by Paul Doherty
Sobeck and I decided to become in all things professional mercenaries, careful in our talk, prudent in our actions, despite Usurek’s best efforts to make us drunk. Time and again we proved our skill on the drill ground. Some of the recruits were born charioteers; others could never handle a horse if they lived for a million years. Usurek decided to put us in charge of a squadron, giving us each a silver necklace as a badge of office.
Six weeks after our arrival in the camp, he woke us just before dawn, inviting us out to the meagre camp fire which one of his escort was trying to build up. He had brought some bread and meat; he shared it out and clapped us both on the shoulder.
‘You offered to serve for three months and take a percentage of the spoils?’
‘We have already agreed to that,’ Sobeck replied harshly. I was more cautious, wondering what was behind our rough awakening.
‘As squadron leaders,’ Usurek continued, ‘you will also be paid certain debens of silver from the war chest, but I have done better for you. You have both been raised to the rank of Nesus, bodyguards.’ He handed us small tablets of clay. ‘You will be allowed to enter the fortress. So come, we might as well begin today!’
We seized our passes, each hung on a copper chain, put these over our heads, grabbed our cloaks and followed Usurek up the causeway. A captain of the guard rigorously checked us, searching for any concealed weapons, taking our names, studying us closely in the pool of torchlight. I grinned and joked with Sobeck to hide my nervousness. The inquisitive captain was a Hittite, perhaps some relation to the one Colonel Nebamun had tortured in the cellars of his house. We were allowed to pass. One gate was pulled slightly open, and we slipped through into that grim fortress. It was like entering a small city. A great avenue ran north to south, another east to west, quartering the camp precisely. Tents and bothies were erected in neat lines. At the centre of the camp stood a second ramp and palisade which housed the pavilions of the usurper, his advisers, altars and standards. Usurek found us a place in the eastern quarter: a tent made out of camel skin with some crude bowls, jugs and a cooking pot. Once he was satisfied, we returned to our old place and collected our baggage.
Our duties were not radically changed. We spent our days drilling the recruits, but at night we were expected to do a tour of duty either along the picket lines outside the gates or on the towers or ramparts. I was eager to catch sight of the usurper, but the Sacred Enclosure was closely guarded. Three days later, however, my wish was satisfied. The False Pharaoh decided to ride in glory through the camp to show his face to his faithful followers, a glorious procession preceded by standard-bearers and surrounded by officers and flunkeys. The usurper wore the blue war crown of Egypt, the sacred nenes cloak about his shoulders and a beautiful war kilt girded around his middle, its jaguar tails hanging behind. He drove a splendid chariot of state of blue gold and silver electrum, pulled by pure white Syrian mares, proceeding along the broad avenues of the camp to receive the cheers and acclamations of the soldiers. One glance proved he was a usurper: a tall, angular man with bony body, sharp face and cruel eyes. Of course I had to nose the ground as his chariot passed. I, who had looked upon the face of Akenhaten, could only seethe in anger at the impudent insolence of this pretender. The woman behind him was no better. She was beautiful in a garish sort of way, dressed in white gauffered robes, a crown upon her head. Just for a few seconds, with the swirl of red hair, you thought you might be looking upon Nefertiti, but she too was as false as her husband. Oh, she was beautiful enough, though rather small, plump, lacking any of the beauty or grace of the woman who had haunted my heart, still did and always would.
More interesting were those who followed in the chariots behind. Aziru, Prince of Byblos, resplendent in his jewellery and collars of silver and gold, was dressed as a priest in his long white robe, a striped red and blue cloak about his shoulders. There was a man who reminded me of the Lord Ay, with his long, narrow face and expressive dark eyes. In the chariot beside him were two men I did recognise, the priests Khufu and Djoser, shaven-headed, of medium height, faces heavily oiled, eyes ringed with black kohl, full lips carmined. I had met them in the City of the Aten and always regarded them as two fat priests eager for a profit. Now their plump beringed fingers clutched the chariot rail as they beamed out across the cheering soldiers like Lords of Creation. The cavalcade proved the true source of the usurper’s strength. Apart from the priests, the rest were Canaanites or high-ranking Hittite officers.
Sobeck and I cheered with the rest, and that evening we joined the feasting, filling our cups with spiced wine, our platters heavy with roasted meat. From the Sacred Enclosure drifted the sound of music. Sobeck and I, acting drunkenly, watched as the trays of delicacies – shellfish, fried lotus sprinkled with spices, antelope, hare, partridges, wild calf, as well as bowls of grapes, melons, figs and pomegranates – were taken into the Royal Pavilion where the usurper feasted with his officers.
‘What’s the occasion?’ Sobeck blearily asked Usurek.
‘I have told you not to ask questions,’ the mercenary replied, waving a finger drunkenly. ‘But today is an auspicious day, sacred to the Weather God of the Hittites, and if our master says we feast and celebrate, then we shall feast and celebrate.’
Sobeck and I pretended to be as drunk as the others. We each found a dancing girl and joined in the festivities. Sobeck even agreed to entertain the rest by showing how he could dance on fiery coals without burning his feet. At last the wine had its effect. The music died, the flame torches and fire faded, though even then I noticed that order was strictly maintained. Hittite guards patrolled the camp, sentries were checked, gates reinforced. It must have been in the early hours when Sobeck and I, throwing aside all pretence of drunkenness and gaiety, left our companions in their stupor and found a lonely part of the camp.
‘What can we do?’ Sobeck asked.
‘We can kill the usurper,’ I whispered. ‘The next time he decides to show his face, a well-placed arrow to the throat?’
‘And we receive a nice sharp stake through our arse. Mahu, there is nothing we can do. The usurper and his woman are mere puppets. Kill them and they’ll find someone else.’
Despite my best efforts, I had drunk a lot of wine. I felt sleepy and heavy-eyed.
‘We have to go,’ Sobeck whispered. ‘There’s nothing we can do here. Every day increases the danger. We have the information we need.’
‘No, no.’ I tried to think clearly. ‘The very fact that we are here we can use later. There are two dangers: this army, and Meryre’s faction in Egypt. Both must be destroyed.’
I heard a sound in the darkness. Sobeck tensed. We had gathered in a darkened corner of the fortress near a small postern gate where the rubbish was piled to be taken out each morning. We were well away from the festivities.
‘Is there someone there?’
Sobeck and I got to our feet just as Usurek came staggering out of the darkness, a beer jug in one hand, a cup in the other.
‘Why are you here?’ he demanded.
The way he stood, the sharpness of his question and the way he looked at Sobeck and me showed that he too was not as drunk as he pretended to be. He put the beer jug down on the ground.
‘Why are you here?’ he repeated. ‘Why did you leave the dancing girls to come and talk near a pile of rubbish?’ He sniffed at the stench. ‘I have watched you, you know. When the procession was taking place. You seemed most interested. When you were drinking, I noticed more went on the ground than in your mouths.’
‘We have got a busy day tomorrow.’ Sobeck walked forward. ‘And we have to be ready.’
He moved his hand so fast, Usurek had no time to react. Sobeck plunged his dagger straight into his belly. Usurek tried to stagger back, but Sobeck’s hand went behind his neck, pulling him forward, thrusting the dagger deeper into his belly, pulling him on to it. The mercenary captain, eyes staring, mouth trying to speak, dropped to the ground.
‘I had no choice,’ Sobeck
whispered over his shoulder. ‘I thought he was as drunk as the rest. Come, quickly.’ He withdrew his dagger. We took Usurek’s corpse and buried it beneath the rubbish; afterwards, arms round each other’s shoulders, we staggered back to our tent. Once inside, we packed our possessions. I was fearful of what would happen. We couldn’t flee immediately as the gates were guarded and sealed, the curfew imposed. Sobeck whispered that we would leave as early as we could and try to reach the river. He sounded optimistic, but I was more fearful. Usurek was a good officer, a captain as well as a scribe of troops. He had his own retinue and would soon be missed.
I am not given to prayer. I don’t know if the Aten exists, or if Amun-Ra, the Silent One of Thebes, involves himself in the affairs of Man. All that night my soul was haunted by the images of the Field of Fire and the House of Darkness, and I prayed that our lives would not end. For once, perhaps the only time in my life, the Gods seemed to listen. We were roused the next morning by cries and shouts. I thought Usurek’s corpse had been discovered, but instead a wide-eyed herald announced the news that Generals Horemheb and Rameses, together with the Horus and Isis regiments, had entered the Delta and were moving rapidly towards us. Within a day the entire camp would be under attack.
Bar
(An ancient Canaanite God of War)
Chapter 7
Horemheb, Chief of Scribes of the Army, Fan Bearer to the Right of the King, Fitting of Forms and Fair of Face, Horus in the South, the Vengeance of Ra, came storming into the Delta like Montu the God of War. Like Sekhmet of the legend he pounced, breathing fire against Egypt’s enemies. Cunning as the mongoose in military matters, Horemheb struck slyly and fast, taking even his own commanders by surprise. The enemy had expected Horemheb and Rameses to move slowly north, bringing up troops from Thebes, collecting more on the way and then arriving at Memphis to organise the two crack regiments and lead them into the Delta. No, that was not Horemheb, the Horus Incarnate! He ordered Rameses to bring up the reinforcements as fast as he could. Learning from Nebamun about Meryre, he had told General Nakhtimin to keep an eye on Buhen in the south whilst he made his own preparations. The Memphis regiments were ordered not to wait for Horemheb but to advance as quickly as possible to the edge of the Delta, where Horemheb met them at Bubastis, the City of the Cat. The Chief Scribe of the Army, with his own escort, moved rapidly upriver.
By the time the troops assembled at Bubastis, Horemheb was in command of four thousand infantry, crack troops divided into four corps: the Fire of the Horus; the Power of Isis; the Anger of Seth; and the Glory of Amun. He brought with him units of the Nakhtu-aa, the strong-arm boys, who rejoiced in the nickname of the Roaring Bulls of Anubis. In addition, two thousand chariots, led by the elite corps, Mighty as Horus, provided the hard backbone to this army. Any other commander would have followed the Nile and its tributaries north. However, Horemheb had collected the most accurate maps of the Red Lands to the north-east of the White-Walled City of Memphis, as well as the region around Bubastis, and struck east across the desert. Mercenaries, my own company included, were dispatched to seize wells, oases, any sources of water or shade. Horemheb was streaking east, following the narrow canals into the Delta. In the bitter cold dawn of that fateful day, the usurper’s camp was stirring, roused by the news, but it was sluggish; officers and men had drunk deeply, and for a while chaos reigned.
Orderlies came looking for Captain Usurek; we claimed that we hadn’t seen him. We furtively prayed that no one would search the mounds of refuse and discover his cold, stiffening corpse. Sobeck and myself were more alert than the rest. We were wondering what to do when we heard the screams from outside the Royal Enclosure. We hurried across. Two mercenaries from Horemheb’s advance guard had been captured; foragers or scouts, they now hung from a cross piece supported by poles, heaps of burning charcoal placed beneath their feet whilst their bodies and legs were beaten with flayed canes. The Hittite commander in charge of the torture was beside himself with fury. He tried to extract from them details of how many men Horemheb had brought, his position and line of battle. Of course the mercenaries couldn’t reply, even if they had wanted to. They were more hunters than soldiers and had blundered into the enemy camp picket line without thinking. Bloody welts criss-crossed their bodies, and even as we listened, we knew they were only telling their captors what they thought they wanted, exaggerated numbers, regiments which didn’t exist. The Hittite commander knew this, and silenced their screams by slitting their throats. By now the enemy camp was fully alert. The Hittite commander recognised us.
‘Where is Captain Usurek?’ he demanded.
Sobeck shrugged.
‘You are from his chariot corps, aren’t you?’
The Hittite wiped bloody hands on his leather jerkin with its metal scales and pushed back his long black hair, tying it into a queue at the back. He shouted to his three companions.
‘Get three chariots harnessed,’ he ordered. ‘You two,’ he pointed at Sobeck and myself, ‘shall come with us.’
A short while later, we left the camp, our chariot being pulled by the two bays we’d trained. It was one of those fresh, beautiful mornings, with the water and greenery of the Delta providing some coolness against the growing heat of the day. Behind us we left an enemy who had not yet decided whether they would prepare for defence or advance to meet Horemheb. I put the question to the Hittite captain as we guided our chariots along the narrow, dusty trackways between the trees.
‘Will we go out to meet the enemy, sir? Or wait for them to come on?’
‘Deploy, of course!’ the Hittite sneered. He spoke the lingua franca in a clumsy fashion. He was more concerned with Horemheb’s speed and surprise, and grasping the reins of the chariot he lost himself in a litany of abuse. We passed picket lines and hunters coming in, all surprised by the news that the enemy, who hadn’t been expected for weeks, was now almost upon them.
Eventually we left the greenery behind. To our right was the water of the Nile and its lush strips of grass, farming land, palm trees, sycamore and terebinth. We went thundering along that hardened strip which separates the harsh Red Lands from the fertile black soil along the Nile. A silent place, already feeling the heat of the sun, but excellent ground for an army to march fast and chariot squadrons to roll forward. At first there was nothing except the occasional vulture, or Pharaoh’s Hen, soaring above us. The heat grew more cloying. We paused to allow the horses to drink from water skins and wet their heads, and then continued. The chariots spaced out, ours in the middle, the Hittite commander to our far right, a battle standard of a lion’s head with three horsetails on the bar underneath. The ground dipped and rose. When we reached the top of the hill, the Hittite commander reined in. Beneath us stretched the desert plain, broken here and there by a dip in the land or clusters of dusty palm trees fringing small oases.
Sobeck’s keen eyes found what we were searching for. ‘There!’ he shouted.
At first I could see nothing, just the shifting desert haze and billowing clouds of dust. I picked up the water skin and wetted my face and neck. The Hittite commander took off his leather helmet, throwing it to the floor of his chariot.
‘You know we can do no more,’ Sobeck whispered. ‘We’ll never be given another chance like this.’
I followed his direction. The Hittite commander was scoffing that Sobeck had seen a mirage, but then I caught it: the glint of sun on weapons, a moving dust cloud, and above it a smudge of black smoke as if a fire had been lit.
‘A camp, or are they moving?’ I whispered.
Sobeck, not waiting for the Hittite officer, urged our horses forward down the incline. Clicking his tongue and shaking the reins, Sobeck moved our chariot into the shade of the palm trees of a small oasis, a rocky place with hardy bush and grass sprouting around a small pool. He got down and stood under a palm tree, shading his eyes as he stared out across the desert. The Hittites also brought their chariots down; not their clumsy four-wheeled ones, but fast-moving Egyptian war carriages
. The captain was furious at Sobeck.
‘You should only go forward on my order. What is it you have seen?’
He and his companions clustered around us. There was an argument. Sometimes the Hittites would lapse into their own tongue. The dust cloud was drawing close; the flashes of light could no longer be dismissed as a mirage.
‘The Egyptians,’ the Hittite declared. ‘And it is not an advance patrol. The entire battle line is moving forward.’ He squinted up at the sun. ‘If they move fast, they’ll be at the camp by noon.’
Sobeck turned and looked at me, and I nodded. We could not go back. Usurek’s corpse might have been discovered, and when Horemheb reached the enemy fortress, he would annihilate it with fire and sword. The imperial standards would be hoisted. The broad red and gold streamers which hung above the entrance to the Temple of Amun-Ra in Thebes would be displayed, a sign that Horemheb and his troops would show no quarter and take no prisoners. Sobeck and I drifted back towards our chariot. He took our bow, whilst I moved across behind the Hittites to one of their two chariots. I unhitched a bow and quiver of arrows. The Hittites were still concerned about what was approaching. The commander turned. Sobeck and I loosed our shafts. Two of the Hittites fell immediately. The commander caught Sobeck’s arrow full in the face; he collapsed screaming and coughing blood. My shaft pierced his companion’s neck. The other two Hittites were quicker drawing their swords; they were too cunning to attack but, using the trees as protection, drew us into a deadly game of cat and mouse. We loosed shaft after shaft. The Hittite commander, despite his terrible wound, the arrow piercing one cheek and going straight through the other, also drew his sword and came staggering towards us, distracting Sobeck from his aim. This time Sobeck finished the task, putting an arrow through the Hittite captain’s throat. I loosed a shaft at the other two, but had to retreat as they burst from the clump of trees, racing towards the third chariot. Skilled men, one seized the reins as the other grasped the bow. Sobeck and I raced in pursuit, but the chariot drew away, arrows whipping the air around our faces.