The Curse of Ammon Read online

  Angash looked at him suspiciously. “Share what?”

  “Not here, you fool. People are already eyeing us. Once they know what happened, do you think they will spare us? Do you think they will let the town chief and the administrator live amongst them peacefully?”

  “Why would we live in this backwater? We will move to Babylon or Susa under the noble’s influence.”

  “That’s what you think. That is not what they plan. I want you to meet someone, but first let us go away someplace quiet.”

  “Who is not planning what?” Angash asked, and this time it was his voice that pitched higher.

  You are the one surprised now, aren’t you? You bastard.

  “You are not the only one in touch with them, idiot!” Babak said. “But we shall speak no more of it here!”

  Angash was aghast. “What—”

  “Not here!” Babak hissed. He then grabbed the man by his shoulder and pushed him. “Come with me.”

  They walked the narrow, dusty paths of the town. The light-yellow mud-baked citadel wall loomed ahead. It was a pathetic wall, but good enough to keep bandits and casual robbers away from the town. The walls protected the town on three sides, with the river and its marshy banks forming a barrier on the fourth.

  They had covered their faces with their turbans and looked like busy farmers on the way to something urgent. The few who recognized them paid no heed—after all, the new chief and the respected administrative officer often conferred with each other on official matters. Babak had served them since Cyrus’ time.

  They walked out of a narrow opening and a shallow bridge on to the marshy area. It was a broad dirty marsh, a mix of flowing rivers of open sewage from the town, thick mud, dry tree stumps, tall reed grass, thorny bushes, and rocky protrusions. The townspeople had access to a relatively clean section much further north than where they were now. At this time of the day there was no one in this section—for there was nothing to do here, except to fuck, get drunk, or fight, thought Babak.

  “His Excellency has other plans for the town,” Babak said. “Clearly he was clever enough to shield your name from me, and likewise.”

  Angash’s curiosity was piqued. He walked briskly with Babak—the men wore flimsy sandals and had to be careful here, lest they pierce their foot with the innumerable dry stumps that jutted from the ground. People had died when the wound suppurated and sucked sickness from the air into the body.

  They reached a thick, bushy area. Reed grew abundant here, rising almost as tall as the men.

  “We don’t need to go this far—” started Angash, who was now ahead of Babak, walking down a narrow path surrounded by bushes.

  And that was when Babak swiftly grabbed the greedy chief by his throat and stabbed him from behind, just below the rib cage. Angash grunted and gasped, but his voice died in his throat, and this far away there was no one to hear him shout.

  Angash collapsed. Babak leaned forward and stabbed him in the heart. The Chief struggled briefly before his eyes went cold and life left his body.

  Babak took Angash’s and scabbard. Satisfied that no one was looking, he dragged the body to the edge of a watery area. He tied a large rock to the feet, fashioning Angash’s gown as rope, and then pushed him into the water.

  Angash’s body sank into the marshy river.

  When he rushed back to the citadel, people were already chattering and running around—the guards had spotted Aberis’ men converging from all sides. Some rushed to him, asking anxiously what was happening. Babak sent word: The King of King’s forces are here, and he has been summoned to talk. Do not attempt to run, he cautioned, and do not exit the citadel with weapons in hand. That would be a certain death sentence, unless the noble had already decided to storm the citadel, raze the town, and kill everyone inside it.

  Soon, one of the soldiers from Aberis’ forces walked up to the gates. “Tell every villager within these walls to come out, unarmed. All of them. Children included.”

  Somehow, Babak knew that his world would be very different from that day, as he watched the frightened villagers walk out, one by one.

  PART I

  THREE YEARS LATER

  EGYPT

  CHAPTER 1.

  THEBES, 524 B.C.

  ABERIS

  Behind the magnificent temple of Amun-Re, on the eastern bank of the Great River, in the city of Thebes, there was once a vast empty field, stretching miles in every direction before the eastern deserts began. It was forbidden to occupy this land that was reserved for the temple administration. But now it was dotted with thousands and thousands of tents, men, and animals, all part of a vast invasion force under Shahanshah Khambujia, King of Kings Cambyses, of Persia. On the southern edge of this hive of frenetic activity lay a ring of tents belonging to the senior men of the expedition, with the King of King’s tent in the middle. It was no grand tent, and one might even be surprised by its modest size, for Cambyses was no stranger to a hard life and military living. He had governed rough areas in Babylonia and quelled many a rebellion on behalf of his father, Cyrus. Cambyses had traveled far from Babylon to Thebes. He shunned the Palace of Thebes, instead preferring to stay with his men as they prepared to travel south to invade the Ethiopian lands.

  This afternoon the King’s tent was busy. He sat in the sweltering heat, tolerating the fine dust that coated everything in sight. The servants swung the fans as hard as they could, but all they did was circulate the warm air and sprinkle sand on the sweaty men. But the heat in the tent was not what worried those that seated near the King of Kings—it was the news that a messenger had brought him.

  Cambyses was livid. He sat on a simple highchair, wearing his customary gem-studded tiara and blue flowing robes. He rocked back and forth, rubbing his thick, black beard. He massaged his temple and wiped the sweat off his eyelids. The messenger was still on the floor—prostrate and too afraid to look up. “Stand up,” he ordered.

  The man scrambled to his feet and wiped his face to remove the dust.

  “Tell it to me once more. You shall leave no detail,” the King of Kings said softly, but his barely contained rage was palpable. The court shivered even in the heat.

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” the messenger said, his voice barely a whisper. The courtiers were all silent, terrified of what the King of Kings might do next. He had already had a minister of the court whipped for suggesting that they send a negotiating party.

  “Everything.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. Where do I start?” He asked, nervously, fidgeting.

  “From the beginning!” Cambyses screamed, spittle flying from his mouth. The messenger flinched. The King of Kings had executed more than one man with unwelcome news in recent months.

  “Forgive me, Your Majesty. Yes. I reached the—”

  “What did you tell them? How many priests?”

  “I conveyed your message to them, Your Majesty. There are three priests and a Sybil, but the head priest is Amunperre. He is the only one allowed to confer with the Oracle of Ammon.”

  “What did you tell them?” Cambyses asked.

  "That you, Shahanshah Khambujia, the King of Kings, mighty King, Ruler of the World, King of Akkad, Sumer, Babylon, and all four corners, beloved of all gods, brighter than the sun, light of the Achaemenids, now the ruler of all of Egypt, appointed by the priests of Memphis, blessed by Her Divine Majesty, Goddess Neith, must be proclaimed legitimate heir to the Egyptian throne after the defeat of Psamtik.

  “That you have preserved their temples, worshipped their gods, and allowed Egyptian nobles to continue in their posts and collect tax. And that it is time for them to accept His Majesty as Pharaoh.”

  Cambyses grunted. “And?”

  The messenger fidgeted again and earned a strike from the guard behind him. “But they say it is too early to proclaim you Pharaoh. And that the Egyptian spirit is not yet extinguished.”

  Cambyses tugged on his beard. “Do these bastards not know that I have taken their Pharaoh captive? Tha
t by the grace of Ahuramazda and Marduk, I have defeated them, and most of their noblemen’s sons are dead?”

  The messenger said nothing, haplessly looking at others for help.

  “What else did they say?” asked Cambyses.

  “They say that the role of the Pharaoh extends beyond the realm of the living and that the Pharaoh must prove to be a great patron of the temples and the priests, beyond just praying for the gods of Egypt and making symbolic sacrifices.”

  Cambyses slapped his hands together, causing the messenger to flinch. “What does that even mean?” he asked, rhetorically, staring at the terrified man.

  “I do not know—”

  “What else did they say?”

  The messenger began to dance on his feet, his nervousness and fear palpable. Finally, general Artapharnes spoke. “There was something else, speak,” he ordered, his voice stern.

  The messenger looked helplessly at the people around, and receiving no help, he started again. “They heaped curses on you, Your Majesty.”

  Cambyses leaned forward. His eyes burning into the man. “What curses?”

  “They say that the Oracle foretells that the curse of Ammon will bury your soldiers.”

  “Bury us with what? Cow dung?” Cambyses shouted. His face had taken a ruddy complexion. “Who do these Ammonians think they are!”

  “I do not know, I–” the messenger stammered.

  “What else?”

  “Not much else, Your Majesty. They heaped insults on me for daring to bring the request, and they would not allow me an audience with the Oracle. I told them— I demanded—”

  “Wretches. They will change their tune when blood flows from their bellies,” Cambyses retorted. “What does Amunperre really want?”

  “I do not know—”

  “Useless,” Cambyses shouted. “Get out of my sight before I have your head!”

  The messenger scurried away, relieved at the dismissal. Cambyses turned to his trusted general, Artapharnes. “Artapharna, what do you make of it?”

  Artapharnes bowed to the King of Kings. “They are stubborn. The priests have too much power and hold great sway over their people.”

  “But do I not have a claim over the land after defeating the Pharaoh?” asked Cambyses.

  Artapharnes nodded. “That may be so, Your Majesty. But the priests are driven by the same desire for power and pleasure as everyone else. They fear that you will put an end to their influence and severe the heads of the corrupt.”

  “What do you think, Abrahasa?” he said, turning to a nobleman by his side.

  Aberis always welcomed the moments when the Shahanshah sought his opinion. It elevated him in the court. He puffed up with pride. “They wish to protect their greed, and they see you as the wolf out to eat their meat, Your Majesty,” he said.

  Cambyses shook his head, mollified by the thought that the resistance came from their fear. Aberis knew of the insidious rumors spread by the Egyptians about Cambyses.

  That he was mad and was losing his mind each day.

  That he spoke ill of their gods and conspired to destroy every temple.

  That he wished to kill the sacred Apis bull with his own hands and eat its flesh.

  That he would enslave every Egyptian man and relegate the women to brothels.

  Lies. All lies!

  Cambyses had done no such thing and had no desire to. He wished to bring Egypt to his dominion and was even willing to imbibe their ways. His father, Cyrus, had brought so many peoples under the Achaemenid empire and ruled them justly. Aberis recognized that Shahanshah Cambyses only sought to expand the empire to include Egypt. All they had to do was recognize his rule, pay him taxes and tributes, and accept certain administrative reforms.

  The King of Kings rose from the wooden chair and walked outside the tent, followed by Artapharnes, Aberis, and other members of the court. All around them was the energy of a powerful force. The Persian army was preparing for its invasion of Ethiopia. It was hot, and the fine dust kicked up by the hundreds of thousands of feet and wheels had created a yellow haze. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, dirt, river water, palm trees, cow and pig manure, hay, rose and lilac perfumes, and running sewers. Cambyses relished the sights and smells—no Persian, not even his great father, had ever set foot in Egypt as a conqueror, and he had done it. He watched quietly for some time and then flicked his finger towards Aberis. The nobleman walked next to the King of Kings.

  “Subduing the Ethiopian savages under the title of a Pharaoh would have been easier.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “The Priests of Ammon think they can dictate terms to the Shahanshah of Persia,” Cambyses said and spat on the ground. “They think that the powers conferred upon them long ago by their Pharaohs give them the authority to defy me, the one blessed by Ahuramazda.”

  “They are arrogant,” Aberis concurred. “And their hubris is intolerable.”

  Cambyses walked on the rough-cut path as his guards cleared the way. He coughed as the dust irritated his lungs. “A lion does not negotiate with hyenas.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Do they realize what foe they make of me? Do they not know what I did to them at Memphis?”

  After the defeat of Egyptians at the battle of Pelusium and emerging victorious at the siege of Memphis, Cambyses had sent off two thousand young Egyptians, including defeated Pharaoh Psamtik’s sons, to death.

  “They sit in their temple and think of themselves as invincible, Your Majesty,” said Aberis.

  Cambyses was quiet for some time. He rubbed the scabbard of his long royal sword, tapping on the gold-inlaid luxurious leather to loosen the dust that stubbornly clung to it.

  “How many men do we have here?” he said, turning to General Artapharnes this time.

  “About two-hundred thousand, Your Majesty.”

  “How many do you think the Ammonians have?”

  “If I were to guess, Your Majesty, no more than a few thousand,” Artapharnes said.

  “And yet, they stand against me.”

  “They rely on the desert between them and us, Your Majesty. They think their land will protect them. They do not know the King of King’s resolve, and nor do they understand the depth of his servant’s desire to prove his worth to the glorious Shahanshah,” Aberis said, referring to himself. Cambyses knew that Aberis saw an opportunity. The noble had waited patiently for years.

  Cambyses nodded. He knelt on the ground and gently rubbed his palm on the coarse rock and sand. He then stood and kicked the ground, raising a cloud. “Let us teach them that the sons of Ahuramazda do not fear a few grains of the earth!”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  Cambyses turned to Aberis. “You are a faithful servant, Abrahasa.”

  Aberis knelt in front of his Shahanshah. “And I will always be, Your Majesty.”

  “Then I might have a mission for you,” Cambyses said as he slapped his palms together, creating a small cloud of fine yellow dust.

  CHAPTER 2.

  THEBES

  BABAK

  Babak gently lifted his daughter to a sitting position and placed a clay cup of water to her lips. She was frail, and her skin felt like aged leather. The sickness that entered her a year ago, at the onset of his King’s invasion of Egypt, appeared to have only strengthened in its destructive power. His beautiful girl, just eight years old, no longer exuded the energy and joy of a child of her age. Her hair was falling off in clumps, her ribs and collar bones showed prominently, and there was no light in her eyes.

  Babak wondered if his softness towards his daughter was a result of his past, for it was certainly unusual, and his wife had often teased him about it. “She will get married and go away,” his wife had said, “don’t get too affectionate.”

  “Amastri,” he told her gently. “You must drink.”

  She turned her head away, protesting feebly. It was just weeks ago when she would still engage in more boisterous arguments, but those
days had ended. All she did now is grunt, say a few words, or cry silently. Babak’s heart hurt.

  I have prayed to Ahuramazda. I have prayed to Amun. To Isis. To Angramainyu.

  Nothing had worked. He wondered many times if the gods of Egypt were angry at the incursion of Persians—but why his daughter? She was innocent of any wrongdoing. Babak himself had never struck an Egyptian. His advice may have led to the death of the enemy, but such was the nature of war. Surely, if anyone was to be afflicted, it should have been him—not an innocent child. Not again.

  “You must drink,” he said, more firmly this time. His wife was away to buy bread and vegetables, and it was Babak’s turn to deal with their daughter. He reached around her face and pushed her cheeks towards him. This time she did not protest, and he made her gulp the water infused with some herbs that the Royal Physician said could cure the illness. They had been doing this for two months now, along with regular prayers to the many gods, but not much had changed. After she drank the medicated water, he laid her back on the reed bed and caressed her face. “You will be better soon,” he said, “and you will climb trees again like a monkey.” She smiled. Evil had taken away her strength but not her ability to smile.

  Babak left her side and sat by the side of his tent, leaning on the fluttering canvas. For the last three weeks, he had been struggling with a powerful conflict in his mind. The Royal Physician had told Babak that the cure to his daughter’s ailment could be found with the Oracle of Ammon. The physician said that Amastri’s illness was a type known to the temple priests who had the concoctions and incantations to heal the sufferer. The news infused some hope in him, and he was desperate to find a way to convince the King’s Court to release him from duty. But that hope had been dashed once the King of Kings, Shahanshah Khambujia, Cambyses, declared the invasion of Ethiopia, and Babak was included in the expedition. There was no question of seeking exemption—such requests were treated harshly, especially with those who were in the employ of the King’s inner circle. The army was preparing for the march, and Babak, as one of the administrative advisors, would accompany the King deep into the unknown land with hostile tribes.