by Wilbur Smith
Under Taita’s supervision, they went over the harness an inch at a time, and Mintaka, Merykara and their maids sat up late into the night stitching and double stitching the joins and seams.
Then they chose the weapons they would carry, rolling the javelins and the arrows to detect any imperfection, suspending them on the special balance board Taita had designed, adding a bead of lead at haft or head until they were perfect. They sharpened the points so they would bite and hold in the targets. They resoled their sandals and filed the bronze cleats into spikes. They shaped new leather guards to protect their forearms from the whip of the bowstring and the javelin thong. They selected three swords each, for the bronze blades often snapped in the heat of combat. They sharpened the edges, then burnished them with powdered pumice stone until they could shave the hair from their own forearms.
They cured and twisted spare bowstrings, to be carried as belts tied around their waists. Other than leather helmets and jerkins, they would wear no armor on the road, to lighten the load that Dov and Krus must draw. They worked behind the locked doors of the workshop, so that no others would learn of their preparations.
But above all else they trained and practiced, built up their strength and stamina, and the trust of the horses.
For Dov and Krus the fire would be the worst of the ordeal. They built their own fires out in the desert, stacking faggots of wood and bundles of dry straw. They let the horses see the flames and smell the smoke, then blindfolded them. Though at first Krus balked and whinnied with terror, in the end he would run blind, trusting the man upon his back, so close to the crackling flames that they singed his mane.
Mintaka and Merykara spent long hours during the waiting days in the newly renovated temple of Hathor, sacrificing for their men and praying for the protection and intervention of the goddess on their behalf.
Thirty-five days before the full of the moon of Horus a strange caravan arrived in Gallala. It had come up from the coast, from the port of Safaga. It was led by a one-eyed and one-armed giant of a man named Aartla. The five warriors of the Red Road went out to meet him when he was still three leagues outside the city walls. They carried him back to Gallala in honor, for he was a brother warrior of the third degree who had run the Red Road almost thirty years before. Twenty years ago an arrow had pierced his eye during the Libyan campaign of Pharaoh Tamose, and five years later a Nubian axeman had sheared his arm with a single stroke below the elbow.
Aartla was a wealthy man now. He owned a traveling company of entertainers, men and women of special talents and skills. One of his troupe was reputed to be the strongest woman in the world. She could lift two horses into the air, one with each hand, and she could bite the end off a bronze rod and then bend the metal stump with the grip of her vagina. Another of his women was famed as the most beautiful in the world, though few had set eyes on her face. She came from a land so far to the north that at certain seasons of the year the rivers turned to white stone and ceased to flow. Aartla charged ten taels of silver for the privilege of seeing her face unveiled. They said she had golden hair that hung to the ground, and eyes of different colors, one golden and the other blue. The price that Aartla charged for viewing the rest of her charms was in proportion, and only a rich man might sample all her delights.
In addition Aartla possessed a black slave girl who ate fire, covered herself from head to foot with a cloak of live scorpions and draped a great python around her neck. At the climax of her performance she enticed the serpent to crawl into the secret opening of her body until all its length had disappeared into her womb.
These wonders were intended merely to whet the appetite of the audience for the main attractions of Aartla’s circus, which were his champions: a company of fighting men, wrestlers and swordsmen who stood to meet all contenders in combat. Aartla offered a purse of a hundred taels of pure gold to any man who could defeat one of his champions. The side wagers made on these contests were legendary and were the source of Aartla’s immense wealth. Though nowadays he never fought, he was still a warrior at heart and a devotee of the Red God.
When word reached him that a pharaoh of the Tamosian dynasty was determined to run the Red Road, he brought his champions across half the world to oppose him. He loved the game so well that he made no charge for this service.
His brother warriors had prepared one of the ancient palaces of the city to house Aartla and his troupe. On the night after his arrival they held for him a great welcome banquet, to which only Nefer and Meren were not invited. “We could not have accepted,” Nefer explained to Mintaka. “We are not brothers of the order. Besides, to sit down with the men who will oppose us would be flying in the face of convention and tradition.”
The day after the welcoming banquet the champions resumed their never-ending practice and training, under the sharp eye of Aartla. They worked in the courtyard of the ancient palace, and all strangers were excluded. Aartla was too shrewd to let other gamblers assess the form and style of his champions without paying good gold for the privilege.
However, Taita was no stranger. When Aartla had lost his arm Taita had trimmed and sewn up the stump, and saved him from the gas gangrene that had infected the wound and threatened Aartla’s life. Aartla welcomed him to the practice courtyard and sat him on a pile of cushions on the side of his good eye. The most beautiful woman in the world served him honey-flavored sherbet in a golden bowl, and smiled at him with those haunting mismatched eyes from behind her veil.
First, Aartla gave Taita the latest news of the Egyptian campaign in Mesopotamia, whence he had come. It seemed that King Sargon, with his armies broken and scattered, had retreated behind the walls of Babylon, his capital city. The final outcome could not be in doubt. The armies of the false pharaohs would soon be free to return to Egypt and deal with the other threat posed to their monarchy by the little army of Gallala. When he said this his look was significant, a timely warning to an old friend.
While they sat on the cushions and discussed many other things, politics, power and war, medicine, magic and the gods, Taita seemed engrossed in their discussion, hardly glancing at the athletes who struggled and sweated in the sunlight. But his pale ancient eyes missed not a single throw or swordstroke.
The champions lived by their murderous skills. They were devotees of the Red God, and their endeavors were a form of worship. When Taita returned to his cell that evening, where Nefer and Meren waited for him, he was grave. “I have watched your adversaries at practice, and I warn you that there is still much work for us to do,” he said, “and only days left to us.”
“Tell us, Old Father,” Nefer said.
“First there is Polios, the wrestler…” Taita began, and he outlined the character and strength of each champion, his style of combat and his particular strengths. Then he discussed any weakness he had discerned in them, and how that might best be exploited.
The five warriors of the order, assisted by Aartla, began to lay out the course to be run. They spent day after day in the wilderness, surveying a wide circular track that began in the central forum of Gallala, went up into the hills and the broken lands, then three leagues later came back down the long valley past the fountain of Taita and through the city gates to finish back in the forum. Once they had laid out the course, they sent parties of workmen to build the obstacles along the way.
Ten days before the contest, Hilto and Shabako read out the proclamation to the populace of the city. They described the course in detail, and the rules governing the trial. Then they named the champions who would oppose the novices.
“In the ordeal of wrestling, Pharaoh Nefer Seti will be matched against Polios of Ur.” The crowd sighed, for Polios was a famous fighter. His nickname was the Backbreaker. Recently he had killed a man in Damascus, his seventeenth victim in the ring.
“Meren Cambyses will be matched against Sigassa of Nubia.” They knew him almost as well. He was called the Crocodile, for some strange disease had made his skin as hard, lumpy and black as th
at of one of the great reptiles.
“In the ordeal by sword, Pharaoh Nefer Seti will meet Khama of Taurine.”
“Meren Cambyses will meet Drossa of Indus.”
That night Mintaka and Merykara sacrificed a white lamb to the goddess, and wept as they pleaded for her protection over the men they loved.
For seven days before the running of the Red Road the five warriors held trials to select the chasers. There was no shortage of contenders for the honor. Any man who plucked the hair braid of a king could expect immortality. Hilto promised that there would be a carved stele five cubits high raised in the temple of his preferred god or goddess to commemorate his feat. He would receive a thousand taels of gold, sufficient to purchase a fine estate when at last they returned to the motherland. In addition he would take as trophies all the weapons and accoutrements of the novice he succeeded in running down.
The five warriors made the final selection by a process of elimination, and proclaimed it from the stone platform in the center of the forum. “They have chosen the ten best and most experienced men available, and given them their pick of chariots and horses. There will be great danger both behind and in front,” Taita warned the pair, as he went over the list again. “Consider this one, Daimios. He is a captain of chariots. He knows how to get the best out of a pair of horses.”
“It will all depend on the start,” Nefer said.
“And that will be decided by the Red God alone.”
For a seven-night before the trial Mintaka denied Nefer her couch. “My love will weaken your resolve, and drain your strength. But I will miss you a hundred times more than you will me,” she told him as together they braided Krus’ long mane.
The day before the full moon of Horus, Taita ordered them all to rest. Dov and Krus grazed quietly together in the field below the fountain. Merykara made up a basket of figs and oranges and dhurra cakes, and she and Meren sat beside the fountainhead watching the horses on the green grass below them. When they had eaten the simple meal, Merykara knelt behind him and plaited his hair into a rope that hung halfway down his back. “It is so thick and lustrous,” she murmured, and buried her face in it. “It smells so good. Let no other take it from you, but bring your braid back to me.”
“How will you reward me if I do?” He turned his head to smile at her.
“I will give you such a reward as you have never dreamed of.” She blushed as she said it.
“I have dreamed of it,” he assured her fervently. “I dream of it every night of my life.”
In the morning Taita came to wake Nefer. He found him asleep, with one arm thrown over his face. At Taita’s touch he sat up, stretched and yawned. The thick braid of his hair, which Mintaka had plaited, hung down his back. As he looked at Taita his eyes focused and hardened, as he remembered what the day would bring forth.
While Nefer drank a bowl of sour milk and ate a handful of figs, Taita went to the window and looked out over the rooftops to the grove of young palm trees they had planted above the wells. He saw the topmost fronds sway and nod to the breeze. They had all prayed for a still day, but this breeze carried with it the threat of failure. Now Nefer would have to rely more than ever on the great war bow to counter it.
Taita said nothing to Nefer of his misgivings. Instead, he turned and cast his eyes down the avenue. The sun was not yet risen, but it seemed that half the populace of Gallala was streaming out of the city gates.
“They are anxious to secure vantage-points along the course, and to watch as much of the run as possible,” he told Nefer. “No one except the participants and the judges is allowed to ride. All others must follow the chase on foot. Some argue that it might be possible to watch the javelin and the wrestling, then cut across the hills to look down on the swordplay from close at hand. Those who are less fleet of foot will climb to the summit of Eagle Mount and watch the crossing of the chasm below them, then run back here to see the finish.”
Despite the great exodus from the city many hundreds of others had chosen to watch the start and crowded into the forum. Others had climbed high above the square and were perched on the walls and balconies. Even so early in the day the air was festive and the mood feverishly excited. Some of those on the walls had brought their breakfast and chewed bones and scraps showered onto those below. Others shouted their wagers to Aartla and his scribes. Aartla was offering even money that Nefer and Meren would cross the chasm, two to one against them passing the swordsmen and four to one against them finishing the course without being overtaken by the pursuit.
As the sun rose above the walls the ten chariots of the pursuers filed into the forum. The gongs beat, the drums rolled, and the sistrum rattled, women squealed and threw flowers, and children danced around them, but the charioteers were grim and intent as they lined up along the starting barrier.
There was an interval now of tense expectation and then the sound of cheering from the cavalry lines, swelling and coming closer. Then, to an explosion of “Bak-her!,” the stripped-down chariot of the novices entered between the eroded columns at the entrance to the forum.
Dov and Krus had been groomed until their coats shone like burnished metal in the early sunlight. Their manes were plaited, colored ribbons twisted into the strands, their tails were clubbed.
Nefer and Meren wore only light leather armor, and their bodies were oiled for the wrestling. They stepped down from the footplate of the chariot and went down on their knees, with their hands resting on the hilts of their swords. Taita came forward and stood over them. He recited a prayer to Horus and the Red God, asking for their blessing and protection. Finally, he took an amulet from around his own neck and placed it over Nefer’s bowed head.
Nefer looked down at the object as it dangled on his chest and felt a tingle of shock, almost as though a strange current of power flowed from it. It was the golden Periapt of Lostris, the locket of his grandmother, which nobody but Taita had ever touched.
Then Hilto, wearing the red cape of the third degree of the order, mounted to the stone platform in the center of the forum. He read aloud the rules. When he had finished he asked, in a stern voice, “Do you understand and undertake to abide by the rules of the order of the Red Road?”
“In the name of the Red God!” Nefer affirmed.
“Who will cut the hair braids?” Hilto asked, and Mintaka and Merykara stepped up behind the kneeling warriors. Mintaka’s eyes were heavily underscored with purple, for she had not slept the previous night. They were both pale and tense with anxiety. Nefer and Meren bowed their heads, and lovingly the women lifted the braids and sheared them away. They handed them to Hilto, who attached them to the tips of the tall pennant rods on each side of the footplate of their chariot. These were the trophies that the pursuers must attempt to snatch, and which Nefer and Meren must defend with their lives.
“Mount your chariot,” Hilto ordered, and Nefer and Meren climbed to the footplate. Nefer gathered up the reins. Dov and Krus arched their necks, stamped and backed up a single turn of the wheels.
“Bring on the birds!” Hilto ordered.
The handlers climbed into the circular sanded cockpit, each with a fighting cock under his arm. The wattles of both birds had been cut away so their heads were sleek, almost reptilian, with no dangling flesh or skin to give the enemy bird purchase. The sunlight gleamed on their plumage with the iridescence of oil spilled on water.
A tense, aching silence fell over the crowded forum. The handlers knelt, facing each other, in the center of the sanded pit, and held their birds in front of them. The birds did not have artificial spurs strapped to their feet: the long metal spikes would make a kill too swift and certain, but their natural spurs had been sharpened and polished.
“Bait your birds!” Hilto called, and the handlers thrust them at each other, without allowing them to touch. The eyes of the two roosters gleamed with malice, their heads began to swell with rage, and the naked skin of their heads and throats turned an angry crimson. They beat their wings, and tri
ed to break from the handlers’ grip to fly at each other.
With his drawn sword Hilto pointed across the forum at the ruined roof of the temple of Bes, the patron god of Gallala, where a blue flag flapped idly in the hot breeze. “The novices will start when the birds are released. The flag will be lowered when one of the birds is killed, and only then will the chase begin. The Red God, in his infinite wisdom, will determine how long the birds will survive and how long the lead time will be. Now, hold yourselves in readiness.”
Every eye, even those of Nefer and Meren, turned to the challenging cock-birds. Hilto lifted his sword. The birds’ hackles were raised, they were crimson with rage, fighting to be at each other.
“Now!” cried Hilto, and the handlers set them free. They flew across the sand in a flutter of bright wings, leaping high, thrusting with claws and spurs.
“Ha, Dov! Ha, Krus!” Nefer called and they sprang away, throwing gravel and dust from under their hoofs. A mighty shout went up from the crowd and the chariot raced once around the forum, then out into the open avenue. Behind them the cheering faded as they tore through the gates and turned onto the track that led into the hills, its length marked every two hundred paces with white linen flags, which shook and flapped lazily in the early breeze that came in off the desert. “Keep the flags to the right!” Meren reminded Nefer. If they missed a flag on the wrong side the judges would send them back to round it fairly.
While he drove, saving the horses, bringing them down to a trot as the slope rose steeply under them, Nefer assessed that breeze by flag and dust, judging its strength and direction. It was coming harsh and hot from the west, strong enough to blow the dust cloud aside behind them. This was the worst possible wind. It would drain the horses, and confuse the range when they came to the trial of javelin and bow. He thrust the thought aside to concentrate first on the ascent of the hills.