Aten's Descendant

A historial adventure set primarily in 1923. Displayed is the prologue, set in ancient Egypt, at the time of pharaoh Akhenaten. An estranged father & daughter seek Akhenaten.

And there came a man,
running, from the furthest end
of the City: ‘He said:
O Moses! The Chiefs
are taking counsel together
about thee to slay thee:
so get thee away, for I
do give thee sincere advice.’
�" Sura XVIII, 20

Akhetaten, Egypt  1361 BC

    The hairless priest, Meriaten, ran across the courtyard and bowed low, his pristine white robes glaring in the open courtyard of the sun temple.  Eyes wide and lungs heaving, he arose when Akhenaten touched his head.

    “Mi pharaoh, they are coming!  The priests have taken counsel and intend to execute you this night!  Our couriers spied their barques sailing down the Nile.  They are minutes away and they bring with them an army!  I implore you to flee, Pa neter ra, Akhenaten!”

    “Gather the servants.  Prepare for immediate departure.  Send for my daughters!”  Akhenaten stared after his priest, who ran from the temple.  He turned toward the beautiful woman that had remained by his side.

    “It has come, Nefertiti.  The Amun priests will not accept the destruction of their pantheon of gods.  They fear Aten’s power and come to destroy my city of gold and light.  But even if every brick is destroyed and there is nothing left of Akhetaten but an outline in the sand, Aten will survive.  His power will endure so long as the sun continues to rise.  In Sinai I shall wait until it is safe to return and reclaim my throne.”  Akhenaten squeezed Nefertiti’s hands then caressed her cheek.  At the hurried scuffle of sandaled footsteps, Akhenaten turned.  Six young women stood before the pharaoh.  The eldest stepped forward, frown lines marring her smooth forehead and pulling down the corners of her full lips.

    “It’f, what has happened?”  Meritaten accepted the embrace of her father then pulled back to meet his eyes.

    Akhenaten touched her cheek with his fingertips.  “The Amun priest are coming for my head, s’ah’t, and they would see my line under their blade before its steel grew dull.  We must leave Akhetaten immediately, for the sun nears its final breath and the Amun priests will arrive with the darkness.  Seek out Gaeythelos, s’ah’t, and tell him what has befallen.  Trust in your husband to protect you, Meritaten, for his Scythian blood makes him strong.  Remain in Egypt if you are able, for it is your duty as the eldest child to place Gaeythelos on the throne as the new king and yourself as queen, should none other of our line survive.  Take your Scythian marriage name publicly, henceforth, s’ah’t, and be known as Scota.  It will keep you safe.  The rest of you daughters will come with me to Sinai, for the priests of Amun will not be merciful.  Quickly, all of you prepare yourselves!”

    “It’f, what do you mean, the last of our line?  Your passage to Sinai will be safe, right?  It will be safe, It’f?  It’f?”

    Akhenaten embraced Scota and whispered into her ear.  “Live well, s’ah’t.  Aten will protect you.  Wear this.  It is a symbol of your family lineage, for you to give to your eldest child when he or she becomes of age.”  Akhenaten placed a blue-green faience necklace around her neck, then spun around, his royal purple and golden robes flowing behind him.  The bronze serpent head of his royal staff glinted in his hand beneath the fading sun in a final flash of light before he disappeared around the corner of the temple.

    “It’f!  It’f!”  Scota’s chest tightened.  She was hardly aware of her sisters each giving her a final embrace as one by one they fled after the pharaoh.

    “Be safe, s’ah’t.  Make haste to your husband!”  Nefertiti kissed Scota’s temple, crushed her in a hug, then rushed after Akhenaten.

    Scota stared where her family had disappeared.  A rush of cold shot down her back.  “It’f?  M’wt?”

    Her voice echoed off the granite columns in the deserted courtyard.  Danger approached like a poisonous cloud, its intangible tendrils an oppressive air that foreshadowed death.  A rushing sound filled her ears as Meriaten appeared, running towards her, his face flushed.
    “Princess, you must leave, now!”  Meriaten pushed his hand against the small of her back, an action that under normal circumstances would have cost him his hand.

    Men screamed from the far side of the pylons, heralding the arrival of the enemy.  Clashing swords awoke Scota from her shock.  Men burst through the pylon’s entrance, swords slashing flesh and mallets crushing skulls.  Scota screamed and fled, lifting the hem of her robes.  With each step upon the desert floor, the sounds of war grew closer, louder.  Scota dared a glance over her shoulder; warriors flooded the courtyard, bows raised and arrows aimed at her.  A fresh screech escaped her lips as she thrust her legs harder, her thighs burning.  Arrows whistled over her head and thudded into the baked clay beside her.

    A devastating pain pierced her right shoulder and a scream burst from her lips.  She stumbled, recovered her footing, and kept running until she reached an inner set of pylons.  Scota spun around the corner and slammed the gates shut, throwing down the wooden bolt with her good arm, securing it.  Feeling warm liquid trickle down her back, she knew an arrow had found its target.  She ran to her royal palace and Gaeythelos.  Her throat burned and spots of light flashed across her vision as she reached her front door and flung it open.  “Gaeythelos!”

    In the great room, to the left of the entrance, Gaeythelos leaned over a table, studying papyri.  The table groaned as he relieved it of his warrior weight.  He spun around, a shock of coppery blond hair sweeping across his brow.  Seeing her flushed face and her heaving chest, he ran to her, frowning.  “What has happened?”

    Scota fell to her knees, exposing the arrow.

    “Who has done this?  I will take my blade to his throat!”  Gaeythelos braced Scota’s shoulders and shouted above her head.  “Healer!  Come immediately!  The princess is wounded!”  He cradled Scota against his chest.  “Be still, Scota.  It is only in muscle and will heal quickly.  Rest and catch your breath.”

    Within moments the healer appeared and rushed to Scota.  She screamed as he pulled the arrow from her flesh with a single, forceful pull.  As the healer cleaned her wound with honey and bandaged it with linen, Scota found her voice.

    “The Amun priests have come!  It’f has ordered us to go immediately to Heliopolis, and he flees to Sinai with my sisters.  We must leave now!”  Scota wrapped her arms around Gaeythelos’ neck.

    He stroked her hair and whispered against her ear.  “Do not fear, wife.  Aten shall protect us.  Now, try to stand, for we must move quickly if we are to outrun the warrior priests.”  Gaeythelos raised Scota to her feet, and when she could stand on her own, he slipped out of their embrace to roll his papyri.  He tied them into a bundle and slipped them into a leather satchel.

    Scota grasped her husband’s arm as her wits returned.  “Gaeythelos, we must retrieve the throne.  It cannot be left behind for the priests to destroy.  If I become all that is left of the Amarna line, the throne must be secured with us to continue the line of kings.”  Scota pressed her hand on Gaeythelos’ chest.  “Please, husband.”

    Gaeythelos took a deep breath, his chest warm and solid beneath her hand.  He nodded then turned and hollered the order to one of his soldiers outside.
    Minutes later, Gaeythelos, Scota, and the throne of Egypt left Akhetaten in the opposite direction of the fighting.  Scota glanced over her shoulder as they passed through the final pylon; it shimmered like gold skin under the last remnants of the sun.  Scota prayed her father had escaped.  “Fare thee well, It’f.”

    Wave after wave, an army of men on horseback, some riding chariots, spilled down the distant hillside, their white robes soon to turn red.  Arrows barraged the temple from a barque docked upriver, away from where Gaeythelos took Scota.  Men poured off the barque and ran towards the temple, swords in the air; their shouts of destruction echoed across the desert floor.  The terrorized screams of her father’s loyal people tore at Scota’s heart, their cries like the death throes of a dying east, dissipating as their distance from the city grew.  Scota cried as she watched, helpless, as the army invaded Akhetaten.  She tightened her grip on the charriot as Gaeythelos snapped the whip and the horses unleashed their energy, driving the chariot at a frenzied speed across the baked-clay terrain.  Within minutes, Scota and Gaeythelos boarded a royal barque, downriver from the temple and its destruction, and sailed towards Heliopolis with two additional boats of loyal followers who chose to follow them.

    Seated upon a simple, wood bench, Scota leaned forward and ran her fingers across the two-foot wide sandstone slab that was the throne of Egypt; the middle of the top surface had a gentle, concave impression across its width, where the pharaohs of the past had sat.  Scota ran her fingers over the rings that anchored each end of the stone.  Doubt of her father’s return sickened her heart, and the weight of her own body became difficult to uphold.  Her back bowed.

    The warm touch of a hand on her cheek drew her attention, and eyes the colour of the Egyptian sky smiled down at her.  “Pharaoh will be safe in Sinai, Scota.  No harm will befall him there,” Gaeythelos said.

    “Aye, husband, but first he must get there.  There is much treachery in the Egyptian sand.  The priests believe that to destroy the worship of Aten they must destroy the man who calls himself the son of Aten�"my It’f.  And what will become of Mw’t?”  Scota shook her head.  Gaeythelos squeezed her hands.

    You must hold close to your faith in Aten, that your It’f and Mw’t will be safe, just as they are trusting Aten to keep them from harm.”   Gaeythelos wrapped his arms around Scota and she leaned back against his chest, sighing.

    They settled into a comfortable embrace and stared across the blue water of the Nile, out at the green belt that spilled up from its banks, and finally back into the sharp line that demarcated the fertilized land from the unyielding, lifeless desert.  Palm trees scattered themselves along the shoreline and swayed in the evening wind.  The sun melted into the horizon like a puddle of gold in a forge, and the sky above it turned a burnt orange.

    “We shall start a new, royal line.  You shall be queen, and I, king.  Together, with our loyal followers, we shall spread the word of Aten, claim the land as ours, and begin a new, glorious era of peace and worship,” Gaeythelos said.

    “What if we are outnumbered by the Amun worshipers and our lives, threatened?”  Scota turned her head so that she could see his face.

    Gaeythelos squeezed her hand.  “Then we shall leave Egypt and find a new, uninhabited land even if we must travel beyond the Pillars of Hercules.  No priest or foreigner shall ever claim our freedom.”

    Scota’s smile faded with the sun as she stared upriver.  Akhetaten became blurred by distance and heat waves.  An orange glow rose above it, and with it, plumes of smoke.  Her eyes reached to the heavens and followed the edges of darkness as it stretched its opaque, indigo blanket in subtle procession across the sky.  Tears welled, knowing in her heart that she and Gaeythelos would eventually be forced from Egypt.  The Amun priests outweighed them in power and number.  Scota would never see her family or her home again.  Her vision obscured by tears, Scota whispered into the wind that carried away her voice into the desert.

    “What will become of you, It’f?  What fate does the Aten hold for you, our pharaoh, Akhenaten?”

Author's Note

How does the setting ring? Does the dialogue flow well? Are you curious to know more?