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3
Zanika
How canit change from freezing to boiling so damn fast?
It doesn’t help that it is super difficult to walk in these chains. Since we left Ansapata’s palace of bullshit, we walked through the night and are now into the next day. The sun is high in the sky, and I can feel the sweat running down my back into my ass crack. Another dozen female slaves have been added to our little chain gang from other wealthy landowners the cult deemed worthy of threatening. I’m not exactly sure what they would do if a slaveowner refused to give them anything, but I’m guessing no one wants to find out.
We have only been given sporadic sips of water since we started our journey. In the freezing cold of the night, it wasn’t that necessary, but now, a sip every hour really is not accounting for how much fluid I’m losing. Especially rising up this never-ending sandy hill, I can feel myself getting close to fainting. I am desperately trying not to because I have no delusions that my new masters would exude the slightest effort in trying to get me up; they would leave me in the sand to die if I was unable to carry my own weight.
My calves on fire, sweat running down my face, making my scalp itch, we finally reach the top of the climb. I almost collapse onto the burning sand but force myself to simply rest my hands on my knees. We are, once again, given a sip of water from the hands of one of the black-eyed cult members. This one has slightly less white patterning on his skin, but he has been completely inked black. He brings the lamb-skin jug to my lips, and I eagerly gulp down the slightly cool liquid. He starts to take it away, but I take hold of it with my chained hands and pull one more gulp out of the jug. The cult member smiles widely and then slaps me hard in the face. I fall to the ground, head ringing and cheek burning. I have never been hit that hard in my life. It takes me a moment to collect myself and rise up from the ground. I see the leader wagging his finger at me, also smiling widely. I have a really bad feeling about all of this.
Now that the pain of thirst is not quite so excruciating, I realize that below, in the valley, awaits a city. Palm trees are littered among the stubby limestone huts, and in the distance, there is a large palace. The city is surrounded by a low stone wall that encompasses the entire area of the desert metropolis.
Once everyone has had their measly mouthful of water, we head down into the valley toward the city that I must assume is Avaris. I have always wanted to come here, but I didn’t expect it to happen with nothing but a small bronze medallion around my neck in the way of money. It is the only thing I ever received from my mother, and I have treasured it for my entire life. It displays the image of the sun god Ra, my favorite of all the gods. I pull out the medallion and give it a kiss for good luck. At exactly that moment, the leader pulls on the chains and we are dragged down the hill toward the city walls a couple of miles in the distance.
* * *
We arrive at Avaris,feet blistered from the walk, but there is no rest for us yet. We are led directly inside. I imagined that the main road of the city, leading directly to the palace, about 500 cubits in the distance, would have been bustling with crowds. Instead, we see only a handful of people walking the streets. Every one of them wears the robes of the Cult of the Dead. I have heard that Avaris is a city of great commerce and industry, but this almost looks like a ghost town.
We carry on toward the daunting palace in the distance, and people turn up to look at the new arrivals in the city. The ones not wearing robes seem to be subdued and pathetic. They wear nothing but rags and look incredibly thin. An old man lying in the gutter, missing a leg, reaches out toward us, moaning in a language I cannot understand. One of the cult members kicks him in the face, sending blood gushing into the sewer.
We reach a small market square halfway between the entrance to the city and the palace. Here, I see a forest of impaled bodies. Sharpened wooden stakes litter the ground, each one with a body of what, based on their clothes, seem to be former wealthy and powerful people with the wooden stakes sticking out of their stomachs. Their backs are arched unnaturally, making them look unhuman. Many of the bodies have crows feasting upon their innards or eyes. I look away in horror, but on the other side of the road, I see a man’s hand being cut off by an axe-wielding member of the cult. He screams in excruciating pain as the wound is then cauterized with a red-hot plate of iron. His other hand is brought to the wooden block, and he begins to sob and beg the cult member, but the inked man just smiles that vicious smile and lops off his other hand as the poor man is held down by another two members.
I see that there is a long line of people in chains waiting to get tortured or executed in some brutal manner. To my horror, I see a nobleman being led to a newly rooted stake and bent over the sharp tip, so it is directly in the middle of his back. Two cult members ignore his screams of terror and blubbers begging them to stop as they push him down, forcing the wood through his abdomen. Blood spurts out of the nobleman’s mouth as they push him ever lower until he is halfway down the stake. They leave him there, wailing and helpless, to ward off the crows or vultures circling the city in the sky. I pray that he bleeds out quickly as not to endure the suffering of being eaten alive.
I notice that I am already starting to become desensitized to the violence as a smoldering hot poker is retrieved from the fire and placed forcefully into a crying woman’s eye. The scream that comes from her mouth is something I could only have imagined in the fiery depths of the underworld. When the poker is shoved into her last working eye, she barely makes a sound. She is pushed off, disoriented, into the street to begin her new life without sight.
We finally reach the palace gates, and I can hardly believe the things I witnessed in the city. I don’t know what has happened here or, more accurately, how things have been allowed to get this bad. I have seen my fair share of violence in my time, but I have never experienced anything so harrowing as the fifteen-minute walk along that dusty road. I can feel my clammy hands shaking from the visual trauma I have endured and cannot help but think that a similar fate awaits me in the near future. However, when the doors of the limestone palace slam open and all sixteen of us slave girls are ushered inside, I realize that a different sort of hell awaits me.
