The Women and the Boatman Read online

  The Women and the Boatman

  A Tale of Predynastic Egypt

  Mark L. Gajewski

  Thank you for reading. If you appreciate this book, please consider sharing the good word(s) by leaving a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Its contents are wholly imagined.

  All rights reserved. Aside from brief quotations for media coverage and reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any form without the author’s permission. Thank you for supporting authors and a diverse, creative culture by purchasing this book and complying with copyright laws.

  Copyright @2017 by Mark L. Gajewski.

  Table of Contents

  3456 BC

  3453 BC

  3452 BC

  3450 BC

  3449 BC

  3448 BC

  3447 BC

  3446 BC

  3445 BC

  3444 BC

  3443 BC

  3442 BC

  3441 BC

  3440 BC

  3439 BC

  3438 BC

  3437 BC

  3436 BC

  3456 BC

  Nykara

  “Bring forth the barbarians!” Aby bellowed, stepping from the shade of the large rectangular ruler’s sunscreen at the north end of Nekhen’s ceremonial grounds into bright sunlight.

  An immediate stir at the far edge of the crowd was accompanied by a plethora of angry shouts. The doomed men were entering the sacred oval, its two acres jammed with nearly three thousand men and women from Nekhen and nearby hamlets who’d come to witness today’s executions. The ceremonial grounds hadn’t ever been used for that purpose in my lifetime – normally, we assembled here to honor our gods, particularly during the planting and harvest and inundation festivals, the last the most important, for it marked the day the great river, Iteru, began to rise and carry from the South new soil to refresh our fields. In fact, a wide deep trench entirely outlined the oval, except for a gap at the entrance, full of thousands of whitening bones from wild animals sacrificed to the gods by our rulers during past celebrations. The oval was slightly tipped; blood flowed into a trench when animals were slain instead of pooling in its center.

  The crowd at the south end of the oval parted slightly, in the vicinity of a tall wood pole wrapped with colorful ribbons and decorated with feathers and topped with a carved wood falcon, the image of Nekhen’s primary god. A double line of twenty–nine men armed with long lances, mostly boatmen but a few hunters and donkey drovers who’d returned home last evening from their victory over the barbarians, began snaking slowly through the mass of people. As the tail end of the procession passed the spectators closed in behind the men, even as those at the head of the line were splitting apart so the procession could squeeze through. Raised fists and loud jeers and hurled insults aimed at the barbarians marked the men’s slow progress across the grounds. They emerged into the open space before the sunscreen and arranged themselves in a long line facing Aby. Quite a few were still wrapped with bloodied bandages; several limped badly. The fight had been fierce. Thirty men had set out with Aby on his punitive expedition; only my father, Intef, a boatman, hadn’t returned to Nekhen. His body lay where he’d fallen in battle, in an oasis in the western desert. Mother’s anguished cry when the weary dusty men appeared yesterday and we realized he wasn’t among them would haunt me to the end of my days.

  Three barbarians were in the center of the line, their arms tightly bound behind them with thick strips of leather. They were struggling against their bonds, their eyes wild with fear. Two men prodded one forward with lances and viciously forced him to his knees a few paces in front of the others, then took firm hold of his shoulders to keep him in place. He was barefoot, his hair long and oily, his body bruised and scraped and dark with dried blood. His kilt was in tatters and he was absolutely filthy. He’d obviously been treated harshly on the return trip. I was glad he’d suffered. He’d been pointed out to me earlier – he was the barbarian who’d killed my father. He’d shattered my world. How were Mother and I going to survive without Father to look after us? Would Aby employ me in his boatyard as he had Father and continue to provide for us, even though as an eleven year–old boy my skills were limited? Or would Mother be forced to join with a new man of necessity, one she might never come to love, one who might treat her and me badly? I hadn’t slept at all last night, overcome with worry. I glared at the prisoner and twisted Aby’s mace in my hands – a large pear–shaped chunk of limestone inscribed with the image of a panther, attached to a three–foot long wood handle. In a few moments Aby would use it to execute the captives. It was my honor to carry it for him today; I wished he’d let me wield it.

  Aby – “Panther” – Nekhen’s ruler for the past eleven years, strode to the prisoner. His kilt was blindingly white. A panther’s tail was attached at the back of his belt, cut from a beast he’d killed at the start of his reign and whose attributes he claimed as his own. White plumes were bound to his brow, and a necklace with many strands of gold beads glittered around his neck. He held a shepherd’s crook in one hand and a flail in the other, both ancient signs of his authority over us. At age fifty–three Aby was our settlement’s oldest man, though he was far more active than many men half his age. His grueling journey to the distant oasis and return had taken a month, but no sign of weariness registered on his face. The three barbarians he was about to execute were the sole survivors of the band of vicious raiders he’d defeated. Of Nekhen’s elites, the men whose families controlled nearly a dozen great enterprises – brewing, herding, hunting, fishing, flax processing, pottery–making, wood acquisition, transportation by donkey, water distribution, mining and quarrying – Aby was the wealthiest and most important and most respected. He operated a fleet of nearly a dozen reed boats, the largest of which had, up to a year ago, plied the river from Abu in the south to Tjeni in the north, carrying trade goods back and forth between Nekhen and those locales. He used the rest of his vessels to transport foodstuffs and beer and milk daily between Nekhen and the nearby hamlets that acknowledged him as ruler. Like the other elites, he supported dozens of men who labored in his enterprise, as well as their families – including mine. We were dependent on him for everything – food, clothing, shelter. Unlike the other elites, who resided in large mud–and–wattle houses staffed by a multitude of servants in either Nekhen’s lower or upper settlement, Aby lived in a simple hut along the riverbank near his boatyard, in the midst of modest huts inhabited by his workmen, a dwelling just large enough for him and his grandson Rawer. It was fair to say Aby treated his dependents with far more kindness than the rest of the elites did theirs, and because of that his workers accorded him considerable affection.

  I was seated beneath the sunscreen along with my mother, Tai. The simple wood frame roofed with palm fronds provided welcome relief from the blazing midday sun. I pitied the crowd filling the grounds facing us; normally my parents and I sweltered along with them, but today was a special occasion and so Mother and I were not only in the shade but were also being cooled from behind by two young girls swishing wide fans of ostrich feathers. Seated with us were Ipu, Nekhen’s oldest woman and priestess of our falcon god; Rawer, Aby’s grandson and heir and thus Nekhen’s future ruler; Abar, Aby’s granddaughter; and her father Huya, the elite whose donkeys transported everything that moved by land in the nearby valley. Rawer and Abar were my age exactly. They, and Mother and Huya and I, had been most directly harmed by the barbarians; thus our participation in today’s ceremony. Rawer was holding a knife, short and very sharp, and Abar another, much longer, with an elaborate carved ivory handle. Aby and Huya would soon use those knives to dismember the barbarian corpses.

 
; A few paces to the right of Aby’s sunscreen, on a flat space between the valley’s seated elite men and the crowd, was piled wood saturated with oil; the barbarians’ remains would be burned on it, ensuring their spirits would be completely destroyed and unable to haunt us. The watching elites were being fanned by young girls and shaded by more holding small reed screens over their heads. I’d never been this close to our settlement’s leading men before – Pipi, the chief brewer; Itisen, the chief fisherman; Raemka, who farmed the flax his workers transformed into linen for our clothing; Salitis, who owned vast herds of cattle and goats and sheep; Merenhor, whose hunters supplied Nekhen with game; Teti, the leading potter; Hori, who delivered water to us daily; Harkhebi, who supplied families and enterprises with wood. There were several dozen more, the leading men of nearby hamlets who owed Aby fealty, but I didn’t know any of their names. Behind the elites, set in holes arcing around the curve of the oval, were standards representing their families and the gods of their hamlets – tall thin poles topped with images of animals. Aby’s panther was the most prominent of them, taller by a foot.

  I glanced from the barbarian to Mother. She wasn’t looking at him. Her face was pressed hard against Ipu’s shoulder, her body wracked with sobs. She’d loved my father very much. Ipu was embracing Mother with her horribly twisted forearms, trying to comfort her. Rumors hinted at a terrible accident that had befallen Ipu shortly after she’d become a woman. Her broken bones had healed improperly. Usually, when I saw her at a celebration or walking among the boatmen’s huts, she was accompanied by a young granddaughter who assisted with any task requiring manual dexterity. Despite her disabilities Ipu had been Nekhen’s healer for several generations, called upon to aid the sick and dying and attend women giving birth, whether elite or commoner. She’d attended my mother when I was born. Ipu and Aby had grown up together. She celebrated alongside him whenever we honored our gods. Today, like every other solemn occasion, a falcon–shaped amulet made of a mysterious stone–like material dangled around her neck, and her arms and legs were painted with images of the falcon god in malachite. I, like almost everyone, was afraid of Ipu because of the magic she wielded – it was whispered the falcon god spoke directly to her in dreams, and he was the mightiest of all the gods who watched over the valley. Her great age was a clear sign of his favor – those women who didn’t die in childbirth usually lived only into their early thirties, and she was nearly twice that.

  Aby halted directly in front of the barbarian and stared down at him disdainfully for a long time. Then he swept his eyes over the crowd and raised his hands for silence.

  “A year ago Shery, joined to my oldest daughter and designated to follow me as ruler, took a load of trade goods to Abu, a hamlet located at the miles–long cataract blocking the river’s channel a week’s travel south of Nekhen. Shery was set upon by raiders from an oasis in the western desert. They murdered him, took his goods, burned his boat. His crewmen had to walk all the way home. A month ago I set out from our settlement along with these twenty–nine men lined up in front of you – volunteers all – to avenge Shery’s death. We crossed the desert on Huya’s donkeys, guided by one of his caravan leaders, following an ancient track marked by cairns of piled stones. It took us two weeks to reach the oasis, which is located in a depression more than one hundred miles long and twelve miles wide. We discovered the raiders’ camp there one evening. We were outnumbered, but we attacked them anyway, at dawn, with the sun at our backs so it would be in their eyes. We fought our way into their midst, killed most of them in fierce hand–to–hand fighting. Only a handful were still alive when this barbarian threw a lance at me.” Aby indicated the man at his feet. “Intef, one of my boatmen, leaped in front of me, protecting me with his body. He died instantly.”

  Aby glanced over his shoulder, first at me, then at Mother. She was standing beside Ipu now, cheeks tear–streaked, grasping one of Ipu’s hands, chin tilted proudly.

  Aby turned back to the crowd. “We slew every barbarian during that battle, except their chieftain and his son,” he cried. “I kept them alive so they could face my wrath for killing my heir, Shery, here, in Nekhen!” He pointed at the two barbarians still standing in the line with his flail. Then he touched the kneeling barbarian’s shoulder with his crook. “This one killed Intef. He will die first. He will pay for his crime in the presence of the woman and boy he wronged.”

  A young serving girl took Aby’s crook and flail and plumes and retreated to one side. Aby signaled and I carried the heavy mace to him. I returned to Mother’s side under the sunscreen and took hold of her free hand.

  Aby raised the mace high in the air with his right hand and addressed the crowd. “This barbarian has killed one of my people. He has brought chaos among us. For this, he must die.”

  Aby seized the man’s long hair with his left hand and twisted it in his fingers so he could hold his head steady. The two men who’d been keeping the captive upright melted back among their comrades. The barbarian began shaking, crying for mercy. Without warning, Aby swung the mace with all his might against the side of the barbarian’s head, crushing his skull with a dull thunk. Bright blood splattered Aby and the barbarian and the hard–packed dirt at their feet. After a long moment Aby released his hold and the barbarian toppled sideways onto the ground. The handle of the mace stood upright, the macehead embedded in the murderer’s skull.

  Cheers rolled like a wave across the ceremonial grounds. The younger barbarian fell to his knees and vomited. Laughter and cheers.

  Aby removed the mace with a great deal of difficulty, jerking it back and forth to loosen it, then finally twisting it free. He placed it on the ground next to the body, covered with brain matter. Blood began pooling by the murderer’s head.

  Aby beckoned and Rawer, Shery’s son, moved from under the sunscreen to his side. Rawer handed Aby a small flint knife. Aby knelt beside the barbarian, knife in hand and, making numerous incisions across his brow and around his ears and across the back of his head, scalped him, removing his hair entirely. When Aby finished he stood and held the trophy high, dripping blood, for all to see.

  Raucous cheers filled the oval.

  Aby hurled the scalp onto the pile of wood in front of the elites.

  Abar, Shery’s niece, moved to her grandfather’s side and handed him a magnificent flint fish–tailed knife with a long handle of polished ivory, decorated with a row of bound and kneeling prisoners.

  Aby knelt again beside the corpse. Blood was now trickling down the slight slope towards the low side of the oval from the hairless crushed head. Aby placed the knife against the barbarian’s neck and sawed back and forth, decapitating him. Then Aby tossed the head aside. In order, he cut off each of the man’s arms and legs, leaving only the torso intact. As each limb was detached cheers rang out.

  Finished, Aby rose to his feet, blood–drenched. Boatmen, Father’s friends, rushed forward and seized the various body parts and tossed them atop the pile of wood. Mother moved from the sunscreen to the pile. A boatman handed her a lit torch. She touched it to the bottommost log. The wood immediately burst into flames. Mother returned to her seat beneath the sunscreen. I put my arm around her shoulders, held her tight. A column of thick black smoke began spiraling into the sky, accompanied soon after by the scent of roasting meat.

  Then Aby executed the younger barbarian and the chieftain. He allowed Huya, Shery’s younger brother, to scalp and dismember them. Boatmen threw their body parts into the flames as well. Then Aby and Huya joined us beneath the sunscreen, both dripping blood and sweat. They sat on leather–bottomed chairs. A young girl brought them each a jar of beer and they drank thirstily. None of us talked; even the crowd had gone silent. The only sound in the oval was the crackling of flames and the swishing of the fans behind us.

  Gradually, men and women began drifting out of the ceremonial grounds. They’d come to witness the executions, not the aftermath.

  The ceremonial grounds were at the eastern edge of Nekhen. B
etween it and the river was a half–mile wide cultivated strip, where farmers grew the emmer and barley and vegetables that fed everyone who labored in the elites’ enterprises. The abundance produced by those farms had, over the past millennium, fueled Nekhen’s growth from a collection of two or three huts to the largest settlement anywhere in the valley. Nekhen sprawled nearly two miles from north to south, bounded on the east by the cultivated strip and on the west, a mile up a gradual slope, by a terrace at the base of a sheer–faced rocky plateau topped by a vast awful desert reaching all the way to the end of the world. That slope – in places sandy, in places green with wild grasses and dotted with groves of acacia trees – was bisected by a great wadi, wide at its base near the river, narrow, with steep sides, at its apex. Four rocky promontories thrust eastward like fingers from the desert plateau towards the river, each towering over the surrounding slope – three to the left of the wadi, one to the right.

  Nekhen’s lower settlement, its most densely inhabited portion, vibrant and bustling, lay on high ground untouched by the river during its annual flood, arcing around the western side of the ceremonial grounds. Its mud–plastered reed or thatch houses were arranged haphazardly along narrow winding lanes. The huts of workers clustered around the fine homes of the elite families for which they labored; the lower settlement had segmented itself over the centuries into a number of distinct neighborhoods based on craft or enterprise. An industrial quarter with large workshops requiring much space was on Nekhen’s northern edge. Distinct cemeteries for commoners and elites lay beyond Nekhen’s boundaries, to south and north respectively.

  A mile west of the lower settlement, occupying a terrace at the base of one of the rocky promontories on the south side of the wadi, was the upper settlement, smaller and older than the lower. Potters had been the first to erect huts there, probably at Nekhen’s very founding, so their kilns could take advantage of the never–failing desert wind at high altitude. One fairly large pottery works was still located there, belonging to Khaemtir, though he wasn’t prosperous enough to be counted among the elites. He was one of the men who’d gone on Aby’s expedition to the oasis. The elite families controlling linen–making and stone–working were also located on the heights.