by Wilbur Smith
Nefer gave another hand signal, and the formations opened. Wheel to wheel the front rank moved forward to meet the great dust cloud that rolled toward them. On the markers he had laid out weeks before, Nefer halted his leading squadron, and let the horses rest while he studied the enemy advance.
Now where the dun dust clouds made a tenuous contact with the gray desert he saw the line of dark spots, and myriad flashes of metal wavering in the heated air. On they came and in the mirage the outlines of the chariots in the front rank of Naja’s advance wriggled and changed shape like tadpoles in the depths of a pond.
Then they hardened and took on firm shape, and he could make out the horses and the armored men on the vehicles behind them.
Meren murmured, “Sweet Horus be praised. It seems he has committed all his vehicles. He holds no depth of chariots in reserve.”
“They must be desperate for water. His only chance of survival is to break our ranks with a frontal charge and win through to the wells.”
Closer and closer rolled the enemy, and now they could make out the features of the warriors in the front rank, and from their colors and pennants they identified each regiment, and recognized the captains who commanded them.
Two hundred paces away the mighty host rolled to a halt. A vast silence settled over the brooding landscape, broken only by the fretting susurration of the wind. The dust settled like a falling curtain and every detail of both armies was starkly revealed.
From the enemy center a single chariot pulled forward. Even though dust coated the coachwork the gold leaf gleamed through, and the royal pennant flew above the driver’s head. Naja halted less than a hundred paces to the front, so that Nefer recognized the cold, handsome face under the blue war crown.
“Hail, Nefer Seti, puppy of the dog I slew with my own hand!” Naja called in that sonorous voice. Nefer stiffened to hear him confess so openly to regicide. “Upon my head I wear the crown I took from Tamose as he was dying. In my hand,” he raised the mighty blue sword, “I carry the brand I took from his craven fist. Will you claim it from me, puppy?”
Nefer felt his hands begin to shake upon the reins and anger rose in a red cloud that obscured his vision.
“Steady!” Meren whispered at his side. “Do not let him provoke you.”
With a huge effort Nefer forced aside the curtains of rage. He managed to keep his face expressionless, but his voice rang like metal on stone. “Make ready!” and he lifted his own sword high.
Naja laughed soundlessly, wheeled his own chariot and drove back to his place in the center of the opposing line.
“March! Forward!” Naja raised the blue sword. His front ranks gathered momentum, rolling toward Nefer’s line. “At the gallop! Charge!” They surged forward in a solid mass.
Nefer stood his ground and let them come on. Naja’s taunts rang in his ears still, and he felt a terrible temptation to abandon his well laid-out plan, and rush forward to meet Naja head to head and pierce his traitor heart. With a violent effort he put aside the temptation, and lifted his sword. He described three flashing arcs with the blade above his head. His legions responded instantly. Like a flock of birds swerving in full flight or a shoal of fish avoiding the attacking barracuda, they turned as though possessed of a single controlling mind, and raced away over the plain, back the way they had come.
Naja’s front rank had braced itself for the impact, but they met no resistance and, like a man stumbling over a step that did not exist, they lost impetus. By the time they had recovered, Nefer had pulled away another hundred paces. Now his squadrons smoothly changed their formation and drew together from extended order into a column of fours.
Naja tore after him, but within three hundred paces his flanks came upon a low stone breastwork that slanted across their front. They could not stop now, so they veered left and right toward their own center. Like the current of a wide river forced suddenly into the mouth of a narrow rocky gorge they were squeezed together. Wheel snagged wheel, and horse teams were forced to give way to each other. The charge wavered and slowed as chariots and horses jammed into a solid mass.
At that fatal moment, the rams’ horns brayed across the field, and at the signal the heads and shoulders of the archers and slingers rose from behind the breastworks on either hand. The arrows were already nocked and now the archers drew and flexed their short recurved bows. They held their aim a moment, choosing their targets with care. The first volley was always the most telling.
The slingers whirled their weapons on high, double-handed to counter the weight of the hard-baked clay balls in the leather pouches at the ends of the long straps. They buzzed through the air as they built up a dreadful momentum.
Naja’s leading squadrons were deep in the funnel between the breastworks when the trumpets sang out again and the archers loosed, in a single concerted volley. They had been ordered to aim for the horses, and to pick out the enemy captains. The arrows flew in almost silently, with just the soft whisper of the fletchings through the air, but the range was short, and the strike of the arrowheads into living flesh sounded like a handful of gravel thrown into a mud-bank. The first rank of Naja’s charge was shot down, and as the horses fell the chariots piled up over their carcasses, swerving out of control into the stone walls on either hand, or capsizing and rolling.
Then the slingers loosed their missiles with uncanny accuracy. The solid balls of burned clay were the size of a ripe pomegranate but heavy as ivory. They could crack the skull of man or horse, snap a leg or shatter ribs as though they were dry twigs. They thudded into the next rank of charging chariots, and the havoc they wrought was terrible.
The vehicles that followed were unable to stop the charge, and crashed into the wreckage of those in front. The coachwork crackled and tore with the sound of green branches in a raging bushfire. Some of the long drive-shafts shattered and deadly splinters speared the horses that pulled them. Wheels burst and were torn from their axles. Men were hurled from the cockpits and trampled under the frantic hoofs of the rearing, milling horses.
At the head of his squadron, Nefer gave the hand signal that the men following him were expecting, and a swarm of foot soldiers leaped out of hiding and dragged away the thornbushes that concealed the openings that had been deliberately left in the stone walls on either hand. In quick succession Nefer’s chariots swerved through them and out into the open ground beyond the walls. No longer constricted, they were free to maneuver across the plain. They doubled back, circling in behind Naja’s trapped squadrons, and falling on their rear echelons.
Now both armies were locked together, like fighting bulls, horn to horn. Not all of Naja’s vehicles had been lured into the trap between the walls. There had simply not been enough space for them all to enter at one time. These loose chariots now came rushing forward to engage Nefer, and a traditional chariot battle swiftly developed. Running chariots circled, charged and withdrew, then charged again. The squadrons broke up into smaller units, and across the plain single vehicles viciously engaged each other, wheel to wheel, and man to man.
Despite the frightful losses he had inflicted on the enemy in the opening phase, Nefer was still heavily outnumbered. As the advantage swung back and forth, Nefer was forced to call in more and more of the reserves he had been holding concealed in the wadi behind the fort. Now he signaled in the last of them. He was fully committed. He had brought up every last chariot. But they were not enough. Slowly his horses and his men were being ground down by the sheer numbers of his enemy.
In the dust and clamor and turmoil, Nefer desperately searched the plain for Naja’s golden chariot and the royal red pennant. He knew that if he could force Naja to single combat and kill him, he could still carry the day. But there was no sign of him. Perhaps he had been cut down in the defile between the walls, perhaps he was lying wounded or dead somewhere in the confusion of the battle.
Close by Nefer saw Hilto’s chariot hemmed in by two of the enemy, and the old warrior wounded and thrown to earth. Hilto
’s squadron saw him go down, and broke up in confusion. Nefer felt the cold hand of despair squeeze his heart. They were losing the battle.
He saw a line of Red chariots circle out, then sweep around behind the backs of his archers and slingers along the breastworks and cut them down with arrows and javelins. The foot soldiers scattered and fled, a screaming rabble, and their despair was infectious. Grimly Nefer remembered that Taita called it the “little bird effect—when one flies they all fly.”
Nefer knew that his army would soon be in rout, and he shouted encouragement to the charioteers close enough to hear him, and tried to rally them by running down another enemy chariot and slaying the crew with a dozen strokes of the sword. Then he wheeled away in pursuit of another Red chariot, but by now Dov and Krus were almost worn out, and the enemy pulled away from them.
Then beside him Meren shouted, “Look, Pharaoh!” and he pointed to the east out into the desert. With the back of his hand Nefer wiped his own sweat and splashes of enemy blood from his face, and stared out into the glare.
He knew then beyond all doubt that it was over, and that they had lost the battle. A fresh mass of enemy chariots was tearing in toward them. Where they had suddenly come from Nefer could not fathom. He had thought that Naja had committed all his vehicles. That did not matter now, for the battle was lost.
“How many?” Nefer wondered, with black desolation filling his soul.
“Two hundred,” Meren guessed. “Maybe more.” His voice was resigned. “It is all over, Pharaoh. We will die fighting.”
“One last charge.” Nefer shouted to the chariots nearest to him, “On me the Blues! Death with glory.”
They cheered him hoarsely and wheeled in on either side of him. Even Dov and Krus seemed imbued with new strength, and the thin line of Blue chariots tore in at the new foe, going to meet them head to head. As they closed they saw that the leading enemy chariot flew the pennant of a general, a centurion.
“By Horus, I know him,” Meren cried. “It’s Prenn, the old sodomite.”
So close were they now that Nefer also recognized the gaunt figure, with the black patch over one eye. He had seen him on the staff of King Apepi, in the temple at Perra when they had met to negotiate the treaty of Hathor. The same wondrous day that he had first laid eyes on Mintaka.
“His arrival is untimely,” Nefer said grimly, “but perhaps we can save the next generation of young boys from his amorous attentions.”
He steered Dov and Krus straight at Prenn, trying to force him to swerve and offer a flank shot for his javelin throw. But as they came closer together, Meren shouted, startled, “He flies the Blue!” Prenn’s pennant was streaming back, directly away from them, which was why Nefer had not noticed it until this moment, but Meren was right: Prenn was flying the Blue of the House of Tamose, and all his chariots with him.
Now Prenn slowed and held his right arm across his chest in salute to Nefer, and he shouted in a great voice that carried above the rumble of the chariot wheels, “Hail, Pharaoh! May you live ten thousand years, Nefer Seti.”
In amazement Nefer lowered the javelin he had been about to hurl, and checked his horses.
“What are your orders, Pharaoh?” Prenn shouted.
“What strange business is this, General Prenn? Why do you call on me for orders?” Nefer called back.
“The Princess Mintaka delivered to me your message, and I have come to place myself under your command and to help you avenge the murders of King Apepi and Pharaoh Tamose.”
“Mintaka?” Nefer was confused, for surely she was still closeted in the sanctuary of the temple in Avaris. But then his warrior instincts took over, and he thrust aside those thoughts. There would be time for such musing later. “Well met, General Prenn. You arrive none too soon. Lay your chariot alongside mine and we will sweep this field from end to end.”
They charged side by side, and Nefer’s broken and scattered legions saw the blue pennants coming and heard the war-cry, “Horus and Nefer Seti!” and the blaring of the rams’ horn trumpets, and they took new heart. The Red squadrons of Naja Kiafan were in hardly better case and could offer only scant resistance as Prenn’s fresh troops charged into them. They fought on for a while, but the heart was torn out of them. Some scrambled out of their chariots to kneel in the dust, hands raised in surrender, begging for quarter and shouting the praises of Nefer Seti. Their behavior was infectious and spread across the battlefield, as the Red charioteers threw down their swords and knelt.
Nefer quartered across the field, searching for Naja. In his heart he knew that the victory would not be complete until he had avenged his father’s murder. He came back toward the stone breastworks where last he had seen Naja at the head of his charge. He rode through the debris and detritus of battle, the shattered and overturned vehicles, the wounded and dying men and horses, the scattered corpses. Although most of the enemy were killed or had surrendered, there were still small isolated groups fighting on. Nefer’s men had no mercy on these and cut them down, even when they tried to surrender. Nefer intervened where he could to halt the slaughter, and to protect the prisoners, but his men were mad with battle rage, and scores more died before he could save them.
He reached the stone breastworks and reined in Krus and Dov. From his height on the footplate he could see over the low wall into the narrow defile where he had trapped the forward legions of Naja’s army. The smashed chariots were piled upon each other like the wreckage of a fleet thrown upon the rocks by a mighty storm at sea. Some of the horses had struggled to their feet and stood still tethered by the harness to their shattered vehicles. He saw a lovely bay mare standing on three legs with her off-fore broken by a slinger’s clay ball, and near her a black stallion with his entrails dangling to the ground from a rent in his belly. Around each chariot lay the dead and the wounded. Some were still moving and weeping, calling to the gods and to their mothers for water and succor. Others sat dazed and slack-jawed with the agony of their wounds. One was trying feebly to pull out the arrow that was lodged deep in his stomach. Nefer looked for Naja’s body among the dead, but all was confusion and many were buried in the wreckage. Then he picked out a flash of gold leaf, and the royal standard of Naja Kiafan lying in the dust and the puddles of congealing blood.
“I must find him,” Nefer told Meren. “I must know he is dead.” He jumped down from the chariot.
“I will help you search.” Meren went to the horses’ heads and tethered them to the wall. Nefer vaulted over the breastworks and scrambled over the other wreckage until he reached the golden chariot. It lay on its side, but the cockpit was empty. One of the horses was still alive, but both its front legs were broken, and it lifted its head and looked up at Nefer piteously. He took one of the javelins from the bin on the chassis, and killed the animal with a thrust behind the ear. Suddenly Meren shouted and stooped to pick up something from among the debris. He lifted his trophy high, and Nefer saw that he had found Naja’s blue war crown.
“The swine’s body must be close,” Nefer called to him. “He would not have discarded that. It means too much to him.”
“Search beneath his chariot,” Meren called back to him. “He might be trapped under it. I will help you lift it.” He came toward Nefer, scrambling over the wreckage, and at that moment Nefer caught a flash of movement from the corner of his eye. At the same instant Meren shouted an urgent warning: “Look out! Behind you!”
Nefer ducked and whirled about. Naja had risen from where he had been crouching behind the dashboard of the chariot. His shaven head was pale and shiny as an ostrich egg, and his eyes were wild. He still carried the blue sword of Tamose and he launched a double-handed blow at Nefer’s head, but Meren’s warning had saved him and Nefer ducked under the hissing blade. His own sword was still in the scabbard at his hip, but he carried the javelin with which he had delivered the coup de grâce to the maimed horse. Instinctively he thrust at Naja’s throat, but Naja was quick as the cobra that was his namesake and twisted aside. This
gave Nefer a moment to reach for his own sword, but Naja stepped back and looked about him. He saw Meren coming to Nefer’s aid with bared sword, and he saw the empty chariot hitched to the wall with Dov and Krus in the traces. He drove Nefer back with another thrust of the blue blade, then whirled and sprinted away. Nefer hurled the javelin after him, but the thong was not wound on and the throw was wide. Naja reached the wall. As he jumped over it he cut the horses free with a slash of the blue sword and leaped up onto the footplate. He did not have hold of the reins, but he seized the whip from the bin and lashed Krus and Dov across the haunches. Startled, the pair leaped forward together and within half a dozen strides they were both at full gallop.
Behind them Nefer jumped to the top of the wall and saw Naja being carried away across the plain. He drew a long breath and whistled, the high piercing blast that Dov and Krus knew so well. He saw their heads go up, their ears prick and swivel toward him. Then Krus changed gait and swung into a tight turn, and Dov came smoothly round with him. The chariot was flung hard over in the turn and Naja had to clutch at the dashboard to prevent himself from being hurled overboard. The pair of horses came pounding back toward where Nefer stood poised on the wall. Naja recovered his balance and held the blue sword at guard, ready to strike out at Nefer as soon as he came within reach. Nefer knew that his own bronze could never stand against that terrible blade. It would be certain death to throw himself on top of a swordsman of Naja’s caliber armed with that weapon.
As the horses swept by below him, Nefer leaped lightly onto Krus’ back and with his knees steered him out onto the open plain still at full gallop. He glanced back and saw Naja climbing out of the cockpit. He edged out along the drive-shaft to get at Nefer.
Nefer leaned down from Krus’ back and with his own blade sliced the knot in the plaited leather rope that hitched the horses to the drive-shaft. The chariot was running free and veered off to one side. Naja’s weight drove down the drive-shaft and the end of it dug into the soft earth. The racing vehicle was flicked end over end, and Naja was thrown clear. He struck the ground with his shoulder, and even above the sound of hoofs and the shattering woodwork of the chariot Nefer heard the bone break.