Chapter 13: The Mythic Prophecy of Horus

Three days later, the sound of the Nile’s flowing waters filled the ears of the three men and their donkey, rushing and roaring. They were fortunate; it was the ebb tide, and across the alluvial plain farmers and slaves were busy sowing wheat.

The people here were not as dark-skinned as one might expect; their lips were not thick, and they carried a certain charm all their own. They worked barefoot in the muddy fields, while the women wore long robes, balancing basins or clay jars atop their heads.

For these people, the fertile soil left behind after the Nile’s fury brought abundant harvests. This surplus allowed for extra grain to be used in brewing wine. In regions with longer daylight hours, the wines and fruit drinks produced were truly exceptional.

The farmers tending roadside fields watched with curiosity as the small caravan approached from the north. To avoid disturbing the locals, the travelers had dismounted and were now walking, no longer relying on Marum alone to carry them as before. Only the old donkey seemed to enjoy being carried by Marum, having labored all its life and now, in old age, being served in such a way.

They arrived at a small town called Rasvet, where they planned to rest. Rasvet was already well within Egypt, and the local customs and atmosphere had changed significantly. Guards of the local ruler patrolled everywhere, as the cities were scattered across isolated, habitable areas. As long as there was no large-scale warfare, maintaining order was relatively easy.

Though the attire of the people and the architecture varied greatly, Aaron could still discern traces of northern culture—Athens among them—that had been woven into the fabric of Egyptian life.

They were selecting lodgings and purchasing supplies before continuing toward Saïs, the capital of Egypt. As Aaron helped unload the donkey, a man dressed like a merchant from the Babylonian kingdom approached, eyeing the old donkey. He removed his hat, which looked like a pile of scarves stacked atop his head, and smiled warmly.

“I am Ainoa from Babylon. Greetings, gentlemen. This donkey, being so old yet carried by a man, is it to be sold at the market or sent to the butcher, perhaps?”

At this time, Egypt was under the rule of Pharaoh Neco II of the Seth dynasty. Five years prior, Egypt had just ended its war with the Neo-Babylonian kingdom over Carchemish. Now in a period of recovery, merchants from both regions had naturally established trade routes and began exchanging goods—an instinct ingrained in humanity.

Anda said nothing, and Marum seemed unsure how to converse with mere mortals. Thus, Aaron became the target of Ainoa’s conversation; after all, tricking youngsters and making a little profit was a practice that persisted across millennia.

Ainoa leaned close to Aaron, carrying a strange scent of perfume—these merchants truly sacrificed much for their trade.

He continued, “By chance, I know some local traders. For a few drachmas or a tenth of a debens in copper coins, you could fetch a good price. Or trade for bread and beer for your journey.”

“I highly recommend the beer from the Barik family—sweet and delicious, even Horus himself would praise it.”

“Ah—pity, my lords! Mercy, mercy!”

Before Aaron could react, Marum grabbed Ainoa by his collar and lifted him off the ground. Marum’s transformed arm, if tilted just slightly, could crush the merchant’s skull like a melon rolling on the earth.

“Silence! Human, that profane name is not for you to speak!”

For all Astartes, the name “Horus” was a trigger for deep PTSD. Although Marum was not a veteran of the 30K era, their shared genetic lineage still carried the anger and regret of ten thousand years past. This fury was especially potent in the Blood Angels. Marum was an elite warrior, the most genetically stable of the Astartes.

Had that not been the case, Ainoa might have already had his head crushed, his neck bitten through, and his blood drained.

Only then did Anda straighten, casually inspecting their luggage while mumbling, “Enough, Marum. That hasn’t happened yet. Let the poor man go. We have no intention of selling the donkey.”

Marum released him, letting Ainoa tumble to the ground. The frightened merchant scrambled away, crawling some distance before daring to stand, shouting hastily,

“May the gods curse you! You rude barbarians!”

“Get out of Rasvet! Wait, you consider the gods’ names profane! Heretics! Heretics!”

“Horus will kill you all!”

How amusing it was that a merchant from an enemy nation just five years ago had the audacity to call others heretics.

Aaron caught up with Marum’s reaction and stood before him, preventing the poor man—unaware of what he had said wrong—from dying on the spot.

He was clever enough to realize which name had provoked Marum’s rage.

“Marum, is there a problem with the name ‘Horus’? He is the grandson of Amon, the son of Osiris. He represents the cycle of sunrise and sunset, the victory of order over chaos.”

Marum’s eyes squeezed shut, veins throbbing with fury, his Astartes organs operating at full capacity.

“I think he merely meant ‘Horus’ as a name for the Pharaoh. Every Pharaoh claims to be the living incarnation of Horus. They call him the ‘Living Horus’.” Aaron continued explaining.

Marum’s fists clenched so tightly the bones cracked.

“Relax. Every place has its own mythology.”

Aaron glanced slyly at his father and joked, “Unless the chief gods of every mythology are the same person, right, Father? There was a time when the gods of other lands couldn’t find their own father, simply because he had gone elsewhere.”

Aaron’s words danced dangerously close to the edge of Marum’s nerves.

Listen—what is sunrise and sunset? What is the victory of order over chaos?

Thirty thousand years later, everything had gone awry!

The sun was struck down, and chaos had ravaged the empire.

The Emperor—had human history already foretold the future long before the Common Era?

Marum remained silent, lowering his gaze toward the luggage-checking Anda.

Anda turned his head irritably:

“Don’t look at me; it’s not my concern. But what you just said might bring local priests down on us—they will think we are disrespecting the gods.”

“In Athens, that would mean hanging. Here in Egypt, it will cost you—some ransom money. Here, metal weight serves as currency, but to buy exotic goods from afar, you must pay in coin.”

His father had once again spoken too much—about money, of all things. This old man was hardly serious and secretly enjoyed the spectacle.

No sooner had he finished speaking than several guards appeared in the distance, led by the very man, Ainoa, who had been thrown to the ground moments before.

His face was now twisted with a new expression:

“Captain Gett, I mentioned the name Horus—the symbol of the Pharaoh—and those foreigners called it profane and beat me in rage! This is disrespect to the Pharaoh! They must be taught a lesson, arrested, locked in the water prison, and fed to the crocodiles!”