The sun rises in the east and sets in the west. The Nile flows north and the wind blows south. These things will always be.
Senu mutters the adage to calm his nerves; this will be his first time away from the palace.
Canvas billows. Rope lines crack. Oars dance and turn below the waves. As dusk falls, the Nile barge gets underway, heading south. Far south.
For decades, the Upper Kingdom had been perilous, chaotic: roving bands, graverobbers, and always the threat of Nubian invasion. But no longer. By shield and by spear, the pharaoh’s brother has brought this frontier to heel, and now Senu, as prince, has been sent to observe the army’s progress.
He might be nervous, but he’s excited too. How many stories has Senu heard of his illustrious uncle: this man tough as a crocodile. Hardy as a bull.
‘And cunning as a desert fox, don’t they say?’
Those words, that voice as if from a dream. Senu turns, and there it is again: the ibis.
‘You!’ he shouts.
The bird bobs in a perfunctory bow.
It’s been months now since the ibis first appeared to berate him. Senu had begun to wonder if it wasn’t all his imagination. Maybe he’d just hoped it was his imagination.
Then the ibis beats its wings threateningly.
‘I haven’t come simply to bandy words with you, boy,’ the bird says, floating down from the mainsail. ‘Gods have better things to do.’
‘But you are a god?’ Senu asks.
‘I am a teacher, one you would do well to listen to if you’re ever going to rule. I have another lesson for you. Another story.’
The bird fans out its wings, catching the last of the dusking sun on its feathers.
‘The daily cycle of the sun – this is the first pattern. This is maat. The cycle of the Nile. The cycle of you mortals and your life, death and rebirth – these are simply echoes of that first pattern. But like the peace of your father’s kingdom, it is under constant threat. Disorder looms, and it takes great strength to master that chaos as your uncle has done. Let me show you.’
And when the ibis spreads wide its wings, the story of the sun gods is writ there upon a white papyrus of feathers.
The first symbol penned upon the ibis’s feathers is a circle. One moment, it looks like the sun, the next like a snake eating its own tail. If you tried to pronounce the symbol, your voice would first be a hissing sound, like a rain of arrows in flight. Then it would grow faint and become a scuttling noise.
And finally, it would be a name: Khepru, the scarab.
Perhaps you’ve caught sight of him before. An emerald shell. Buzzing wing cases. A green flash in the seconds before dawn.
It is the only chance to see him. Khepru brings the new day by rolling the sun from behind, like a scarab rolls a ball of dung.
He is not entirely beetle. His body is that of an infant, and in those first few hours of day, as he guides the sun across the sky, he begins to age. His limbs lengthen. The fat of childhood gives way to muscle, to strength, and come midday, he has the body of a man. As for his scarab head – in the heat of the sun, it begins to shrivel, to desiccate and dry. And then the husk cracks altogether.
Feathers. Beady yellow eyes. A beak sharp as any blade.The symbols twist upon the ibis’s feathers into a falcon, the sun god’s second name: Ra.
As Ra, the god does not roll the sun as a scarab would. No, he sails with it.
Canvas billows. Rope lines crack. Oars dance and turn above the clouds. Ra is underway, heading east. Far east. He navigates his solar barge across the heavens, with the sun as a crown atop his falcon head.
And still he continues to age. His skin begins to spot. The strength of adulthood gives way to creaking joints, to weakness, and come late afternoon, he has the body of an elder. As for his falcon head – in the heat of the sun, it begins to cinder, to scorch and sear. And then the feathers burn away altogether.
A snout. Short bristled hair. Two horns coiled into the hint of a crown.
The symbols twist upon the ibis’s feathers into a ram, the sun god’s third name: Atum.
It is Atum who carries the dimming sun. His solar barge runs aground beyond the western horizon. Dusk.
But it is not the end of the journey. How could it be? The sun cannot rise from the west next morning; it must rise from the east. Atum must bear it back, a second voyage, but this time through the waters of the Duat.
As there is a left, so there is a right. As there is a night, so there is a day. And as there is a living world, so there is an underworld, the Duat. It is a place of darkness, of reflections and echoes. It is the home of the dead.
When Atum sets sail on his night barge, some of those dead crew it with him. Gods too. It is not merely because, in this aged form, the sun god needs help at the billowing canvas, help at the creaking rope lines, help at the oars dancing and turning beneath the earth. It is because this journey across the Duat is perilous, chaotic: rip currents. wild beasts, and always this hissing sound, like a rain of arrows in flight.
There is a change in the sun god too. As he grew old during the day, so he grows young during the night.
Atum’s snout gives way to Ra’s feathers. Ra’s feathers give way to Khepru’s emerald shell.
It is as the scarab child that the danger is most acute. It is then that that hissing sound reaches crescendo. The waters of the Duat ripple and froth. An endless coil breaches the waves and a great serpent rears. Apep.
See its scales – a pattern that follows neither rhyme nor reason. See its jaws – hundreds of fangs all splintered and spliced.
Apep is chaos incarnate, and it takes great strength to master that chaos. It takes a god tough as a crocodile. Hardy as a bull. And cunning as a desert fox. It takes Set, the sun gods’ great grandchild.
He catches the serpent’s lunge with his shield. With his spear, he drives it back below the waters of the Duat. Set defends the night barge long enough for it to run aground beyond the eastern horizon.
Only then can that hissing sound, like a rain of arrows in flight, grow faint. It becomes a scuttling noise: a scarab rolling a ball of dung.
Night has fallen now, and it’s almost impossible for Senu to make out the last symbol upon the ibis’s wings. But the young boy knows what it must be: a circle. One moment like a sun, the next like a snake eating its own tail.
‘Never forget the pattern, boy,’ says the bird, and its voice has become little more than the whisper of feathers. ‘It is the pharaoh’s duty to maintain maat. But maat is also his constant guide. Even here. Even in the dark.’
Commissioned by HistoryHit for The Ancients podcast
Written by Andrew Hulse