Natalie Yacobson - And His Name Is Dennitza. Daughter of Dawn

«The first name of the sun god was not Aton», Alais looked at him, no longer laughing.

«What’s the difference? Egypt is ruled by you, not he. On his behalf, but still we will all have to bow to you. Instead of the cult of Aton, then there will be the cult of Alais, and it does not matter if there is a god at all.

«It is not in your power to look at the one who was considered to be a god from the beginning and at the same time not to lose his mind, man».

The last word made him angry. An insect, that’s what she really wanted to call it. People were just insects to her. And it doesn’t matter who they are: slaves carrying blocks for pyramids or royal entourage – they are all just people. It’s just those who live and die, from whom only a handful of rotting meat and bones will remain in the end, and she is different. There is nothing human in it.

It looked more like a sculpture cast in gold tones. The stone features expressed nothing, and at the same time the cold face seemed to be something vulnerable, almost defenseless. He could not love her. He wanted to hit that seductive face, so proud and so innocent, even some kind of naivety flashed in the azure eyes, and then they suddenly turned green, like an emerald, like Basted’s cat eyes. He did not think about the goddesses for a long time, the rudeness in his experience was the main thing, he beat women in his harem, beat whores on the night banks of the Nile, beat slaves, but he would not dare to swing at the daughter of Pharaoh, even if not real, but his hand involuntarily clenched into a fist, and then Alais deftly intercepted it, as if she was about to shake it. It was not even the strength of this shaking that struck him, but the fact that the whole hand suddenly flared up, as if on fire. Such a pain! He closed his eyes, gritted his teeth so as not to scream, but the scream still broke through. The hand was bubbling and went crimson spots. The spots turned into ulcers, eating flesh. In just a few seconds, nothing was left of the hand but the charred remains. Now he was screaming at the top of his lungs, no longer holding back. And Alais looked all the same indifferently, and it was no longer clear where her gaze was directed: at the crippled warrior or at the entire crowd of human beings in general, absolutely superfluous in this room where the deity settled.

Let the rest live as a warning to others. There are less than forty of them. Alais beckoned with a golden claw the one who seemed to be the youngest and most naive. He will never leave her field of vision. Perhaps his arms and legs will remain intact, but… Alais was looking for a place where she would put her seal. Ear, finger, shoulder, neck… better right on the forehead, under a lock of hair. She brought her claws to his forehead. They are sharp as razors and hot as the hot disc of the sun. You need to press them to human skin just once, and a person will become its slave for his entire life.

Taor did not know what to do here. He seemed to have done everything that the ceremonial obliged him to, and was free to leave, but he was ordered to remain in the palace as an honored guest.

«The days of festivities lie ahead,» Smenkhkara explained to him.

«What kind of festivities?» the young man was amazed. There were no holidays at this time of the year, unless… he forgot that instead of all the previous gods now there was only one, which means that the dates of religious celebrations were also postponed to another time. He did not ask about it in detail, so as not to show himself a simpleton. In the intricacies of secular and religious life, he really did not understand well. Military science was the only thing in which he understood something.

It is a pity that the memories of the victory were somewhat darkened. He often closed his eyes and imagined a dark cloud over the battlefield, where the dead revived and again rushed into battle. There must be many miracles happening in the world, but he had never seen such a thing before. Much in the last war may have seemed strange and implausible. It seemed as if the dark palace mirrors at dusk were beginning to reflect that battle again. But all around was calm. The only reminders of the war here were people in wretched clothes scurrying through the festive crowd – these were the prisoners whom he offered to release, and who wished to stay here as guests during the celebrations. They could be understood. Food and drink – that’s what attracted people here, left homeless by the war and deprived of everything they had acquired. Will they stay in Egypt forever, finding places for servants? Or, after resting, they will go back to the devastated lands where they come from?

Taor still did not even know the name of this tribe. He did not understand their language and could not ask them anything, nor would he dare to enter into conversation with the vanquished. Some kind of anger, something gloomy emanated from them, and each time he averted his eyes, stumbling across the crowd at one of them.

Their faces were surprisingly unpleasant in appearance, their skin was earthy, their eyes were of an unpleasant shade that gave off red. Facial features also had little in common with the faces of the Egyptians and representatives of any other peoples familiar to him. Pointed noses, pointed ears, eyebrows like wings, lipless mouths… with old people it was still understandable, but he had never seen such ugly women and children. Perhaps for their tribe, such features of appearance were considered normal, but the Egyptian was unpleasant to look at it.

Taor suddenly remembered Ujjai, his withered limb and the hopeless despair in his eyes.

Perhaps these people were not born so ugly, but something happened during the war, which disfigured their faces and bodies. But what? What could have happened to women and children who did not go to the battlefield themselves and did not even come close to dangerous areas where men were fighting. Taor was perplexed… Probably, there was something unhealthy in the local deserts, which was so reflected in the appearance of the local population. Each person looks beautiful as long as he is not sick with anything. One mentor, once in his childhood, told him that all the people of the world, like fruits or flowers, plant them on not fertile soil, and nothing will remain of external beauty. The fruit will rot, the flower will wither, and the person from hard work and lack of comfort will become weak and unattractive in appearance. As far as Taor observed, there was some truth in this. Women who were born into poverty did grow ugly at an astonishing rate, but those who lived in palaces looked like beautiful flowers.

The lotuses in the palace gardens also seemed more beautiful than anywhere else. Taor sat down right on the ground in front of one of the ponds. Here he was found by the king’s messenger, who brought a small scroll in a gold frame. He thought that this was an invitation to another celebration, but no – the pharaoh’s daughters sent him an invitation to appear and tell about their military exploits. There were signatures below. Taor shuddered, expecting to see a new name he didn’t know before – the name of that golden creature from the throne room. She, too, must be a princess, so it seemed to him, at least. But the list included only the names of the princesses already known to him: Meritaton, Setepenra, Nefernephriaton-tasherit, Ankhesenpaaton. Everyone who gave him their attention long before. The only strange name was the last name: Macketaton – the already dead daughter of Pharaoh. She herself could not sign this invitation in any way. This is probably a mistake.

Taor did not know how to respond to this invitation. Now he could not keep anyone company. There was a whistling void in his head. He must have gone a little distraught after the last battle. Probably those deserts were cursed and it was not worth going there, but he had to defend the lands of Egypt from the attackers. In those deserts, he lost all his usual cheerfulness, and brought with him something gloomy and oppressive. Every time he tried to sleep, the battle in his dreams continued: arrows whistled, the dead rose, a voice sounded from heaven, only much more clearly than he had heard long ago in reality. The voice is like a golden ray that tore apart black clouds. It seems that instead of rain in his dreams, blood was pouring from heaven, and he felt its streams on his face. The skin was stained with scarlet clots, the world around him became ugly, and the voice from heaven was divinely beautiful.