by Paul Doherty
We were allowed to gawp at private chambers where beds, their frames inlaid with ebony, silver and gold, glinted in the polished light of the gleaming black or dark brown wood. Hotep encouraged us to sit on cross-legged stools with leather-cushioned seats, their feet carved in the form of panther, leopard or lion’s claws. We’d stroke brilliant blue and silver cushions full of feathers, silken and soft to the skin, and study wall hangings with fringes of thick colours, or handle vessels of silver and gold, faience and alabaster, moulded in the shape of exotic animals or beautiful women. The words Ankh and Sa, Life and Happiness, were everywhere. Above doorways or windows the guardian vulture Nekhbet spread gloriously coloured wings. We visited tiled bathrooms and toilets, sunrooms and a well-stocked library, the Per Medjet, the House of Books. Of course, everywhere were scenes depicting the Magnificent One crushing his foes, riding like the God of War against his enemies. He was a rampant Sphinx under whose cruel claws tattooed Libyans, earringed Nubians, Syrians in their flowing robes or the sheshnu, the Desert Wanderers and Sand Dwellers, trembled in fear. Hotep was a clever man. Every week he’d take us around the palaces to view the glory and drink in the power of Egypt. For this we had to live – and for this we might even have to die.
We also prepared to enter the House of War. Colonel Perra was a brute of a taskmaster. Our studies were over and a harsher training began. The service of Montu the God of War was, in the words of Colonel Perra, to be our constant food, our constant wish, the very breath of life. He paraded us dressed only in our loincloths during the noonday heat and always began with a quotation from a famous work called The Satire of Trades.
‘A soldier,’ Colonel Perra roared, ‘has to be beaten like a carpet, cleaned of all dirt and impediment. He campaigns in Syria and marches over the mountains. He carries bread and water on his shoulders like an ass. He slurps from brackish pools and sleeps with one eye open. When he encounters the enemy he must fight like an animal caught in a snare. He becomes a whirling piece of wood. He becomes ill and sick. His clothes are stolen and he eats dust every day of his life. That, gentlemen, is part of being a soldier. But, remember, there is the other side. The name of a brave man will never vanish from the face of the earth. You are here to serve Pharaoh, a magnificent soldier, the descendant of a magnificent soldier.’
‘I think,’ Sobeck whispered, ‘we are going to know this speech by heart.’
‘The Divine One’s grandfather,’ Colonel Perra continued in a roar, ‘was strong of arm, a master of bowmen, rich in glory. So was the Divine One’s father while he whom we now serve, Lord of the Two Lands, makes the people of the earth tremble at his move. Why?’ Colonel Perra walked up and down the line, striking each of us with his swagger cane. ‘Because of the might of Egypt, because of the glory of its regiments and the power of its army! When we go to war we are like raging panthers, lions on the hunt, eagles in the sky. You will be part of that glory.’
I assure you there was little glory! Day after day of route marches, running in a heat which seemed to have gusted up from the Underworld. We would go without bread and water, to camp in the Red Lands. Yet this was only the beginning. Roused at dead of night, we were ordered to drill. On one occasion we were marched down to the Great River; a war barge took us across, but instead of beaching we had to jump into the cold, fast-flowing water, curb our panic, the heartstopping terror, and make our way to shore. It was an experience I came to dread. Sobeck always helped me. Yet the current was very strong and, on one occasion, Horemheb’s Danga dwarf, hair and beard now greyed, having insisted on accompanying his master, was swirled away in the darkness. Hideous screams shattered the silence. He had been swept into a crocodile pool and the next morning the only remains we found were part of his head. Huy cracked a joke about the curse of Weni’s sacred goose. Horemheb just glared at him and, from that moment, Huy was his enemy. Horemheb hid his grief well and accepted it as part of the harsh training we all had to undergo. Rameses told me he had made an offering to a mortuary priest and dedicated a statue to Danga but, apart from that, Horemheb made no further reference to the dwarf or his hideous fate.
Colonel Perra was equally unperturbed. In fact, our training became even more rigorous. We learned to fight with the mace, the axe and the khopesh. Hours were spent standing at the butts practising with the composite Kushite bow, loosing arrow after arrow, with their cruel barbs and goose-feathered flights into a target of soft wood. Sometimes we’d fight in sandals, other times barefoot. If it was cold, we’d sometimes go naked, or just wearing a loincloth with a leather groin guard. In the hot season Colonel Perra made us walk in tight-sleeved Syrian coats of mail. Some of us were not cut out to be soldiers. Maya, Pentju and Meryre were hopeless – unable, as Colonel Perra remarked, to tell one end of a war-club from another. Nevertheless they provided constant amusement to Weni, who had now become a mere spectator. He’d sit on a bench drinking his beer and chortling with laughter. As for me – well, I was indifferent with the sword, spear, dagger or bow. Indifferent because I didn’t like using them. Indifferent because I didn’t want to be hurt.
The others excelled, particularly Horemheb. He proved himself to be a born fighter, a skilled archer, excellent with hand weapons. By now, he had filled out, and sported strong muscular shoulders and arms, a slim waist, powerful thighs and legs. Nothing seemed to trouble him, neither the heat of the midday sun nor the biting cold of desert nights. He was a man born with the breath of Montu in him. Rameses was just as good, though more cunning, a little faster on his feet. Of course not all of us had our hearts set on being warriors. Meryre wished to be a priest, Maya and Huy hoped to enter the House of Scribes, while Pentju wanted to be a physician. Sobeck, always laughing, asserted his wish to be the Overseer of the Royal Harem. Nevertheless, as a unit we were skilled enough. The Crown Prince joined us as the Kap had shrunk, due to death and departures, to no more than eighteen, whilst the Horus unit under Horemheb and Rameses outshone the rest. Tuthmosis was a constant reminder of the Veiled One, not so much his face or form, but that calm calculating look in his eye. I secretly wondered if the Veiled One would send me a message, a gift, engineer some form of contact – or should I go back to him? In the end, I did not have to do anything; the Veiled One came to us.
Tuthmosis always joined us in the morning just after our run when, under Colonel Perra’s lashing tongue, we’d prepare for the daily drill. One morning, however, quietly and without much pomp, a conch horn brayed out beyond the walls of the Residence. The gate opened. Tuthmosis led in the cart, pulled by red-and-white oxen, bearing that frame, draped in a gauze veil, behind which a figure sat. The retinue of Kushites followed led by the one-eyed man. He grinned evilly at me and raised his hand, as if we were longlost friends – a salute not lost on my comrades. They stood fascinated as Tuthmosis climbed onto the cart and pulled away the veil. He then did a strange thing: despite being elder brother and Crown Prince, he bowed before the Veiled One sitting on his thronelike chair. Then Tuthmosis turned to us, hands held up like a herald.
‘Behold,’ he proclaimed, ‘my beloved brother.’
He did not give him his proper name, the same as his father, Amenhotep, but the translation of that name, ‘Amun is Satisfied’. We, of course, clapped, bowed in greeting, and pretended not to be surprised. The Veiled One sat, his face open to the world. His body and face were a little plumper; a sidelock of reddish hair hung down over his left ear. The face was the same, possessing its own uncanny beauty: high cheekbones, sensuous pouting mouth and those well-spaced almond-shaped eyes that glowed like Syrian wine. He didn’t move though his glance took us all in: his eyes caught mine, face creasing into a faint smile. He raised his hand as a sign to continue, long fingers splayed out. Perra roared at us to prepare for our drill and, as we did so, the Veiled One sat on his throne watching us intently.
We finished just before noon and rested in the shade of the trees drinking watered beer and chewing hard bread. Tuthmosis joined his brother on the cart, squatting on
a makeshift footstool, feeding him with his own hand as they chatted and joked together. The Veiled One’s shoulders shook with laughter. A deep, heavy sadness filled my heart. I had glimpsed something I had always wanted yet knew I would never have. I would have given the length of days to be in that cart joking with them, to be part of something, to be loved and accepted. I half-rose. Sobeck, who must have been watching me, grabbed my arm.
‘Sit down, Baboon. Don’t enter the panther’s cage.’
‘Physician, swallow your own remedy,’ I retorted.
The moment passed and we fell to quarrelling, interrupted by Pentju who wanted to tell us a filthy story about men-starved temple girls pleasuring each other.
The Veiled One stayed for the rest of the day and returned each morning. Many years later he confided how his father had reluctantly agreed for him to join the Kap and enter the House of War. Sometimes Hotep arrived and sat on a chair beside the cart. Although he always treated the Veiled One with great respect and honour, he actually seemed more interested in watching us lash and cut each other. In truth Hotep came to assess our worth, to choose and confirm which path we followed. Huy was marked down for the House of Envoys, Maya for the House of Scribes, Pentju for the House of Life, Horemheb, Rameses and Sobeck for the House of War. Hotep shared this information with us as we sat gasping on the ground, letting our sweat cool. He’d walk among us, sometimes crouching down to whisper his advice, punctuating his statements with elegant movements of his hands. He never approached me. I didn’t know what was intended and, in truth, I didn’t care. I was more hurt that the Veiled One made no attempt to welcome, greet or salute me whilst I did not dare tell my companions about my earlier meeting with him.
In the privacy of our dormitory, or barracks as we now called them, we’d discuss and share the gossip of court. In the main the consensus was the same, though I never made any contribution: the Veiled One was a monstrosity.
‘Perhaps he likes young men?’ Meryre smiled, glancing girlishly at Maya. ‘That’s why he comes to watch our soft flesh sweat.’
‘Do you really think that?’ Horemheb demanded. ‘I looked at him and thanked the gods for Tuthmosis.’ Rameses nodded in agreement.
‘No, I don’t,’ Meryre replied. ‘But,’ his voice fell to a whisper, ‘I think the Veiled One is a symbol of the anger of the gods.’
Pentju put the Veiled One’s strange appearance down to his mother being frightened by spiders or scorpions when she carried him in the egg. Huy openly wondered what effect his appearance would have on Egypt’s allies when their envoys visited the court. Sobeck was more pragmatic and wondered whether the Veiled One was the result of some love potion his mother, the Great Queen Tiye, had indulged in. Of course these opinions were exchanged in whispers. No one would dare speak like that in the presence of Colonel Perra or, even worse, Tuthmosis. Only two people remained quiet, myself and Maya. I remembered that.
Our military training stretched into five seasons. The Veiled One was always in attendance, even when we moved down to the royal stables to acquaint ourselves with the horses – beautiful, sleek animals trained for the chariot squadrons of Egypt. We made the usual offerings to Reshef and Astarte, deities of Syria, the homeland of these swift, elegant carriers of war, as well as to Sutekh, the Egyptian Lord of the Horses. I loved that part of my training. I had no fear of horses, even those bloodied in war, arrogant and proud with their arched necks, flared nostrils and laid-back ears. We were trained and drilled in the use of harness, the head collar, noseband, blinkers and, especially, the straps, one across the top, the other under the horse’s belly; it was important for these to be fastened clear and smooth with no knots or obstacles. We were shown how to hang the blue and gold streamers or war tassels, how to fix the pole cap between the horse’s ears to carry plumes, feathers or artificial flowers which would display the colours of the regiment. After that we moved on to the chariot itself, with its semi-circular platform and curved wooden sides with a thin rail above it. We studied these instruments of Egypt’s anger and glory, both horse and chariot. Colonel Perra told us we had to learn how to put both parts together, then use them so we would merge as one: driver, chariot and horses, the most deadly weapon of war.
Now I was a poor archer, ever ready to fumble with the flaxen bowstring or hard shaft of reed. Sobeck my companion proved to be an indifferent charioteer so we decided on our respective roles and I found my gift for war. At first I was clumsy but I grew to love the rattle of the chariot, the speed and power of the two horses and the exhilaration of a charge with streamers flying and horse plumes nodding. Like all young men I believed I had been born to ride in a chariot. My real education began after a number of nasty accidents when both Sobeck and I had either to jump clear and, on one occasion, even onto the back of the horses when a wheel buckled and cracked against a rock.
I became a charioteer, a master of the chariots, an expert in their construction. I studied their fabric, the imported elm and birch, as well as the tamarisk, which provided the wood for the carriage, the axles and the yoke. The six-bolt wide-spaced wheels placed at the back of the chariot were of special interest; their construction gave the vehicle more speed and mobility, their hubs and rims protected by thick red leather. The craftsmen described the body of the chariot, how it could be covered with copper and electrum and emblazoned with any insignia, whilst a floor of closely knit thongs heightened the experience in a full charge of standing on air. We learned how to position the quiver of arrows, the embroidered container for javelins as well as the leather pouches placed at the side of the chariot containing food and water for two men.
I chose my own horses, two bays, the Glory of Anubis and the Might of Montu. Believe me, nothing was more glorious than the ‘Squadron of the Kap’ in full battle honours, blue and gold plumes dancing between the horses’ ears, their necks, backs and flanks protected by leather coats of the same hue, to which war streamers and tassels displaying the same imperial colours danced in the breeze. Our chariots, polished and emblazoned, would move in a straight line across the pebble-strewn hard plain to the east of the Malkata Palace, on the very border of the Red Lands. There were ten chariots in all, Prince Tuthmosis’ and Colonel Perra’s included. We advanced in a line, wheels creaking, horses neighing, streamers and plumage dancing, all a-glitter in the blaze of the sun. Sobeck standing beside me was dressed the same as me in a leather kilt, marching sandals and a coat of Syrian mail across his shoulders. I looked to the left and right, revelling in the power and glory of this moving line of war. The whole scene would be watched by the Veiled One sitting in his cart under an awning surrounded by his Kushites. Near one of the wheels of the cart, Weni, looking pathetic under his parasol, squatted on a camp stool and nursed his beer jar.
The drill was always the same. Colonel Perra would move forward and his tedjet, or fighter, would intone the war hymn.
‘All glory to Amun who dwells beyond the Far Horizon!
All glory to his Son, the Strong Bull in the South,
who has received his favour.’
We would repeat the refrain. The paean would be intoned.
‘All glory to Montu,
All glory to Horus, the Golden Hawk who is blind
yet sees.’
Each time we repeated the refrain, the chariots would move faster. The half-moon standard on Colonel Perra’s chariot would rise and fall as it broke into a charge whilst we followed in fast pursuit. The earth rumbled under our wheels, the sky echoed to the crack of our whips, the sun bathed us in its glory as we broke into a breathtaking gallop across the grey-red ground, loosed like shafts from a bow, like hawks swooping through the air. All life, all thought, word and action narrowed down to that glorious cascade of charging horses and chariots. We would reach the arrow butts and the air would hum with our flight of arrows. Then we would be past, charging onto the narrow straw-filled baskets. I’d stand feet apart, slightly stooped, reins wrapped round my wrists, guiding and coaxing, singing out to my two
beauties. I praised their speed, their fire. I’d watch their heads plunge and rise whilst, at the same time, keep a keen eye out for any obstacle or be ready to take any advantage of the ground. I was full of the heart-throbbing music of the God of War.
Beside me Sobeck leaned against the rail, his body taut, prepared to pull back the bowstring and, when the quiver was empty, stand, javelin in hand, ready for the next target. Once we dealt with that we’d turn, determined to outrace each other, though, of course, never pass Colonel Perra. It was a heartstopping, blood-thrilling, death-challenging charge back across the desert to that waiting cart almost obscured by the shifting heat haze. Once we had reached the line there would be jubilation, laughter, teasing and taunting. Tuthmosis would climb onto the cart and embrace his brother, a gesture which always provoked a stab of envy in me.
One day, during the boiling heat of Shemshu, in the thirty-second year of the Magnificent One’s reign, the Veiled One rose and, resting on his cane, its head carved in the shape of a Nubian, he clambered down from his cart. Veil pulled back, he walked along the line of chariots, impervious to the dust still clinging like a cloud around us. He stopped at every team and talked softly to the horses, letting them nuzzle his hand which, I suspect, was smeared with the juice of crushed apple. He looked at each of my companions, then passed on. He had certainly grown; the protuberant belly and breasts and broad hips were more pronounced; although his hands and feet remained delicately long and thin. His face was still striking, the cheeks slightly sunken, the lips fuller and those almond-shaped, well-spaced eyes luminous and liquid. He walked slowly but gracefully. A Kushite carrying parasols and sandals came hurrying up behind, only to be summarily dismissed. Silence reigned, broken by the creak of a wheel, the snort of a horse and the low buzz of flies hovering over the dung. Above us circled vultures, their broad wings dark against the sky. The Veiled One stopped before me and lifted his head, revealing a beautiful smile, warm and generous, and eyes bright with excitement.