Shiri

by D. S.

  But he’d moved with all the speed of a glacier. He arrived too late to help his allies gain victory but just in time to share in their defeat. The Lords of Hattusha turned at his approach and offered battle. They numbered little more than five thousand spears and perhaps if Aratama had listened to others, the result may have been different. But the King chose this moment to trust his own instincts.

  Rather than accepting Gordia had fallen and seeking terms with the victors, he’d rushed in and calamity ensued. It was fifteen years since his defeat at Gordia, but the memory was still fresh.

  The Shepherd Prince stood before him, the slave, Yuya at his side. The slave wore long multi-coloured robes; the style the Hyksos of old had always liked best in their slaves. Aratama had met the slave once before, ten years past. Not a slave then. Yuya had been wide-eyed and fresh from a long stay in Heliopolis, City of the Sun. It was common knowledge that his father had been on good terms with the high priest of the ancient city and that Yuya, barely out of the cradle at the time, had been named as his heir in waiting.

  Aratama turned his attention from slave to master. “Chance or fate has seen your people gain power, Josef, Prince of Shepherds.”

  Josef bowed. “Strong arms and noble cause have served their part.”

  Aratama stared at him through long white plaits that fell in cascades from the thin, golden circlet that nestled over his wrinkled brows, “Pharaoh would deem his cause the nobler.”

  “What cause is that?” Josef said. “The cause that would see an entire people enslaved? Or that which would see all the nations of earth bending the knee?”

  Aratama glanced to the Prince’s own slave as the boy spoke. He smiled, “No man can stand forever. All nations must one day fall. What matter to me if yours falls on the morrow or in a thousand years?”

  “If ours falls on the morrow, Mitanni will fall soon after. Pharaoh will not be content with Palestine alone.”

  “You claim great knowledge of Pharaoh’s mind.”

  “The knowledge of a people who have suffered long by his hand, our lore-masters could tell it better than I, but suffice it to say their crimes are many and terrible.”

  “All speak of their enemies thusly,” Aratama said, “Does the Shepherd King bring naught but a list of his people’s grievances and tales of past defeats? Mayhap I should ally with the stronger side.”

  Josef shifted. This was not some peasant village to be swayed by talk of high honour and past wrongs. What did Aratama care for the history of others? Better to speak of Mitanni and what it could gain by alliance than speak of what strange folk had suffered in times past and parts foreign.

  He spoke more urgently, “Mitanni will stand or fall by your next decision. This year past Pharaoh’s representatives thrice demanded you act against us, but thrice your troops refused to answer his call. A move from Mitanni even six moons ago would likely have put an end to the Shepherd King. He has a long memory this Tuthmosis and will not forgive that. What will he do if he casts down my father and routs our armies? What will he do when he has a host ten or twenty thousand strong sitting on the borders of Mitanni? Will he turn and march peaceably home or will he do as he has ever done before? Will he seek vengeance for your lack of assistance in his time of need?”

  Aratama’s features grew grave. He’d thought long and hard over the messages from Pharaoh. Tuthmosis had sent him an ultimatum; join him and crush the rebels and all would go well for Mitanni. Refuse and things may not be so pleasant. Eloquent in his brevity was Tuthmosis.

  Aratama had not joined him. Not soon enough at any rate. He’d dithered and delayed and now the moment was passed. He could either join the Shepherd King, hoping that their combined force would outmatch Pharaoh, or he could wait still further. Wait for Pharaoh to defeat the rebels and then come asking why his noble ally had not rallied to his cause.

  The King stretched out his fingers, studying them in silence. Old and weak ... like my kingdom. He spoke slowly, “Ever have ambition and power been a dangerous mix. Pharaoh has great power...” he inhaled almost sadly, “and greater ambition, like as not, he means to bring both our realms forever under his sway.”

  “And like as not, that will mean invasion,” Josef said. “He would deal with Mitanni as he dealt with all the nations he has vanquished. The once noble court of Aratama reduced to little more than a vassal of Thebes. Only by uniting against him can we hope to hold out.”

  The King seemed to nod almost imperceptibly at that. He smiled at the young Prince, the boy was passionate, his eyes earnest and honest. Josef drew closer. “What say you? Will you ride with us?”

  Aratama played with the hairs of a long white beard as he pondered it. The clans of Palestine were ever a weak and divided folk. True enough, they had united and grown strong of late, but if Pharaoh was defeated that would not last. The clans would fracture and divide once more, soon enough they would be fighting amongst themselves like in the days of old. Chance then, for Mitanni to pick up the pieces. Chance then, for the heirs of Aratama to grow strong. Chance even, for an astute King of Mitanni to claim lordship over their lands for himself. Little hope of that if Pharaoh won the day. Little hope that Mitanni would even survive the winter.

  Slowly Aratama rose to his feet. A raised hand kept his attendants at bay. Leaning heavily on a staff of gnarled acacia, faltering but deliberate steps brought the King towards the Prince. Old grey eyes peered out from under heavy lids as he scrutinised the boy. “So be it.” He turned to his famed Maryannu; charioteers that matched any that rode beneath the skies, “Aratama will march with the Shepherd King. Aratama will march with noble Prince Josef and together we will have victory!”

  The Maryannu beat spear on shield causing an impressive din and a great cheer went up from Josef’s men. The Prince’s heart skipped a beat. He took the old King’s hand, “You will not regret this choice, friend Aratama. In my father and in his son, you will find forever allies, forever friends of Mitanni. If the Lords of Hattusha ride against you or the swords of Babylon demand tribute, let Mitanni just say the word and it will find us at its side.” He swung round, “Prepare to march, we leave for Megiddo at once!”

  Aratama laughed, “What need for haste, friend Josef? The way I hear it, Pharaoh is yet many leagues to the south. Let us break our fast together!! Let the heroes of the Shepherd King and the champions of Mitanni celebrate the joining of our peoples with good meat and strong ale by the light of the morning sun!” His words were met by a hearty chorus of cheers.

  The Prince looked unsure. “Let us celebrate when the battle is won. Pharaoh marches hard, we should do no less.”

  Aratama placed a hand about Josef’s shoulder and the Prince helped steady him. The King cast his staff aside. “Friend Josef shall be Aratama’s staff!” he declared it in a surprisingly loud voice that received further cheers before turning his lips to Josef’s ear and offering more discreet counsel. “Ah, to be young and impetuous once more, our men have journeyed far and are in need of rest. Let us eat, drink and make merry, time enough to march in an hour or two, we’ll make Megiddo before the sun makes noon.”

  “But my father counselled haste, best not tarry when we could be marching now.”

  Aratama shook his head, “Too often does the hasty blow miss its mark. Better to strike hard when the moment is ripe, than soft when it is yet too soon.” He squeezed the Prince’s shoulder in a manner that would brook no further argument. “Now, let us talk of bonds that cannot easily be broken.” He grinned, “They say you have not yet taken a wife. I must show you my daughters. I have many and men say they are fair. Perhaps when Pharaoh is defeated we will make blood ties, you and I.”

  Josef’s eyes widened. “Marriage! I ... had not considered ... it would be an honour ... an honour of course. But I ... I did not know you would wish it so,” he managed a sheepish smile.

  Aratama laughed well at that. “You are young, friend Josef ... very young.”

  IX

  Its towering walls wer
e built of large un-mortared stones. The forgotten crafts of ages past had worked on them and raised them high above the plains. But here and there, great gaps could be seen where the Shepherd King’s armies had brought them down.

  Shiri had heard many tales of how Megiddo fell. They had come on the tongues of travellers and merchants as they passed through Yaham. Most said that the people of Megiddo had risen up and overthrown their Gypto overlords even as the Shepherd King did battle with the Lord of Armegiddo in the plains below.

  Others claimed there’d been no rising from within, and the fortress had only fallen after long and bloody siege. Shiri had scoffed at that tale. Either way, the fortress had fallen and even Shiri could see that it could not stand siege again. The once mighty gates of oak and bronze that she remembered from the trip with her father lay smashed and ruined, the strong and ancient walls breached in a dozen places.

  Simeon pointed to a lone figure that stood tall atop the highest rampart still standing and Shiri’s eyes widened. It’s him … it must be. An enormous sable cloak billowed about the man, a grey wolf’s pelt adorned impossibly broad shoulders, and long dark locks fell over his brow. A great and shaggy beard of a slightly lighter shade obscured much of his face, but not the glint of gold about his forehead.

  As Shiri looked up it seemed that the man felt her gaze and peered in her direction. She spoke, half to herself, half to Simeon, “Is that … is that really him?”

  “Aye,” Simeon said. “There stands Jacobaam, King of Shepherds.” He spurred their well lathered mount one more time as they galloped up the low hill and into the town proper.

  The King turned as the rider disappeared under the archway. He had come not from the east, from Josef, as he’d been expecting but from the south from … he struggled for the name … from Aruna … aye that was it, Aruna. There was something troubling in that. Something troubling too in the stare of the peasant girl that clung to the rider’s back. Those eyes had seen death.

  As ever, a cheer went up as he disappeared behind the battlements. “Jacobaam! Jacobaam! Jacobaam!” Even now groups of them continued to flock to his ranks. Sprawling, excitable clusters mainly composed of men more suited to the life of the farmer than the fighter. They carried a hotchpotch of weapons, some shouldered bows, but most of those he’d sent to the Pass of Gilboa, almost two thousand of them. They’d been well placed in the rocks and gullies above the pass and would do bloody slaughter when Pharaoh passed below.

  Of the rest, a rare few bore ancient and well polished swords. But most held clubs, axes, slings and scythes. Scythes they had used but a few days before to harvest their crops. He could count nearly a dozen warlords and kings amongst them. He laughed at that, kings. Even the chiefs of the smallest clans considered themselves as such. Fools, well meaning fools. His laugh was echoed by a sigh. If they are fools then what am I but the biggest fool of all?

  Simeon saluted as he crested the steps and came before his king. It had not been three moons since he’d last stood before Jacobaam, and yet, even so, there was a little more frost about the King’s locks than before. Shiri stared at Jacobaam wide-eyed. He did not wear the mass of gold and jewels that adorned the monster, nor even a giant crown of blue and silver like Pharaoh. A simple band of metal no thicker than her thumb was all he bore to mark his rank. She’d heard it said that he’d claimed, ‘that was heavy enough.’

  He came closer and Shiri felt a little afraid. He isn’t just big, he’s huge. He would dwarf even her father; that made her feel strange. His arms were corded muscle hard as oak, his eyes, dark coals, coals that ever threatened to ignite in flame. He towered above not only her, but the men around him. Strapped across his back was the famed war axe, named for the Storm Lord himself, Ba’al. It was Ba’al that had taken the governor’s head, Ba’al that had sent the Gyptos reeling ... or at least that’s what folk said. She went to her knees before him, head down, eyes fixed on the ground.

  The King’s gaze found Simeon. “Who gave you leave to abandon your post?”

  “No one, Sire, I took my own counsel, and that of the girl.”

  “That she gives better counsel than Asher I don’t doubt.” He glanced at her again but did not bid her speak. “What news then?”

  “The girl would tell it best, Sire.”

  Jacobaam turned his attention to her and grunted impatiently. “To your feet, child, or would you have me speak to the back of your head?”

  Shiri rose but did not meet his eyes. She attempted to say something but her mouth went dry.

  “Speak then; where do you hail from?”

  “Y …Yaham”

  “Yaham?” he pondered the name for a moment, “Yaham of the mountains? Village of the well?”

  She nodded, surprised that he had heard of it. He smiled as if remembering something, or someone. He raised her chin, as if he was curious or looking for something in her features, “Yaham of Esau?”

  Shiri’s eyes widened. Father. She managed to nod. The King was grinning broadly now, “His Lady served me well upon a time. Tell me does he keep her sharp still?”

  Finally Shiri met his gaze, “Esau is dead and Lady lies in the dust where she fell. The Gyptos they … they killed him, they killed them all.”

  The King drew back. His smile vanished. Suddenly he spoke more aggressively, “How came you here?”

  “Aruna … I … they left by Aruna and I…”

  The coals ignited. He grabbed her by the shoulders, lifting her clear off her feet and raising her until their eyes were on a level. He shook her almost violently. “Speak quickly! Quickly I say!”

  “I … I … all the hosts of P... Pharaoh went before me I…” she inhaled, she would not play the fool before this gathering. “I outpaced them, but not by much. They’ll make Jezreel before the sun makes noon. They may have reached the plain already.”

  He loosed his grip on her and spun round, “ARUNA! He comes at me from Aruna! Sweet Ba’al almighty! Why didn’t I see it?”

  He tore away from her, shouting at a man she had not noticed before, “Ready the army! Call in the outriders!”

  The man seemed taken aback, “But, Sire, Pharaoh is days away at least, and he must come from the Pass of Gilboa ... you can’t believe-”

  “Now damn you, NOW!”

  Suddenly horns were blaring and all was confusion. Shiri was buffeted one way and then the next. She felt Simeon grab her and push her through the mob. She found herself running after the King, he was astride his chariot already. He turned when he saw her and paused. Their eyes met, “Would that I had a hundred men to match the daughter of Esau.” He said before donning a helm of bronze with twisted ram’s horns about its flanks, “Keep her safe, Simeon. If you fail in all else do not fail in that.”

  There was a crack of whip that made Shiri jump, and suddenly the King’s chariot was tearing through the shattered gates of Megiddo and down towards the plains below. He thundered through his camp and as he did men rose cheering.

  Shiri ran to mount the walls of the city. She reached the battlements in time to see the giant host slowly forming up and moving south. Fifty chariots were charging ahead. She recognised the King’s giant form in the lead vehicle. Banners were raised, drums beating, trumpets blaring and the whole plain seemed suddenly alive to the sound of ten thousand voices chanting, “Jacobaam! Jacobaam!” she watched in awe as they pumped fearsome looking weapons in the air above their heads. They are mighty, they can win! At some hidden signal the whole host broke into an impatient jog. For the first time in days Shiri allowed herself to hope, allowed herself the briefest flicker of a smile. Now the Gyptos will pay for Yaham.

  Jacobaam didn’t have to wait long to discover the truth of her tale. He paled when he saw them, a monstrous host of Egyptian soldiers pouring out of the pass. There must be twenty thousand at least. Ahead of them riders were running down the last few survivors from Asher’s company.

  At the fore of the juggernaut, Jacobaam could see Pharaoh’s personal guard, the Compani
ons, rushing to form up. Behind them marched countless thousands of spearmen. They beat their rawhide shields in tune to their steps. Perhaps two thousand medjoy archers from desert kingdom of Nubia, naked but for cheetah skin loin cloths ran at their flanks. And all the while more and more were belching out of Aruna.

  To face this onslaught was Jacobaam’s army of farmers and peasants, brothers and sons, eight thousand from Jezreel and the northlands, two thousand from the mountains and vales of the south. Many had never before held sword, bow or axe. Gods be good, I send them to their deaths.

  The Gyptos were but three hundred yards away now, their warning horns blaring, their ranks a mass of confusion. Once they had formed up all would be lost, no army could match them on the open plains. Only the fact that he had caught them still exiting the pass gave him any hope at all. Jacobaam’s chariot weaved left and right in front of his troops as he shouted encouragement at them.

  Two hundred yards from the Gypto lines and arrows began to fall amongst them. One or two of his men stumbled. The rest paid little heed. Jacobaam placed a powerful hand on Ba’al and with a yell he raised it above his head. An incomprehensible roar went up from the masses behind and their steady jog increased in pace. A lone voice started the chant and was drowned out by ten thousand more, “Jacobaam! Jacobaam! Jacobaam!”

  A hundred yards out Jacobaam jumped from his chariot, his driver wheeled away to the right. This was not some palace bred princling accustomed to fighting from safety and distance. This was Jacobaam, King of Shepherds, and he would fight on foot as ever before. In the front rank he would stand shoulder to shoulder with the common born, feet planted wide in the free earth, the Storm Lord in his hands.

  He turned before them caring not for the ever increasing rain of Gypto shafts that fell about him. He swung Ba’al aloft, “Fight for me!” He bellowed, “Fight for your comrades! Fight for your family and for your wives! Fight for your daughters and for your sons! But above all else, fight for YOU!”