by Overton, Max
Men died. Many more fell wounded and screaming as the massed Amorite archers rained down a deadly hail of arrows on the Kemetu horde. Within minutes of the first volley, the numerical advantage of Paramessu's army had disappeared. Paramessu saw the slaughter from the rear, where he stood aghast. Djedhor acted. He dived into the melee of men and pulled out a signals trumpeter.
"Sound the retreat," he screamed.
The signaler looked from the legion commander to his General, hesitating. Paramessu nodded and the trumpeter raised his copper instrument and blew the quavering notes of a 'general retreat'--seldom heard by a Kemetu army.
"Again."
The metallic notes sounded again, louder and clearer. Heads turned, questioning, then all through the milling mass of soldiers, men suddenly reached a decision, turning and fleeing down the valley. Many of them dropped their weapons in their haste to escape.
Paramessu shook his head, trying futilely to restrain the men as they streamed past him, determined to put as much distance behind them and death as they could. "It is too much," he yelled. "It is becoming a rout. If we don't stop them they won't stop running until they reach Kemet." He shook the trumpeter who was still sounding the retreat over and over. "Stand to," he urged. "Sound the 'stand to'...then the 'form ranks'...quickly, man, before we lose them."
The new calls resounded, alternating, over and over. For a long while there was little effect, the thousands streamed back down the valley, pursued by ragged volleys of arrows as the discipline of the Amorite archers became diluted by excitement. Paramessu and Djedhor, dragging the trumpeter with them, moved down the valley with the mob of men, out of range of the archers.
"We have a respite," Djedhor observed. "But the enemy will be down on us very soon and there will be no stopping them unless we can form up into some semblance of order."
"Not even that if they send their chariots again." Defeat sounded in Paramessu's voice.
"They cannot. Our dead litter the field too much to allow passage." Djedhor stared at his general then reached out and slapped him hard, snapping Paramessu's head to one side. First shock, then anger flared in the man's eyes and Djedhor nodded in satisfaction. "The first independent command is the hardest. So you have lost a battle. Don't lose an army."
Paramessu nodded, the anger leaking from his expression to be replaced by determination. "Take the left flank, Djedhor. Rally the men." He wheeled and strode off through the men who still ran and scrambled back down the valley. Their pace had slowed now that death no longer rained down on them and their limbs mindlessly heeded the trumpet calls. "Hold, men," Paramessu bellowed. "Heru, Ptah, Set, remember who you are. Re, my beloved legion, will you desert me now? Hold, take heart, and look to your fellow soldiers. Remember we fight for our beloved Kemet, our honour. Form your ranks and together we will come out of this with glory."
The downward motion ceased and soldiers stared about them, unable to meet the eyes of the men next to them. Eyes downcast, they sought out the legion colours and started to form rough lines, facing back up the valley. Officers, from legion commanders to Leaders of Fifty raced up and down the lines, pushing and bullying the men in their commands. Not all the soldiers were armed, having dropped their weapons in their haste. Now those who still had spear and curved sword, shared them. Others, without the means to defend or attack, stood behind the front ranks; stood ready to step forward when a man fell, ready to pick up his weapon and fight.
Long before they were ready, a gentle wind from the northeast carried the dust cloud over the rim of the valley and revealed the Amorite army on the move. They filed down from the rocky heights of the valley sides and picked their way through the dead and wounded, blades rising and falling, slowly quieting the screams and moans of fallen Kemetu. Paramessu's army muttered angrily at the sight, the outrage growing to a roar of disapproval and anger. Individuals ran out from the rough-formed lines, waving weapons and shouting threats, only to be herded back by whip-wielding junior officers. The commanders took advantage of the men's mood, goading them to anger and a desire for revenge while still urging discipline.
The Amorite regiments moved down past the bulk of the fallen and stood in ranks, facing the Kemetu legions. A lone chariot raced out from one flank and sped across the face of the army. A man stood in the chariot alongside the driver, shouting and waving his fist at the troops. A wave of enthusiasm and cheering erupted from the ranks as the chariot passed.
"The Amorite general," Djedhor observed. "He has a decent victory to hand his men and he's using it to whip up their fervor."
"He can rant all he likes," Paramessu growled. "He'll not get another victory over me."
"May the gods of Kemet grant us that, but do not get over-confident. We still have a tough fight ahead of us."
Paramessu looked at the old hawk-faced warrior covertly. "I think Horemheb made a mistake," he admitted. "You should be Commander-General, not I."
"Very true. I am senior officer and I've had vastly more experience than you, Paramessu," Djedhor said quietly. "I was expecting Horemheb to give me command." He glanced around to make sure they were not overheard. "I got where I am through merit alone, not by socializing with the General." The Heru commander shrugged. "You are a good officer, Paramessu, and in time you will make a great general--if you live to learn your lessons." Turning to face his superior, he dropped his voice further so even Paramessu had to strain to hear. "The first of those lessons is never--I repeat, never--admitting to your legion commanders that you do not have full confidence in your own abilities and judgment. Such knowledge can shatter morale."
Paramessu flushed and nodded tersely.
"Remember too, that the men appreciate a commander who leads from the front, rather than hanging back making observations from the rear." Abruptly, Djedhor smiled, his great hawk nose making his smile look hungry. "The enemy is coming. I suggest you get out there and show your men how it is done."
Paramessu swung round to face the front and saw, in truth, that the whole Amorite army was on the move, marching ponderously down the valley. "Yes, Djedhor, you are right." He stepped away then paused, a mischievous grin on his face. "Won't you join me? I'm sure the men of Heru would appreciate seeing their own commander up at the front."
"Very good, Paramessu." Humor flickered across Djedhor's eyes as he accompanied his general out beyond the lines into the space between the two armies.
"I will not waste time on empty words." Paramessu strode along the front ranks, his eyes flicking across the faces of the men. "I could prattle on about honour and the good name of your legion, but the truth is, men of Kemet, that unless we give a good account of ourselves here today, we will not live to see the sun go down tonight." He paused, and stood hands on hips as he waited for his words to be repeated down the ranks. "Worse than that, unless we stop these Amorite dogs right here in this little valley, they will sweep down into Kemet, our homeland, looting and pillaging as they go. Do you want to explain to your wife why she was killed? To your daughters why they were raped, to your sons why you failed to defend them? To your parents and grand-parents why their tombs were robbed and desecrated?"
A roar of anger greeted his words, swords drummed on leather shields, spears cracked together as they shook above their heads. Those who had no weapons slapped their hands on their leather armor or stamped their feet. "Follow me, lads," Paramessu cried. "Follow me to victory." He turned to face the steadily advancing Amorite army and drew his curved bronze sword, cutting through the air above his head in great sweeping slashes. The morning sun shone on the blade and Paramessu felt a great cry of exultation building in him. He suddenly shouted out a prayer to the gods of his four legions.
"O, Re, look down upon your sons this day and light our way to a victory over the enemies of Kemet. Heru, falcon god, lend us your fierceness and speed that we may drop like the thunderbolt on the Amorites. Ptah, god of craftsmen, help us to carve our names in glory today so that men for generations to come will remember us. Set.
.." he hesitated, wondering how to invoke this god. "...Lord of chaos; help us throw our enemies into disarray. Let them feel your dread hand upon them this day."
Leaping into the air, Paramessu let out a cleansing shout of pure joy, feeling his worries and fears slide off him. He pointed his sword toward the enemy and set off at a run. A heartbeat later, the legions erupted with a roar of triumph and charged after their General, rapidly overtaking him and enfolding him in the front wall of warriors.
The enemy line neared and the blur of armor, beards and weapons resolved into living men, intent on killing. Emotions reflected from the faces in front of Paramessu, from resignation and fear to determination and anger, and to the fierce joy that overcomes a soldier when the waiting is over and the killing begins. The two lines came together like the sound of an avalanche of rock and the screaming started again. Paramessu's eyes locked with an older man, his black beard streaked with gray. The man's spear dropped, swinging toward Paramessu's chest. He stepped aside casually, moving as if the enemy was a parade-ground training dummy and thrust with his sword, finding the thin gap between plates of leather armor. The body convulsed, almost tearing the sword from his grasp. Blood-stained teeth showed in a mouth suddenly gaping and the man slid down beneath the trampling feet to be replaced by a youth, terror and desperation in his wide eyes. Bronze blades met, clashing. The youth stabbed wildly and would have succeeded but for his fellow soldiers who pressed against him in their struggles, carrying him away. Another man came at him, sword in hand, hacking and slashing. Paramessu felt a blow on his thigh but felt no pain. He stabbed forward and the man screamed, reeling back, pushing into the crowd and disappearing.
The two armies were evenly matched numerically but the Amorites had expected an easy victory, harrying a retreating foe. Instead they found an army intent on recovering its honour, pressing forward with vigour. The time was past for tactics and trickery, strength of arms would now be the determining factor. The sun reached its zenith and began the downward slide to evening, and still the battle continued. After the initial fury of the Kemetu attack the Amorites, slightly better equipped and with the help of the gently inclining valley floor, pushed their foes back, step by weary step. Hacking and stabbing, the battle line crawled back down into the flatter plain at the base of the hills. In the late afternoon, the sun came to the aid of the Kemetu, shining full in the Amorite's eyes. The slow retreat halted and now the Amorites drew back but the legions did not follow.
The armies stood only fifty paces apart, the space between littered with bodies, and stared at each other. Men fought for breath, forcing back the pain of wounds and an overwhelming thirst that left their tongues like wooden blocks in the gritty cavity of their mouths. Sweat drenched loincloths and armor, fine crystals of salt dusting the skin. Neither side felt confident in carrying on the fight, nor could find the strength to do so, yet neither would yield the ground to the other. The balance was maintained.
And then the gods of Kemet stepped in. The sun was lowering when the light faded as a bank of clouds built up, driven by a west wind off the Great Sea. The temperature dropped, providing some respite from the heat of the battle but both sides desperately needed water. Streams ran off the hills nearby but neither army felt it could leave to look for water without ceding the battlefield and the advantage to the other. So they stood and faced each other, willing the others to leave, praying to their respective gods.
The clouds built into great storm clouds and rolled inland, flashes of lightning becoming more apparent as the light faded. Far to the west, rain fell, misty gray swathes connecting cloud and land, fluttering curtains that promised life. The rain grew closer, coming up behind the Kemetu army, but patchy now, the rain showers starting and ending abruptly. The wind changed, bearing the rain to the north but one eddy, a vagary of the storm, dumped a heavy shower on the rear of the Kemetu army. Cries of delight arose as the water fell, easing parched mouths and cooling and washing the blood and dirt from exhausted bodies. The shower advanced over the front ranks and into the space between the armies. The Amorites lifted up their arms and the throats as the first damp gusts of air blew over them.
And then, between one pace and the next, the rain ceased, the clouds sweeping up over the Amorites, giving nothing more. A groan of disappointment and religious fear swelled, and the Amorites drew back, the body of the army trembling as if with a fever. A banner rose, black and red, from the heights on the right flank and the weary men turned, moving back up the valley, leaving the Kemetu in possession of the battlefield.
Paramessu let his sword fall slowly, hardly daring to believe the battle was truly over. Deep within the ranks of exhausted soldiers, the young commander of the Re legion, Hednakht, let out a whoop of exhilaration.
"It's over boys," he yelled. "We've won." He saw his General and pushed through men who were too tired and in pain to celebrate the costly victory, to his commander's side. "We won, by the gods." He spotted Djedhor and Amentep nearby. "Did you see how my legion fought, Djedhor? And you, Amentep, I think my men outshone yours today."
"Yes, Hednakht, I'm sure you were the best soldier on the field," Djedhor said sourly. "I know for a fact my men just stood around all day." He dismissed the young man to his bragging and limped across to Paramessu.
Paramessu frowned and gestured. "You are hurt, Djedhor? You are limping."
"It is nothing, sir. A glancing blow from a mace has bruised my hip." His eyes narrowed. "What of yourself sir? I trust that is not your own blood."
"What? Oh, er, yes. Some of it anyway. I seem to remember a blade scratched me at some point." Paramessu brushed at his left thigh with one hand which came away smeared with blood.
"You'd better let me look at that."
"Later. Hednakht, stop boasting how you singlehandedly won the battle and start organizing the camp. We should march back down to the first decent stream. These men need rest, food and the attention of the physicians. Come on, get things happening."
"Sir!" Hednakht saluted and hurried off, shouting to the Leaders of Fifty and of a Hundred. Soon the army started moving away from the battlefield, most unaided, though many bore wounds, some only with the help of their more able comrades.
When the movement was well under way, Paramessu joined them, moving stiffly and almost falling as his weight fell on his left leg. He brushed away Djedhor's help and limped off.
Djedhor found Khui nursing a broken arm and assisted him down to the camp as an overcast dusk enveloped them. "A sorry day's work," he muttered.
"You think so? We won didn't we?"
"If you can call it that. Our entire chariot squadron lost, and over two thousand dead by my reckoning and more to come after the physicians have their way."
Khui looked worried. "A broken arm is nothing to worry about is it?" He winced and drew in a gasping breath as he turned and brushed his arm against the other commander.
"You'll live," Djedhor grunted. "It's always the ugly ones who survive."
Khui laughed then almost cried again as the broken ends of the bones ground together. Djedhor found a physician and left Khui to his tender mercies, setting off to check up on his own Heru legion.
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Chapter Eighteen
For young Prince Tutankhaten, his coronation day started just after dawn when he was awakened by the bevy of nobles that would accompany him through the ceremonies and travails of the day. With this dawn start, the boy was many hours behind the majority of his future subjects. Trumpets blared at midnight from the temple of Re as the aspects of the god changed--sombre Atum of the unified light became benign Khepri of the dawn light. The trumpets were a signal for rejoicing. This was to be the day when all of Kemet, the Two Lands of Kemet from the Great Sea to the cataracts of Nubia, could forget the sorrows of their dead king Smenkhkare and look forward to the bountiful blessings of their new king Tutankhaten.
The treasury and the temple granaries had poured forth largesse of bar
ley for weeks before, bakers all through the city of Waset had prepared great golden loaves of crusted bread, much of which was soaked and fermented to produce huge vats of the thin, sour beer the people loved. Produce poured in from the countryside, fish from the flooded river, wild fowl by the boatload from the reed marshes downriver, and lowing herds of cattle. Huge fires burned through the night as a feast was prepared for everyone in the capital city.
Ay let it be known that the young prince had ordered this feast out of love for his people, but in reality, the boy understood little of what was happening, and nothing of the lot of the common people. He remained cocooned in a world of Ay's making but his own choosing, seldom leaving the confines of the eastern palace except to make offerings at the main temples, always under the watchful eye of the Tjaty.
Ay smiled a lot in the days leading up to the coronation. The young prince was proving nicely malleable and readily gave in to the Tjaty's suggestions. Ay looked forward to many years of power at the right hand of god-on-earth. Then in the evening of the day preceding the coronation, he received a nasty shock and for a while his whole world trembled. Horemheb arrived in Waset, at the head of a small cadre of professional soldiers.
Given scant warning, and hardly believing it, Ay hurried to the main entrance hall of the palace to meet the great general. A multitude of smoking torches lit the tall pillars of sandstone, painted in bright colours and symbolizing the papyrus and lotus of the Great River, that dwarfed the men as they stood in the Great Hall in tense confrontation.
Ay sketched a brief bow, his hooded eyes never leaving Horemheb's. "My lord Horemheb, I scarcely believed my ears when your arrival was reported. I was unaware you had been summoned."
"I was not summoned. I came of my own accord." Horemheb's eyes flicked over the men standing a few paces back from the old Tjaty, dismissing them.
