by Mark Mellon
in Issue 101, June 2020
Ra-Horakhy’s golden falcon had begun his journey across the firmament. The bright red orb heralded yet another day in ancient Khemi. Peasants were drawn to the Ar’s black waters like insects to a wounded animal’s streaming blood. Men worked shadufs, a steady rise and fall as they scooped water from the river to dump into irrigation canals. Women carried heavy loads of clothing in baskets balanced on their heads down to the riverbanks to wash. Date palms hung heavy with brown fruit in the still, warm air. In the distance, hippos wallowed in the shallows. White ibises perched atop them and picked juicy insects from their thick, gray hides. Life continued in the same eternal cycle it had followed for thousands of years.
Kilt tucked high, Nedjes stood up to his knees amid the reeds, about to throw his curved throwing stick. A raft of ducks floated nearby, feasting on crayfish. There was a sudden loud outcry from downriver. Startled by the noise, the ducks flew away. Angry, Nedjes parted the tall reeds to learn the reason for the disturbance.
Over the millennia, many ships had sailed from the Great Green Sea down the Ar into Khemi’s delta, craft great and small from humble Greek merchant caiques to stately royal barges. Yet no ship in history could ever match the one that swiftly and steadily made her way upriver, powered against the current by stacked banks of oars, fifteen high on each side. The quinquireme rose like a wooden mountain from the water, her bulk so grandly overpowering, other ships had no choice but to make way.
Nedjes cried out in wonder and lamentation. “Behold, O Khemi, a great king comes to Inbu-Hedj to die. May Thoth-Thanatos guide his steps through the underworld.”
Ummashtart stood with Batnoam, her father’s vizier, on the Great Quinquireme of Tyre’s bridge. As the ship approached Inbu-Hedj, Khemi’s capital, the unintelligible, frantic screams, wails, and ululations from the riverbanks grew louder, more frenzied, punctuated by the steady, rhythmic swish made by hundred of oars rowed in tight synchronization.
Batnoam smiled. “Don’t let the peasants’ cries frighten you, Highest One. That’s how they show respect when a great man dies.”
“But Father isn’t dying, at least he may not. Not if the priests accept our tribute.”
Batnoam shrugged eloquently. “It’s the gods’ will, Highest One.”
A man approached and bowed low. “Highest One, King Abibaal asks for you.”
Concern troubled the young woman’s delicate features. “Thank you, Melkart. I’ll go to him. Batnoam, you will excuse me.”
Batnoam crossed his arms over his chest and bowed low. Ummashtart hastened down to Abibaal’s stateroom, followed by her handmaidens. Melkart turned to go.
“Oh, Melkart.”
“Yes, Lord Batnoam.”
Head and shoulders taller than the squat Batnoam, Melkart wore a long linen kilt. His thick, blue black hair and beard stood out starkly against his burnished bronze skin. A lion skin served as a cloak to cover his sturdy frame. A powerful intensity simmered in his jet black eyes.
“Is the tribute ready to be taken to the temple?”
“Yes, Lord. The slaves have been unchained. They’re ready to unload the hold after the ship docks.”
“Remember, this is five years worth of taxes, all the treasure in Tyre. It must be kept safe.”
“I shall guard the tribute myself, Lord.”
“It takes more than one man to guard King Abibaal’s heavenly ransom, even one such as you, Melkart. That’s why I hired Aias and his mercenaries. Enough, you tire me. Go away.”
Melkart bowed and left. Batnoam anxiously paced the deck.
The quinquireme reached Inbu-Hedj. Tightly clustered on the Ar’s left bank, the city stretched for nearly a league. Most of Inbu-Hedj lay in ruins, fine temples, grand palaces, and public squares tumbled down eons ago into battered rubble, fit now only to shelter beggars, cutthroats, and jackals. Mud brick shacks with palm frond roofs huddled against the half destroyed ancient outer wall, repeatedly breached by time and stone pilferers. Townspeople held their arms high in blessing as they shouted prayers. A weathered gray necropolis sprawled on the flat, waterless plain beyond the city, vaster than Inbu-Hedj and even older, filled with columned, crumbling tombs, their inscriptions faded into illegibility centuries ago.
The Temple of Thoth-Thanatos dominated Inbu-Hedj, a steep walled complex built entirely from smooth black basalt high atop a terraced, manmade hill, a forbidden district where only fully initiated, black robed priests could enter. The Temple was the reason for the long, perilous journey from Tyre. Here Abibaal hoped to bargain and plead for his life in a last, desperate bid to beg the Khemite gods to intercede and show mercy.
“Prepare to dock. Up oars,” the captain cried.
With one smooth, precision swoop, the oars lifted high. Pushed back by the current, the great ship instantly lost way. Sailors threw out hempen lines to dockhands who looped them around stone pillars and slowly pulled the ship alongside the long wooden pier supported by piles driven into the mud.
“Make the ship fast.”
Multiple lines were tightly lashed to stone bollards on the pier’s edge.
“Drop anchors.”
There was a noisy, metallic rattle of iron chains. Two great, carved granite stones hit the water with enormous splashes.
“Steward, throw coins to the dockhands.”
Bronze coins rained down. A brawl broke out among the dockhands.
“Lower the gangways.”
Brawny sailors dragged out two broad wooden ramps. They lowered them to the pier with help from the dockhands, and secured the gangways tightly with thick ropes. The poor gathered around, thin, malnourished, clad in rags, arms outstretched to beg for alms, their eyes surrounded by thick nimbuses of black, buzzing flies.
“Please, coins for bread so Thoth-Thanatos will ease your lord’s way to the Night Land.”
Sailors with whips and clubs ran down the gangways. They drove the beggars away with blows, kicks, and curses. Led by burly Aias, fifty heavily armored Greek hoplites marched down a gangway in orderly twin files. Armed with long spears, swords, and figure eight shields, their bronze armor clanked as they formed a defensive perimeter. Aias held his spear high to give the all clear.
“Melkart. Unload the tribute,” Batnoam shouted from the bridge.
Horns sounded. Slaves swarmed antlike from the hold and down the gangways. They carried litters heaped high with enormous bars of gold, silver, and electrum, ivory tusks, and cedar and ebony chests filled with treasure, rare gems and valuable jewelry of incomparable Cretan workmanship. Woven baskets borne on women’s heads were brim full of myrrh, frankincense, antimony, mastic, and silphium. Giant amphorae full of the finest olive oil and wine from Mykenai were carefully loaded on wheeled carts and padded in straw. Sacrificial animals were led out, fine, pedigreed horses and champion bulls, all pure jet black.
Melkart organized the slaves into a long column behind the screen of Greek hoplites. He went among them, gave encouragement and rebukes as necessary, helped men to steady their loads. By main strength, he pulled heavily loaded carts into line single handed. His stentorian, booming voice demanded everyone’s attention.
“Stay behind your banner. Listen for my commands. We’re about to leave so everyone get a good grip on your load. Sikarbaal. Are you ready?”
The young Sidonite at the column’s far rear end enthusiastically waved a red banner on a long pole. Melkart waved his blue banner back.
“We’re ready,” he shouted to Aias.
The big Greek drew himself up and gave orders. “Attention. Shoulder arms. Right face.”
The hoplites turned with a great crash of arms. Informed all was prepared, Batnoam and Ummashtart came down a gangway, attended by their retinues. They took their places at the column’s head in gold and silver chased, canopied palanquins, each borne by a dozen husky Edomite slaves. The palanquins were lifted high at Batnoam’s command.
“Go, Melkart. Don’t waste time,” he shouted.
Melkart waved his banner. Drummers banged out a medium tempo. The tribute bearers set out in fairly good order as they marched to the drums’ steady beat. Taskmasters urged them on with horrible curses and blows from sticks. The hoplites split into two files. Each file guarded a flank with a small rearguard. With over five hundred heavily burdened slaves, the column made slow progress down the Kings’ Avenue, the winding, irregularly paved street that served as Inbu-Hedj’s main thoroughfare. The poor crowded along the street’s edges, begging for alms, unsatisfied by the few bronze coins Batnoam periodically threw to them.
They reached a marketplace, filled with townspeople shopping among the rows of wooden stalls for roots, vegetables, dates, and bread. The crowd barred the way ahead. The column staggered to a halt.
“First squad. Clear the way,” Aias shouted.
Five hoplites ran ahead of the column. They beat Khemites with their spear butts and kicked over flimsy stalls while they hooted threats and curses. Townspeople fled in all directions. The column resumed its progress through the now deserted marketplace.
The Kings’ Avenue ascended from that point. High above loomed the Temple’s smooth, sheer, cyclopean walls, impenetrable, unscalable black bastions a hundred cubits high and fifty cubits thick. A steeply graded, high stepped processional way built of gleaming white limestone led to the Temple. Batnoam pushed aside the canopy’s curtains and pointed with his golden fly whisk.
“Go on.”
Groaning from the effort, slaves gasped as they carried their burdens up the processional way between two monumental rows of granite, ram’s head sphinxes. Bodies ached from the strain. Worn out by years of overwork, slaves even died, only to be dragged aside with other slaves shoved into their places.
The processional way ended before a courtyard that faced a massive gateway. The blank, black stone gates were shut. At Batnoam’s command, the palanquins were set down and he and Ummashtart got out.
“Display the tribute.”
Bannermen spaced out to show the slaves where to put their loads. Jewels, precious metals, tusks, perfumes and incenses, oil and wine were set forth, proof of the King of Tyre’s near immeasurable wealth and his willingness to sacrifice it all for the sake of continued life. When the tribute was arranged and the slaves sent to wait at the processional way’s foot, Batnoam and Ummashtart approached the gateway. Splendidly clad in cloth of gold, weighed down by jewelry, his face heavily made up and clad in a traditional Khemite headdress, Netboam held his arms high in supplication.
“O Nyarlathotep, Grand Hierophant of the Temple, servant of Thoth-Thanatos who rules the Moon, Lord of man’s eternal fate, hear my plea. My master is Abibaal, High King of Tyre, Sidon, and Byblos, wealthier and mightier than even the King of Ugarit. I am Batnoam, his faithful vizier, lord of many thousands. A wasting disease lies upon King Abibaal that withers his limbs and turns his water black. Death is near, a miserable fate for so brave a king who’s known only forty summers. See Ummashtart, his daughter, a high and royal lady, abase herself before you to beg for her father’s life.”
Ummashtart removed her robe and gave it to a handmaiden. Clad in a white linen shift, she knelt, bent her head low, and heaped sand onto her thick, dark locks in ritual abnegation and obeisance.
Batnoam pointed to the treasure massed behind him. “See the tribute King Abibaal has brought to pay the Temple honor, more treasure than any supplicant has ever brought before. Hear my plea with favor. Accept the tribute and restore King Abibaal to health.”
Batnoam held his arms out in entreaty. There was nothing but silence from the Temple. The gates remained firmly closed. An angry rumble arose from the city below as news spread of the attack on the helpless marketgoers. Aias went to Melkart.
“We should leave before the locals riot. With so few men, we might not be able to cut our way through.”
“You should have tried throwing coins first at the market. They wouldn’t be angry then. Be patient, Aias.”
Aias’s shrugged and resumed his place at the hoplites’ head. More time passed. Batnoam anxiously paced back and forth. Ummashtart sternly fought back tears. The slaves cursed at the prospect of having to carry the rejected treasure back to the ship.
There was an awful grinding, the sound of massive stone gates slowly turning on prodigious pivots. The gates swung open to reveal another courtyard, bigger than the first, draped in shadows. Men emerged, tall, muscular, coal black Kushites clad in dirty white loincloths, their impassive faces mute and blank as the temple walls. With contemptuous ease, the slaves shouldered the litters and carried them inside the temple. In moments the treasure was gone, absent as if the assembled wealth was never there.
Ummashtart watched, her face bright with hope, eyes alert for any sign, any hint of a positive message. The terrible, deep grinding began again. The gates came together with a heavy crash.
And once again, there was nothing but silence from the Temple of Thoth-Thanatos, the uncanny stillness of the grave, of death.
Ummashtart wept piteously. Her handmaidens comforted her. The noise from below increased in volume. A crowd was forming on the Kings’ Avenue, a mob armed with stones and clubs.
“We must go,” Batnoam said.
He led Ummashtart to her palanquin and then went to his.
“Melkart,” Batnoam cried. “Drive them away.”
“Yes, Lord.”
Melkart armed himself with a helmet, shield, and a knotty wooden club. The hoplites charged the mob with Melkart and Aias in the lead. Stones and potsherds rained down, but the hoplites held their shields high and double timed into the crowd. They hit the mob like a whirlwind. Hoplites drove spears into men’s stomachs, lopped off limbs and heads with swords. Melkart’s blows rained down with such force, rioters were literally knocked flying. They hit the ground as broken heaps. Undisciplined and unused to organized mayhem, the mob broke up and fled.
Freed from their burdens, the long files of slaves quick trotted through Inbu-Hedj, back to the quinquireme’s safety. The hoplites formed a protective cordon around the palanquins. The mob was dispelled, but the city’s poor were still in an ugly mood and wanted revenge. Women and children screamed abuse at the column from safe distances. Men hurled down stones from rooftops until a few well aimed long arrows from Melkart’s bow deterred them.
When they reached the deserted dock, Batnoam and Ummashtart raced first up a gangway, guarded by hoplites. Grateful for shelter from the aroused, angry Khemites, the slaves needed no urging to hurry up the gangways and down into the hold. Melkart was the last to embark. A heavy guard was mounted, sailors armed with bows, while the hoplites stayed in armor, in case another mob attacked.
When word spread Abibaal’s tribute was accepted without answer by the Temple priests, laughter rang throughout Inbu-Hedj as the poor mocked his plight. He was now the most hated man in the city, scorned as one abandoned by the gods, unworthy of intercession no matter how much worldly wealth he offered. In the royal quarters on the stern’s uppermost deck, wails of lamentation went up from Abibaal’s many wives, certain now nothing would save their lord. Ummashtart wept with them, her handmaidens also. There was only mourning and grief aboard the quinquireme as Ra-Horakhy’s golden falcon slowly descended to the western horizon, ready once more to journey through the underworld.
***
That night, Thoth’s crescent, ivory moon limned Inbu-Hedj’s mean streets in bright silver, low in the cloudless Khemite sky. The poor settled down to sleep in what shelter they had. Aias posted two squads as a watch, but let the other men sleep, with the first watch to be relieved after two hours by the bridge sandglass. In Abibaal’s stateroom, Batnoam and Ummashtart waited upon the dying man. Abibaal was also attended by Eshmouniaton, his physician. The chamber was brightly lit by oil lamps. Ummashtart bowed low while Batnoam prostrated himself.
Abibaal lay upon a cedar bed, wasted to a husk, without enough strength to even lift his head from his pillow, the frail remains of what had been a strong, robust man only scant months before. He smiled with an effort. His voice was a barely audible, dry rasp.
“Rise, Batnoam. So they took my treasure, but offered no prophecy. A poor bargain, eh?”
“The priests of Thoth-Thanatos are notorious for their strange, unpredictable ways, my King. Other lords have been kept waiting at their leisure in the past. This may be a test of faith to see if you have the patience to await word.”
Abibaal frowned. “No, Batnoam. They gave their answer. The gods have abandoned me. I’m going to die here and soon. I don’t have strength for the voyage back.”
Ummashtart took Abibaal’s withered hands in hers. “Father, don’t say that. We haven’t tried everything yet. There are others beside the priests of Thoth-Thanatos, mages who live in the necropolis.”
“Fakirs and snake charmers, daughter, who’ll promise anything for gold. Have the Khemites mummify me. That way, I won’t rot on the journey back to Tyre.”
“Father, I-“
“Ummashtart. I am still your father and the King.”
The high spirited young woman was about to answer, but refrained. There was a flash of the old fire in Abibaal’s dark eyes, a warning his will still must be obeyed. She bowed low. Eshmouniaton nervously cleared his throat.
“Do not tire the King any more. I’ve prepared a potion from hemp and opium so he may rest.”
Batnoam and Ummashtart bowed low and left the stateroom. The vizier waved for Ummashtart to follow him. Out of earshot from anyone else, he spoke to her in low tones.
“Highest One, are you serious about going to the necropolis to seek a mage to cure the King?”
Ummashtart eagerly nodded. “Yes, I am. My handmaiden Nenet is from Inbu-Hedj. She knows the necropolis and which mage to seek. Later tonight, once the moon sets, she’ll lead me there.”
Batnoam shook his head. “You can’t take a risk like that, Highest One, not without a guard. Let Aias and his hoplites accompany you.”
“No. They’ll only draw attention. Nenet says if we wear black cloaks and stick to the shadows, no one will see us. I trust her, not those clanking hoplites. I know you care as much about my father as I do, Netboam. This is the only chance left.”
“You are the King’s daughter, Highest One, brave like him. And you’re right. This is the King’s last chance. I’ll tell Aias to let the guard have you pass. But promise me you’ll be careful. Don’t take any risks.”
“I won’t. Thank you, Netboam.”
Another two hours passed by the sandglass before Thoth’s silver eye dipped below the horizon, plunging Inbu-Hedj into near total darkness. Anxious to go, Ummashtart was relieved when Nenet handed her a cloak and signaled for her to follow. Ignored by the guards, they crept down a gangway onto the dock and were soon deep inside the city. Nenet held her hand as she led Ummashtart down winding narrow alleys flanked by mud brick walls. They kept to the shadows, avoided fires, and ran from the sound of approaching footsteps. Only footpads walked the streets at this late hour.
Pampered and sheltered from birth, Ummashtart soon tired as they walked down featureless, seemingly endless, smoky, dark streets. She was already exhausted when they finally clambered down a breach in the outer wall, out to the open plain. The necropolis lay some distance away, indistinct black bulks. Jackals howled nearby. A chill, sharp wind blew from the desert. Ummashtart shivered.
“Come, mistress. We still have far to go.”
When they reached the necropolis, Nenet took Ummashtart deep into the convoluted, ruinous maze composed of countless tombs, some still grand and imposing despite advanced decay, most simply reduced to rubble heaps. They passed remnants of once grand colossi, titanic statues of long dead pharaohs and their viziers, heads and torsos tumbled ages ago into the humbling dust. The smell of musty decay was everywhere. The path was littered with broken bones chewed by jackals. A skull’s empty round eyes stared up at Ummashtart.
“This way, mistress.”
They walked around an enormous statue head that lay on its right side, fifty cubits high even though half shattered. There was a small, open space, dimly lit by starlight.
“There. Kill them, dog brothers!”
Three Khemites leaped from the shadows, clad in headdresses and loincloths, short swords in their hands. Nenet screamed. Ummashtart put her hand to the dagger at her girdle. The men rushed at them.
Before the footpads reached the women, another man silently ran out, tall, armed with a spear and shield. Melkart held the spear high in an overhand grip and drove it into the leading man’s throat.
“AAAAAAIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEE!”
The footpad fell dead to the ground. Melkart stepped forward and whirled the spear in a long arc. He caught another man on the chest, tearing a large, deep gash. The man screamed from the pain. With one man already dead and another badly wounded, the remaining men escaped, their wounded comrade supported between them. They were lost to the darkness. Melkart wiped his bloody spearhead with the dead footpad’s headdress. He went to Ummashtart and bowed.
“Highest One, I saw you leave the ship and followed. Inbu-Hedj isn’t safe.”
“I’m grateful you did. Netboam said we should have a guard. He was right.”
Melkart frowned. “The vizier knew you left the ship? He was unwise to let you go.”
“Nonetheless, he did. And now escort me to the mage. Will you obey me, Melkart?”
“Of course, Highest One. It’s my duty to guard you and your father.”
Nenet guided them to a small, well preserved tomb. They smelled a fire as they drew near. A small boy clad in jackal skins stood before the columned portico. He bowed low.
“My master awaits. Please enter.”
The tomb’s interior was dimly lit by the fire and an oil lamp. Hung by a chain from a tripod, a meat stew simmered in a bronze cauldron over the fire. An old man sat crosslegged at the foot of a hulking sarcophagus, wizened, toothless, bald head slumped, the only sign of life a thin trickle of drool from his mouth. The boy propped him up.
“My master, Sabetho, greatest mage in Khemi, will hear your questions.”
He set a three legged stool before Sabetho. Ummashtart sat down and bent low until she was close to Sabetho, entreaty plain upon her face.
“Great mage, lift the curse upon my father, Abibaal, King of Tyre. Give him his life.”
Sabetho coughed. The harsh rattle shook his feeble body. He spoke, an unintelligible mumble, slurred words mixed with coughs and gasps for air. The boy went to Sabetho with a leather pouch. He slipped out two small, semicircular blocks of wood and, with the ease of long practice, gently inserted them into his master’s mouth. Sabetho snapped the wooden blocks together a few times. He spoke again, this time understandably, in flawless Phoenician.
“Too late, Ummashtart. The curse upon your father cannot be undone. Not even the gods of the underworld possess the power. He must die.”
Ummashtart cried out in despair. “Surely you can do something, great mage. Please help my father.”
“There is no escaping his fate. His thread will be severed when Ra-Horakhy’s golden falcon rises to greet the Ar. Yet I can provide what the black priests denied him, a straight path through the Land of the Dead and the way to appease Thoth-Thanatos. Abibaal will enjoy eternal life. Yet be wary, for a high price attaches to such salvation.”
“If my father can’t live any longer, I want him happy in the afterlife. Name your price, Sabetho. Green emeralds, red gold and white silver, a treasure trove of spices, all of Tyre’s riches, yours for the asking.”
“I need an even greater sacrifice than that. Someone must accompany Abibaal’s ba, his spirit body, on the long journey through the Underworld. A guide must protect him from the many demons, someone who will plead his cause before Thoth-Thanatos, someone without fear, at the risk of life and soul.”
Ummashtart drew herself up straight and tall, the daughter of generations of kings. “I will accompany my father.”
“No, Highest One. I’ll go.”
Melkart strode over to Sabetho and squatted beside him. “Tell me how I go about this, sorcerer. I’m curious. And boy, fetch some stew and wine if you have any. I’m also very hungry.”
***
As Sabetho foretold, Abibaal’s breath grew ragged and sparse with the dawn. His features were so drawn, his face resembled a skull. He lay still as a corpse. Clad in somber sacerdotal finery, Hamilcar the high priest waved a censer that filled the stateroom with white smoke and burning myrrh’s acrid scent. Eshmouniaton took Abibaal’s pulse yet again. The wailing from Abibaal’s wives was loud and continuous with a steadily mounting note of hysteria. Ummashtart knelt by the foot of the bed and prayed. Melkart stood with his head respectfully bowed. Netboam entered the stateroom. He choked on the smoke and futilely waved his arms.
“All these people here won’t help the King. Melkart, get back in the hold where you belong.”
“No, Netboam. He’s here at my command.”
Netboam gave Ummashtart a momentary sharp look, but instantly recovered with a warm, deferential smile. “Yes, Highest One, if that’s your will.”
“I fear the moment has come,” Eshmouniaton cried.
Abibaal’s mouth gaped wide as he tried to draw air into lungs that flexed no more. His eyes opened full, but stared without seeing. Ummashtart wept.
“I’ll always love you, Father. Always.”
Abibaal threw up one hand as if about to speak. Melkart went to Abibaal. He bit down on the sacred tana leaves Sabetho had given him. He put his face by Abibaal’s, his mouth open.
Abibaal emitted a long, horrible, gurgling moan, the death rattle come at last as his soul departed his body. The ba flew into Melkart’s mouth, through his body, and to the underworld, carrying the giant Phoenician along, away from the land of mortals.
***
A pink river fed a lush purple delta bound by high iron walls. Hippos frolicked in the river while lions and cheetahs coursed on the lush plains beyond. In the far distance a vast lake of fire burned eternally. They stood amid a forest of trees carved from solid turquoise.
“Where are we, Melkart?”
A pale specter stood beside him, recognizable as Abibaal, but still wan, weak.
“Duat, the underworld, my lord. I’m to accompany you.”
“That’s asking too much of you, Mel-“
A horrid, loud chitter interrupted them. From out of the forest, a giant, gleaming, bright green dung beetle thundered, pincers open and held forward, headed straight toward them.
“Get behind a tree, lord.”
Melkart ran forward to confront the beetle. The armor plated monster bore down on him, but he nimbly ducked away, and brought down his sharp sword as he did. He cut the beetle’s left foreleg in half.
The dung beetle whirled with surprising speed. The enormous insect threw itself atop Melkart, pinning him in place. The monster spread his mandibles, about to bite Melkart’s head off. He wrestled his sword arm free.
Melkart rammed the sword into the gap between the beetle’s head and thorax. Black, stinking ichor streamed down onto him. The beetle wildly clamped its mandibles, but Melkart shoved the head away with his other hand and dug the blade in deeper. The insect still moved his legs feebly, but was plainly close to death. Melkart wedged his legs under the beetle and kicked it away from him. He sheathed his sword and returned to Abibaal.
“Now you see why you need me. Come. There’s a long way ahead.”
***
They traveled through cruel, treacherous Duat, down a gleaming path only Abibaal could discern along with other faint wraiths, dead souls who timidly sought their way by the light of Ra-Horakhy’s golden falcon as he sailed through the underworld each night. They had to pass mounds and caverns beside the path where ferocious, beast headed men lurked in wait to kill and eat unsuspecting, unwary souls.
The monsters charged forth to devour Abibaal’s ba, but each time Melkart stood ready to defend his master with his sharp sword and incantations taught to him by Sabetho. Melkart fought the rat headed one who dances in blood until the demon’s own blood lay spilt upon the black earth. He struck the mongoose headed one who lives on snakes with such furious blows that the beast threw away his wooden club and ran screaming. After each victory, Abibaal’s spirit was permitted to travel further down the winding path to the gods’ sanctuary. There he would face his last, most terrible ordeal, the judgment whether his soul would survive or die.
After many weeks of travel, Abibaal and Melkart came at last to a roofless temple set high upon a soaring mountain. Carved from the living rock, a processional way led to the summit. Plainly near the end of his tether, Abibaal stared up hopelessly at the lofty mount. His shoulders slumped and tears streamed down his cheeks. Melkart smiled reassuringly.
“Come, my King. I’ll help you through to the end.”
Melkart and Abibaal climbed the high marble stairs to the flat summit, capped with smooth flagstones. A host of gods great and small stood inside the temple, their figures comical and terrifying, strange and incomprehensible. Greatest among the gods and in pride of place were jackal headed Anubis, god of the underworld; winged Ma’at, goddess of balance and the Ar; and the god of death himself, ibis headed Thoth, a sheet of papyrus in his left hand, already prepared to record Abibaal’s fate. Over them all towered the silent, impassive form of Osiris, father of the gods, motionless as a statue on his solid emerald throne.
Anubis stood before Abibaal. He pointed to Osiris and indicated Abibaal should make his obeisance. Melkart and Abibaal prostrated themselves before the sky god, but no one regarded Melkart. Anubis lifted Abibaal up and beckoned for him to follow. The dead soul trailed behind the tall god. Melkart followed, but again went unnoticed.
There was a great set of bronze scales in the temple’s center, the scales of Ma’at. A huge savage beast squatted by the scales with a crocodile’s head, a lion’s mane and torso, and a hippo’s rear flanks, Ammit the devourer of unjust souls, fangs bared and tongue lolling in anticipation of yet another feast.
Without ceremony or warning, Anubis stuck his right hand into Abibaal’s chest, clenched tight, and pulled. The dead king’s spirit moaned and grimaced. Abibaal writhed in Anubis’s cruel grasp, but the implacable jackal headed god continued to tug until he extracted Abibaal’s beating heart from his chest. He held it high so the assembled gods could see. A low noise went up, a hum of anticipation. Immaculate in a white flaxen gown, thick, long black hair restrained by a golden diadem, the goddess Ma’at placed the feather of truth in one pan of the scales. Anubis held the heart over the other pan. Thoth stood ready to record the verdict in blood red ink.
The heart was laid in the pan. It dropped steeply downward only to abruptly halt and rise until the pans were level. Unheeded by the gods, Melkart stood by the scales, his sword pressed down on the pan with the feather.
“His soul is pure,” Ma’at cried. “Justice shall be done. Let Abibaal pass into the underworld.”
Thoth wrote down the decision. “So it has been written. So let it be done,” he said in a voice like the howling desert wind.
Ammit whined in frustration at the loss of a meal until Anubis sharply rapped him on the snout with his staff, stilling the beast. Hearty and virile once again, Abibaal’s spirit smiled to Melkart in gratitude as he left the temple. Melkart was left alone with the gods. Thoth turned to him.
“Come, mortal. Your time here is done. Know that we, the ancient gods of Khemi allowed your interference with the judgment.”
“I’m ready to pay any price for my transgression, great Thoth-Thanatos.”
“The gods do not punish faithful service. Fate works in mysterious ways known only to Osiris who speaks not. Know also your lord was slain by his own vizier’s wicked cunning. While he slept, Netboam poured a poisonous draught into Abibaal’s ear.”
“I knew I had reason to suspect Netboam. By the gods, such treachery can’t go unpunished!”
“Then seek what justice you can find in your world, mortal.”
Anubis smote his staff thrice upon the limestone flagstone. The underworld’s dark vault opened wide over the temple. Melkart felt his very bones dissolve inside of him as a powerful, fiery current swept him upward and away. He could only scream helplessly as he rocketed with supernatural speed toward Khemi.
***
Ummashtart wept over Abibaal’s dead body. Alone with her in the stateroom, Netboam gleefully rubbed his hands, any pretense of grief abandoned.
“At last. How Abibaal clung to life.”
Ummashtart stared at Netboam. “How can you speak like that? My father lifted you up, Netboam, over other, more worthy nobles, gave you lands and slaves, made you his right hand, and now you revile him like a jackal?”
Netboam slapped Ummashtart hard in the face. She reeled back from the blow.
“Quiet, you stupid woman. Don’t you understand I’m king now? It’s just as well that those thieves I hired to kill you failed. Abibaal died with no male heir so whoever marries you takes the throne. And you’ll marry me when we reach Tyre.”
“No. I’ll die first.”
Ummashtart grabbed her dagger, but Netboam wrestled it away.
“I’ll break you easily enough. Aias!”
The hulking Greek entered, unarmored, but with a sword. “Yes, lord.”
“Take her into the hold. Let your men use her as they please without serious harm until she comes to her senses.”
Aias’s blond bearded face opened in a grin. “A fun detail for a change. Come along, bitch.”
Ummashtart screamed.
“Shut up,” Netboam shouted. “No one can help you, not even your precious Melkart. Say, where did that insolent oaf go anyway?”
With a loud crack, Abibaal’s mouth split wide open. Thick black smoke billowed from the open mouth to form a column as big as a tall man.
“Zeus protect me,” Aias cried.
Melkart strode forth from the smoke, sword in hand. He fell upon Aias. Swords clashed as they locked together in a ferocious clench. Melkart caught Aias’s right wrist in an unyielding grasp. He jammed his sword deep into the pit of the Greek’s stomach and pulled up hard.
“AAAAAAUUUUUGGGGGHHH!”
Aias’s bloody bowels fell to the floor in a stinking, steaming heap. The Greek dropped and bled out on the spot. Netboam ran for the door, but slipped among the slimy entrails. Melkart walked toward him, sword held high. Netboam put his hands over his head.
“No, Melkart. You’re wrong about me. I was trying to protect Ummashtart.”
“Die like the foul betrayer you are, Netboam.”
Melkart shoved his sword down into Netboam’s chest just above the collarbone, plunged the blade into his beating heart. Netboam died with a sad whimper.
The stateroom was a gory shambles, with three dead bodies. Ummashtart stood wide eyed with an uncomprehending look, as if she couldn’t understand what she saw. Melkart laid down his sword and picked up a yellow quince from a bronze tray. He bowed to Ummashtart while he munched on the quince.
“Looks like I returned in good time. Forgive me, Highest One, but I’m hungry.”
©June 2020, Mark Mellon
Mark Mellon is a novelist who supports his family by working as an attorney. He has published four novels and seventy short stories. His work has recently been seen in Thriller Magazine, Tigershark, Lovecraftiana, and Into the Ruins. This is his first appearance in Swords & Sorcery. More information can be found at www.mellonwritesagain.com.