by Wilbur Smith
Khama reeled back with a mixture of eye jelly and blood pouring down his golden mask. He was blinded and disorientated with pain, trying to wrench off his helmet to reach his burst eyeball. As the rim of his helmet lifted and exposed his throat, Nefer drove his point in a thumb’s width above the lump of his Adam’s apple. The point angled up into the back of his brain, and Khama flung his arms wide and went down, dead before his armor clanged on the sunbaked earth.
Nefer placed his cleated sandal on Khama’s throat and had to wrench with all his strength to draw the point of his sword free from where it was trapped between the metal of the helmet and the bone of his skull.
Nefer left the corpse lying, and wrapping the chain of the amulet around his wrist again, ran from the ring. He tried to reach the other ring where he knew Meren was in mortal danger, but the crowds impeded him. He swung his sword to clear the way and the spectators fled screaming ahead of him. He broke through the press and saw that in the second ring Meren had lost his weapon and was bleeding profusely from a terrible gash in his right side, and a cut that had half severed his ear. It dangled down his cheek on a thread of flesh. Somehow he was managing to stay out of Drossa’s reach, backing frantically away from him.
Drossa was laughing, bellowing like a bull with the joy of killing, the sound echoing eerily within the confines of his crested war-helmet. He was goading Meren into a position for the killing stroke, taking his time, enjoying it.
Drossa’s back was turned to Nefer. Nefer sprang at him and aimed a thrust through the lacing of his cuirass. With the instincts of a wild animal, Drossa sensed the danger and spun to face him, Nefer’s thrust struck the metal breastplate and glanced aside and Drossa aimed a full-blooded cut at his head. Nefer ducked and recoiled, and they circled each other.
Meren saw his chance and stooped to pick up the sword he had dropped, but Drossa leaped at him. Meren was so weak that he stumbled backward and fell. Drossa kicked the fallen sword out of the ring and placed his foot between Meren’s shoulders and pinned him down.
“Behold, mighty Pharaoh, feared by all the world, I have your bum-boy in my power.” He feigned the stroke of a headsman, but stopped his blade against the back of Meren’s neck. “Shall I give you his head? A gift fit for a king.”
Nefer felt red blind anger sweep over him, and he rushed at Drossa to drive him off Meren’s prostrate form. He felt the sting of the blade across his thigh, which sobered him. He jumped back, and saw by Drossa’s eyes in the helmet slits that he was toying with him, drawing the last drop of sadistic pleasure from the encounter. Drossa was an entertainer, and the crowd was loving his performance. They howled their approval.
Suddenly Meren reached up and grasped Drossa’s ankle with both bloody hands, and tried to trip him. Drossa stumbled, swore and kicked his foot free, but for an instant he was off-balance and Nefer seized the opportunity and rushed in. He aimed for the throat, into the gap between the chinpiece of the helmet and the top of the breastplate. Drossa twisted away and the point of Nefer’s sword rang on metal.
Nefer had missed his chance for a kill, but he had driven Drossa off his victim, and Meren scrambled to his feet and staggered behind Nefer, using him as a protective shield.
They circled again, and Nefer felt the first cold draft of despair lift the hairs on his forearms. He knew he could not expect a man like Drossa to give him another chance. In despair he tried again with the Periapt, swinging it on the length of gold chain and aiming for the eye slits in Drossa’s helmet. Drossa dropped his chin and the golden charm glanced off the brow of his helm. If it had not been upon the chain Nefer would have lost it, but he recovered it and let the chain wind itself around his left wrist again.
“That is no weapon but a child’s toy.” Drossa laughed scornfully.
They circled and feinted, Drossa moving easily, but Nefer was hampered by his need to guard Meren. He could not launch an attack, and leave Meren unprotected.
Drossa was working the two of them like a sheepdog with a flock of lambs, pushing them back against the line of white stones. He wanted to make a spectacular kill to please the crowd, and enhance his own reputation.
“The chasers!” someone in the crowd yelled, and every head swung and lifted to the crest of the rise at the head of the long valley.
Daimios’ chariot raced over the skyline. Desperate to make up for his humiliation at the bridgehead, he was riding hard and outstripped the rest of his troop. He came tearing down toward them at the top of his speed.
“You belong to me, mighty Egypt!” Drossa mocked Nefer. “I will not let an upstart like Daimios take your hair braid from me.”
He moved in menacingly, and Nefer could see the icy determination in the pale eyes that watched him through the helmet slits.
Nefer whispered to Meren, “If I fall, save yourself. Step out of the ring.”
“No, Pharaoh, I will ride with you as your lance-bearer on the road to paradise,” Meren said softly, and his strength failed him. His legs gave way under him, and bleeding he sagged to earth. Drossa seized the moment, and came down upon Nefer like an avalanche. His sword clanged and rang on Nefer’s desperate guard like a coppersmith’s hammer on the anvil.
Each blow jarred and numbed Nefer’s right arm to the shoulder, and he knew he could not last much longer. Still he watched Drossa’s eyes to read each blow, and saw them narrow and gleam as he gathered himself for the killing stroke.
It came from on high, like a thunderbolt from the sky, and all Nefer could do was lift his own blade above his head to meet it. He knew he could not turn or stop it with one hand, it was too powerful. So he braced his sword hand, gripping the right wrist with his left hand, the hand that held the golden Periapt.
The two swords came together with force that bronze could not resist. Both blades snapped cleanly and spun away, glittering out of the circle of white stones.
At a stroke they were both disarmed, and for an instant they stared at each other in astonishment. Nefer recovered first and hurled the hilt of the sword at Drossa’s head. Instinctively Drossa blinked and ducked. Nefer charged him and they came chest to chest.
Like a pair of temple dancers they whirled together, first one way, then back again, trying to throw each other. Irresistibly Drossa worked his arms under Nefer’s armpits and locked his armored fists between his shoulder-blades. With wristlets of silver and gauntlets of gold he started to grind Nefer against his bronze cuirass. Nefer had no response as he was lifted off his feet. He had no weapon to defend himself, except the Periapt of Lostris.
With the last of his strength he managed to throw a loop of the gold chain over Drossa’s helmet. He took a turn around each of his own wrists and pulled the chain downward until suddenly it found the gap below the rim of the helmet and closed around Drossa’s neck. Nefer strained and sawed the ends of the chain, and felt the golden links biting deeply in living flesh.
Drossa gasped, released his grip and reached up with both hands to try to break free. He seized Nefer’s wrists and tried to pull them away from his throat, but this increased the cutting power of the links. Staring into the slits of the helmet, Nefer saw Drossa’s eyes start from their sockets and swell with blood. He took another turn around his right wrist and sawed the chain back and forth. Drossa made a gargling sound and a vein popped in one of his eyes. It bulged crimson as a ripe berry from the socket, and still clutching Nefer’s wrists Drossa sank to his knees. Nefer stood over him and rolled his wrists, tightening the chain until suddenly he felt it cut through something gristly and Drossa’s breath burst explosively from his severed windpipe. Nefer took another wrap of the chain and pulled again, feeling it cut its way down to bone. Blood erupted in thick gouts from under the rim of the helmet, and Nefer gathered himself and exerted all his remaining strength. The chain found the joint between two vertebrae in Drossa’s neck and cut through. Drossa’s head sprang from his shoulders and, still clad in the heavy helmet, rolled across the ring.
As Nefer staggered backw
ard he heard the umpire shout, “You are free and clear,” and he slipped the bloody golden chain back over his head. As he did so he looked over the heads of the maddened crowd, back up the slope of the hill. Daimios’ chariot was already halfway down, and coming straight toward him at full gallop.
Nefer stooped over Meren. “Can you stand?” he asked, but when Meren made the effort his legs collapsed under him and he sprawled on the trampled earth. Nefer pulled him up by one arm, then swung the arm over the back of his neck. Taking the weight across his shoulders, he raised Meren to his feet, grabbed him behind the knees and lifted his inert body off the ground, his head dangling down his back and his legs down his front.
Meren was a heavy man, and Nefer was almost exhausted, near the limit of his strength. He staggered with him to the waiting chariot and dropped him in a heap on the floorboards. For a moment he leaned panting against the near wheel, and looked back.
Daimios had reached the level ground at the bottom of the slope, and was less than four hundred paces away, coming on swiftly, so close that Nefer could see the triumphant expression on his face. Daimios leaned forward and cracked the long black lash over the backs of his team and the horses seemed to spring forward, coming on even faster. The chariots of the other chasers were following him down the slope, six of them all told. If he had any thought of standing to fight them, Nefer put it out of his mind at once. In his present state he could not even take on Daimios in a straight fight. He had to run.
Nefer took two turns of the grab rope around Meren’s body, worked them up under his armpits and clinched the knot, strapping him to the floorboards. Then he dragged himself up onto the footplate and stood straddling Meren’s body.
“Turn them loose!” he called to the grooms, who held the horses’ heads, and they released them and jumped out of the way.
“Come away, Dov! Come away, Krus!” he called to them, and snapped the reins along their gleaming backs. They sprang forward together and the crowds scattered ahead of them. He pointed their heads down the valley toward the open gates of the city, and let them run.
Between his feet Meren groaned involuntarily as the chariot jolted and lurched, and Nefer tried to steer to miss the patches of rough ground. Behind him he heard the crack of the lash. He glanced back and saw Daimios bearing down on them. He was flogging on his team and shouting at them angrily, but Dov and Krus were holding them off despite Daimios’ cruel work with the whip. Nefer looked ahead and judged the distance they still had to run.
It was less than half a league to the gates of Gallala. Already he could make out the wreaths of palm fronds that adorned the walls and decorated the red stone columns of the entrance.
At that moment he paid the price for his inattention. His off wheel hit an outcrop of rock at the edge of the track, and the vehicle bounced high and slewed wildly under him. It almost capsized, but as he fought for control Krus leaned into the traces and helped him to pull it straight.
Now when Nefer looked back he saw that the mistake had cost them dear, for Daimios had gained a hundred paces on them. He was within javelin range, and Nefer saw him reach for the missiles in the bin at his side and wind the thong onto his wrist.
Nefer had no reply to him. He had used all his darts at the first stage. He had dropped his bow at the chasm, and his last sword had snapped in the bout with Drossa. He did not even have his whip. His only defense was speed.
He called to his horses, “Come, Dov! Come away, Krus!” And their ears flicked back as they heard him call their names and their hoofs drummed on the hard earth and the wheel hubs squealed, for even Taita’s black oil was running dry.
Then there was the sound of other hoofs, blending with those of Nefer’s team, and this time when he looked back Daimios was closer still, his horses whipped and galled until their flanks and backs were bloody. Daimios had a javelin poised and now he hurled it. Nefer watched the dart leave his hand, and fly in like a poisonous insect. He flinched instinctively, as it slammed into the floorboards beside his right foot. It stood out quivering.
“Come away, my darlings.” His voice took on a strident note, and the horses heard it. “Give me all you’ve got!” Krus found a little more in his great heart, and swept Dov along with him. They began to pull away from Daimios’ scourged and bleeding pair.
“Pull, you swine!” Daimios screamed. “Pull, or I’ll take the hide off your backs.” And as his long lash sang, they raced together as though an invisible rope linked the two vehicles.
Daimios seized another javelin and wrapped the thong. As he swung his arm back for the throw, Nefer judged his moment skilfully and flicked the reins. With the javelin in the air, Dov leaned into Krus’ shoulder and they swerved slightly, just enough for the dart to fly past Nefer’s shoulder. But the turn had cost ground, and Daimios snatched his last javelin from the bin and wrapped the thong around his wrist. He was close now, very close.
Nefer watched him with a feeling of desperation, gathering his team with a firm rein so they could anticipate his command. The moment Daimios swiveled his right shoulder forward in the throw, Nefer turned his team back the other way, jinking their run at full gallop. But the javelin did not leave Daimios’ hand: he had feinted. He raised the javelin again into the ready position, levelled and ready to throw.
Nefer was forced to swing back or leave the track and tear into the rough ground and scattered boulders. He changed the angle and this time Daimios aimed not at Nefer but at Dov, whose flank had been exposed by the turn.
The dart took her high in the shoulder. It cut through hide and bunched muscle, but then struck the bone and did not penetrate to her vitals. It was not a mortal blow, but a crippling one, for the javelin head was barbed and it dangled down her flank, hampering each stride she took.
She tried, she tried with all her heart, but she could no longer keep pace with Krus, and the blood ran back along her flank and splattered on Nefer’s legs. He could feel the chariot slowing under him, and though he called to Dov, the javelin slapped against her flank with each stride she took, and tangled in her forelegs.
Daimios sped forward and from the corner of his eye Nefer saw the heads of his racing horses draw level with his near wheel, and Daimios’ voice hoarse with effort and triumph sounded almost in his ear.
“It is over, Nefer Seti. I have you now.”
Nefer turned his head and looked across at him. Daimios’ lips were drawn back in a horrible rictus, like that of a corpse who had died of the lock-jaw. He had thrown his last javelin, and had discarded his whip, but he had drawn his sword.
How far to run to the gates? Nefer thought. Less than five hundred paces. So close, so very close! But still too far.
Instinctively he looked to the roof of the temple. It was lined with tiny human figures, and among them, just where he expected to see it, he picked out the scarlet of Mintaka’s tunic, and saw that she was waving a green branch over her head, her long dark hair tossing like a pennant on the north wind.
A prize beyond all others, he thought, and his hand fell upon Daimios’ javelin that was pegged into the floorboard beside his foot. The head was buried deeply into the woodwork, but he braced himself. Twisting and jerking, he pulled it free.
He did not have a throwing thong, but he held it like a spear, and looked across at his adversary. Daimios’ eyes narrowed as he saw the weapon in Nefer’s hand and he took the guard position with the sword. He drew up inexorably alongside Nefer and lunged. Nefer turned the blow with the stock of the javelin. The two vehicles swerved apart, then came back together and struck so hard that Nefer was almost thrown over the side and had to clutch wildly at the reins to steady himself.
Daimios swung a cut at the long staff on which flew Nefer’s hair braid, but did not sever the hard bamboo. Nefer recovered his balance and thrust at Daimios with the javelin, driving him off. Now the two vehicles were running wheel to wheel, and hub to hub.
Nefer and Daimios were leaning across, hacking and stabbing at each other. The br
onze blade slashed across Nefer’s chest, and though he threw himself back against the reins it cut through the leather of his breastplate and he felt the sting of the razor edge. But he thrust the point of the javelin at Daimios’ face, and forced him to swerve away.
Dov was laboring hard, the barbs of the javelin still fixed in her skin, and the shaft banging her legs at each stride.
Nefer heard the sound of many voices, soft at first and almost drowned in the drumming of hoofs and the squeal and rumble of the wheels, but the sound was growing louder at each stride. He looked up and through the running sweat that stung his eyes saw the gates directly ahead. The city walls and the rooftops were lined with the crowds. Through the hubbub of their cheering, he thought he heard the sound of Mintaka’s voice: “For me, my heart, do this for me!” It may have been but a figment of his own exhaustion, but it steeled him, and he called to the horses and gathered them with the reins. But Dov was staggering and failing.
Daimios came in again, and this time when Nefer thrust at him, he swung a full blow not at the man but at the javelin. His blade sheared through the shaft inches from Nefer’s fist, leaving him with a useless stump. Nefer hurled it at Daimios’ head, but he ducked under it, and struck at Nefer again, forcing him to dodge to the far side of the footplate to avoid the bright blade.
Daimios took instant advantage, and forced his way ahead of Nefer. As he came past he reached across and seized the rod on which Nefer’s hair braid danced and whipped in the wind. He tried to snap it off, but although it bent almost double it resisted his efforts. Still holding the staff in one hand Daimios reached up with the other hand for the thick dark hank of hair. It flicked and danced at his fingertips, but he was trying to keep a grip on the hilt of his sword at the same time, and he could not quite get a hold of the trophy. He dropped his sword, and this time caught hold of the braid and tried to tear it free, but the bamboo was resilient and tough, and the braid securely tied.