Egypt, 1350 BC
I entered the sanctuary area at the back of our hut with a bowl of gazelle meat. Beside me, my little niece Nebet hugged her miniature drum as if it were a doll. The likenesses of our forefathers and mothers watched our passage with painted eyes, their altars adorned with weapons and the gold flies their valor had earned them in life. But it was the gilded likeness of Sekhmet, she of the lion mask and blood-dyed gown, who awaited our arrival against the wall. Despite the dimming of the sunlight through our hut’s narrow windows, Sekhmet’s amber eyes blazed with the same fire that had emboldened generations of our ancestors.
Many times I had knelt before her as I did now, lighting the
meat I laid at her feet. The scent of its burning recalled battle after battle
of blazing tents and enemies being speared, shot, or cleaved into pieces. The
warmth channeled the sun’s blazing heat, which glossed my dark brown skin with
perspiration. Even the crackling of flesh breaking down into ash became the
cracking of bones and shields as I yelled the battle roar of Sekhmet in my
memories.
This evening I would consult our matron for a different
battle. This time, our enemies were not Kushites with ochre-reddened hair and leopard-belted
kilts. Nor were they easterners like the Hittites or Babylonians, with pale
skin and loosely curled beards. No, they were Egyptians like us, fellow
children of the Black Land who had fallen under the influence of the false
Pharaoh Akhenaten.
Already they had dragged little Nebet’s father away to slave
away in the lair that tyrant had built for himself and his cult of lies. I did
not even want to guess what his minions had done to her mother. Only I remained
to protect and teach the girl over the past year, and never would I let her
suffer the same fate as her parents.
I gave her a nod and she pounded her drum with more
unbridled passion than a temple ensemble. Together we sang our prayer for
Sekhmet’s vigilance, for her guidance, for the courage with which she would
imbue us in the face of war and persecution. The fire on my offering continued
to flicker on our ancestors’ faces as their spirits’ voices joined ours in a
greater chorus. The thumping of my heart became a rhythm complementing Nebet’s
drum, as did the war drums that had thundered before all my past battles.
Alongside the music’s growing fury there rose an energy within me that flamed
as hot as Sekhmet’s gaze. As she opened her jaws to bare her fangs in my
vision, so did I.
It built up from my breast to my throat, ready to be
released over a climax of cracking drums and shrieking cries.
Instead came the hoarse bray of a royal trumpet. Then followed silence, and finally the rapping of a bony knuckle on our door.
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