Chapter XXXVIII
As the pair sat together, straddling the wooden crossbeam above the powered up drop ring, the static charge of the ring began to move several of the outer braids of Gregorieva’s natural hair wig. Covering her mouth with a free hand and stifling a giggle, the Van der Graff effect began to extend her wig’s braids outward in a vague imitation of a sea urchin’s spines. One of Tuna Cartwright’s men inserted the cobra-headed optical probe into the stabilized field. Bobbing his head toward the power pack’s operator to reverse the ion flow, the probe was extracted and an all clear declared.
Satisfied, Tuna then roared, “Okay, you two half-naked hippies, you’re free to drop! Break a leg!”
Looking into each other’s eyes, both of the droppers simultaneously murmured, “Knees bent, ankles together, and gently roll clear.”
Gregorieva was the first to drop. Ten seconds later, Richards pitched in his neck pouch of goodies, and then disappeared as well.
“Damnation!” Tuna exclaimed rather loudly. “That is one bitchin’ gorgeous, young morsel!”
Callahan, who was manning the Mark V-A’s power pack, then loudly queried his commander so that all could hear.
“Colonel, how do you suppose Doc Richards keeps control of himself around that honey bun?”
“Simple, Corporal,” Tuna replied even louder. “He’s a professional. And, unlike you and me, Corporal, he knows which heads rules!”
What a deliciously sensuous feeling that was! Like slithering through a thin massage oil, Gregorieva thought as she smoothly landed and seamlessly rolled to her left.
Landing: piece of cake!
And before she could fully clear her slightly blurred senses, she heard the impact of Richards’ money pouch, and thereafter the heavy thud of his landing. Looking over, Richards slowed and groggy movements soon told her that his transit had disoriented him, something that he had warned her about and to watch out for. Lying on his back in the dim light of low-burning oil lamps and the incense-filled atmosphere of the holy of holies of the Great God Amen Re, the Egyptologist murmured quietly in ancient Egyptian, “I am upside down.”
Blessedly, however, the American’s reaction to the drop passed within fifteen seconds by Gregorieva’s best estimate – a far shorter period than he had said he had experienced his last drop.
Sitting up and shaking his head, Richards announced, “I am in good health. We must go.”
At Richards’ command, Gregorieva, for the first time, looked around to orient herself. That is the massive two-leaved cedar wood entranceway off to my right and so that means to my left…gasp! The Russian was not at all prepared for the golden statue of Amen Re, for its dominant presence and sublime beauty quite literally took her breath away.
Unconsciously, she thought, Now I understand what Alexander was trying to tell me that day. The sheer wonder of it all!
Then an intrusive, but gentle, tug on her forearm broke that cherished thought. She turned to see her partner on one knee, motioning her toward the cultic chamber’s only exit.
Upon exiting the holy of holies by squeezing themselves between the barely opened door leaves, they passed by the black granite statue of Sekhmet, whose shadow had cleverly obscured the little-used side passage that Alexander had so long favored. Now free of the temple, they decided to see if the house of the high priest Meryptah was occupied as yet by his chosen successor. But as they did so, Richards stopped Gregorieva en route and simply said in Egyptian, “Look up,” as he pointed heavenward. As she did, wonder filled her eyes at the clarity and brightness of the Milky Way as it displayed its flowing tresses.
“I could almost read by such light! And the sky is so clear, so breathtaking.”
“Indeed,” stated her partner.
“Is it any wonder that the inhabitants of Kemet included in their religious beliefs such stars?”
Then finally breaking the fragile moment.
“We must go to my father’s house.”
Finding that its new occupant had yet to move in, the pair entered the venerable old man’s former bed chamber and made themselves comfortable. As the excitement and tension of the drop began to bleed off, the coolness of the night air beckoned them to slumber, but not before Gregorieva surprised Richards with an entwining and affectionate embrace that told him of her hungry need. After that need had been satisfied at long last, Richards privately concluded before he dozed off that perhaps he wouldn’t feed her to any crocodiles after all.
The following morning at daybreak, each having first attended to their personal needs, Richards discovered to his pleasure that the house had indeed been cleaned up and stocked with beer and wine. But since it was not occupied, the household still lacked any fresh cheeses, dried fish, breads, or fruit. Noting this, the pair decided to visit the marketplace for breakfast and thereafter arrange for their passage north to Akhetaten and their target.
About halfway to the marketplace, Richards reviewed in his mind the early morning tryst and tried to understand why his partner had initiated it. The more he thought about it, the more confused he got. Granted, as a team they had come a long way, but had that act of sudden union helped or hindered them? He didn’t know and certainly wouldn’t ask. Nonetheless, the introduction of this variable troubled him. Finally, in quiet resignation, the Egyptologist decided that time would tell.
As for Gregorieva, she knew why she had initiated the passion. She wanted to know firsthand whether the American was a real man. Now Vesna knew. Besides, she shamelessly admitted to herself, she was more than just curious. She just hadn’t expected Richards to so promptly return the favor, so well, and for so long.
Having left Thebes that mid-day on a swift river craft that Richards had pointedly inspected for lice and the like, he and Gregorieva a day and a half later arrived at the heretic’s capital of Akhetaten. As before, Richards marveled at the dockside activity and the broad mixture of cultures that flocked to it. In a low voice, he described to Gregorieva just what she was seeing and from where these merchants and their wares had come from: coastal Syria, the island of Crete, mainland Greece, and the island of Cyprus as well. Lost in his narrative, the Russian grabbed the American’s forearm in unconscious excitement, then catching herself, she scolded herself for the unnecessary but supportive contact. Deep down, Gregorieva was beginning to trust the American, was beginning to enjoy his easy personality, his knowledgeable presence, his strength.
Disembarking as the boat’s hull brushed up against the dock, the pair made their way for the marketplace for a late lunch, but Richards was positively insistent on getting groomed first. Recognizing what all that entailed, the American enjoyed quite a chuckle as the Russian negotiated a bath and grooming herself. But once all these personal items had been straightened away, their joint hunger pains again announced themselves without deception. Leading the way, Richards pointed out to Gregorieva his favorites, some she tried, and some she passed on. So it went. One leading and the other acting upon impulse. Despite all the intriguing sights, sounds, and smells that assaulted her senses, Gregorieva began to notice the American’s subtle respect – no, deference, that he showed to all that he spoke with.
“Which of these fine fish would you give to your own sister to eat?”
“Of these fine sweetbreads, which would you select for your own mother?” Hearing these diplomatically pitched words emanating from a priest, and seeing their impact upon a commoner’s ears, told Gregorieva volumes. With the old woman that sold sweetbreads, the one with a nearly toothless but ready smile, Richards’ proffered payment was gently brushed aside.
“Dear kindly priest,” she quietly said. “Pray for my ka’s survival, for I know you will. Your eyes are clear and guileless, unlike the others.”
Thanking the woman with a respectful nod, Richards’ then surprised the woman by taking her hand, kissing it, and simultaneously slipping a small gold ring unto one of her heavily callused fingers. Gasping in disbelief and wonder, she clutched her finger tightly with the other hand as if the finger were seriously injured. Looking up, Richards only smiled.
“Old, venerable mother, let it be known that He of the Great White Wall will care for you in the West as you have cared for one of his lowly priests among the living.”
With heartfelt tears streaming down her wizened visage, Richards turned to leave and heard as he did so yet another gasp.
“By the gods! It is he! He’s the one that I saw entering the Queen’s own household! Those magnificent scars prove it!”
For Gregorieva, Richards’ approach in the marketplace told her of an inner strength and generosity of spirit that she had not before detected in her partner. Nonetheless, the revelation warmed her heart and made her smile.
Imagine, she thought. A Christian within a pre-Christian context. What a revolution that would be!
Having fully eaten their fill, the pair finally stopped at a public well that the Egyptologist deemed very drinkable, if not delicious. There they both filled their bellies until they were distended. Now, fully fortified, their mission’s goal became their sole focus.
Knowing where the royal palace was did not present a problem, for all knew where the edifice was located. Frankly, one could not miss it. The palace’s sheer mass and its centralized location made it the natural nexus of the town. But such centrality also meant getting past a veritable gauntlet of courtly bureaucrats in order to attend the daily royal audience. That would present a challenge.
However, one’s presence and attitude can go quite far when confronted with such challenges and the sem-priest Mayneken and his lovely assistant, Maatkare, possessed these qualities in abundance. An ambassadorial ring from the royal household also has its own unique privileges. Sheer, brazen moxie too had its place.
Mayneken, freshly groomed, bare-chested, and striding forth powerfully in his white linen kilt, walked directly to and confronted both of the tall blue-black Nubian Medjay palace guards at the appropriate side entrance. That the American’s unarmed approach had been effective was subtly evidenced by the guards hands, which unconsciously slipped to the pommels of their vicious-looking chariot scythes that hung heavily from leather straps supported by their broadly muscled shoulders.
Stopping before them with a smile, the sem-priest addressed them, all the while looking directly into the eyes of the bigger of these formidable twins.
“Worthy guardians of the royal palace. I, Mayneken, ambassador of Queen Nefertiti, and my sister, Maatkare, wish entrance to the royal palace.”
A bit taken aback at the acknowledgement of their “worthiness,” two backs straightened slightly and two chests swelled as well. The taller of the two, now with his eyes slitted in his best look of interrogation, spoke, “What is your business, ambassador?”
Continuing to smile up at the towering man, Richards fenced back.
“That, my powerful friend, is the concern of the Great One within. May we now pass?”
Smiling back down at an ambassador that could well be a most formidable peer, the guard allowed, “You both may pass.”
As they did, the gaze of the guards’ eyes naturally followed and once out of earshot they made their assessments as do all such guards, regardless of culture or time period.
“Keke! Did you see the scars across his back! Such marks of honor! Indeed, he is what his name proclaimed, ‘young lion’!”
“And, Beketka, did you see his sister? What a truly fine form she has! I nearly swelled at her approach.”
“And when you swell, Keke, can you then actually find it?” the taller of the pair crudely guffawed at his subordinate’s expense.
The side entrance of the palace led to a long and narrow passage that eventually emptied into a rectangular receiving chamber of sorts. Along the base of its long walls were low masonry benches, known as mastabas in the modern Egyptian tongue, and every square inch was already occupied with petitioners. Stopping in the center of the room, Mayneken slowly surveyed the scene and finally found just who he was looking for – the major domo, who guarded the doorway opposite.
Turning around to Maatkare, Mayneken smiled and stated, “This beautifully colored waterfowl is all yours.”
Smiling back with a mischievous grin, she answered, “Watch me pluck him bare and steal his eggs!”
Standing boldly in the center of the room as they were, the pair had already made their presence known to all within for the gentle purring of conversation had dwindled to silence. A quick glance around at this audience revealed a good many petitioners from all parts of Egypt: traders, businessmen, and some foreign merchants as well. But clearly none of them represented anyone of any significant domestic or foreign stature. So the pair recognized that this chamber was only the second vetting process. And so Maatkare smoothly glided toward her target with movements that reminded Richards of a stalking cobra.
This guy’s gonna’ be dead meat, he smiled to himself.
The palace bureaucrat in question, officiously titled The Royal Fan Bearer, was a soft middle-aged male, whose fingers held far too many rings and whose layered neck was far too burdened with a heavy pectoral necklace of lapis lazuli, carnelian, faience, and gold. He wore lotus hemp sandals decorated in gold leaf and a short white linen kilt decorated with a leopard skin girdle that supported his extended stomach. Annoyingly, this palace official flicked his ivory pommeled horsetail flyswatter this way and that, more out of officious emphasis than anything else. At Maatkare’s sultry approach, he watched with interest from his place at the exit of the receiving chamber.
Finely formed and beautiful, he daydreamed, as the black-wigged vision approached him in commoner’s sandals and wrapped in a white, single-shouldered, and near diaphanous linen with her left breast fully exposed.
As Maatkare reached the proper distance of address for such an official, she stopped, bowed low toward the man’s kilt, and noted a growing bulge.
Ah, she thought. I see that I do indeed have his full attention.
Rising from her bow, Maatkare stood erect and proudly before the official with her left nipple now fully extended.
“Most noble one,” she purred. “I am Maatkare, sister of Mayneken, personal ambassador of Queen Nefertiti.”
Pause.
“We wish audience this very day with the Great One, the Son of the Aten.”
As calculated, the heady mixture of visual stimuli, lust, pheromones, and the introduction of the “personal ambassador of Queen Nefertiti,” all caused this usually insufferable and imperious official to stop his affected and incessant flicking. After a few seconds of stunned silence, while he blatantly feasted his eyes on Maatkare, he finally blurted out a bit too gruffly and loudly, “Where is this personal ambassador to the exiled queen?”
Striding forward in a full flex of his upper body, Mayneken soon stood behind and to the left of his partner, forcing the man to somehow look beyond Maatkare’s graceful shoulder and bared breast.
“Here, noble one, I am Mayneken, and here is my signet ring of ambassadorial authority.”
As Richards slowly and theatrically extended his powerfully sculpted arm forward with a fist to better display the symbol of the Queen’s authority, he then continued, “But regarding the current position of the ‘true’ Lady of the Two Lands, I seriously doubt that she considers herself in such a plight. In fact, such news would amuse her. Would you like me to share with her your ill-advised indiscretion?”
Now wide-eyed and in full spiritual retreat, the official stuttered out that that was not ever his intention, that he was ignorant of the queen’s true situation, and that she had at her disposal such ambassador-at-large. Amid many hidden snickers, The Royal Fan Bearer allowed the pair to pass on.
The hall of royal audience was actually a quite small, intimate chamber. Also rectangular in form, paved in smoothed limestone, and having six brightly colored papyriform columns supporting its high cedar wood ceiling, only one piece of furniture adorned it – a camp chair-like wooden throne atop a low, three-stepped stone platform. Crammed into this enclosure were no fewer than six Medjay guards who stood framed within the columns and sixteen important personages of various high stations, nationalities, and cultures. Some were engaged in idle conversation. All, excepting the Medjay who watched them on each side, faced toward the raised throne in anticipation of the Great One’s arrival. None noted the arrival of a lone priest and his womanly companion, none except the Medjay.
Looking to one another and now finally within striking distance, this assassination squad from the future had to wait. With their palms moist with nervous sweat, each automatically began to inventory their surroundings. Noting the armament of the Medjay, for each had a dagger scabbard in addition to a vicious chariot sickle slung over their massive shoulders, the pair observed who else was with them in this most inner of royal audience chambers.
After a good twenty minutes, the sounds of scraping sandal bottoms could be heard from a small doorway located to the left of the raised throne. Through it, an ancient man who was the royal herald emerged, and once standing before the first step, he turned to the silenced gathering before him and barked out, “Abase yourselves immediately before the brilliant and magnificent presence of the Son of the Aten!”
As commanded, all fell to the floor facedown, with the backs of their necks ritualistically exposed in an act of total submission. As seen from the perspective of the throne, the floor had been instantly transformed into a sea of colors, textures, human heads, and necks all directed forward.
Several minutes would pass before again the sounds of scraping sandal bottoms were heard, but this time the solitary pair of feet that entered the chamber briefly stopped to survey the groveling multitude, and when satisfied, only then ascended the divine throne of Isis.
The voice of a young man was next heard, who dully stated, “Arise. We wish to see your faces.”
All did rise, some levering themselves up with considerable difficulty, some rising quickly, but the two last guests to this gathering rose very slowly and remained hidden in part behind the others. These last two also had separated to the opposite sides of the chamber, lest they be perceived too quickly by the young Pharaoh Smenkhkare. As surmised, the young pharaoh did indeed perform a cursory scan of his gathered flock and in the process actually managed to miss the two of them, for they had totally blacked out their personality signatures. They just as well might have been incorporeal entities, excepting of course that two physical forms remained behind. But within such a packed gathering and since both were partially, if not wholly, hidden by those who so dearly wished to be recognized and noticed, their initial concealment from the young pharaoh’s sixth sense was total.
Sitting stiffly upon his royal throne with his hands pressed flat against the tops of his thighs, the pharaoh chose to wear this day the blue military crown as it was lighter and less awkward than the formal red-and-white crown of Upper and Lower Egypt. Literally at his feet and sitting cross-legged on the first step was the king’s first scribe, who would dutifully record the day’s proceedings. To his right stood proudly his royal herald, leaning heavily upon his stout wooden w3s-staff of authority.
Now looking straight ahead and fixing his eyes on a point above everyone’s head, the king then intoned, “Read to Us the first petition.”
So the audience began with the royal scribe reading a legalistic plea from three foreign dignitaries from the Levantine area, who begged for Egyptian troops and financial aid as their cities were in danger of invasion from a northern military power called the Mitanni. To this plea, the king listened, considered for a moment, and then sent the trio on their way with a talent of gold, but no troops.
“Read to Us the next petition.”
Four members of the audience moved forward as the scribe began to read. At issue were the boundaries of four administrative districts, or sepats, which required the king’s wisdom as to how to resurvey lands changed by the recent inundation of the Nile. The lands in question were prime agricultural plots that had been lost to one nome and claimed by the other three. To this petition, the king again listened, thought for a moment, and declared that which the river god Hapi had deemed worthy of moving should remain in the hands of those so fortunate to receive them. Clearly, reasoned the pharaoh, the lands must have been misused by their former owner.
“Read Us the next petition.”
Two merchants stepped forward upon hearing their issue read aloud. At this point, both Mayneken and Maatkare were out in the open and without cover. A quick glance from one to the another signaled that the time had arrived, and Maatkare, the designated “batter” in this instance, moved forward five full steps, which placed her next to the nearest Medjay guard to the king’s left. At this distance, less than twenty paces from the king, he was already a dead man. To the Nubian guard, she was not seen as a threat, but rather as a sweetly smelling morsel of overly ripe fruit ready for picking. In fact, the guard was totally distracted by her presence and was getting a bit flustered as well.
While the king did not see this movement, he nonetheless felt its effect from his guard, and it felt strange as there was no personality signature associated with that movement. Curious, he looked up in Maatkare’s direction and almost started as this was the first time that he had beheld this most beautiful creature.
Now where did she come from? He silently asked himself. And when he looked again with his sia, or sixth telepathic sense, he almost started again as there was nothing there!
It is as if she were but a living body without a ka!
As this little vignette was being played out, Mayneken chose to move as well toward the king, some six paces this time, stopping and turning his head as if he were either hard of hearing or particularly interested in the reading of the petition’s substance. While the nearest guard on the king’s right noted this movement, he ignored it, as he too just then saw Maatkare’s beautiful form.
Nonetheless, and despite his perception of a living void before him, Smenkhkare did both see and feel Mayneken’s approach. Now scanning him with his sia, his blood went cold as he too was a living body without a ka!
How can this be? His mind screamed.
Just then, the first scribe finished his reading of the trade dispute and the two petitioners moved forward, so did Maatkare and Mayneken, two steps each. Now both were within sure kill range, for all six guards were behind them. Only two petitioners were before them, a sitting scribe who was busy recording oral arguments and remarks, and one very old herald with his heavy forked w3s-staff.
Instantly, all of Smenkhkare’s alarm bells went off, with ka-less ones to his right and left! His escape to his right was blocked by the muscular one, any escape ahead by the woman. He quickly calculated. My guards are totally unaware and out of position to act on my behalf.
JUST WHO ARE YOU! He pulsed out with a devastating mental power that slightly staggered the two assassins. Then he saw who they were, for in Maatkare’s mind stood her beloved brother, Mayneken, with his powerful arms crossed across his chest, glaring back and daring any passage past him whatsoever. Shocked, he looked to Mayneken, and the image revealed there was of Maatkare, holding a golden royal cobra entwined on each arm and out of her mouth a forked tongue extended, sexually licking in his direction.
Then the pair moved.
Instantly recognizing the encircling movement, a telepathic shriek of “NO!” was projected and the rightly panicked pharaoh next pulsed out a generalized and devastating shotgun-like death wish to all assembled in the chamber. While the assassins were somewhat slowed by that authoritative command projected by the young pharaoh’s highly developed sia, the others had already become lobotomized cretins with blood flowing freely out of their ears, noses, eyes, and mouths. Their collective eyes rolled and glazed over at the onslaught of the sudden telekinetic death shriek. Moments later, they began to dumbly drop to the floor as lost cerebral function and gravity took their normal course. Thudding to the ground right and left like so many sacks of potatoes, Maatkare, as rehearsed, reached Smenkhkare first and delivered the first telling deathblow as she expertly rammed the palm of her left hand up into the king’s delicate nose, sending splinters of bone and cartilage into his fore brain, in effect, physically lobotomizing him. Now stunned and with his eyes wide open, the king next saw the floor rush up to his face as Mayneken had just decapitated him with one of his own guard’s chariot sickles.
Kicking his head so that Mayneken could speak directly into the face of the fallen one, the American said simply, “Your seed is no more.”
Then all sensation left the young pharaoh as his skull was crushed in with the heavy back end of the weapon, in effect, instantly evacuating the blood supply from the king’s brain.
“Why did you do that?” Maatkare asked in shock.
“Habit,” Mayneken simply replied.
All silent except for their heavy panting of effort, the pair began to stagger their way toward the exit of the audience chamber, a chamber that had already begun to fill with the heavy aromas and foul, putrefying smells of a battlefield. Maatkare, removing an unsoiled bit of cloth from a fallen body, quickly wiped clean the majority of the young king’s imparted blood splatter from Mayneken’s legs, arms, and chest.
While so doing, she whispered to him, “Noble Mayneken, you did well this day. Our Piankhotep would have been most proud of you.”
Noting her care and foresightedness, Richards answered, “And as for you, most beguiling Maatkare, you kill indeed with the speed of a cobra. Piankhotep too would have been most pleased at your vengeance.”
Then he concluded, “It is best that we leave this place.”