A Rebellion In Heaven

A Rebellion In Heaven

A novel of ancient Egypt

By

John-Philip Penny

This lyrical and poetic tale is set in ancient Egypt, when Pharaohs and strange but divine beings ruled over the fates of all.

Enter Anubis ---a young god, powerful, introspective, and heir to the throne of the Afterlife. Within himself he harbours a dark secret, one that throws his immortal soul into chaos, and drives him to the edge of despair.

For him, the only answer lies in escape ---escape from the Underworld, by way of mysterious passages, and out into the world of living mortals. It is here that he undertakes a spiritual journey, to rediscover the meaning of his life.

Enter Iset ---the poor but beautiful widow, who steals Anubis's heart, and who tempts him to abandon his divinity, for the sake of an earthly life, and its many pleasures.

But how far will he go, to claim what he truly desires? Will he sacrifice the gift of eternity? And will he risk unleashing a rebellion, which could threaten to bring down the very pillars of heaven itself?

This poignant new novel from the author of Blood of a Barbarian, and Panzerfaust, is a clever blend of historical fiction, myth, spiritual adventure, and fantasy. It is, above all, a meditation upon the eternal questions that we all ask ourselves: What is the meaning of life? How can one be happy? And how does one learn to give, and to receive, true love?

Chapter One:

The Perfume of the Gods

All that day long the activity in the Palace had not ceased. Servants ran to and fro, attending to the biddings of myself and their other masters, while the wide mirrored hallways echoed to the sound of their footfalls. Everything had to be perfect. The incense had to be lit, the walls and statuary polished, and the chairs and tables arranged. No one was allowed to sit idle, not even for a moment. Even within our private royal chambers, the pace was at a fever pitch, as our personal maids and footmen fussed over the smallest details of our make-up and attire, checking and rechecking everything to be sure that nothing was out of place.

Though I myself am the firstborn son of an extremely powerful family, I have never taken things too seriously, which has always been my manner. Granted, the guests were on their way, and a favourable impression must be made, but nevertheless, I dismissed my footmen, preferring to rummage through my clothes alone, and to dress myself. It was always the same with me: A stiff linen Shendyt skirt, worn leather sandals, a black woven shirt (to symbolize death and rebirth) and lastly, an ornately carved mask, meant to represent a desert Jackal. I never put on the mask till the last minute though, because it was hot and stuffy inside, and it was hard to see out of the eye-holes, so in the meantime, I carried it under my arm. I knew that many in my family were fussy, and would already have spent some hours gazing at themselves in their polished mirrors. My mother and my stepmother in particular, did that most days, and even at night, having their eyes painted with black Kohl, and their nails and hands decorated with Henna, before being bathed in the mist of a variety of perfumes, myrtle and spices. Then, donning their coloured shawls, and with an impressive gesture, they would dismiss their lady-maids, and sweep out of the room, a cloud of scent following in their wakes. My father, a very different sort, was both stern and ever-patient, and would sit for hours with his eyes closed as the painters with their brushes applied many shades and hues of green to his pallid and long-suffering face. He endured all this without a word, because he knew it had to be done.

Lucky were the very few of us who were able to wear masks instead, for we did not have to go through with all that to the same degree as our elders, whose faces showed, and who had to do much to conform to our guests' expectations. That was an important fact. None of the guests was allowed to see us before we'd had a chance to prepare for them. Each week we had a new batch of arrivals, sometimes a dozen, and sometimes only a few. Today we had six coming to stay with us, and they would be here within minutes, and as the Chief Custodian it was my task to welcome them to the Palace, and so I had to be on my way.

I then left my private rooms, and worked my way down the corridor, to where everyone in my extended family was already waiting. In making towards the Reception Hall, I passed through the Hall of Pillars, which was a very large and dank room, whose roof was upheld by one hundred stone columns. In the centre of this vast space, there was a large, stagnant pool, and a fountain, which was filled with rotting leaves. It had not been cared for in decades, and the whole vast place smelled of decaying vegetation. And yet I liked it, and often sought refuge and solitude in one of its dark corners.

When at last I reached the Reception Hall, I checked to see that everything was correct, and that all had been laid out as it was supposed to be. Most of those who were expected -the forty-two members of our dynasty-had already seated themselves, and were waiting patiently. The chairs had been specially placed, so that everyone faced in the same direction, towards the Great Golden Doorway. I noticed that my mother and stepmother had not yet arrived, which was typical, and so there would have to be a slight delay in the day's proceedings. I disliked making the guests wait, and also resented having to stand there, sweating in my tight-fitting mask. I would have preferred to take it off, but it was forbidden to remove it once you had entered the hall.

Finally, after the passing of an age, they arrived, and grandly took their seats amidst a flurry. I have to admit that both of them are beautiful looking women -my mother especially, who was wearing a close-fitting dress of pale linen, and a raven-dark wig, while her slim neck and dainty waist were draped with lapis-lazuli and amethyst stones. My stepmother was no less a sight, coming into the room like a whiff of breeze. She went barefoot, and wore a turquise dress that was covered in silver-work and beads. Both of them liked to make an entrance, and were always trying to outdo one another.

Now that everyone was assembled, I looked up to my droop-lidded father, who signalled that the time had come. I turned, and began to walk through the towering Golden Doors, then down the long passageway beyond, that led to the Palace's entrance.

It was difficult to see in the dark passage, especially through my Jackal mask, and so I was led by a seeing-guide, who's flaming torch illuminated our steps. When we reached the end, we came before the entrance door, a very humble stonework affair, which was guarded by two spearmen. I signalled to the guards, and they opened the door, which creaked on its rusty hinges.

There, waiting on the landing, were the six guests, four men, and two women, and, also as expected, they were terrified. I tried in vain to reassure them, by lifting my arms in a sign of welcome, but this never did much good. It was my job to see them safely in, and to set their minds at ease, but that was a difficult task. One by one, they tentatively approached, and then crossed the threshold, until all of them were inside.

This small group was led by the man who wore a crown, and who had the mark of royalty upon him, a King no doubt. The other men were nobles as well, and the women were dressed as Queens. It was no surprise to me that the crowned one appeared to be the bravest of the lot; he carried himself with the most dignity, and this, I noted to myself, would serve him well in the tests to come.

At this point, I was still not allowed to speak, or else I would have done more to be comforting. I just turned, and taking the King's hand, began to lead them all down the passage. The closer we got to the light at the end of the tunnel, which marked the entrance to the Reception Hall, the more the guests began to tremble, and the women to openly weep. Every now and then I raised a hand, not to rebuke them in their tears, but to silence them in their anxiety with as much compassion as I could. It was always the same story: Our guests were frightened. They wanted to turn back and to run away; wanted to flee what they knew was coming. But the spearmen who followed us prevented this from becoming a reality.

I never failed to be intrigued by our guests, was fascinated by the musk they gave off; was both repelled by it and drawn to it. The smell of their bodies was partly sweat, partly dirt, and water, and partly sand. The scent of the desert was upon them, and of the holy and eternal River Nile, and the heat of the sun, new-born. It emanated from their well-preserved flesh like the heat of the humid breath of basking crocodiles, who lazed along the banks where the royal barques sail idly by; and the scent of birds was upon them too, and of the blue lapis-lazuli sky, and of all of the myriad numbers of things that make up the earthly life.

At last we came to the end of the passage, and the light there was bewildering and dazzling. The torches that lined the walls blazed, and the bundles of myrrh that had been lit filled the hall with its smokey haze, and saturated our clothing and our nostrils. One by one, I presented our trembling visitors to the outstretched row of my family line, each of the forty-two judges in turn, who nodden their heads in acknowledgement. The guests did not seem at all surprised to learn the truth of the identities of those before them, for long had they been preparing themselves, and acquainting their vague life senses with the heavenly order and the set rituals they had known that they would eventually, one day, face.

Lastly, I presented myself to the guests, speaking all the while in a booming voice, and intoning the sacred words, just as I had been taught. 'I am Anubis!' I said, 'God of the funerary rite, and of the process of embalming, where the body is preserved for all time against the ravages of decay and spoil. And it is I who am guide of the dead, overseer of all who pass through the Golden Doors, and of those