The Curse of Ammon
To my readers, for the faith and support. I am eternally grateful.
The Curse of Ammon, Copyright © 2020 by Jay Penner.
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover designed by Jay Penner.
Printed in the United States of America.
First Printing: March 2020
https://jaypenner.com
v1.5 2020.04.05.22.08.16
Produced using Dan Goldynn’s Writer’s Toolkit v0.9.5
https://jaypenner.com/writers-toolkit
Table of Contents
AUTHOR’S NOTES
ANACHRONISM
CONVENTIONS
LOCATIONS
WATER AND THE DESERT
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1.
CHAPTER 2.
CHAPTER 3.
CHAPTER 4.
CHAPTER 5.
CHAPTER 6.
CHAPTER 7.
CHAPTER 8.
CHAPTER 9.
CHAPTER 10.
CHAPTER 11.
CHAPTER 12.
CHAPTER 13.
CHAPTER 14.
CHAPTER 15.
CHAPTER 16.
CHAPTER 17.
CHAPTER 18.
CHAPTER 19.
CHAPTER 20.
CHAPTER 21.
CHAPTER 22.
CHAPTER 23.
CHAPTER 24.
CHAPTER 25.
CHAPTER 26.
CHAPTER 27.
CHAPTER 28.
CHAPTER 29.
CHAPTER 30.
CHAPTER 31.
CHAPTER 32.
CHAPTER 33.
CHAPTER 34.
CHAPTER 35.
CHAPTER 36.
CHAPTER 37.
CHAPTER 38.
CHAPTER 39.
CHAPTER 40.
CHAPTER 41.
CHAPTER 42.
CHAPTER 43.
CHAPTER 44.
CHAPTER 45.
CHAPTER 46.
CHAPTER 47.
CHAPTER 48.
CHAPTER 49.
CHAPTER 50.
CHAPTER 51.
CHAPTER 52.
CHAPTER 53.
CHAPTER 54.
CHAPTER 55.
CHAPTER 56.
CHAPTER 57.
CHAPTER 58.
CHAPTER 59.
CHAPTER 60.
CHAPTER 61.
CHAPTER 62.
CHAPTER 63.
CHAPTER 64.
CHAPTER 65.
CHAPTER 66.
CHAPTER 67.
CHAPTER 68.
Thank You
NOTES
NEXT: SINISTER Sands
CREDITS
ALSO BY JAY PENNER
Enjoy these exciting books that transport you to an ancient world
https://jaypenner.com
See how the books are connected
The Atlantis Papyrus
US | UK | Global
The Wrath of God
US | UK | Global
The Curse of Ammon
US | UK | Global
Sinister Sands
US | UK | Global
AUTHOR’S NOTES
Writing ancient historical fiction poses its own interesting challenges. How do you describe concepts that did not exist at that time (be pedantic or accept anachronisms)? How close do you stay to history (go academic or take liberties)? Do you stay true to ancient sensibilities (e.g., treatment of women)? Can your hero be flawed, or should he be perfect? How much violence do you depict (too much for some, too little for some others)? I have tried to navigate these waters, and I hope that you will enjoy the book. If you notice any editing gremlins that have still escaped watchful eyes, please let me know.
ONCE YOU FINISH
I ask for your kindness and support through a few words (or even just ratings) after reading. I’ve provided review links in the end, and it will only take a few seconds (or minutes). Thank you in advance!
ANACHRONISM
an act of attributing a custom, event, or object to a period to which it does not belong
Writing in the ancient past sometimes makes it difficult to explain everyday terms. Therefore, I have taken certain liberties so that the reading is not burdened by linguistic gymnastics. My usage is meant to convey the meaning behind the term, rather than striving for historical accuracy. I hope that you, reader, will come along for the ride, even as you notice that certain concepts may not have existed during the period of the book. For example -
Directions—North, South, East, West.
Time—Minutes and Hours for smaller periods.
Distance—Miles.
Other concepts—Imperial, Stoic.
CONVENTIONS
The names largely follow Greek convention. In specific circumstances, I have used (Old Persian and Egyptian names.)
PERSIANS
Cambyses (Khambujia)—King of Kings, Shahanshah
Aberis (Abrahasa)—Nobleman
Eribaeus—Greek Nobleman
Ritapates (Ritapata)—Advisor
Babak—Advisor
EGYPTIANS
Psamtik—Pharaoh
Jabari—Advisor to Cambyses
Petubastis (the 3rd)—Pharaoh in Exile
Amunperre—Chief Priest of the Oracle of Ammon
LOCATIONS
Locations and modern equivalents. All are in modern Egypt.
Memphis—Mit Rahina
Thebes—Luxor
Aostris—Kharga
Horosis—Dakhla
Farrasis—Farafra
Ammon—Siwa
WATER AND THE DESERT
Scientists estimate than an adult can survive 3 – 5 days without water. This is under moderate, unsupervised conditions (some can last more and some less). However, one would be disabled long before death. Adults need about 3 – 4 liters of water per day for healthy operation, and this is under normal circumstances. Dehydration manifests itself in thirst, nausea, dry skin, headache and cramps, lethargy and confusion, fever, coma, and death following organ failure. There are documented cases of people dying within hours when lost in a desert under hot conditions and without adequate water.
An army of fifty-thousand, planning for, say, a twenty-day trek through a desert, would have to ensure availability of at least 1.1 million gallons, or 4,000 tons of water. This excludes food, protection, and soldiers’ belongings, and one can only imagine the immense and incredible undertaking of moving an army of fifty thousand through a hostile desert.
“…That the Persians set forth from Oasis across the sand, and had reached about half way between that place and themselves when, as they were at their midday meal, a wind arose from the south, strong and deadly, bringing with it vast columns of whirling sand, which entirely covered up the troops and caused them wholly to disappear. Thus, according to the Ammonians, did it fare with this army.”
Herodotus, 440 B.C.
The Histories by Herodotus.
Translated by George Rawlinson
PROLOGUE
ESHANNA, 527 B.C.
BABAK
___
Babak sat in his courtyard, drinking a strong herbal brew—water, salt, honey, rose extract—that his wife made. It rejuvenated him for the drudgery of the day—dealing with compl
ainants, mediating disputes, auditing tax records, writing property deeds, dealing with requests for the governor and king, managing town budget, adjudicating criminal mischief, taking stock of town granaries, overseeing military assignments—his duties were many as Eshanna’s administrator. His position was appointed by the elders of the town and ratified by the governor.
Babak had been the administrator for the last ten years—widely respected for his acumen, cunning, and fairness. He had proved himself on the battlefield for The King of Kings Cyrus and had retired after an injury. He was proud of his job, protecting his town from the whims of the Royal Court and the greed of the governors.
“Where are the boys?” he asked his wife.
His two sons were ten and twelve. His lovely wife had borne him the two boys he was immensely proud of. He hoped that one day they would grow to be magnificent warriors. They were the light of his life. Not that he did not love his daughter, but she would be gone in a few years as someone’s wife—hopefully a good man. But his legacy would live on with his sons.
“Out in the northwest grain fields, helping their uncle,” Roxana said, wiping her lustrous black hair away from her forehead as she squatted by the fire pit, boiling grain. He watched her affectionately. She had grown older, of course, having given him three children, and she still carried that gentle beauty and dignity. He remembered her in the initial days of their courtship—she was thin, but she had honey-smooth skin, dark and pretty eyes that shined, curly hair that fell all the way to her waist. She had a heart-skipping smile. It brought fond memories. How shy she was!
It did take Babak a while to get used to her ways. Unlike the women of his province, who were deferential to their husbands and offered no opinion of their own, Roxana made sure to let him know what was in her mind. Her mouth had sometimes embarrassed him in front of the elders, but over the years they had found ways to make her acceptable in public while retaining her ways in private.
Babak smiled. Helping their wealthy uncle in the fields earned the boys some barter, and they learned valuable farm skills. I would rather them wield the wheat than hold the sword, Babak thought. But the boys would be called to serve the empire when they reached twenty. They would also soon learn to tame a horse and ride one. He took a deep sip and let the bitter-sweet taste spread through his mouth. Then he walked to his wife and tickled her waist. She giggled and swatted his hands.
“Where is Amastri?” she asked.
Babak returned to the courtyard and silently walked behind his daughter. There she was, his pretty little princess, her head bobbing up and down as she played with her makeshift clay doll. Amastri was five—she would soon need to start helping her mother around the house. Babak hoped that one day his daughter would catch the eye of a senior official and be wedded to their family. While Babak had greater comfort than most others in this town, it was still a far cry from the luxuries of those that received the King’s patronage. But that patronage came after years of servitude, backstabbing, sycophancy, and sometimes murderous conduct—something Babak had never mastered.
“What are you doing?” He asked her gently. She looked up; her beautiful black eyes shone at the sight of her affectionate father. It was rare for him to hold or cuddle her—it was frowned upon, lest the girl grows without fear of the father. But sometimes, when no one looked, he hugged her tightly and smothered her with kisses. He knew she longed for those. Sometimes when no one was around, she would intentionally come and stand by him.
And he knew why.
He smiled at her. “Is that a dog?” He asked, looking at the clay figurine she had fashioned.
She shook her head. “It’s the King of Kings Cyrus!”
He threw his head back and laughed. “Well, you need more practice to make it look like a King,” he said, pinching her cheeks.
And just then a figure peeked through the courtyard gate.
Angash.
The recently appointed town chief—a delegate of the governor, and technically the man Babak reported to. Angash was a political animal—not from this town, and he had no love for its people. It was a punishment posting as far as he was concerned, and Babak knew that the unctuous man had set his sights on being transferred and getting into the good graces of the Royal Court.
But why was he here?
It was rare for Angash to come by Babak’s house. The Chief lived on the opposite side of the dusty citadel, and he would have to walk the dirty, cramped, dusty walkways to get here. Not something his implied royalty usually did, thought Babak.
“Angash! What brings you here? I would have come to you if you summoned me.”
Angash gestured him to come out. Babak told his Roxana that he would be back soon and stepped onto the busy street.
It was a calm and humid morning. Eshanna’s people went about their work—harvesting by the river, preparing meats, working in the metal shops, selling fruit, cleaning houses—and nothing foretold them what the day would bring. Babak walked with Angash until they reached a small open area near the west of the citadel. The man looked nervous and fidgety, but there was sickly excitement in his eyes.
“You look anxious,” Babak said, eyeing Angash’s restless fingers.
“There is something important to discuss,” Angash said.
But Babak knew better.
These were not normal days. The town had defied the new King of Kings who had imposed additional levies. In a frenzy the people had killed the tax collector and hung his body hung on city walls. The previous chief had sent emissaries to the Royal court for reconsideration. Such acts rarely went unpunished, and while Babak had not supported the murder, he was supportive of the town’s resistance. No king in their history had impeded on their freedom like Khambujia, the one Greeks called Cambyses. Cambyses, in his desire to show the empire that he was in charge now, had made many unreasonable demands and sometimes met resistance with brutal force. They had not heard from the emissaries and there was no news from Babylon on how their resistance was perceived. The only change was that the governor had demanded the dismissal of the previous chief and appointed a new man, Angash, in his place. Angash’s eyes darted to the people around, going about their work. He looked quite like Babak—lean, of similar height and stock, a sharp, long face with a generous mustache and beard. His fingers drummed incessantly.
“What is it, Angash?”
Angash’s voice began to crack. “They’re coming,” he said.
“Who is coming?”
“Who do you think?” he said, sharply. He was missing two teeth in the front, and it gave him an odd, clownish look.
“I don’t know, Angash,” said Babak, anxiously. “What have you done?”
“I’ve done what we should have long ago!” he said. “How foolish were you all to kill the tax collector? That too when the new King was flexing his muscles!”
“What have you done, Angash?” Babak shook the man’s shoulder.
Angash’s nervous look changed to a sly smile.
“Aberis is coming here with his Greek mercenaries.”
“Today?”
“Yes.”
“Why are they coming?” Babak’s voice rose an octave. A noble of The Royal Court never came to a town with the intention to deliver a lecture. What had this scoundrel done?
“They want those responsible for the murder, and then they want promises for the town to pay what the King demands.”
Babak leaned back on the muddy wall. Angash had deliberately sold them out. On this day, and for the next three, four hundred of the most able-bodied town men, former and current soldiers, were on leave. They were away to partake in a ceremony organized by Angash.
He deliberately sent them away to prevent organized resistance, leaving the town at the mercy of the forces.
“We will be fine, Babak,” he said. “Only a few need to fear.”
How wrong you are!
The Empire rarely relented—it responded to resistance through ruthless suppression and then pardoning or a
bsorbing the best into the forces.
What a stupid man, Babak cursed inwardly, and now his own family, a wife, two sons, and a daughter, were in terrible danger.
He had to act quickly.
“Who else in the town knows?”
“No one,” he said, proudly. “Only you.”
“With whom did you discuss the terms?”
“With two messengers from the court.”
“You have not met Aberis or any other commander from the siege force?”
Angash gave him an irritated look. “I used a messenger. He conveyed my words. And when Aberis sees that my words were true and the town surrendered with not an arrow shot or a man dead, you and I will receive our awards.”
“Where is the messenger?”
Angash sniggered. “At the bottom of the river. He knew too much. Keep your mouth shut and help me make arrangements.”
“Who meets His Excellency when he is here?”
“I will.”
“You said you never met him.”
“Yes, but my name is known, and my messenger has conveyed whom to look for.”
Babak eyed Angash. What a treasonous bastard.
“This was foolish. We should warm the people and let them run,” Babak said, still thinking through the situation.
“Are you mad? There is no running. Aberis’ men have already circled our citadel—we just don’t see them yet. They have us on the three sides, and we have the river on the fourth. Why would you run when we have the chance for reward and peace?”
“You should have talked to us!”
“Talk to fools who thought it best to hang a King’s man on the walls?”
Babak sighed. His mind churned like angry waters—trying to see the future.
Their fates.
He paused to think.
Then he decided what to do next.
“Come with me to the river, there is something I must share.”