by Paul Doherty
‘It’s obvious.’ Nebamun shrugged. ‘Soon the invader will march south. He’ll issue decrees. Troops will be given a choice: either fight or go over.’
I thanked him for his advice and returned to my own quarters. Lady Ankhesenamun was loudly haranguing Djarka; when I arrived, she turned on me. ‘I have been confined in a cabin,’ she snapped. ‘We were supposed to land at my father’s city; now we are placed here, surrounded by smelly, sweaty soldiers!’ She beat a tattoo on the table, her long nails rapping hard. Beside her crouched Tutankhamun, playing with his toy soldiers. Lady Amedeta turned her back on me as if eager to study the painting of a dancing heset girl, a vivid eye-catching picture.
‘My lady, these smelly, sweaty soldiers,’ I replied wearily, ‘will give their lives for you. I trust Colonel Nebamun; he is a soldier of the old school. You and His Highness,’ Prince Tutankhamun smiled up at me, ‘will be protected by him as well as by Djarka and my mercenaries. These, too, will give their lives for you.’
She pouted and flounced, but I could tell from the laughter in her eyes that she was only acting. Ankhesenamun never cared where she was; she was probably intrigued to be in a place where General Horemheb and Rameses had their strength. She would exploit every opportunity to ferret out information, question, flirt and suborn, anything to increase her power and that of her grandfather. She sat down in the throne-like chair; Tutankhamun rose to stand beside her. She stroked his head gently, whispering endearments to him.
‘And what will happen now?’ Her head came up.
‘I shall journey further north,’ I replied. ‘Send messages to the usurper that we wish to negotiate. You will remain here. In a few days Generals Horemheb and Rameses will arrive, bringing more troops from Thebes and the garrisons along the river.’
‘And?’
‘There will be a battle, my lady. We shall either win or lose.’ I bit back my words. Little Tutankhamun was standing, solemn-faced and owl-eyed. ‘Of course we will be victorious,’ I added hastily and, bowing, left, cursing my own stupidity.
I sent Djarka to the Prince and asked Sobeck to join me on the flat-roofed terrace.
‘It will be cooler there.’ I smiled. ‘And no one can hear.’
I took a wine jug and two cups. Sobeck followed me up the stairs. Nebamun had already erected a canopy; cushions were piled against the protective ledge which ran round the terrace’s four sides.
‘What are we going to do?’ Sobeck demanded. ‘What if Meryre is leading us into a trap?’
‘I suspect he is. The further I travel north, the more I believe we are part of a great conspiracy. Meryre is behind this nonsense; I fear he is coming north to tell this usurper everything he knows. I am even beginning to wonder,’ I slouched down on the cushions, ‘whether the Shabtis of Akenhaten are his work.’
‘So what do you suggest?’ Sobeck dabbed at the sweat on his neck. ‘Are we to go north to put our heads on the slaughter block?’
‘What other choice do we have? I only wish I knew,’ I filled both wine cups, ‘what Meryre intends.’
Sobeck and I argued for most of the afternoon, talking too much whilst our drinking matched it. I went down to sleep and woke in the cool of the evening coated in sweat, the wine tasting bitter on my breath. I washed and changed, and went back on to the roof, watching the sun set, recalling those days I had spent with Akenhaten, when such an occasion was sacred and holy. From the courtyard below drifted the sound of sentries, the bark of a dog. Djarka came up to say the Prince was retiring. I crossly replied that I would soon be down.
‘My lord, you are frightened?’
Djarka stood at the top of the steps, peering at me through the poor light.
‘Do you remember, Djarka,’ I came over, ‘the night we killed those two assassins then hid their corpses?’
‘How can I forget?’ His voice caught in his throat. ‘One of them was a woman I loved. We killed her and her father and buried their corpses between the walls of their house.’ Tears filled his eyes. ‘At night, when I am asleep, I have nightmares. I am back in that house, sitting in the cellar, and her ghost comes out, at first all sweet and coy, but,’ he put his face in his hands, ‘she’s a ghost, Lord Mahu, a phantasm of the night. You are frightened now, aren’t you, by the terrors of the day?’
‘I am very frightened,’ I agreed. ‘As I was that night: frightened of being wrong, frightened of being hurt, wondering what is best to do.’
‘And?’
‘I don’t know why I refused to leave the Prince and his sister at the City of the Aten.’ I grasped my stomach. ‘A feeling, an unspoken fear, a suspicion …’
‘About whom?’
‘I don’t know,’ I confessed. ‘We have witnessed the devastation along the Nile; a return to the City of the Aten is out of the question. As for going north, what seemed a good idea is, perhaps, not so clever. Sobeck and I could be going to our deaths.’
‘But you are with Meryre.’
‘I don’t trust that self-righteous, mealy-mouthed hypocrite. He seems so eager to go north, he entertains no anxieties about what might happen. He could be quietly supporting this usurper; this mission could be a pretext to meet him so they can plot together.’ I got to my feet. ‘But if we don’t go, we’ll never discover the truth, whilst Horemheb and Rameses must be given time.’
The days passed. I turned the problem over and over, one poor night’s sleep after another. Nightmares peopled by sinister images and forms crowded my dreams. My Ka seemed to spring out of my body to wander the haunted halls and fiery lakes of the underworld. One morning I woke suddenly in the ghostly light. I thought I heard my name called, yet my chamber was empty. I went to the Prince’s apartments but all was well, the guards vigilant, so I decided to go up on to the roof terrace and watch the sunrise. I turned to the east. The sky was changing; already the light was picking up the pyramid tombs in the necropolis of Sakkara. I knelt down, eyes fixed on the sun disc, a golden orb surrounded by a fiery red.
Memories poured back of other sunrises, of crouching down with Akenhaten and Nefertiti to worship the glory of the dawn. Faces of long-dead companions and enemies rose to haunt me. A gentle, lilting song wafted up from the courtyard. I looked over the parapet. A young mercenary was singing a hymn to some unknown God; he sat sprawled with his back to the wall, mending a piece of harness. He should have been on guard, standing on the parapet wall overlooking the broad stretch of grass, trees and bushes which separated the house from the river bank. I was about to shout down when the breeze caught my face. Looking back, I ask again, bearing in mind that voice which seemed to wake me, do the dead come to warn you? As I glanced up, the morning mist shifted, like linen gauze being pulled back, to reveal a truly heart-stopping scene: war barges, black and low in the water, packed with men, were streaking silently towards the quayside. I couldn’t make out their armour but caught the glint of their weapons. I counted five or six, all heavily laden.
‘Nebamun’s men?’ I whispered. ‘Marines coming to reinforce the house?’
Again the mist shifted. A black standard flew from one of the barges, inscribed with white hieroglyphs depicting ‘HATT HANT US’, the fiery furnace in the Ninth Hall of the Underworld where spirit souls of the enemies of Ra were burnt, hieroglyphs also used for the Hittites. Another standard was raised bearing the symbols of the Storm God the Hittites worshipped. I stood like a statue. Was I awake? Was I dreaming? I opened my mouth to shout, but the full enormity of what was happening kept me silent. Bargeloads of soldiers were nearing the quayside of Nebamun’s house. They had come to kill, plunder and possibly seize or murder the Prince.
Heart in my throat, I raced back into the house. Sobeck heard my clatter on the stairs and burst into my chamber. I pointed to the far window, even as I found the conch horn. I blew hard but my spittle blocked it. I cleared my mouth and blew again, a long, wailing blast. Gasping for breath, I informed Sobeck of what was happening and told him to arouse the Colonel and everyone else. I hastened to
the royal quarters. Djarka was already up; something must have alarmed him, for he was already arming himself. I told him to stay where he was and guard the Prince, and if affairs warranted it, to take him and Ankhesenamun and flee. Bleary-eyed mercenaries blundered into the chamber even as another conch horn wailed somewhere in the house and from the small barracks adjoining it. I screamed at the soldiers to arm and gather in the courtyard. Ankhesenamun, a robe about her, hair falling down like a black mist round her face, came in sleepy-eyed asking what was wrong. Amedeta, sensuous and as lovely as her mistress, slipped in behind, almost concealed by Ankhesenamun. I wondered, then, did they share the same bedchamber?
‘What is the matter, Mahu?’ Ankhesenamun pouted.
‘You heard the alarm, my lady.’
‘Mahu, are we under attack? I thought you said we would be safe here?’
‘We will be,’ I snarled, ‘if you keep out of the way!’
I hurried down to the central courtyard. Nebamun and his officers were already there. The old colonel proved his worth. Sobeck had wondered if the man had been too often under the sun without his helmet, but Horemheb’s trust in him was quickly verified. He shouted and snarled for silence and coolly ordered gates to be reinforced with beams and carts. Postern doors and windows were also to be protected and defended. He turned to his staff, quietly issuing a stream of orders. Archers, ordered by their officers to remain silent, were quickly led up the steps and hid behind the battlemented walls. In the courtyard beneath, further ranks of archers lined up, bows and quivers ready. Behind them file after file of Menfyt, foot soldiers in their red and white striped head-dresses, swords and shields ready, war clubs in their sashes.
‘You raised the alarm?’ Nebamun asked, as he stripped to his loincloth before putting on a linen gown and fastening over it a bronze and leather war kilt. I told him what I had seen. ‘About five or six barges in all,’ Nebamun mused, screwing up his eyes. ‘About five hundred men,’ he added. ‘Possibly more. We have less than half of that.’ He raised a hand. ‘Ah well, my lord Mahu, if we survive we’ll ask how they knew as well as how they got here.’
Meryre came into the courtyard huffing and puffing, podgy fingers clutching his robe, eyes lined with black kohl. He was wearing a silver medallion round his neck depicting the Sun Disc. He acted all surprised and agitated, but I wondered how much he knew. I glanced at the other members of his retinue. They, too, were wearing the Aten disc. Was that some sort of sign to the invaders? Were they under orders to spare anyone wearing the Sun Disc?
‘What is the matter?’ Meryre fanned his fat face.
‘We are under attack, my lord,’ I replied drily. ‘We don’t have to search out the usurper; he has come hunting for us!’
‘You can stay and fight,’ Nebamun offered.
‘I am a high priest!’
‘Then you had best go find a temple and pray, or you’ll become a dead high priest.’ Nebamun turned away and grasped my wrist. ‘I want you to command the archers on the wall,’ he continued, ignoring Meryre’s angry splutter. ‘My house fronts the river.’
I glanced over my shoulder. Meryre was already waddling away.
‘Forget him.’ Nebamun’s fingers dug deep into my wrist. ‘They must have come for the Prince. The sides and back of the house are sheer wall, though they may try and force windows and doors. If they’ve brought battering rams …’ He pointed to the far wall. ‘Some of that’s granite, as is part of the house, but the rest is simply dried mud bricks under a coat of plaster. If they discover a weak spot they won’t need to use the gate.’ He gazed round even as his officers ordered the files of archers slightly forward, away from the foot soldiers. ‘They’ll invade here,’ Nebamun declared. ‘This will become a slaughter yard. I’ve also put men in the house. Already messengers, the fastest runners we have, have been dispatched to the barracks on the other side of the city. It’s only a matter of time.’
Nebamun turned away to confer with his staff officers. Sobeck and I collected our weapons and joined the archers crouching on the parapet. I peered over. The ground between the wall and the river was cut by a pebble-dashed path, then a line of greenery with trees and bushes sloping down to the quayside. The enemy had already landed; their advance party were shadows moving amongst the trees. I crouched back, looking along our line of men. Most of the archers were Nubians, hair cropped and oiled, dressed in white padded loincloths, leather quivers beside them, dark feathered shafts peeking out. Each Nubian carried a bow and a curved sword. They remained silent and watchful. I thanked the Gods that they were veterans, men who would not lose their nerve when the fighting began.
Once again I peered over the wall. It was a stomach-churning sight. The enemy advance guard had already cleared the trees, streaming up through the greenery towards the main gate. Anyone unfortunate enough to be in that area must have been killed silently, immediately. The front ranks of the enemy were Libyan archers, naked except for their leather phallus covers, cloaks of stiffened bull hide or giraffe skin around their shoulders, greasy hair tightly plaited and adorned with feathers or covered with the mask of some animal: panther, fox or leopard. They were a fearful sight, bearded faces daubed with war paint. Even more terrifying were the few Shardana warriors, mercenaries from the Great Green, in their leather tunics, strange horn helmets on their heads. They carried long stabbing swords and round bronze shields. Mitanni and Egyptian mercenaries followed next in striped head-cloths, carrying shield and spear: these were the men who would try and scale the walls once the archers had done their task. The Hittite officers were easily distinguishable, dressed in bronze-scale leather armour which fell beneath their knees, faces and the forepart of their heads shaven. They followed the Hittite fashion of allowing their hair to grow shoulder length. Each of these officers carried a standard, a pole with a disc, and above that a blade on which the severed heads of those they had killed were placed. Some of these were dried and shrivelled, others freshly severed, still dripped blood. The arrogant impunity of their surprise attack was astonishing, and Horemheb’s warning came back to haunt me: how, during the seventeen years of Akenhaten’s reign, he had not fielded one regiment or squadron of cavalry to defend our interests in Canaan. No wonder Egypt was regarded as weak and lax.
I crouched with the rest. We could hear the muffled noise of the enemy. The tension grew. I whispered to the standard-bearer in charge of the archers to prepare his men. I glanced down into the courtyard and the silent ranks of our troops. The foot soldiers were formed into an arc to protect the rear and the flanks; even household servants had been armed. I glanced back over the wall. Libyans carrying logs were approaching the gate. Others trotted behind grasping storming ladders, long poles with rungs on either side. They moved silently, still believing they had the surprise. The officer in charge of the archers glanced at me. I nodded. From the courtyard below came the war cry of Egypt. Nebamun clashed his sword, once again shouting the war cry: ‘Horus in the south!’ Our archers rose to their feet, arrows notched.
‘Loose!’ The officer’s yell was followed by a whirl of arrows. Our men chose their targets well: those carrying the battering rams and scaling ladders, as well as Hittite officers. The silence was riven by screams and shouts. The range was so close, our archers wreaked terrible damage. Attackers were flung back as shafts caught them in the neck, head and face. The enemy line broke, fleeing back to the sanctuary of the trees. Here they reorganised and under the whip of their officers renewed their attack, waves of men pouring up the grassy embankment, screaming their war cries. They advanced behind a range of shields and a screen of archers who kept up a hail of fire against the parapet wall. Now our men, standing or kneeling, became targets. Brightly coloured shafts found their mark; bodies tumbled from the walls or slid down nursing some hideous wound. The enemy were keen-eyed and skilled; our line of men began to thin.
The attackers brought their battering rams up against the gates and walls; others placed their assault ladders in position and starte
d to climb. Some of these were pushed away, but the flood of men was too great. The archer next to me fell. A Libyan dressed in a panther skin, face daubed and painted, great tattoos across his chest, scrambled over the wall. He slipped in a pool of blood, I dashed his brains out with a war club even as our trumpets ordered us to withdraw.
We left the parapet, hurrying down across the courtyard and into the protection of Nebamun’s ranks. We were hardly in position when the first line of the enemy troops cleared the wall. Most were brought down in a whirl of arrows, but the gate was being forced and eventually broke. The carts were pushed back, attackers climbing over them. More of the enemy now cleared the parapet. Their own archers were brought into play to protect a group of Canaanites who pulled away the carts and obstacles from the gates for a fresh flood of attackers. Nebamun, protected by his shield-bearer, shouted orders. Our archers loosed volley after volley, trying to stem the flood at the gates, but it was impossible. The courtyard in front of us was filling with the enemy; they used the carts, together with the shields, and even corpses, to shield themselves from our archers, as they edged closer and closer.
A blood-curdling scream echoed from the house. Nebamun gestured at me. I took some archers and a group of Nakhtu-aa and we entered the Hall of Audience. At least seven or eight of the enemy had flanked the house and broken through a window. They’d killed the meagre guard and were now trying to force the stairs. Dark, heavy shapes in their dyed animal skins, carrying sword and shield, they were being held back by Djarka and household servants armed with bows. Even Ankhesenamun was there, beautiful as Sekhmet the Destroyer, bow in hand, a quiver of arrows held by Amedeta. Three of the enemy were already down. We hurried across even as a black shape raced in front of us. Nebamun’s war dog had broken free from its chain. A ferocious mastiff, it tore down one of the attackers, jaws slashing his throat. We closed with the rest, hacking and cutting. I heard a shout and turned. A Libyan had slipped behind me, sword raised, face snarling. An arrow pierced him full in his throat, whilst another smacked into his chest. Djarka, bow in hand, smiled at me, Ankhesenamun behind him. To this day I never really knew who shouted my name or loosed that first arrow.