Beauty of Re

by Mark Gajewski

  Strong thighs, narrow waist, her legs parade her beauty.

  With graceful step she treads the ground,

  Captures my heart by her movements.”

  Being a king’s wife gave me the opportunity to freely and frequently wander the streets of my favorite city, Mennefer. Sometimes I was accompanied by Thut, sometimes by bodyguards, and sometimes I strolled about in disguise. The city was fascinating, the largest and most cosmopolitan in the entire world, crowded, noisy, colorful, dusty, filled with exotic sights and sounds and smells, growing in concert with Thut’s empire. Many times I encountered old soldiers who had left the army and settled at the capital, and they greeted me like a comrade. I haunted Peru–nefer, its docks and warehouses and workshops and boats, speaking with captains and sailors and merchants who’d been lured here from every city in the known world seeking the incomparable products of Kemet, bringing the best of their own lands. The plethora of languages that filled the air was enough to keep even me satisfied.

  But despite my outward happiness, there was still an empty space deep within my heart, once filled with love for Nefer. After nine years, I had abandoned all hope that she and I would ever reconcile. She was happy, or so I was told by Aachel, who contrived to speak with me in secret occasionally. Nefer continued to oversee Thut’s important construction projects, attended by Aachel and her daughters and granddaughters as she moved about the valley. As hard as it was, I’d adhered to my promise to cut myself off from Aachel and her progeny, knowing Nefer considered them her true family, not wishing to intrude on the one thing she had to herself, not wanting to put any of them in the position of having to choose between us. That had been the story of Nefer and Thut and me, after all, one that had brought so much pain to us all. I still grieved over our lost friendship, our lost sisterhood, our lost love. But, as I’d confessed to Aachel during one of our clandestine discussions, even if the gods let me turn back time I’d make the same choice again, to marry Thut. I loved him too much to regret choosing him, and he loved me, and together we were exceedingly happy. “Nefer never loved anyone like you love Thutmose, like I loved Hori,” Aachel told me consolingly. “If she had, she would have understood.”

  “When will the battle begin, Lady Mery?” Amenhotep asked.

  I was seated on the grass halfway up a low ridge half a mile or so from Kadesh, observing the beleaguered city along with the king’s son, a few Medjay nearby watching over us. Amenhotep was pacing back and forth; at age seven he was restless and impatient, much like Thut. He was a handsome boy, far taller than his father had been at the same age, intelligent, just as physically active, though he was willful and did not apply himself to his studies and had a mean streak at times, something that Thut had never exhibited. He carried a small bow that he knew how to use, thanks to Thut’s tutelage; a copper dagger with an elaborately engraved hilt was thrust through his belt. This was Amenhotep’s first campaign; Thut had brought him along because, at Thut’s age, he had no idea how many more he might wage. He wanted to expose Amenhotep to one, let him see an army on the march, learn about the logistics involved, observe how a king commanded under fire, understand that battles were not glorious but filled with blood and pain and hatred and terror. This campaign was, in effect, the first step in Amenhotep’s military training. Thut had asked me to come along to translate for him whenever necessary, and watch over his son. For, unlike Amenhotep’s mother or Thut’s other wives, I didn’t need to be coddled on the march or in camp. I was, after all, a veteran of Thut’s wars.

  I squinted at Amenhotep, the sun in my face. “Soon, I think, Majesty.”

  I turned and gazed once more across the plain towards Kadesh, one section of its ramparts still under construction, banners flying atop towers that loomed over the city. The fields of ripe grain that had stretched as far as the eye could see around Kadesh upon our arrival a week ago were now stubble, harvested by Thut to feed his troops and deny sustenance to his enemy. We were settled in for a long siege. Our army entirely ringed the city. But an hour ago, quite unexpectedly, Durusha’s forces had issued forth to offer battle; lines of foot soldiers and archers were now drawn up in several long lines on the plain just outside Kadesh’s main gate.

  “Do you recognize the banners?” Amenhotep asked.

  “A few. I learned them all when we besieged Megiddo, but that was a long time ago.” I stared intently. “Abel, Damascus, Hadara, Arnaim, Kadesh of course, Lebo, Shabtuna, Byblos, Sumur – those I remember for certain.”

  I caught sight of Thut, in the process of aligning his troops. Chariots held his center, each with a bow–carrying driver and protective shield–bearer, with mounted archers on both the right and left flanks. Foot soldiers carrying spears stretched in a long line behind them. I swept my eyes over Thut’s proud army, poised, toughened by long marches, a great hammer forged by decades of battles, never beaten, confident as it faced yet another foe beneath the banners of our gods.

  News that his arch–enemy had risen in revolt had stirred rather than angered Thut. He’d spent decades trying to bring Durusha to bay, and he welcomed the opportunity to finally face him in battle. Thut was determined that this time the enemy king would not escape. He had mustered his army quickly and loaded it on boats, then sailed along the coast far to the north of Kadesh, all the way to the mouth of the Orontes River. There our ten thousand men had disembarked and marched inland. We struck Tunip first, Durusha’s major ally, taking it after a difficult siege that lasted from late spring until the beginning of the harvest. By taking Tunip and its surrounding countryside, Thut had cut Durusha off from the rest of his northern allies.

  We’d marched south along the Orontes after that, capturing and plundering every town along our route, laying waste to fields ready for harvest, neutralizing the support of those towns as well. There’d been a short sharp fight between Thut’s vanguard and Durusha’s army as we arrived before Kadesh; panicked, Durusha had quickly withdrawn his men within the protection of his walls. We’d surrounded the city, encircling it so rapidly and tightly that this time there was no chance Durusha would slip away.

  That was a week ago. The enemy’s appearance on the plain today was unanticipated and made no strategic sense, at least to me. Unless the wretches were short on food or water – the fact they hadn’t harvested their fields before we arrived suggested that was the case – they were safer inside their walls than outside. Then again, perhaps Durusha’s challenge was merely a sign of his arrogance and lack of respect for Thut. I almost felt sorry for his men. His army had no chariots, only archers and foot soldiers, although the latter were in number perhaps equal to ours. But as an experienced observer of Thut’s battles, I knew they stood no chance against my brilliant husband.

  The glint of gold and a plume of dust attracted my attention. “Look!” I told Amenhotep. “Your father is moving to the front. The attack is about to begin.”

  Thut turned his chariot to face his men, controlling his eager horses with an iron hand. Close by were Amenemhab and Ahmose in their chariots; as always, they would flank Thut on either side to protect him during the fight. More Medjay, his personal bodyguards, in chariots of their own, were also in the vicinity. Thut began addressing his troops, though I was too far away to hear what he said. Then Thut turned towards the enemy and his personal guards moved into position and trumpets sounded and the line of chariots began to move slowly towards the city, dust rising lazily from wheels and horses hooves. On both right and left the archers began moving forward as well, and after a short pause the foot soldiers. It was a stirring sight, the long orderly rows of horses and men flowing relentlessly forward, like a great wave about to smash against a rocky coast.

  The enemy waited as our chariots and horsemen closed the gap between the lines. I saw some of the enemy raise their shields as they came within range of our bows. Then, suddenly, a single horse galloped from the right end of the enemy line onto the plain between the armies, headed towards the enemy left. Almost at once, it seemed,
our line of chariots and mounted archers became disorganized, beginning with those closest to the horse, the stallions all trying to break towards it, drivers and riders fighting hard to get them under control and avoid crashing into each other.

  “A mare in heat!” I cried, rising and seizing Amenhotep’s elbow in my excitement. “A trick to break our battle line! And it’s working!”

  A few of our chariots had already smashed into each other and overturned. Their riders were sprawled on the ground. More chariots were bunched up behind them, trying to avoid the wreckage, unable to get around it, their horses going mad. I could hear the enemy cheering, saw a few arrows fly harmlessly from their midst and fall far short of our troops.

  “Durusha has more foot soldiers than your father,” I told Amenhotep. “If he neutralizes our chariots and horsemen the battle might swing to his favor.”

  “We might lose?” Amenhotep’s eyes were wide with fright.

  Then a single chariot broke from among those guarding Thut and pounded towards the mare. Even from so far away I could tell it was Amenemhab. He fell in some distance behind the mare, increased his speed, drew up alongside, transferred the reins to his shield–bearer, then leaned far out over the side of the chariot, holding on to the frame with one hand. His dagger flashed in the sun. He drew it back and slashed the mare’s flank. The mare swerved, slowed. Amenemhab caught it again, slashed again. The mare galloped a few yards, then crashed to the ground. Amenemhab leaped from his slowing chariot, tumbled head over heels, rolled a few times, got to his feet, rushed to the mare and slit its throat. Even from a distance I could see the spray of blood. Then he cut off the mare’s tail and raised it high in the air with his free hand.

  Our men roared.

  The enemy soldiers started scrambling back towards their gate. Their trick had failed. They had neither the strength nor courage to face Thut’s army. Amenemhab’s driver circled back to him and he jumped in and raised the tail high and pointed it towards Kadesh and every nearby charioteer rallied to him. Amenemhab didn’t wait for the rest of the army; he gave a great cry and his squadron charged forward, like an arrow released from a bow. All along the line the rest of Thut’s commanders were reorganizing their chariots and mounted archers and surging forward in small groups as well. The enemy were milling about outside the gate, too many trying to go through too small an opening at the same time. Our archers loosed a volley and many fell screaming to the ground. Our foot soldiers broke into a run.

  “Look, Amenhotep!” I cried. “Amenemhab is headed towards the weakest part of their rampart, where it’s still under construction, where the wall is lowest.”

  As we watched, he and his men abandoned their chariots, and as some fired arrows at the enemy peering over the wall the rest found handholds and swarmed over. About the same time our chariots crashed into the mob still trapped outside the gate. I heard screams mingled with cries of triumph. Five minutes later our foot soldiers reached the walls, some charging through the now undefended gate, others following Amenemhab over the ramparts.

  Even as our men were fighting inside Kadesh I dashed down the ridge to my waiting chariot and, with Amenhotep beside me, headed at speed towards the gap in the ramparts. My two bodyguards followed at a run. I pulled the chariot to a halt beside the first of Thut’s wounded soldiers I encountered. He was laying on his back in tall grass no more than thirty yards from the wall. I could clearly hear shouts and screams and the clanging of dagger against dagger from within the city.

  “Fetch my sack of supplies from the chariot,” I told Amenhotep, dropping to my knees beside the soldier. “You two,” I ordered my Medjay guards, who were just arriving, panting hard from their run. “Drive my chariot to that stream over there. Fill my extra waterskins. Bring them back to me. When I empty them, go refill them. That’s your job for the rest of the day.”

  The soldier was bleeding profusely. An arrow had sliced through the muscle at the top of his left shoulder. Luckily, the arrow was not embedded; if it had been, the wound would have been beyond my skill to deal with.

  “Your name?” I asked.

  “Djau.”

  I helped him sit up. He winced with pain, reeled dizzily. Blood welled from his wound and spilled down his shoulder and chest. I put an arm around his back to support him, felt his blood hot on my skin.

  Amenhotep took one look at him and vomited. Then, taking a deep breath, he moved beside me, setting down my supplies.

  I let go of Djau, opened my linen sack, dumped its contents on the ground, poured a bit of water from a leather waterskin into an earthenware bowl, tossed in some herbs. “Give Djau a drink,” I said.

  Amenhotep held the waterskin to the soldier’s lips. He gulped the liquid thirstily.

  “You’re the king’s wife!” Djau exclaimed weakly, recognizing me. He stared at Amenhotep. “And the king’s son.”

  “And you’re my husband’s soldier, and we are in your debt,” I replied. “We’ll do what we can for you.”

  I mixed the herbs into a paste, all the while explaining to Amenhotep what I was doing. Then I washed the dirt and blood from Djau’s wound, pressed the paste into it, smeared it with honey, then wrapped a length of linen tightly over his shoulder and under his arm several times.

  “Help me lay Djau back down,” I told Amenhotep.

  Together we did. Djau looked up at us gratefully. “Thank you, Majesties.”

  “Gather our supplies,” I told Amenhotep. “We’ve many more men to help this day.”

  For hours we moved from soldier to soldier, assisted by my Medjay, along with the rest of Thut’s physicians, who appeared shortly after we reached the wall, tending to the wounded as best we could, barely marking the passing of hours. Our loss of men was not too bad, all things considered. Many enemy soldiers lay where they’d fallen, grievously wounded, crying for water and help. I ignored them; they’d rebelled against my husband and they deserved their fate.

  I called a halt at sunset and Amenhotep let the sack with what was left of our supplies slip through his fingers to the ground and sat down beside it. He looked exhausted. I was famished and thirsty, my clothing and arms and hands and legs saturated with blood, some of it already dried, most fresh. Amenhotep was equally blood–covered. Based on his appearance, I must have been a fright. I fell to my knees, wrapped my arms around him, hugged him close, kissed the top of his head affectionately. “You did very well, Majesty. Your father will be so proud of you when I tell him. Someday, when you command this army, these soldiers and their descendants will remember the day you tended the fallen on the field of Kadesh and they’ll follow you without question, out of love. As you’ve cared for them, they’ll care for you. Today you’ve taken the first step towards earning their loyalty.”

  “Is that important, their loyalty?” Amenhotep asked. “I’ll be their king. They’ll have to do what I say.”

  “To a point, Amenhotep, that’s true. But on the field of battle, with arrows flying, its easy to turn and run unless you have a reason to stand and face death. You witnessed that today. The enemy’s soldiers were supposed to do what Durusha said – they had a duty to him – but they turned tail and ran before us. Your father’s men did not, even when the battle was so confused at its beginning. Surely you saw that.”

  “I did,” he admitted.

  “Never forget, Amenhotep. Duty is never as powerful as loyalty.”

  “My father has earned his soldiers’ loyalty?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is this how? Tending wounded on a battlefield?”

  “Not exactly. But he spent years, beginning when he was a year or so older than you, living among his soldiers and undergoing the same training they did and sharing every hardship and privation, sleeping as they did, eating what they ate, refusing to be treated like a king. Without doing so he couldn’t have built such a magnificent army, and without it he couldn’t have built the empire that will one day be yours and your son’s after you.”

  Amenhotep was si
lent as we walked wearily towards Thut’s pavilion. It was not far from the city gate; we’d been working some distance away. We walked at the base of the city wall, our steps lit by torches blazing atop the rampart, patrolled its entire length now by Thut’s men. Some recognized us and called down and we each looked up and acknowledged them every time. Campfires were springing to life all over the plain, soldiers settling down before them to rest or drink or prepare a meal, at least those that weren’t mopping up or already on guard duty in Kadesh.

  “The city must be cleared of soldiers by now,” I told Amenhotep, “or our men would still be inside.”

  Groups of prisoners were huddled together in several places at the base of the wall, heavily guarded, and we swung around them. Some had their arms bound behind them, some were wounded, all were sullen and exhausted and looked defeated. From snatches of their talk I was able to figure out which city or town most were from. I recognized some by their clothing, even without hearing them speak.

  “Those men are Mitanni,” I told Amenhotep, pointing to a large group somewhat isolated from the others.

  “From Naharina? The place where you spied in the tent of the king?”

  “Yes. Before we defeated him in battle.”

  Ever since he was a very young boy, Amenhotep had never tired of hearing about my exploits at Yapu and Naharina, tales his father often related at dinner to the dismay of his grandmother. I was sure Iset would rather that I had died in either place than seem like some kind of heroine to her grandson.

  We neared the gate. Men were leading donkeys into Kadesh and others were leading more out, baskets and boxes and sacks stacked high and lashed to their backs.

  “The spoils of victory,” I told Amenhotep. “Part will go to your father’s treasury, part to Amun in thanksgiving.”

  “I can’t wait to attend the triumph in Waset,” Amenhotep said.

  “Me either.” The pageant and spectacle, the welcoming crowds, the feasting, the music, the dancing – even though Thut held one at the end of every campaign they never got old.