pallor that had seeped into his flesh.

He should not have been surprised by the toll. Three months had passed since their first departure from Herakleopolis. Three months of border skirmishes and raids and finally, almost a week of full-scale battle that had seen the armies of Thebes and Tanis reduced to ruins of their former glories. Mutual destruction had only been averted, truly averted, by the calling of a truce as Shoshenq turned his eye to more pressing battles in Assyria.

Takelot was not petty enough to discredit Shoshenq’s talents as a commander. Once the Assyrians were dealt with, and even against the remaining might of Tanis they almost certainly would be, the war between the rival kings was all but certain to resume.

The thought wearied him further, the knowledge that his sons might have to one day continue the war in his name diluting the relief he felt at this homecoming.

The narrow press of cheering crowds spread as the road opened into a grand plaza at the foot of the nomarch’s palace. The front rank of charioteers formed up before the first step, as formations of spearmen and archers filled out the square behind them

Two figures stood waiting at the top of the palace stairs.

One of them was Pekhtaft, the Chancellor of Herakleopolis, an aging but effective bureaucrat who had been instrumental in keeping the city together in the wake of the late nomarch’s madness. The other was the living image of Mut herself, his wife, his queen, the grace of the mother goddess given form. She cradled the White Crown of Upper Egypt in her arms as she smiled serenely down at the host assembled before her.

Takelot dismounted, handing the bow to his driver and began to climb the stairs.

Karomama Merymut stepped down to meet him halfway and greeted him with a curtsy, her expression grew tight as she realised the changes wrought upon her husband.

Fine, delicate fingers enfolded hands marked by scars and callouses. Takelot sighed at her touch, a flush of energy flowing from her hands to his before it settled deep within his chest.

Slowly, he reached up and removed the Blue Crown from his head. Worn by Pharaoh only in times of war, Takelot handed it to Karomama who took it reverently as he swapped it for the other.

‘Where shall I keep this now?’ asked Karomama, holding the blue in the crook of her arm.

Takelot settled the White Crown on his head, the signifier of the lord of Upper Egypt. He turned and waved, and the crowds pushed through the massed ranks of his soldiers for even a glimpse of him.

He looked sideways at Karomama, his expression doing little to hide his pain. ‘Within reach.’

Chapter One

The hour was late and pale moonlight fell upon the Precinct of Amun in Thebes. At the precinct’s heart, in a non-descript office given over to the scribes, the son of Pharaoh penned a reluctant message. But for a single desk and stool, the room was bare and devoid of all the trappings and decoration to which such a man might be accustomed. The chamber’s walls were smooth, featureless sandstone, an oddity given its position at the centre of a richly-decorated temple complex.

The chamber smelled lightly of smoke, and a soft glow illuminated the darkness as the few oil lamps still burning flickered their last. All was silent, but for the sound of a reed pen scratching across papyrus and the shallow breathing of a man on the threshold of sleep.

Osorkon rubbed eyes that felt full of sand and blinked away the afterimages of fire and flames.

Enemies, even sworn enemies, deserved to know the truth.

Osorkon reached for the carafe beside him, emptying the last few dregs into his clay cup. He swilled the remnants and drained it in one, wincing at the sourness but enjoying the numbness it suffused him with.

He picked up his pen again and kept writing, focusing on his penmanship. It had been far too long since he had taken pen to papyrus, and the shape of his hieroglyphs would have attracted the ire of any scribe teacher unfortunate enough to witness them. His position allowed him an army of scribes, if he so wished it, but this message needed to come from his own hand.

Osorkon paused, pushing down the images that assaulted his waking eyes and kept writing.

Hory’s death had been horrific to behold. Hung by his feet like a slaughtered goat by the traitorous priest Senmut, Hory had died in agony, no better than a common criminal. The parts of his dead brother-in-law that were not a desiccated ruin had still dripped with fat and viscera when they finally cut his headless corpse down from the heights of the palace roof. His remains had been carefully tended and delivered for mummification, but there had been precious little left to recover.

Hory’s skull was gone, shattered into shards when it fell loose with decay and smashed against the palace steps. His body was destroyed, far beyond the skill of even the most skilled embalmers of Thebes, though even now they attempted the impossible under royal decree.

Osorkon’s sister Isetweret, widowed and heavily pregnant, had been devastated. A prisoner in her own home during Senmut’s coup, she had been rescued by Pedubast, and later Harsiese, when the latter sprung himself from his own captivity. Only when Osorkon and his brother Bakenptah had retaken Thebes had she truly been freed, and the short-lived coup of Karnak put to the sword.

Osorkon’s hand trembled as the rage threatened to course through him again. He felt the reed pen in his hand flex to breaking point and with a shuddering breath he set it down and reviewed the missive intended for the greatest living enemy of Thebes.

‘To Shoshenq, Lord of Tanis,’ he read out loud. ‘As a gesture of goodwill during the state of truce between our respective cities, I write to you with unfortunate news.’

Osorkon frowned and blinked the hieroglyphs back into focus.

‘Should you yet have the traitor Nakhtefmut, former vizier of Thebes, in your custody, it is with regret that he be informed of the death of his son, Hory. Be content in the knowledge that his killers were convicted of crimes against the crown and were appropriately sentenced given the severity of their high treason. May Ma’at, in her eternal justice, forever watch over the Two Lands.’

He signed the end of the scroll as Crown Prince Osorkon of Thebes, son of Pharaoh Takelot, putting a flourish to the cartouche surrounding his father’s name. Satisfied, he sprinkled pounce over the drying ink and shook off the excess.

He looked up at the sound of light knocking at the door.

‘Enter,’ he said, reaching for the dagger strapped beneath his desk.

The door swung open soundlessly and a familiar figure stepped over the threshold.

Osorkon released the dagger and smiled thinly. ‘Second Prophet,’ he said in greeting.

‘It is time,’ said Harsiese.

Osorkon glanced up at the high window, the stars already fading in the face of predawn. He sighed and rose to his feet, wincing as pain shot through his back and shoulders, a sudden headache threatening to send him back down.

Harsiese nodded towards the oil lamps as another flickered and died. ‘When was the last time you slept?’

‘Yesterday? The day before?’ pondered Osorkon. ‘I thought retaking Thebes would be the most difficult part, but holding onto it again is worse. Gods above, at least the battlefield is clean.’

Harsiese raised a single eyebrow.

‘Relatively speaking,’ Osorkon said, with a thin smile. ‘Do you not agree, you who also have blood on your hands?’

Harsiese grunted. ‘I still see his face, you know.’

‘In your dreams?’

‘No, I sleep well now. Better than before, perhaps,’ said Harsiese, coming to sit on the edge of the desk. ‘I see his face when I wake up. And I see myself cutting out his heart.’

‘You never told me what it was like to kill your first man. The one that kept you captive.’

Harsiese was silent a moment. ‘It does no good to revisit it now,’ he said, the barest hint of a smile touching his features. ‘But I enjoyed it immensely.’

The Second Prophet’s smile faded, and he glanced at the sheer volume of scrolls covering Osorkon’s desk. ‘Even the great Imhotep asked for help, you know,’ he said.

Osorkon grunted in reply, wiping off the last of the pounce powder, as he had done two score and more times that night. Most of the scrolls were messages of support to the cities of the Theban kingdom, as well as correspondence between trading guilds and the mines and artisans needed to rebuild the damage done during Senmut’s coup. Osorkon rolled up the last of them, the one notifying a father of his son’s death, and rubbed his eyes again as he prepared for the labours of the day ahead.

With Hory’s death and the abduction of Harsiese, Osorkon had assumed the mantles of both Vizier and High Priest of Amun, governing the secular and the spiritual with the same iron will with which he had retaken the city. His new position relegated Harsiese to Second Prophet, a demotion that the older man had curiously taken without offence or rancour. Osorkon regretted the necessity of it, but Senmut had conspired and successfully wrested control of Thebes from under Harsiese’s very nose, a colossal failure for which a demotion was the lightest of censures.

Nonetheless, he would watch Harsiese closely, for the last days of Senmut’s doomed rule were tumultuous, and Osorkon had yet to ascertain the loyalties, and degrees of guilt, of all who were connected to the rebellion. Though he had issued a blanket pardon for all but the ringleaders, the prince was not fool enough to think his rule would continue without challenge.

‘I used to enjoy working here too,’ said Harsiese, tracing the edge of the desk with his fingers. ‘Out there it is too easy to forget who we really serve.’

Osorkon grunted. ‘I come here for the quiet. It rarely works.’

‘Then forgive the intrusion, but the Great God will not wait.’

‘He will wait for me,’ said Osorkon, sealing the message with his personal seal.

‘Word to your father?’ asked Harsiese.

Osorkon shook his head. ‘To Tanis.’

Harsiese bowed his head, nodding in grim understanding. ‘May Amun watch over him. Hory was a kind man.’

‘And his kindness got him killed,’ said Osorkon. ‘Isetweret is beside herself with grief, I am told.’

‘You still haven’t seen her?’

Osorkon stared up at the other priest. ‘She has all the care she needs.’

Harsiese let the comment go. ‘And the child?’

‘Healthy as far as the physicians can tell, but several days overdue. I do not blame it. This is a cruel world to be born into.’

‘It is,’ agreed Harsiese. ‘Shall we?’

Osorkon gestured for the other priest to lead the way. Despite the early hour, there were dozens of priests walking between the halls and temples, already conducting their duties.

Most, Osorkon noted, seemed to regard him with an air of wariness. The thought did not displease him. If anything, their fear might keep them in line a little longer while he re-established himself as the pre-eminent power in Thebes.

Harsiese had not been wrong. He would need help, Osorkon reminded himself as he spied a third figure waiting for them outside.

The man bowed low at the waist as Osorkon and Harsiese moved to join him. Clad in finery far beyond his former station, Pedubast looked every inch a priest born of nobility. Golden bangles adorned his wrists, armlets inlaid with filigree wrapped his upper arms, and a heavy torc lined with lapis lazuli and malachite hung from around his neck. His shendyt was pristine, belted at the waist with a beaded chord, and his skin shone with good health.

‘Amun smiles upon you, Pedubast. The finery suits you,’ said Osorkon.

‘Thank you, my prince,’ said Pedubast, before nodding to Harsiese, who returned the gesture. The two of them had grown close in the weeks since Senmut’s deposal, their friendship a natural evolution of men who had shared and survived mortal danger. It was Pedubast that had found Harsiese and secreted him away after the latter had escaped capture and torture. It was also Pedubast, along with his brother Iuput, who had also rescued Osorkon’s sister, Isetweret, from her captivity in the palace, though they had been unable to save her husband, the Vizier Hory. Impressively, Pedubast had done all of this while still playing the dutiful servant to the usurper priest.

Though it had been tragic circumstances that had brought the priest to his attention, Osorkon felt he had found a new and staunch ally in Pedubast and had awarded him accordingly. Osorkon had seen to it that Pedubast was immediately raised to Third Prophet, a meteoric rise that would no doubt cause the temple’s old guard to grumble when they knew the prince was out of earshot.

The position of Fourth Prophet of Amun, the last and least of the temple hierarchs, had been deliberately left empty, a stark reminder that the priesthood had much penitence to undergo before they regained his trust.

‘All of this is thanks to the generosity of brother Harsiese,’ replied Pedubast, gesturing to his rich attire. ‘Finer trappings than I ever thought of possessing in my youth.’

‘And now?’ asked Osorkon, his smile fading.

Pedubast shrugged but his eyes never left Osorkon’s. ‘Times change. Sometimes for good, sometimes for ill, but always they change.’

‘Wise words,’ replied Osorkon, ‘but some things are eternal. The service of the gods is one such thing, and we have kept Amun waiting long enough.’

Pedubast nodded and fell into step behind the two senior priests.

At each of the Tuthmosis portals leading to the Sanctum of Amun, temple attendants waited, bearing platters of food and offers of incense ready for the divine feast.

Harsiese stood before the sanctum door, taking a moment to collect himself before he untied the rope around the door handles and ritually unlocked the Holiest of Holies. He pulled open the great doors and stood aside, bidding Osorkon enter first.

‘Arise, oh Great One, your servants bid you come forth under the light of a new day,’ said Osorkon, stepping inside and kneeling before the altar. A small wooden chest sat atop a central plinth, gilded and crafted off the finest timber of the Phoenician trade.

Osorkon felt his fingers tingle at the power within as he reverently opened the twin doors at its front. Murmuring prayers of protection and devotion, Osorkon brought out the figure of Amun. No taller than his forearm, he settled it gently on a patch of linen and flowers in front of the chest.

‘How could you let all of this happen, O Great God, Father to All?’ he said quietly, gazing upon the glimmering golden idol. It seemed to shine with its own light, reflecting far brighter than the lamps arrayed around the chamber would suggest.

‘You who are supposed to guard this city, where were you, Lord of Heaven and Earth?’ Osorkon felt Harsiese shift uncomfortably next to him and sighed as the figure seemed to dim again.

‘Let us commence,’ said Osorkon, as he began to recite the spells and prayers necessary to summon the god’s attention and imbue the sacred space with divine presence. As he spoke, Harsiese pressed a burning brand to the small pots of incense arranged around the hall, filling the chamber with fragrant smoke, while Pedubast reverently handed Osorkon the linen coat with which to clothe the idol. The dirges spilled from his tongue, the words learned by rote and coming to him as naturally as remembering how to breathe or drink.

As the prayers came to a close, the prophets bowed their heads, and Osorkon called for the god’s feast. Platters of bread, fruit, dried fish and sweetmeats were arrayed beside carafes of wine, jugs of beer and containers of honey and seeds.

The servers left the divine fare at the entrance of the chamber, none daring to cross the threshold. Averting their gaze from the statuette, the servers whispered quick prayers to the god before retreating.

Pedubast and Harsiese rearranged the offerings around the altar, while Osorkon tore off a piece of bread and held it before the god’s mouth before pouring wine into a decorated cup and holding it likewise.

‘The god has feasted,’ he intoned after a moment. ‘Let his servants have his leftovers.’

The prophets put the food and drink back on the platters and handed them to the servers waiting outside, who took them to the outer portals for the priests’ own breakfast. The prophets followed them out, their station granting them first pick of the god’s leftovers.

Osorkon drained a mug of beer in one and picked a handful of grapes from the nearest platter as he turned to leave. ‘I will see you for the noon service.’

Pedubast stepped forward, catching his lord’s arm and leading him out of earshot of the other priests. ‘The temple is open until nightfall. We can manage the services before then. Go home and rest, Prince Osorkon. With respect, you look halfway to the afterlife yourself.’

‘Your concern is noted, Pedubast, but I will endure,’ replied Osorkon. ‘There is much work to be done.’

‘And many shoulders that may share in your burdens. You are not alone in this. That is all I have to say.’ Pedubast bowed once more and turned to rejoin the feast.

Osorkon went to reply, but Harsiese called out after him.

‘My lord, wait. There is a matter I would ask of you.’

‘If it is what I think it is, leave it unsaid,’ said Osorkon, already walking away.

Harsiese shook his head as he caught Osorkon up. ‘I cannot. The brotherhoods still speak of it, even if you will not. Burning Senmut’s body, denying him rebirth, will come back on us if we do nothing to soothe his spirit. A simple service, to ask for his shade’s forgiveness. That is all I ask.’

‘Is that a jest? Because I do not see the humour in it,’ snapped Osorkon.

Harsiese would not be dissuaded. ‘They will return and seek vengeance. Denial to the afterlife is enough to send a spirit mad with rage and grief. Even the child of a potter or grain farmer knows this.’

‘Do you not remember what he did to you? He abducted you and tortured you, almost to death. You would be dead if his thug were not such a vicious bastard who he enjoyed his torture too much. You would be dead, and we would not be having this conversation,’ said Osorkon, his eyes blazing.

‘He deserved death, this I do not argue, but to burn his body? And all the others…’

‘And now all those whisperers you speak of know the price of treachery. No one shall ever betray me or my family again. Their memory is gone. Never speak his name or any of the others in my presence again. Am I clear?’ hissed Osorkon.

‘But-’

‘You of all people, Harsiese, should know the full significance of erasing memory of a man entirely,’ snapped Osorkon.

Harsiese frowned and closed his mouth. His father had been king of Thebes once, long ago, holding the very religious and secular power that Osorkon now wielded. He had been a priest-king of nigh unlimited power, but he had stood in competition to Osorkon’s family, who had once ruled from Tanis, and for that he had fallen.

Branded a heretic pharaoh by Takelot’s grandfather, the pharaoh Osorkon II, Harsiese’s father’s monuments had been smashed and his cartouche removed wherever it was found. All reminders of the past had been buried with him, locked away for eternity.

That had been well before Takelot, before Takelot’s father even, for Harsiese the Elder had been entombed when Harsiese had been but a young boy.

No one, not even Harsiese, knew the location of his tomb any longer.

The fire died in Osorkon’s eyes, replaced with a deep weariness, and he held up a hand in contrition. ‘I ask your forgiveness. I spoke in anger. You are fearful. I can see it in your face and hear it in your words. Without remembrance their shades will be nothing but mindless ghosts, tormenting some backwater hovel. The magic of Karnak is unbreakable.’

‘I no longer fear for myself. I fear for you,’ said Harsiese.

Osorkon laughed. ‘You think I have marked my soul somehow?’

The Second Prophet shook his head sadly. ‘No,’ said Harsiese. ‘I know that you have.’

Incense smoke drifted in spirals through the air, fluttering through the open windows. The morning was cool and the sounds of life filtered up from the streets below. The Vizier’s rooms were a spacious suite larger than most houses, replete with a bath, a vanity of polished bronze, chests upon chests to store expensive fabrics, and extensive balconies for the suite’s occupants to look out over the city.

Most recently, the rooms had kept the line of Nakhtefmut, appointed by Pharaoh Osorkon II after the fall and death of the elder Harsiese. Ever in a rivalry with High Priest Takelot, it was Nakhtefmut that had fired the first symbolic arrow, plunging Thebes into civil strife with his accusations of witchcraft and heresy of the darkest nature.

Sentenced to die for his ambitions, Takelot had been spared the executioner’s blade by the military intervention of his sons, the princes Osorkon and Bakenptah. Caught unawares, Nakhtefmut had fled the palace in the dead of night, never to be seen again.

Gone, or dead for all the people of Thebes knew, the former Vizier’s chambers had been repurposed to accommodate Isetweret and her husband, Nakhtefmut’s eldest son, Hory, who had ruled as an ineffectual and puppet vizier in his father’s stead. In the coming days, it would become home and nursery to Nakhtefmut’s first and only known grandchild.

Isetweret lay on her side, pillows cushioning her head. A light sheen of sweat covered her face and chest, and dark circles ringed her eyes from too little sleep. Her skin was pale, and her scalp prickled as her natural hair began to grow back.

A light blanket covered her legs, and more pillows were tucked beneath a belly blotched purple and red, crimson streaks stretching from her navel to her hips. She was naked from the waist up, her breasts painfully swollen, and each movement brought an uncomfortable groan to her lips as she shifted position.

Beside her, a plate of food sat almost untouched. Though the fare was fit for a god, Isetweret was too exhausted to do more than lie on her bed and wait for Mut’s blessing to arrive. Her handmaidens had begged her to eat, for the child if not for herself, but in her despondency, she chewed only on dried bread crusts or small pieces of fruit and sipped only sparingly from the rose water.

None could convince her otherwise, not even her newest companion.

Karoadjet sat on the bed’s edge, her hand resting on Isetweret’s leg. In a city that was at once familiar and strange to her, the newfound friendship of her sister-in-law had been like a candlelight in the darkness, a tenuous thread that she had immediately grabbed onto and been pleased to discover was strong.

‘Is it uncomfortable?’ Karoadjet smiled, gazing at this daughter of Pharaoh. She had Bakenptah’s strong chin and Osorkon’s mystic olive eyes. There could be no mistake that she was a member of the family of Takelot.

‘It is now,’ said Isetweret. She was more than a week overdue, and Osorkon had seen to it that the royal physicians were given quarters within calling distance of the royal suite.

‘The child has grown big. A good start in life.’

‘Lucky me,’ said Isetweret. ‘I can no longer shave myself, nor fix my own wigs, and my wrists and ankles are so swollen I can barely get my own food and drink.’

Karoadjet raised an eyebrow. ‘You are the daughter of Takelot. Did you do all that yourself before?’

Isetweret frowned. ‘That’s not the point,’ she said with a sigh. ‘What a sight I am, swollen and bloated.’

‘Nonsense,’ Karoadjet admonished. ‘It is as though Isis herself is before me.’

‘The living image of Hathor more like,’ said Isetweret.

‘You are not a cow,’ laughed Karoadjet, and then shrugged. ‘Better than the living image of Bes, though.’

That brought a smile to Isetweret’s face, but it quickly turned into a grimace. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘I have prayed to them all and yet here I am, confined to bed and unable to see my own feet.’

Karoadjet lifted the blanket and glanced underneath. ‘They are still there, I assure you.’

Isetweret chuckled, her hand holding her belly. ‘Surely there is somewhere else more pleasant that you could be than here, caring for an invalid?’

‘We are family now. I have never had a sister before,’ said Karoadjet.

‘Nor I. Two brothers were more than enough,’ replied Isetweret.

Karoadjet nodded. ‘Will your mother and father come?’ she asked finally.

‘I have sent word to them, though I am yet to receive a reply,’ said Isetweret. ‘It depends on father’s war, I suppose.’ She looked out the window to the blue sky and world outside. ‘I imagine my brothers will be recalled to fight soon enough, and I will be left alone again. Not that it matters. I have seen nothing of your husband in weeks. Tell me, what is my big brother up to? I am sure you are more knowledgeable of his whereabouts than I.’

‘I would not count on it,’ said Karoadjet. ‘I have seen him all of twice since we have been back. He does not return to our bed at night.’

Isetweret snorted. ‘He has always been inclined to solitude in difficult times. Bakenptah was always the quiet one, but Osorkon was the one who would brood. At least Bakenptah would open up when pressed. I have never heard of Osorkon doing so, but he will come around eventually. He always does.’

‘I hope you are right.’

‘My brother is a complicated soul. He views the world in terms of accomplishments, which is fitting, I suppose, as a future pharaoh. He has now achieved you, a noble-born lady of exceptional beauty, as his wife. You will have to remind him on occasion that you are a living, breathing person who must be tended to with every bit of devotion as he shows to his battle maps and chariots.’

Karoadjet looked at her sister-in-law aghast. ‘How can you say such a thing? If I had known…’

Isetweret laughed without humour.

‘If that pretence at naivety is not feigned then you have my pity. It is the way of men. Many of them anyway. Help me up.’ Isetweret held out her arms, and Karoadjet hauled her into a sitting position. ‘Let me calm the fears of a young wife,’ said Isetweret, reaching for a date from the plate. ‘My brother does not go to another’s bed, if that is your worry. Osorkon is like our father in many ways, but most of all is his hunger for power. When others sleep, you will find him in the temples and war rooms, for there is always more to do. You will grow accustomed to it. You will have to. Gods willing, you will be Great Royal Wife someday.’

‘That frightens me,’ said Karoadjet quietly.

‘It should.’ Isetweret paused in her chewing. Her eyes closed tight, and she took a shuddering breath. The moment passed and she gingerly swallowed the fruit.

She glanced at Karoadjet and gestured to the food.

‘Eat, please,’ she said.

‘Do you know what it will be?’ asked Karoadjet.

Isetweret sighed, watching as Karoadjet tore apart a piece of bread. ‘I had always thought it a lie when mothers said they knew. But you do know. It is a boy, I am sure of it,’ she said, her expression darkening. ‘Another who will ride off to war one day and leave his mother alone.’

‘You will never be alone,’ Karoadjet said.

‘I will,’ snapped Isetweret. ‘You and Osorkon will leave for the Crag before long, and Bakenptah will go wherever the war demands. That will leave me here alone in this palace, piecing back together the fragments of my rule.’

At the mention of her brother-in-law, Karoadjet frowned. ‘Where is Bakenptah? I have not seen him in a week.’

‘He is hunting.’

‘Hunting, at a time like this? What is he hunting that is worth being away from his family?’ Karoadjet’s indignation brought the whisper of a smile to Isetweret’s lips.

‘The ones that did this to us.’

The thunder of hooves echoed throughout the narrow ravine, the pained grunts of dying men blending with the excitable whinnies of horses and the dull smack of arrows piercing flesh. Most of the slain fell silently, too exhausted to even scream as their lives were plucked from them by the practised aim of the Egyptian mounted archers.

Bakenptah guided his mount with his knees, his quiver of arrows fastened to the saddle. In one movement, he drew and loosed, watching with satisfaction as the arrow took a fleeing man high in the back. Around him, more than fifty riders reaped a tally twice their number and more, for their prey were exhausted and on foot.

There were no offers of surrender and no demands for it.

This was not a battle. It was a cull, and the Egyptians slaughtered the fleeing men with cold disdain. After the death of the pirate king Malkesh at the hands of Bakenptah and Osorkon, the warlord’s horde had fractured. Some had fled west to the lands of the Meshwesh, others east to the towns dotted along the coast of the Red Sea. Others still had made the arduous journey to Nubia where the bulk of Malkesh’s horde had been recruited.

Knowing well the horrors the horde had inflicted upon Egypt and its people, many defeated warriors had faced mob justice. Fleeing back through the very land they had raped and plundered only weeks earlier, many an unfortunate warrior had been dragged screaming to the nearest tree to hang. Some had escaped the wrath of Egypt’s people by giving the towns and villages along the river a wide berth, only to die of dehydration and heatstroke on the desert roads and become a feast for the scavengers.

Bakenptah raised his bow his bow again. The warrior had turned, defiant, trying to catch the reins of Bakenptah’s mount, but the prince nudged his horse back a step and shot the man down point blank. The arrow took him in the centre of the chest and he staggered twice before falling to his knees, vomiting blood. He pawed at the shaft buried deep in his ribs before his death throes sent him kicking in the sands.

Few of the horde had made it this far but it was those that Bakenptah had spent weeks hunting. He was sure that many would have made it over the Egyptian–Nubian border, and while that knowledge incensed him, the tribal lands of the Bagrawiyah were scarcely any safer. Bakenptah could only hope that the tribal conflicts of the area would swallow up the last of Malkesh’s bastards and spit their bones out the other side.

Bakenptah leaned low over the saddle as he spied one man left at the end of the ravine. The man looked over his shoulder as he heard the thundering hooves grow louder, regarding the Egyptian riders with terrified hatred.

The riders behind Bakenptah peeled away, leaving him to chase down the last survivor alone. The man had the look of a hyena to him, all teeth and sharp lines. A scar twisted the man’s mouth, pulling his lip up into a permanent sneer. His eyes were small and predatory. Animalistic terror pushed the man beyond natural endurance, kicking up dust as he sprinted towards the end of the ravine.

The prince stilled his mount with a faint pressure from his knees as he raised his bow. He watched the wind pluck at the fleeing man’s rags, seeing the dust drift in the breeze beneath his feet. Bakenptah released his breath and loosed, watching the arc of the arrow rise and fall. The arrow punched through the centre of the man’s back and pitched him forward onto his face, killing him before he hit the ground.

‘A fine shot,’ said Ikhet.

‘Kind of them to let us practise our shooting,’ said Bakenptah, nudging his horse closer to the fallen man.

He dismounted and knelt over to the body, plucking the arrow from his back and rolling him over. He unsheathed his dagger and slashed it across the dead man’s throat, grunting with satisfaction before he gripped the corpse’s ear and hacked it off.

‘Take your prizes, men. My brother will want to know how many. A sack of grain for every ten ears.’

The Thebans cheered as they dismounted and followed their prince’s example, cutting off the right ears of the fallen and stuffing them into small sacks.

Bakenptah rolled the corpse back over and pulled the necklace from around the man’s throat. The pendant was crafted from solid gold, the length and thickness of his thumb. The icon of the ibis-headed god, the patron of Hermopolis, glinted up at him. Bakenptah rubbed the grit from its surface and pocketed the image of the divine scribe.

‘The hunt was over too soon,’ said