I’d done it for Anoukhet. Now I could do it for Tuthmosis. And for the revenge of my father. For the honor of his name.
Katep shook his head as if he’d read my thoughts. “The commander won’t put women into battle. You need bow skills but only for your own protection. You won’t go into battle. Your work will be in the kitchen, preparing meals and baking bread. Men can’t fight on empty stomachs.”
“What?” I looked back at him in disbelief. Then I tossed my head. “That might be so—but their stomachs won’t be filled by me! I’m not going into the kitchen just because I’m a woman!”
“Soldiers take orders.”
“You might be a phalanx leader but you’re also my brother! And brothers are not always obeyed.”
Katep narrowed his eyes. “Father was right.”
“About what?”
“Right about you! You’re stubborn and impossible!”
“So will you ask your commander if I can train alongside the men?”
“Yes . . . but . . .”
I lunged at him, trying to wrap my arms around him to give him a hug.
He pulled away roughly, his face reddening as he glanced at Anoukhet, who was smiling. “Stop behaving like my sister.”
“I am your sister!”
“You’ll train alongside the men, but whether you go into battle is another matter. The commander will decide. But first I need to persuade him to take the three of you on.”
Anoukhet tossed her head. “I don’t want to be treated differently. Why not remain silent? You don’t have to reveal we’re girls. Nor do you have to reveal Tuthmosis’s identity. Let the commander think we’re Nubian boys come to join the Kushite army!”
Katep shook his head. “Because you’re not all three Nubian. The Kushites work on truth. The commander must know the truth from the start. He’ll decide whether you stay or not. It’s not just a question of the two of you being girls, it’s a question of having a prince of Egypt—the enemy—among us.”
Tuthmosis shook his head. “I’m not the enemy of Kush. The Kush and I have the same enemy—Egypt. I want my kingdom back and I’ll fight to get it by any means. Even if I have to first defeat my own Egyptian army. The Egyptians are under the orders of the traitor, Wosret!”
“You’ll have to prove you’re the son of Amenhotep, the rightful crown prince.”
My hands dropped to my side. Suddenly I was afraid. “He can’t do that! If he proves he’s the son of Amenhotep, your commander might decide to kill him. As you said—Egypt is the enemy.”
Katep shook his head. “I give you my word. Tuthmosis needs first to prove his kingship. Then we’ll persuade the commander that the high priests, by making his brother illegally king, have once more shown their greed and shown that the power of Egypt needs to be stopped. The commander doesn’t want the land of Kush to come under Egypt’s rule so Egypt can claim all her riches—her gold and copper and ivory and ebony. He wants war with Egypt. This will give him his excuse.”
I turned to Tuthmosis. “How can you prove who you are? You carry no identity. Your cloak and broad collar were left on the other boy in the wabet chamber in Thebes.”
Katep glanced at him. “Is there nothing?”
“I’ve this.” He removed something from his girdle bag. “My royal pectoral. It has my insignia on it.”
I glanced at him. Of course, this was what Ta-Miu had given to him at the palace. She’d handed him something as we were leaving.
Katep ran his fingers over the fine gold filigree with its lapis lazuli, turquoise, and carnelian inlays. Two falcons clutched Tuthmosis’s name in a cartouche. The cartouche itself rested on the largest green emerald I’d ever seen. It was in the shape of a sacred scarab, the one who rolls the great sun across the sky. The heart amulet of a king.
“Perfect. Let’s speak to the commander. Hang it around your neck so all will know who you are.”
Anoukhet looked skeptical. “What’s to stop the commander from thinking it’s been stolen? An emerald that size would be worth stealing. And dressed like this, he’s more scruffy thief than prince.”
“I have a tattoo on my upper thigh that shows the same insignia.”
“The Kushites will use you as their pawn,” Katep warned. “You’ll have to convince them you can be trusted. They’ll protect you, but only if you give them what they want—freedom from the yoke of Egypt.”
When they were gone, I spun around to face Anoukhet. “So? What do you think?”
She raised her eyebrows and looked at me quizzically.
“What do you think of Katep?”
She turned away and marched up and down, pretending to inspect the bows and weapons.
“Well?”
“He’s interesting,” was her only reply. Then she turned around with a mischievous sparkle in her eye. “It’s not just us who’ll have to prove ourselves. He’ll have to prove himself, too. Let’s see what he’s like in battle.”
The sun had set over the desert by the time Katep and Tuthmosis returned. The soldiers were already lighting fires as the cool green light of evening crept up.
“What did he say?” I asked as they stepped through the opening of the canopy. “Can we stay?”
Katep shook his head. “Tuthmosis can, but not the two of you.”
“What? Why should it be different?”
“Let me finish. Not until the men in my phalanx have decided about having two girls in camp. It’s them who’ll have to put up with you,” he said as he withdrew from the canopy again.
Anoukhet’s eyes flashed. “Ha! Put up with us!”
But I knew Katep was teasing her.
We tried to listen as best we could, but mostly we couldn’t hear what was being said. At one time there was raucous laughter. I heard Katep say it was Anoukhet who had shot the arrow into the post. A single voice bellowed out, “She’s a damn fine shot, then!” Then there were more shouts.
“But she’s Nubian,” Katep argued.
We could hear some arguing and a few “no no no”s, then some more boisterous laughter.
When he came back in, his face was serious.
“Well?”
“I told them you were useless with a bow and arrow, Kara.”
I glared back at him. “Only a brother would be so brutally honest. Could you not say I was skilled with a throw-stick?”
“How would a throw-stick help in battle? You’d fell one man, then what? Your weapon would be gone!”
“So what was their answer?” Anoukhet demanded.
Katep couldn’t keep a straight face any longer. He broke into a broad grin and burst out laughing. He handed Anoukhet her lost dagger. “There. It was decided on the strength of your bow shot and by the quality of your dagger that you both can stay.”
I should have been cross with Katep. Instead I clasped him about the neck. He pulled my hands away. “Behave, Isikara. You’re a soldier now.”
23
FLETCHING
So it was settled. We began training alongside the men, but all the time I was mindful of Katep’s warning—Anoukhet and I probably wouldn’t go into battle. We were learning skills for our own protection. I sensed it wasn’t easy for Tuthmosis. He had to work hard to earn the soldiers’ trust and friendship. It was eventually his strength and ability with a bow that won them over.
It was different for Anoukhet and me. Katep gave up his canopied platform for us to sleep in. After dark we were left alone. But by daylight we were soldiers. And the men looked skeptical at the idea of two girls handling bows. They treated us as something of a novelty, like two exotic animals that belonged in a palace menagerie rather than an army camp. Strange creatures that couldn’t quite be trusted to behave as expected. They gave us furtive looks and watched our every movement.
Each morning we assembled before the sun had risen with goose bumps on our arms. We stood shivering in rows while our phalanx was inspected by Katep. If a bow wasn’t oiled to a gleam or properly strung with the right sinew, or a
n arrowhead was blunt, or a strap of a quiver worn or the grip of a shield frayed, we were punished alongside the rest of the men and made to do extra camp duties. It made no difference that we were girls.
We were expected to take part in everything—sword sparring against heavy bollards that hung from poles, javelin throwing until my arm felt as if it would fall off, and ax techniques that left me terrified and breathless. The only exercise we escaped was pulling heavy posts through the sand by thongs tied to the head, for strengthening the back muscles.
Katep took it upon himself to personally train us with the composite bow. He stood next to us hour after hour demonstrating the stance and the pull. He’d relearned his skills and pulled the bowstring with his left hand now. He used his wooden right limb with its pronged fork at the end to hold the curve of the bow.
There was much to remember.
“Relax, Kara. Bend your knees. Don’t hold the bow arm straight out. Have it slightly bent at the elbow. Don’t throttle the bow with your grip. When you draw back, keep an anchor point at your cheek, like a tooth that you touch with your bow fingers, so you can mark the place you pull back to.”
He showed no brotherly favoritism. There were days when my body was so tired I almost begged to go on kitchen duty. But I realized it was for our own safety that he took so much trouble to reprimand me.
“Draw back harder, Isikara. Lay your body into the bow. Use your back muscles. A bowman’s aim is to pull back so hard that the tips of the bow ends almost meet. You have to have power in your back and legs—like Anoukhet.”
“Curse you, Anoukhet! It’s easier for you with your dancer’s legs!” I hissed under my breath at her. Then I squinted against the glare and struggled yet again to pull back the taut sinew, until my back, shoulders, and arms ached with fatigue.
The bows were stiff and made of wood and polished ibex horn. They stood almost sixteen hands high. More than the height of a man.
Fine, for someone as tall and strong as Anoukhet.
Impossible for me.
In the evenings, in the privacy of our canopy away from the men, I sprawled out on my mat and ranted. “I hate this! I’ll never be a bowman!”
Anoukhet smiled. “Let me rub oil into your shoulders. It’ll ease the pain.”
“It’s not just my shoulders. Every part of my body aches. And there are blisters on my hands. My thumb and middle finger are worn raw from pulling back the sinew.”
It was Tuthmosis who showed me sympathy before Katep. He arrived one evening with two stone rings. “Wear them on your thumb and middle finger to take away the bite of the sinew.”
Anoukhet’s eyes sparkled. “How romantic! Stone rings instead of jeweled ones!”
Tuthmosis came to fetch me one evening. “I want to show you something.”
He led me past the soldiers’ fires to the far side of the camp where an old man was boiling two cauldrons of foul-smelling brew.
“Not supper, I hope?”
Tuthmosis smiled. “This is Kha. He’s been making bows and arrows all his life. I’ve asked Katep if you can be his assistant.”
I flashed a look at him. “What? So it is cooking you’ve set me up with, after all!”
The old man eyed me. “It’s horn and bone I’m boiling, not food. Ibex horn is boiled to soften it for flexibility.” He nodded at the other cauldron. “And those are hare bones boiling to make a sticky stew that will keep the layers of horn and wood together to make a strong and flexible bow. The jelly also keeps the cover bindings of bark and sinew in place so everything is held together tightly. The stickier the stew, the better it holds.”
He sized me up. “Longbows are difficult to make, especially composite bows. You don’t look strong enough! There’s rumor in the camp. It’s said you’re a girl. But that matters not to me.” He chuckled toothlessly.
“She’s skillful with her hands. She’ll be good at bow making.”
The old man frowned at me from under his thick brows, then nodded. “Once you make a mistake—and you’ll make plenty—you have to throw the bow away and start again. There’s no sense in finishing a bow that’s already scuppered. It’s useless trying to right a bow that you know will never shoot properly. Bows need respect.”
I looked from him to Tuthmosis. “I’m not sure . . .”
The old man sighed heavily. “All you need is a wood shaper, a sharp carving knife, strong fingers, and patience. Sit down.” He indicated a place at his fire for both of us.
I moved so I was upwind of the steam and stench of the boiling cauldrons.
“Bow skills are based on how good your bow is. To learn how to be a good bowman, you need to be a good bow maker first. You need to make your own bow and arrows to understand bowing properly. None of these soldiers knows a thing about bow making. If I were their commander, I’d force them each to make their own. But I’m old and no one takes any notice.”
He began to demonstrate with his gnarled, callused hands. “The horn of an ibex is split down the center into two halves. Then the outside is worked smooth and shaved down. By boiling the horn to soften it and then clamping it down, it stays flat once cooled. Then the horn piece is shaved into thin strips to fit the wooden bow piece. The strips are covered with hare-bone paste, clamped against the bow, and left to dry. The purpose is to make the bow flexible. To allow the archer to pull it back farther, without breaking the wood.” He scowled at me. “Do you understand that?”
I nodded.
“A bowman is a musician.”
“A musician?”
He nodded. “It’s not about brute force.”
Not about brute force? Katep should hear this!
The old man ran his fingers along a bow. “A bowman must know what his bow can do. Know exactly how much tension it can take. His fingers must be as sensitive as a butterfly’s antennae. Each shiver must be felt as keenly as a quiver in a lute string. When a bowstring is pulled, energy is stored in the bow limb. When the sinew is released, the energy is transferred to the feathered arrow. It’s all very simple.”
I nodded, even though I knew it wasn’t so simple.
“Let me see your hands.”
I held them out.
“Hmm . . . long, slender fingers, sensitive enough to be a musician’s. But I see you have blisters!” He scowled again and shook his head. “I can’t have you carving horn for bows when you already have blisters.”
“What, then?”
He squinted back at me. “Are you good at bringing wildfowl down?”
Tuthmosis nodded. “She’s superb with a throw-stick.”
“I’ll tell you what, then. . . . You can search for arrow feathers for me. I’m getting too old and tired for bringing down wildfowl and plucking feathers to make arrows for the troops. You’ll make a good fletcher.”
“A fletcher? What’s a fletcher?” I looked from Tuthmosis to the old man.
The old man sighed at my stupidity. “A fletcher is someone who makes arrows, as simple as that. He attaches feathers to the shaft of an arrow to give it lift. We need hundreds of arrows. In battle each man must have a full quota in his quiver. Without good arrows an archer is nothing.”
Tuthmosis’s eyes searched mine, waiting for my answer. I bit my lip, then nodded. Making arrows sounded like more fun than trying to pull a bow.
The old man eyed me. “So it’s settled, then. Every day you’ll report for duty and make your quota of arrows for the day. If the sun has set and you’ve not made the required number, you’ll work into the night by firelight. There’s no dragging your feet here.”
So it was that Anoukhet became an archer spending most of her days training alongside Katep, and I became a fletcher.
From under the awning of the old man’s workshop, sitting as far away from the stench of the boiling cauldrons as I could, I sometimes spotted Katep standing close to Anoukhet, guiding her shoulders and her arms, repositioning her head as she took aim. And sometimes, too, in the late afternoons when the sun had lost its stin
g, I caught sight of them walking out into the desert.
Each morning I rose before sunrise and went out with my throw-stick into the dunes in search of falcon and quail and guinea fowl. Sometimes I went as far as the river to bring down waterfowl. I carried them back to camp and plucked them well before handing them over to the cooks to add to the day’s meal. The best feathers for fletching were the stiff tail and wing feathers. These I sorted and tied into bundles according to their patterns.
The arrows I made were unmistakable.
While I was out, I collected whatever wild herbs, grasses, bulbs, and fragrant leaves I could find for the cooks as well. I soon discovered from carrying them together with the wildfowl that some plant juices stained the feathers. It was possible to color them. From the crushed root of alkanet, I made red dye. From safflower thistles, I made orange. I boiled the dyes and steeped the feathers in the liquids. The light parts between the dark stripes and patterns took up the colors.
When the dyed feathers were dry and trimmed to shape, I slotted them into grooves I cut in the tail ends of fine straight saplings.
I was pleased with my work. So was the old bow maker. I could tell this when he held them up without comment and peered down their length to see if they were true.
They were fine arrows. Well made. Each with its own distinctive, unmistakable coloring. The archers were well pleased, too. Soon each phalanx asked for its own particular color and pattern combination. And each man branded his arrow shafts with his personal signet.
For Tuthmosis, I chose white feathers with no markings so the white took the dye entirely—wing and tail feathers of spoonbills, white egrets, and storks. But they were larger birds and more difficult to bring down. There was a beetle that if squeezed gave off a bluish paste. If Tuthmosis couldn’t wear his blue Khepresh warrior crown in battle, he could at least have arrows of blue. Blue for eternity and life, to mark his royalty.
I made Katep’s arrows with entirely red feathers. A dark, solid red. For bravery and fire. A symbol of life and victory. And I colored Anoukhet’s arrow feathers green. Green as a symbol of friendship. Green because it’s the color of happiness, energy, and power. To the tail ends of her arrows I added tiny shreds of red ribbon to tie up evil and as a sign of her bravery.
Eye of the Moon Page 14