The meeting continued for a short time. There were many raised voices, particularly on the Naharina side, but these seemed to be directed towards each other rather than at the Kemetian contingent. One man, taller and broader than all the rest with a thick black beard and metal armour spat on the ground and walked briskly back to the chariot line. The other seven followed. Kha assumed from their demeanour that they hadn’t got what they wanted. He joined the Kemetians on the walk back to the chariots. Tjay and Thutmose seemed to be happy with the outcome and once they had all returned to the chariots, Tjay turned to Kha.
‘Did you get a good look? Will you be able to give us good drawings when we get back?’
‘Yes’ replied Kha, suddenly suspicious that the spooking of the horses was perhaps not simply a fortunate accident.
As soon as the chariots returned Kha was immediately ordered to accompany Tjay to his tent, who gave him fresh parchment and ink.
‘I want you to think carefully. Draw the chariots from every angle. Make sure you include every detail you remember and make notes of everything you think important. We are preparing for war and your information could be the difference between a short swift victory and a longer, painful one. Join us at the King’s tent when you’re done.’
With that he walked out; as he did so a servant came in and placed a cup of beer and some bread beside Kha. He had forgotten he was hungry and ate and drank greedily, perhaps too much so, belching loudly as he picked up his writing stick to get to work. He drew rapidly. He made three drawings. One showed the contraption from the front, one from the rear and one from the side. He included the horses, which he drew exactly as he remembered. When he looked at his drawing of the side view he noticed something of which he hadn’t been conscious when he watched the events earlier. He looked several times; closing his eyes trying to remember the details to be sure he had drawn them correctly. Satisfied, he smiled to himself, picked up the drawings and headed for his meeting with Tjay and, perhaps, the King.
chapter six
Shenebs sounded before dawn. Kha felt he hadn’t slept; his meeting with Tjay had been short. The charioteer smiled as Kha gave him the drawings and made his observations. Kha didn’t know if he had been pleased or amused.
‘You are observant, Kha. Thank you. Now get some rest. You will need all your strength and wits about you tomorrow.’
Rising from the ground, Kha rolled his blanket and carried his water flask to the water bearers. The army was traveling across a desert, water rationing was essential. Supplies were still good; each man was allowed three flasks per day.
The retainers were to remain with a two hundred and fifty to guard them. The rest of the army set out as Ra was rising in the east. To start with, the route had been the same as Kha had taken on the previous day, but this time, instead of taking the long way around, they stopped at the dunes. Dismounting, the soldiers and charioteers disassembled the chariots and began carrying the parts and leading the horses over the sandy slopes. Kha was both mystified and amazed. Mystified as to the reason, amazed at how, without any orders being given, each man knew what was expected of him and did it.
Once at the top of the last dune, before the ground levelled out, the officers ordered the troops to stop and rest. Extra water rations were dispensed; the men drank thirstily. Generals gathered around the King. Kha was some distance away but could see they were listening intently, occasionally nodding. The group broke up and went to their different units. Before long the chariots were carried down the last dune and reassembled. The King’s Braves formed up behind the chariots along with two of the two hundred and fifties. Kha kept watching intently but there was no sign of the enemy force and a part of him was hoping that, after yesterday, they had decided to go home.
Tjay came and found Kha who was sitting with Minmose.
‘The King has a job for you two,’ he said, smiling. ‘He has picked out two good vantage points from which you can watch the action and admire his military genius.’
He pointed out the ridges which ran along the sides of the valley.
‘Kha, you’re to go over there,’ – pointing to the right – ‘and Minmose you to the opposite ridge. Each of you will be accompanied by two fifties for your protection and to make sure you get back afterwards. You shall be standard bearers and mark your position with the King’s flag.’
‘But there is no cover on the ridges,’ Minmose complained.
‘That is a part of the idea,’ Tjay replied, ‘we want them to see you and we also want our soldiers to see you and the standards flying. Now go quickly, it’s a good march and we need you in position before the games begin.’
Kha was suspicious of Tjay’s idea of a game but joined the mixed group of swordsmen and archers who were waiting to go with him.
Two hours later Kha stood breathlessly at the top of the ridge, his elongated spear with the blue flag of Kemet wafting in the gentle breeze, wedged into a rock crevice in plain sight. It was a while later before Minmose appeared, standing almost directly opposite him, his pennant equally visible. Kha surveyed the ground below him. To his left, the King and his troops, only about a hundred paces away. Above the soldiers, at the crest of a dune, Kha noticed another pennant wedged in rocks. Looking to his right he caught the first glimpse of dust rising and knew this must be from the chariots of the enemy advancing. His heart sank a little, his hope that they had decided not to fight clearly a forlorn one.
The dust started to take shape. He could not count the number of chariots advancing slowly, allowing the soldiers on foot to keep pace behind them. Kha was not a student of warfare, however, shapes and geometry were his speciality, these were some of the essentials of his trade. On the battleground the Kemetian foot troops, under the supervision of the King, started to spread out across the whole width of the narrow valley. They split into small groups and formed squares. About thirty paces behind them the sand dunes commenced. In front of them the chariots formed into diamond shaped sections. These too, were spread across the whole width of the valley, with more of them toward the edges.
To his right the advancing rebels were not so orderly. The chariots in ragged lines four or five deep. There was no sign of the Princes’ plumed helms; there were, however, dozens of copies of the large bearded man. From this distance all the Hittites looked indistinguishable one from the other. Each had broad shoulders and the same grim, unsmiling, bearded face. As the first line of chariots came level with Kha’s position, from behind him, a sheneb let out three short blasts. This was followed by three short blasts from the opposite side of the valley, then the same from the direction of the Kemetian soldiers, like an echo rebounding around a mountain range. The Hitite charioteers stopped momentarily and looked up at the pennants and small groups of soldiers. They readied their horses for a charge at the Kemetian lines.
As the echoing shenebs began to fade, there was another sound. The sound of wind whistling through trees, but there were no trees. A glance up at the sky in front of him, the reason for the noise was flying through the air. The sky was dark with a thousand arrows descending from above, falling gracefully, heading into the midst of the Hittite and Naharina forces.
Within moments, another wave of arrows came, then another. Additionally, the archers beside him and on the cliffs opposite with Minmose were shooting down towards the chariots, not aiming at the soldiers but at the unprotected flanks of the horses. Even from this distance the screams of the injured animals made Kha squirm.
‘Please Shai and Renenet, may I never again have to hear this.’
The agony of the animals mingled with shouts and screams of men. He wanted to turn away and cover his ears, but this was not an option.
Still the arrows kept showering down. Salvo after salvo of barbed rain, cutting through flesh, hammering against shields, causing mayhem. The Hittite chariots which still had both horses unscathed began to charge towards their Kemetian counterp
arts. Despite the oncoming onslaught, the Kemetian chariots held steady. Two blasts of a sheneb blared out and the chariots started to move. Everything was orderly, structured, but at very high speed.
At first they charged directly at the Hittites, then turned quickly dividing into two groups, moving diagonally towards the sides of the valley. Some of the Hittites tried to match their move but the sudden attempt to turn caused problems; precisely as Kha had predicted.
It was clear the horses hadn’t been properly trained in acting as a pair. The reins were set up so that only one horse received the instructions from the rein to turn. Without training the second horse didn’t immediately react to the changing direction of the horse beside him, continuing to move in a straight line. This was only momentarily but in that brief moment there was enough opposing force on the chariot that it began to rock violently on its axis.
Kha had been right.
These oversized chariots may put the fear of the gods into those who see them marching on display, but here, in the heat of battle, they were unstable death-traps. Drivers strained to keep control, some of the soldiers on either side were clinging on, wanting to live. Others were thrown from the backs of the chariots. Trampled underfoot by the horses coming behind, crushed by the heavy wheels, bones shattered, necks broken. Those charioteers who had not attempted to turn, continued straight toward the squares of King’ Braves. Before they arrived the squares seemed to split and spears were thrown, not straight forward toward the chariots bearing down directly on them but diagonally across, always aiming at the unprotected flanks of the horses. This was proving generally successful. Generally but not totally. Some of the horses and chariots managed to charge straight into the soldiers on foot, the chariot archers were accurate in their aim and found targets to hit.
To Kha’s right the forward movement of the foot soldiers had stopped. The constant wave of arrows had created a barrier of dead and dying men. Those who remained outside the range of the deadly, metal tipped rain seemed happy to stay there. All eyes concentrating on the chariot battle going on ahead of them. This was no battle, it was a rout. The King’s charioteers, having flanked their enemy, turned and were now advancing from the rear. The unprotected soldiers were easy targets, especially for an archer as skilled as the King. Another blast from a sheneb, and a human deluge swarmed over the top of the dunes, down towards the Hittite chariots and the fighting squares of the King’ Braves.
Horses and charioteers fell under the onslaught of spear and sword. The King’s chariots again turned, heading towards the now running and retreating Naharina militia and mercenaries. Many dropped their weapons as they fled. A man could run faster without a spear or axe in his hand. As hard as they may have tried, they could not outrun the lightweight chariots. The Kemetians, with the glittering golden chariot of the King in the vanguard, sped along the flanks of the retreating horde firing arrows into the panicked, mostly unarmed, men.
‘Why doesn’t he stop? Victory is won. Why hasn’t the killing stopped?’ shouted Kha, but no one answered.
The Kemetian chariots turned to cut through the helpless soldiers. Arrows spent, sword and spear were used to cut down the remnants of the army. At a signal from the King the chariots halted, forming a line right across the valley. A solid wall of horse, steel and swordsmen through which no soldier could force his way. What was left of the living, stopped and fell to their knees. The wailing of fear and prayer from the beaten, combined with whoops of joy from the victors, was brought on the wind to Kha.
‘I wish the wind was blowing in the other direction,’ he thought.
The joy below was shared by the soldiers surrounding Kha.
‘Time to go scribe,’ one of them shouted. ‘We’re missing the fun.’
Kha didn’t share the enthusiasm of his companions nor their desire to join the King in the valley. He lagged behind as they rushed to get near to their commander. By the time he reached the army base camp, it was deserted. Silence surrounded the whole area, no campfire banter, no clattering of metal on metal, no raucous laughter. It felt unearthly. He climbed to the top of the dune and saw the horror which was the aftermath of slaughter. It was closer here, even more real than when he had viewed it from the height of the cliff.
Despite himself, he felt drawn to the horror and started down toward the valley floor.
The sound hit him first, a rumbling buzz increasing in intensity with each step. Then the fetid, foul smell of excrement and urine, animal and human, struck him with tremendous force, overpowering his senses. Bile and vomit rose to his throat. He fought against it, trying to swallow, forcing it back from where it came. It was wasted effort. A battle which the forces of nature would always win. He doubled over, dropped to his knees and disgorged his stomach into the sand.
Now empty, and acid burnt, his intestines felt on fire. He stood, walked on, semi dazed.
Horses lay in unnatural positions, arrows and spears protruding from their necks and flanks, several with large gashes to their throats. Kha picked his way, through the carnage. With each step he disturbed angry mobs of flies; the source of the buzzing. They were everywhere, millions waging their own war, one against the other. Fighting for the best place to feast, then to lay their maggoty eggs.
‘Death in battle is not glorious,’ he thought. ‘It’s nasty, it’s brutal, it’s irrevocable.’
Corpses were strewn all around, partially concealed under overturned chariots, pinned beneath the equine dead, one on top of another. Monstrously mutilated and mangled forms, grotesque expressions on sightless faces.
Although filled with horror at each step, Kha could not turn his head away. The slaughtered bodies mesmerised him. He noticed blood caked on beards, gory hands clutching at charms hanging around necks, perhaps in prayer, perhaps thinking of a loved one. A boy probably no more than twelve years old, an arrow through his open mouth.
‘What are you doing here, amidst these beards?’
Kha’s question remained unanswered.
There was a brief respite from the butchery as the line of charioting dead ended.
Kha sweltered in the intense heat. He moved on, leaving the mostly Hittite slain behind him, towards the stench of devastation caused by the arrows of the Nubian bowmen. The iron filled smell of blood and death pervaded his nostrils, he wanted to retch; but couldn’t. He wanted to run; his legs resisted. He wanted to cry; his eyes were dry.
Two officers were walking amongst the bodies. They were checking for signs of life.
‘Carriers,’ called one. Two soldiers, carrying blood-soaked sheets bound to two poles, ran towards the officer, bundled a groaning body onto the linen, and took him away.
‘May your gods greet you in honour,’ said the other, as he took the knife in his hand and slit the throat of a supine warrior from ear to ear.
Kha realised they must have done the same to the horses. If they can be saved, save them, if not, foreshorten their suffering and hasten their journey to the afterlife.
As Kha reached the line of victorious Kemetian chariots and the rows of dour, defeated and dejected Naharina soldiers, exhaustion racked his body and blurred his horror filled mind.
He saw Minmose and made his way over to him. The pair greeted each other amicably but not profusely.
‘You survived then,’ Minmose said.
‘I don’t think we were ever in any danger up there, were we?’
‘Not this time, but I’m sick of war, death and butchery. Why didn’t he stop? It was like slaughtering corralled cattle. His father would never have done that. It was inhuman.’
‘This is my first experience and I hope it’s my last,’ Kha said and they fell into silence.
There was a commotion ahead of them. Wanting something to distract him from the horrors of the battlefield, Kha moved towards the activity. Minmose remained seated looking down, with staring eyes, at the sand just in front of his kne
es.
Manoeuvring his way through a group of soldiers, the King and Crown Prince Thutmose were in conversation with Tjay and a number of senior generals. Tjay spotted Kha and called over to him.
‘Are the foul prisoners ready yet?’ Amenhotep asked.
‘They will be here momentarily Majesty,’ came a voice from a short distance away.
The King was calm, almost jovial. He had used the Naharina foot soldiers as a hunting game, an easy quarry, cut down without thought and now he was in high spirits.
The plumes were the first sighting of the seven Princes, now produced and forced to kneel. The vanquished submissive before their vanquisher. Tjay moved towards Kha.
‘Remember everything. You will have to recreate it in stone.’
The seven had clearly not been involved in the battle, their dress and demeanour were of those who drink and eat while others die at their bidding. Haughtiness and nonchalance filled the air.
Kha kept his thoughts to himself, but he hated these arrogant sons of kings. ‘Children and men, butchered because of you, and you kneel there unscathed and smiling? Those men and boys died because of you and yet you seem so uncaring.’
One of the Princes raised his head and started to speak but an angry retort from the King, again in the language Kha could not understand, made him and his conspirators immediately drop their foreheads to the sand.
Amenhotep began speaking. Slowly the Princes lifted their heads but remained on their knees. Although Kha could not understand the words, he knew from the timbre and cadence of what was being said that the King was not trying to be reconciliatory. The faces of the Princes were like admonished children, eyes cast down and some of them reddening in the face. When the King stopped speaking, a soldier stepped up to the King and knelt before him. In his outstretched arms, a golden mace.
The Awakening Aten Page 7
