Khu: A Tale of Ancient Egypt by Jocelyn Murray Page B

training. These responsibilities had to be earned in accordance to their abilities. The king was not one to grant favors lightly. He wanted people he could trust and depend on in positions of power. Those positions required a great deal of diplomacy—a skill which was learned and subsequently honed into a fine art.
    But this mission was a little different .
    T he king was planning to go to the land of Kush. All his expeditions to Kush were handled with great care because of the threat of encountering conflict. Mentuhotep never knew how a journey to Kush would result, and Qeb felt a little apprehensive about letting the boys go. Perhaps it was his own foolish sentimentality. He loved them as sons.
    “The Kushites…” Qeb began uncertainly in his deep, accented voice. It was strange to be talking of his own people this way. Yet they were not his people anymore. He barely even remembered his parents. He considered himself a Theban and an Egyptian. Many former Kushites were Egyptians now. They did not see themselves as anything else.
    “Yes,” Mentuhotep nodded, “I know.” The king could see Qeb’s doubts on his face, almost reading his mind.
    “They cannot be trusted,” Qeb said.
    “And how long has it been since we’ve encountered any conflict with them?”
    “Several years.”
    Mentuhotep turned to watch a hoopoe-lark land on a spiny shrub. It perched there for a moment before turning its head and jumping to the ground, where it ran a few paces on long legs. Then it stopped to probe its curved bill and dig for an insect in the ground. The dark markings on its pretty face resembled the kohl -drawn lines adorning the people’s eyes.
    “No, they cannot be trusted,” Mentuhotep agreed as he looked back at his military chancellor, “but they are also predictable. Gold makes men predictable.”
    “Hmm…” Qeb intoned dubiously, his mouth set into a hard line.
    The king could see Qeb’s concern and hesitation carved into the handsome line of his brow. “I was not much older than they when I became king,” he said, glancing at the boys while standing alongside his loyal soldier who was also his friend. “Battle makes men of boys,” the king continued. “You yourself know that more than anyone.”
    “I was younger than they, by a few seasons I think,” Qeb stared unblinkingly ahead, his face grave.
    “You were,” the king nodded, “and that is why you turned out the way you did.”
    Qeb looked at Mentuhotep, his face unreadable. He was going to say something but then thought better of it and held his tongue. He would never disrespect his ruler, regardless of their years together and the casual air of their friendship. Mentuhotep was still his sovereign.
    “They are ready,” Qeb finally admitted with a resolute face. He worried for them.
    “Good,” Mentuhotep looked satisfied. It was time to involve his eldest sons more considerably in his business and military affairs.
     
     
    The peac e that had reigned in the early part of Mentuhotep’s rule was fading fast. He had squelched several small uprisings over the past years, but more were expected. It had been a tumultuous time in Egypt with the kingdoms divided. Skirmishes, political unrest, disorder and hardship stemmed from the power struggles in the North, where various would-be kings had fought to claim the throne of Lower Egypt, which stood on a foundation riddled with uncertainty, treachery and greed. Those power struggles left the region of the Nile Delta weak and open to invasion from the Sea Peoples and the Hyksos, as well as the many thieves that preyed on the Nile Valley’s weaker settlements like fleas on a dog.
    The king glanced in Khu’s direction as his son walked away with the rest of his boys in the group. Mentuhotep recalled being told that when Khu was first found hiding in the reeds, his clothing had been bloodied. He had been covered in blood and filth—blood that was not his own. Khu had been protected by the gods, or he too