by Wilbur Smith
Beautiful as a young god and goddess, they drove first to the magnificent temple on the riverbank that Trok Uruk had built to celebrate his own divinity. Nefer had sent instructions ahead of him, and the stonemasons had already been at work for weeks. They had chiseled away every portrait of the false pharaoh and expunged his name from the walls and tall hypostyle columns. They were still busy engraving the portraits and titles of the winged Horus, and of Pharaoh Nefer Seti, together with descriptions of his victory at the battle of Gallala.
Nefer drove there as his first duty to give thanks to the god and to sacrifice a pair of perfect black bulls before the stone altar. After the religious service he declared a week of holiday, festivity and feasting, with free millet bread, beef, wine and beer for every citizen, and games and theater to amuse them.
“You are a sly one, my heart,” Mintaka told him admiringly. “They loved you before, but now they will adore you.”
For how long? Nefer wondered. As soon as the news of our ascension to the throne reaches Naja, in far off Babylon, he will be on the march, if he is not already. The common people will love me until he knocks upon the gates.
Pharaoh Naja Kiafan anointed his trusted general Asmor as King of Babylon, a satrap of his own throne. He left him five hundred chariots, two thousand archers and infantry to hold and secure his conquests. Then, with the bulk of his army, he began the march on Egypt to recover his crown and throne from the man who had seized it.
Like a snowball rolling down a mountainside, the army of Pharaoh Naja Kiafan gathered weight and impetus as it advanced westward over plain and mountain pass toward the frontier of Egypt. As he went, the vassal kings flocked to his standard, and by the time he stood on the heights of the Khatmia Pass his army had almost trebled in size.
Naja looked westward, across the wide sand desert toward the city of Ismailiya at the head of the Great Bitter Lake, and to the borders of his homeland. He had known all along that at this point on the march he would be hampered by the size of his host, embarrassed by multitudes.
Ahead of him lay a great expanse of desert, with neither a single spring nor an oasis to sustain his army until he reached Ismailiya. Once again he was reduced to laying down water points along the route ahead. When he strained his eyes against the glare he could make out the lines of water carts, loaded with clay pots, strung out along the rutted road below the escarpment, like dark worms wriggling through the dun and ochre landscape. For months they had been at work building up water dumps in the desert, burying the filled pots in the sand, then leaving detachments of infantry to guard them while they returned for the next load.
It would take his army almost ten days and nights to make the crossing. During that time they would be strictly rationed, allowed just enough water to sustain the long night marches and to eke out the burning days when they lay up to rest, enduring the heat in any scrap of shade afforded by linen tents or shelters made from thorn branches and grass.
“I will ride with you in the vanguard.” Heseret spoke at his elbow, breaking into his train of thought.
He glanced at her. “We have discussed this before.” He frowned. After years of marriage her charms and beauty had begun to pall, overshadowed by her petulance, jealousy and demanding tempers. These days, Naja spent more and more time among his concubines, enduring her jealous tirades when he returned to her bed.
“You will come up with the other women in the baggage train, under the wing of Prenn, the centurion of the rearguard.”
Heseret pouted. Once, that had been appealing, but now it was merely irritating. “So that you can put Lassa with child, just as you have her sister,” she complained. She was referring to the two princesses given to Naja as hostages by the satrap of Sumeria as evidence of his loyalty to the Crown of Egypt. The princesses were both young, slim and nubile, with large breasts. They painted their nipples and, in the shameless Sumerian fashion, walked abroad with them naked and uncovered.
“You become tiresome, wife.” Naja lifted his upper lip in a smile that was more a snarl. “You know that it is political expediency. I needed a son from at least one of the wenches to place upon the throne when the old man dies.”
“Swear on the breath and heart of Seueth that you are not taking Lassa with you in the vanguard,” Heseret insisted.
“I swear it readily.” Naja smiled that deadly smile again. “I am taking Sinnal of Hurria.” She was another hostage, younger even than the Sumerians, barely fourteen years of age but with bright copper-colored hair and green eyes. Her buttocks were large and rounded. Heseret knew from experience that Naja would enter through the back gate to the citadel, as readily as through the front.
“I need a son from her as well,” Naja explained, reasonably, “to place on the throne of Assyria.” He laughed then, a soft, mocking snigger. “The duties of royalty are onerous indeed.”
She gave him a furious glare, and called for her litter with its screens and cushions of silk to take her back down the column, to where Prenn was bringing up the rearguard.
On Taita’s advice, Nefer had established a screen of scouts along the shores of the Red Sea to report any invasion by dhows, yet Taita was certain that Naja’s main invasion force must come through the Great Sand Desert. Naja and Trok had passed this way on their Mesopotamian adventure. Naja knew the route well, and his army was too large to bring across the Red Sea in boats as Trok had done with his much smaller force.
Thanks to a marvelous innovation by the Magus, Nefer and his staff knew the exact numbers and composition of Naja’s muster. One of the centurions, high in the chain of Naja’s command, who was an old associate of Taita and who owed him a debt of gratitude, had sent a message to Taita declaring his loyalty to the Pharaoh Nefer Seti and his intention of defecting and coming to join Nefer’s army. Through another of his minions, a trader in fine carpets, who was leading a caravan to Beersheba, Taita had sent the centurion a reply, instructing him to remain at the head of his division. “You are more valuable to us as a source of intelligence than as a warrior,” he had told him, and through the carpet-trader had sent him two unusual gifts: a basket of live pigeons and a papyrus scroll on which was set out a secret code.
When the pigeons were released by the centurion, they returned immediately to the coop in Avaris in which they had been hatched, and they carried with them, tied to one leg with a silken thread, a coded message written on a tiny roll of the finest and lightest papyrus sheet. Through these messages, Nefer had in his possession the precise numbers and disposition of the troops Naja commanded. He knew the exact day on which Naja had marched from Babylon, and how many troops he had left there under Asmor. Nefer was able to follow his advance westward, through Damascus and Beersheba and all the other towns and garrisons along his line of march.
Very soon it became apparent that Taita had assessed the situation correctly, and that Naja would not attempt a surprise crossing of the Red Sea. He was indeed intent on a frontal assault through the Great Sand Desert.
Nefer pulled in his pickets from along the Red Sea coast, and immediately moved his headquarters and most of his army forward to the frontier garrison of Ismailiya on the edge of the desert. Here there were bountiful sweet-water wells, and ample grazing for the horses.
While they waited in Ismailiya, reports continued to be carried in by the returning pigeons. Not only did Nefer know Naja’s strength, he knew also who commanded each of his divisions.
Mintaka sat on his war council in the fort of Ismailiya. Her contributions were invaluable: she was Hyksos born, and she knew well those officers on Naja’s staff who had once been on her own father’s staff. As a child she had listened to her father’s assessment of each of them, and she had a formidable memory, trained and sharpened over the bao board. She was able to advise Nefer on the strengths, weaknesses and personal peculiarities of each of these men. She went over the lists they had received.
“Now this one, Centurion Prenn who commands Naja’s rearguard, is related to me, for he w
as one of my father’s cousins. I know him well. He taught me to ride. I used to call him Uncle Tonka, which means ‘Bear’ in my language.” She smiled at the memory. “My father said of him that he was loyal as a hound, cautious and slow, but once he had sunk his teeth into the throat of an enemy he would hang on to the death.”
By this time Meren had almost fully recovered his health and strength. He begged Nefer for employment in some useful role, so Nefer sent him forward with a division of chariots to cover Naja’s further advance, once he came down from the heights into the desert.
Meren’s scouts watched Naja’s water carts carrying their loads of clay jars forward and building up the dumps in the arid land through which Naja must pass to reach the frontier of Egypt. Meren asked to be allowed to attack and disperse the convoys of water carts, but Nefer sent orders to him not to interfere with them, merely to keep them under observation and to note carefully where they placed the water stores.
Then Nefer ordered the last reserves that he had been holding on the river to be brought up, and when these were encamped around Ismailiya he called a council of all their commanders. “Even with Trok’s vehicles that we captured at Gallala, Naja outnumbers us by almost three to one,” he told them. “All his men are battle-hardened, and his horses trained and in fine condition. We cannot afford to let him cross the frontier and reach the river. We must meet him and fight him here in the desert.”
All that night they sat in council, and Nefer laid out his battle plan and issued his orders. They were to let Naja advance unopposed for the first five days. Then, once he was deeply committed, they would raid and destroy his water stores, both in front and to the rear of his advance. This would trap him in the midst of the sands.
“I know Naja well enough to stake the battle on his arrogance and his overbearing confidence in his own fighting skills. I am certain that even once we cut off his water supply he will not turn back, but will thrust onward. His forces will reach Ismailiya after a forced dry march of many days through the desert. We will be able to meet them with our horses and troops well rested and watered on a battleground of our own choosing. This will make up some of the deficit in our opposing strengths.”
During the long council, Taita sat silently in the shadows behind Nefer’s campaign stool. It seemed that he was dozing, but once in a while he opened his eyes, then, blinking like a sleepy owl, closed them again and let his chin droop back onto his chest.
“Our greatest lack is in the number and condition of our chariots,” Nefer went on, “but we can almost match Naja in archers, slingers and spearmen. I am certain that once he realizes his shortage of water, Naja will drive ahead of his foot soldiers with all his chariots. Taita and I have devised a plan to lead his vehicles into a trap in which we can exploit the small advantage that we have.
“In front of the town and the wells we will throw up a series of low stone walls behind which our archers and infantry can conceal themselves. These works will be just high enough to block the advance of a chariot.” With a charcoal stick Nefer sketched out a design on the sheet of papyrus spread on the table-top in front of him. Hilto, Shabako, Socco and the rest of his staff craned forward to watch.
“The walls will be laid out in the design of a fish trap.” He drew the inverted funnel shapes, with the apex aimed back toward the fort of Ismailiya.
“How will you lead him into the funnel?” Shabako asked.
“With a charge of our own chariots and the mock retreat you have practiced so often,” Nefer explained, “our archers and slingers will remain concealed behind the walls until Naja follows us into the funnel. The deeper they penetrate, the more tightly his squadrons will be compressed between the walls. They will offer a fine target for our slingers and archers as they pass at close range.”
Even Shabako looked impressed. “You intend to shut them up in a stockade like cattle, just as you did with Trok.”
They discussed the plan with enthusiasm, offering suggestions and refinements. In the end Nefer put Shabako in charge of building the walls. Taita had spent the last five days surveying and marking them out for him, so the work could begin as soon as it was light the next day.
“We have little time left to us,” Nefer warned them. “We know that Naja’s forces are already drawn up on the heights of the Khatmia. His water wagons have almost finished laying down the dumps. I expect he will begin his descent of the escarpment within days.”
The council broke up at last and the officers hurried away to take up the tasks that Nefer had allocated to them. At last only three remained in the tower room of the old fort at Ismailiya: Nefer, Taita and Mintaka.
Mintaka spoke up for the first time. “We have discussed already Prenn, my Uncle Tonka,” she said, and Nefer nodded, but gave her a quizzical look. “If I could meet him, if I could speak to him face to face, I am sure I could convince him to turn against Naja and throw in his lot with us.”
“What do you mean?” Nefer’s voice was harsh and his expression stern.
“Dressed as a boy, with a small detachment of good men and fast horses, I could circle around Naja’s main army and get through to Uncle Tonka in the rear. There would be little risk.”
Nefer’s face blanched with anger. “Madness!” he said quietly. “Stark raving madness of the kind you exhibited at Gallala when you showed yourself as bait to Trok. I will not hear another word of it. Can you imagine what Naja would do to you if you fell into his hands?”
“Can you imagine what Naja would do if, in the critical moment of the battle, Uncle Tonka and his legions fell upon him from his own rear?” she flashed back at Nefer.
“We will not speak of it again.” Nefer came to his feet and slammed his fists down on the table-top. “You will stay with Merykara here in the fort during the rest of the campaign. If you do not give me your word to put such stupidity out of your mind, I will have the door to your chamber barred and guarded.”
“You cannot treat me as a chattel.” Her voice crackled with fury. “I am not even your wife. I will take no orders from you.”
“I am your king, and I demand your solemn word not to place yourself in jeopardy with this wild scheme of yours.”
“It is not a wild scheme, and I will not give you my word.”
Taita looked on, expressionless. This was their first serious argument, and he knew it would be all the more bitter because of the depth of their feelings for each other. He waited with interest to see how it would be resolved.
“You deliberately disobeyed my orders at Gallala. I cannot trust you not to do the same now. You leave me no alternative,” Nefer told her grimly, and shouted to the sentry outside the door to send for Zugga, the head eunuch of the royal harem.
“I can’t trust Merykara either.” He turned back to Mintaka. “She is completely under your influence, and if you put your mind to it you will turn her to this lunatic enterprise of yours. I am sending both of you back to the zenana in the Avaris palace. You are to remain there in the care of Zugga. You can amuse each other by playing bao until the battle is fought and the war is won.” And Zugga led Mintaka away. At the door she looked back over her shoulder at Nefer, and Taita smiled as he read her expression. Nefer had taken on a more stubborn adversary than both the false pharaohs combined.
That evening Taita went to visit her in the new accommodation that Mintaka now shared with Merykara in what had once been the commander’s suite of the fort. A pair of large, placid eunuchs were at the door and another outside the barred window.
Mintaka was still seething with anger, and Merykara was every bit as outraged by her brother’s treatment of herself and her dear Mintaka, and especially this humiliating incarceration.
“At least you have learned from this that it does not pay to confront a king, even if he loves you,” Taita told them gently.
“I don’t love him,” Mintaka replied, with tears of anger and frustration in her eyes. “He treats me like a child, and I hate him.”
“I hate him even mo
re,” Merykara declared, not to be outdone. “If only Meren were here!”
“Has it occurred to you that what Nefer is doing to you is evidence of his love and concern for your safety?” Taita suggested. “He knows how dire will be your fate if you fall into the hands of Naja Kiafan and Heseret.” They turned upon him so roundly that he held up both hands to deflect their wrath and withdrew tactfully, their denials and recriminations still ringing in his ears.
The next morning both Nefer and Taita watched from the ramparts of the fort as the little caravan left Ismailiya, escorted by the eunuchs and a contingent of chariots, and headed back toward Avaris. Mintaka and Merykara were closeted together behind the silk curtains of the litter in the center of the column. They did not show themselves or take their farewells of Nefer and Taita.
“Personally, I would have preferred to stir up a beehive with a short stick,” Taita murmured. “It may have made for a more restful climate to have shown a little more tact.”
“They must learn that I am Pharaoh, and that my word is law even to them. Besides, at the moment I have other concerns than female tantrums,” Nefer said. “They will get over it.” But he stayed on the wall and watched until the swaying litter and the caravan disappeared in the hazy distance.
Taita and Nefer rode out and inspected the stone walls that Shabako had hastily thrown up along the eastern approaches to the oasis of Ismailiya.
“Shabako’s efforts will not rank among the great architectural achievements of the age,” Taita gave his opinion, “but that is all to the good. From the direction in which Naja will come, they appear to be natural features and will excite no suspicion until he enters the funnel and finds his front progressively narrowed.”
“Your plan has the towering virtue of allowing us to choose our own battleground.” Nefer nodded. “With the help of Horus, we will turn it into a slaughter-ground.” Then he laid his hand upon Taita’s skinny arm. “Once again I find myself deeply in your debt, Old Father. This is all your work.”