Vignette: Whose Pyramid is this Anyway?

By Lena Worwood.

On the Sea Lion Press Forums, we run a monthly Vignette Challenge. Contributors are invited to write short stories on a specific theme (changed monthly).

The theme for the 59th contest was We're on Strike! 

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Rhaetala Bray [Heliopolis], 455 BC

On the afternoon of seventh day of the third month of the year of coronation, High Chief Merimordredram Goídel, Son of Brunra Scota, Lord of the Two Kingdoms, and Overlord of the Shekelesh, arrived in Rhaetala Bray, in the absolute south of his kingdom where the Nile Delta had barely split and the hostile sands of the desert encroached on what had once been fertile farmland.

Rhaetala Bray was an old, old city. So old that the walls and moat of the old Celtic fort felt like a modern imposition on something far more ancient. It was that kind of a place. The Shekelesh Sea Peoples had left their mark on the town; here and there were pillars and mortuaries and etchings. Even a few shrines to the Palici, Adramus, and the other gods of those vanquished peoples. Even, more ephemeral but somehow longer lasting, Italic words. Here, in foreboding backstreets off the main avenue, to sell was still vendi, and the land was neither Wallaegipt nor Khemet, but Eacoptia. Beyond the Bray, up the Nile towards the lands of the old pyramids, there were still settlements where the Sea People held dominion, hanging on with some irony to the harshest of the desert lands. They were a danger, a potential ally to the desert raiders and a threat to the kingdom Goídel hoped to build. But today, they did not concern him at all, because there were more powerful forces than the Latins at large in the city.

The Great House of Atum dominated its quarter of the city. Its vast sandstone perimeter was decorated with triskele and spiralling knots and the names of the Pharaohs of this age: Iantomarep, conqueror of the eastern provinces; Lumarix, hammer of the Hittites; Great King Maatmare, his sword raised over the head of the last king of the Nubian occupiers. It was the story of over a century of Celtic stewardship over the lands of Ptah and Atum. It was also like spring vines only beginning to find purchase on an old stone wall. No matter how good the Celtic propagandists were, there was an unavoidable message underlying all of it: this is an old land, and the current kings are at best stewards of an older lineage. At worst, they’re as permanent and meaningful as fresh whitewash in a flood.

The priests of Ra made themselves available as the royal entourage approached. Of course they did. They prostrated themselves and cast blessings and welcomed the Pharaoh and his men and made offerings and burned incense and the thousand other things that ritual and tradition and ego demanded of them to make up for the central, undeniable truth. They were not being visited by the new Pharaoh. They were hosts of a far more pressing meeting between great powers.

In accordance with tradition, the Pharaoh's men left their weapons at the white line that had been painted on the ground of the courtyard. In accordance with tradition, this was not strictly observed and weapons were secreted into cloaks and shawls and tucked behind the regal paraphernalia requisite to any state visit. In accordance with tradition, Goídel gave his sword to a man in a simple loincloth. There was no tradition for the Pharaoh about hiding a knife easy to grab in the folds of his robe. There was no ritual reason why he would keep it covered.

There were only ten men permitted to walk alongside the Pharaoh, walking into a temple that suddenly felt like enemy territory. And it struck Goídel suddenly that none of those men were Celts – somehow, only the native Khemetic bodyguards were left. It was not something that usually bothered Goídel – Khemetic soldiers could be relied on, they held loyalty to no noble house that might claim the throne, and if they had vendettas and feuds, they were amongst their own kind. Khemetic soldiers usually felt safe. In this ancient place of power for the Khemetic people, they no longer felt quite so harmless.

Divested of his crown and armour, Goídel suddenly looked very, very young, and very, very Human. Statues and hieroglyphs and memorials all around him showed images of Pharaohs as gods and masters of the world. Maybe those early kings had been like that, when Egypt was a land that governed itself. It seemed unlikely to Goídel. There was always a price to be paid to maintain Ma’at, the heavenly system of justice and balance that upheld the authority of the rulers and their responsibility to the ruled. However much the kings of the past had presented themselves as absolute there must have always been moments like this, when they felt like their heart might escape from their chest and the fate of the kingdom lay on the line.

Inside the Great House of Atum, a huddle of workers sat on the ground. They did not bow but they stared at Goídel. It was, apparently, traditional for there to be chants, shouts, riotous name calling. Goídel wondered when that had been abandoned in practice and replaced with this eerie silence filled with expectant, hungry, eyes. In front of each of them were the tools of their trade. Their best tools, of course. They may have laid down their real tools in obedience to an ancient ritual for this one day. But the tools in front of them were symbolic. In fact, for many of these central figures within the Artisans Guild, the real tools of their trade were more likely to be papyrus and legal texts rather than hammers and spades.

Goídel knew his lines. “Who are you, who summon the pharaoh to yourselves as if I were your servant?”

A man stood up. He was large and stout, but old. At first Goídel wondered if he were really some Khemetic high ranking official in simple clothes. Members of the wealthy Khemetic families usually gravitated towards the priesthood, but there were always a few who appreciated the power the Guilds held. As the foreman approached, and notably, did not bow, the Pharoah could see that this was the genuine article, his hands were genuinely calloused and his face worn hard by outside work.

“We are hungry. Three months and seven days have elapsed, and we have not been paid.”

Goídel turned away, theatrically, trying his best to play out the ritual. “You are in rebellion against the kingdom and the gods, and great will be your suffering if you do not immediately return to your labours.” He made to walk away. And elicited what sounded like a twinge of doubt in the ritual repetition of the foreman's next words.

“The prospect of hunger and thirst has driven us to this; there is no clothing, there is no ointment, there is no fish, there are no vegetables. Our good lord, send to us what is owed in the name of Ma’at, that we may be supplied with provisions.”

“I cannot give you what he who is in my position should have accomplished,” Goídel replied, with affected nonchalance; he was inhabiting the role. “It so happens that there is nothing in the granaries – but I shall give you what I have found.” He turned to one of his soldiers. "There shall be given to these men a half-ration. See to it, for the Pharaoh is generous in his mercy.”

“We will not come back, you can tell our superiors that,” the foreman replied, also seeming to inhabit the role. The drama of the ritual was tinged with the reality of negotiations. They knew the routine, and this re-enactment was bringing them real feelings.

“Look, I tell you, accept the ration and then leave this temple and go down to the marketplace,” Goídel told him. “See, I'll give these 50 sacks of emmer for provisions, and I’ll distribute them myself.”

There was a dramatic pause. “It is not because of hunger that we passed through the gates of the temple,” the foreman said, “but because we have a serious charge to make; for sure, something bad has been done in this place and we would speak with you on it.”

“Had you come to me in a spirit of greed I would have given you nothing. But you come to me seeking Ma’at, so what I have is yours,” the Pharaoh intoned, and bowed his head. “I am the guardian of Ma’at, and I come to you to restore it. Take 50 sacks of triskele coins minted in my own name and I vow to right the wrongs which have been unlawfully committed.”

The workers bowed; the foreman bowed his head. “You are my Lord, and we swear loyalty to you forever. I solemnly swear that I will not hear anything, I will not see any damage in the great and deep places of the tombs, or in the city and its marketplaces, that may damage your kingdom, and conceal it from your rightful officers.”

One. Two Three.

There was a genuine gasp from the assembled guildsmen when the Pharaoh felt a knife against his back. But he spun around fast, grasping his own concealed blade, and with one motion kicked off the Khemetic soldier who’d dared to threaten him. Then, High Chief Merimordredram Goídel, Son of Brunra Scota, Lord of the Two Kingdoms, and Overlord of the Shekelesh, clotheslined the foreman of the Artisan’s Guild, knocked the man off balance, and put his knife to his throat.

“Stop! Stop! Mercy!” The man called out. The Pharaoh kicked the man’s feet from under him and left him, finally prostrate and grovelling at the feet of his king.

“My Lord! I’m sorry! It was part of the ritual!”

Goídel said nothing.

“Your soldier threatens you with a knife, then I say that… um.” The foreman looked at the Pharaoh and gulped. “I would say ‘we honour you, great Pharaoh, but our sons and daughters are many in this land and innumerable are our numbers within your own household.’ And he would say… he would say…” The foreman stammered.

The Khemetic warrior behind the Pharaoh was getting up, visibly in pain. “I would have removed my knife and said ‘we, your servants, are as innumerable as sand in the desert, and as wild. We pledge our loyalty to you for you are great in wisdom and strength. But we do not do so out of fear. We choose you as our king for you bring honour and wealth to the people, and you are the great upholder of Ma’at.”

The Pharaoh nodded. “It’s a nice speech. I don’t have words prepared. How could I? But I’m honoured to have your loyalty, and I hope I didn’t hurt you too badly.”

The warrior smiled. The other soldiers laughed. Releasing a bit of tension. “I’ll be alright, my lord.”

“Good. Then let’s complete the ritual.” Goídel said. Then, his smile faded. “But remember what happened here. I may rule you all by consent rather than fear. But I do not fear the people, either. I promise to rule justly and uphold Ma’at because I choose to. Not because I’m afraid to do otherwise.”

***

On the night of seventh day of the third month of the year of coronation, Neferet Goídel, wife of Seti, massaged a salve into her husband’s bruises. They lay on their bed in the private chambers that they had requisitioned in the palace at Rhaetala Bray. It was a small room, decorated with their favourite things. In the absence of slaves and servants, Neferet had prepared a meal and served the wine.

It was a room of small luxuries, chosen with care to be both decorative and easily concealed. The things that could be carried by the most trusted of servants and stashed in the most secret of places. Enough to create a little safe world where Goídel could sit with her husband.

“You were magnificent,” she said.

“So were you,” he told her. “The men were inspired. They’ll be talking about this for years. I imagine you’ve added another twist to the ritual of the strike.”

Goídel laid her head down on her husband’s shoulder. “It was fun to knock that fat fucking foreman off his feet. Sorry I had to knock you over too. I hope the men aren’t giving you shit about it.”

Seti stroked her long red hair. “They’re mostly impressed with you, they don’t believe anyone can stand up to you. They’ll follow you anywhere. And the Guilds certainly won’t oppose you for a long time. They think you’re amazing, and that’s because you are.”

“Only because I have you,” she replied. “Thank you for the warning about the ritual, by the way. I’m lucky to have you looking out me.”

"It's lucky they selected me to carry out the attack." Seti said.

"Should we worry about that?" Goídel asked. "No," Seti replied. "You have your reputation. They assume that you've fucked me, but we're not at all exclusive."

Goídel nodded. "For once I'm glad the army's intelligence is exactly wrong."

"And before you ask," Set went on, "being fucked by a Pharaoh is no dishonour, that little lie isn't making me less of a man in their eyes."

"Good. I don't want any of those boys insulting my man."

Goídel leaned over, and kissed her husband. They lingered in the moment for as long as they could. Enjoying the moment of closeness without worrying about where it would go. Then, Seti looked at his wife and sighed.

“What are you thinking?” She asked.

“I… you’ll be a good pharaoh,” he said. “I love you, Neferet. And I love being around you as Merimordredram. I get to see you all the time but… I wish… I don’t know…” He blushed. “I wish I could provide for you. But you have so much, and you have so little time when you can be my wife.”

She kissed him. “I could never be Neferet all the time,” she said. “Too long as Merimordredram and I feel lost. But I think the same would happen the other way? It’s confusing. I need to be both or I think I would die.” She kissed his hand. “But you are always my husband. No matter who I am. You’re my king.” Goídel found herself laughing.

“What?” Seti asked.

“I was just thinking.” Goídel said, still chuckling. “How obsessed you Khemetics are with proving you still hold the real power. With their Guilds and their gods and the endless rituals. All these things to make up for centuries under the rule of foreign peoples. If only they could know that their Pharaoh's own king is one of them! They might even be happy, for once.”

***

Notes on the Burial Chamber of Merimordredram I (First Celtic Dynasty)

Merimordredram’s long reign gave him an opportunity to resurrect the ancient art of pyramid building. The pyramid at Magwert Brae would serve as a visible sign of Celtic power and military might in the old capital of Latin Egypt. Also, arguably more importantly, construction of the pyramid gave the royal family a way to share its wealth with the Khemetic majority through lucrative construction contracts and purchases. This was absolutely vital in maintaining the often-strained relationship between the royal family and the worker’s guilds.

Magwert Brae was not finished in Pharaoh Merimordredram’s lifetime. A large temple complex exists for him on the site; his many military campaigns are pictured throughout the complex; and regular votive offerings were made to him well into the Neo-Khemetic Period. However, Merimordredram is buried in his initial, far smaller tomb, on the outskirts of Rhaetala Bray.

The real tomb of Merimordredram I is relatively humble for a pharaoh of the period. There are signs that prior to the site being looted it contained the usual array of weapons, a chariot, a ship, etc. However, a surprising amount of the internal space is given over to depictions of domestic life. There are detailed depictions of cooking, bread making, clothing, and scenes of the Pharaoh enjoying family life with an un-named wife.

The discovery of Merimordredram’s tomb has given Egyptologists cause to reconsider the mentality of a mythical figure. There’s an irony that a king who spent so much of his life on campaign, and never had children, would want to be surrounded by images of a more peaceful life. The domesticity apparently only went so far, however. They are mixed in with depictions of military campaigns and the king enjoying the company of soldiers. It is notable, in fact, that in his central burial chamber the Pharaoh did not include any of his wives or adopted sons and chose, instead, to be buried with his personal bodyguard, a Khemetic soldier. Perhaps, for all his dreams of domesticity, Merimordredram knew that in truth, he was more comfortable with the friendship of other military men.

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Lena Worwood has written Who Will Speak For England , and contributed stories to the anthologies Fight Them on the Beaches, Travellers in an Antique Land, and Pride and Points of Divergence.