The Queen of Kush

Chapter 2

26 B.C.

Napata, Sacred City of Kushite Kingdom of Meroë

 Amanirenas had no tears left to shed.

At first, it seemed like a hellish nightmare from which she could not awaken. However, the cruel twist of fate was all too real as she pined away in the tar pit of her grief. The loss of her eldest son Kharapkhael to sickness six months earlier had violently sucked the breath from her lungs and cast a ruthless shadow over her family. However, this was the greatest of all possible losses.

She stood alone next to her husband’s body, which was draped by a finely woven red and gold cloak—the same one that had adorned him on their wedding day. He was so uncharacteristically still—even though the fluttering torches that lit the funerary pyramid made the body appear to move in cadence with its quivering motion.

 One colorful relief on the wall depicted the king as a youthful man engaged in battle with his enemies, while another showed him as a benevolent ruler towering among his subjects. While both murals were accurate, it was the image on the center wall that Amanirenas most admired, for it portrayed him as a husband and father. She noted how the eyes of the woman and four children gazed longingly up at him, as if he were an enchanted god.

Killed while leading a battle against the Roman garrison in Dakka, the Kushite qeren now lay quietly in his pyramid, his kha dwelling peacefully with his son and other ancestors in Henel.

 She gently stroked the ornate shroud and longed for death. Only in death would she likely hear his deep voice beckoning her to sit with him. Only in death could she hope for his spirit to caress hers as he so delicately did during life. Only in death could she hope to escape the desolate loneliness that captured her every thought. Only in death would she be free from the burning desire to take revenge upon the Romans and balance the scales of justice. She prayed to Apedemack for the strength to execute what love demanded be done.

A set of strong hands gently gripped her shoulders. Knowing it was her son Akinid, she purposefully refused to turn around. The seventeen-year-old’s striking resemblance to his father would only drive her further into the recesses of despair.

 “All of the preparations have been made,” the young man said. “The Council of Ministers will be awaiting your arrival at sundown this evening.”

 She reached up and grasped one of his hands. “What have you heard?”

 “They’re with you,” Akinid answered slowly.

 “No, my son. What have you heard?” She turned just far enough to see him draw a tentative breath.

 “Nothing you don’t already know. The vizier of Nobatia continues to press the other provinces to support a full-scale war with the Romans. However, Mshindi is still critical of the notion.”

 “You would think Vizier Piankhi could convince his general to do what he has been trained to do and fight a war,” Amanirenas sighed. “Mshindi should be the last one to oppose a full out assault on the Roman strongholds in southern Egypt. They murdered our king—his cousin.”

 “He wants to fight. But on suitable terms.”

 “There are no suitable terms with Rome!” the Kandace said, turning to face her son. “They’ve been probing our borders with their garrisons. Your father understood this, even when I did not.”

 “Mshindi isn’t blind.”

 Amanirenas rolled her eyes away from him. “Then he’s is afraid! All he talks about are the legions of the Romans….”

 “And he should be from what I’ve heard,” Akinid retorted. He had spent hours during his childhood listening to the General Mshindi describe the unimaginable maneuvers performed by Roman legions that he witnessed as a soldier in Egypt. “Father only dealt with garrisons made up of a few cohorts. What if we get there and the two legions have returned from Arabia? No Kushite army has ever faced a legion at full strength. Mshindi feels we need to analyze their strategies more before we do so, and I agree with him.”

 “And we will do so,” Amanirenas responded coldly. Although she possessed only a rudimentary understanding of the standard Roman legion, to her everything came down to numbers. No matter how skilled they were, Roman pride still had to yield to the law of mathematics. “Your father had 3,500 men with him. I will have more than 20,000.”

She turned back to her husband’s body and ran her fingers lightly across his shrouded face. “Please send Jaelen in. He needs to say goodbye to his father.”

 “Yes, mother,” Akinid replied in a hushed voice, reminded how hard his fifteen-year-old brother was taking the loss of their father.

“Akinid, we will avenge him,” Amanirenas promised as she placed her hand above Teriteqas’s motionless heart, “I swear by Isis, I will avenge him.”