by Wilbur Smith
Nefer and the old man stood together beside the shattered walls of Gallala and watched the column fly past. Pharaoh led it, the reins wrapped around his wrists, leaning back against the pull of the horses, his chest bare, linen skirts whipping around his muscular legs, the blue war crown on his head rendering him tall and godlike.
Next came Lord Naja, almost as tall, almost as handsome. His mien was haughty and proud, the great recurved bow slung over his shoulder. Naja was one of the mightiest warriors of this very Egypt and his name had been given to him as a title of honor: Naja was the sacred cobra in the royal uraeus crown. Pharaoh Tamose had bestowed it upon him on the day that, together, they had won through the ordeal of the Red Road.
Naja did not deign to glance in Nefer’s direction. Pharaoh’s chariot had plunged into the mouth of the dark gorge before the last vehicle in the column went racing past where Nefer stood. Meren, his friend and companion of many illicit boyhood adventures, laughed in his face and made an obscene gesture, then raised his voice mockingly above the whine and rattle of the wheels. “I will bring you the head of Apepi as a toy,” he promised, and Nefer hated him as he sped away. Apepi was the King of the Hyksos, and Nefer needed no toys: he was a man now, even if his father refused to recognize it.
The two were silent for long after Meren’s chariot had disappeared, and the dust had settled. Then Taita turned without a word and went to where their horses were tethered. He tightened the surcingle around his mount’s chest, hiked up his kilts and swung up with the limber movement of a much younger man. Once astride the animal’s bare back he seemed to become one with it. Nefer remembered that legend related he had been the very first Egyptian to master the equestrian arts. He still bore the title Master of Ten Thousand Chariots, bestowed upon him with the Gold of Praise by two pharaohs in their separate reigns.
Certain it was that he was one of the few men who dared to ride astride. Most Egyptians abhorred this practice, considering it somehow obscene and undignified, not to mention risky. Nefer had no such qualms and as he vaulted up onto the back of his favorite colt, Stargazer, his black mood started to evaporate. By the time they had reached the crest of the hills above the ruined city he was almost his usual ebullient self. He cast one last longing glance at the feather of distant dust left on the northern horizon by the squadron, then firmly turned his back upon it. “Where are we going, Tata?” he demanded. “You promised to tell me once we were on the road.”
Taita was always reticent and secretive, but seldom to the degree that he had been over the matter of their ultimate destination on this journey. “We are going to Gebel Nagara,” Taita told him.
Nefer had never heard the name before, but he repeated it softly. It had a romantic, evocative ring. Excitement and anticipation made the back of his neck prickle, and he looked ahead into the great desert. An infinity of jagged and bitter hills stretched away to a horizon blue with heat-haze and distance. The colors of the raw rocks astounded the eye: they were the sullen blue of stormclouds, yellow as a weaver bird’s plumage, or red as wounded flesh, and bright as crystal. The heat made them dance and quiver.
Taita looked down on this terrible place with a sense of nostalgia and homecoming. It was into this wilderness that he had retired after the death of his beloved Queen Lostris, at first creeping away like a wounded animal. Then, as the years passed and some of the pain with them, he had found himself drawn once more to the mysteries and the way of the great god Horus. He had gone into the wilderness as a physician and a surgeon, as a master of the known sciences. Alone in the fastness of the desert he had discovered the key to gates and doorways of the mind and the spirit beyond which few men ever journey. He had gone in a man but had emerged as a familiar of the great god Horus and an adept of strange and arcane mysteries that few men even imagined.
Taita had only returned to the world of men when his Queen Lostris had visited him in a dream as he slept in his hermit’s cave at Gebel Nagara. Once more she had been a fifteen-year-old maiden, fresh and nubile, a desert rose in its first bloom with the dew upon its petals. Even as he slept, his heart had swollen with love and threatened to burst his chest asunder.
“Darling Taita,” Lostris had whispered, as she touched his cheek and stirred him awake, “you were one of the only two men I have ever loved. Tanus is with me now, but before you can come to me also there is one more charge that I lay upon you. You never once failed me. I know that you will not fail me now, will you, Taita?”
“I am yours to command, mistress.” His voice echoed strangely in his ears.
“In Thebes, my city of a hundred gates, this night is born a child. He is the son of my own son. They will name this child Nefer, which means pure and perfect in body and spirit. My longing is that he carry my blood and the blood of Tanus to the throne of Upper Egypt. But great and diverse perils already gather around the babe. He cannot succeed without your help. Only you can protect and guide him. These years you have spent alone in the wilderness, the skills and knowledge you have acquired here were to that purpose alone. Go to Nefer. Go now swiftly and stay with him until your task is completed. Then come to me, darling Taita. I will be waiting for you and your poor mutilated manhood shall be restored to you. You will be whole and entire when next you stand by my side, your hand in my hand. Do not fail me, Taita.”
“Never!” Taita had cried in the dream. “In your life I never failed you. I will not fail you now in death.”
“I know you will not.” Lostris smiled a sweet, haunting smile, and her image faded into the desert night. He woke, with his face wet with tears, and gathered up his few possessions. He paused at the cave entrance only to check his direction by the stars. Instinctively, he looked for the bright particular star of the goddess. On the seventieth day after the Queen’s death, on the night that the long ritual of her embalmment had been completed, that star had appeared suddenly in the heavens, a great red star that glowed where none had been before. Taita picked it out and made obeisance to it. Then he strode away into the western desert, back toward the Nile and the city of Thebes, beautiful Thebes of a hundred gates.
That had been over fourteen years ago, and now he hungered for the silent places, for only here could his powers grow back to their full strength, so that he could carry through the charge that Lostris had laid upon him. Only here could he pass some of that strength on to the Prince. For he knew that the dark powers of which she had warned him were gathering around them.
“Come!” he said to the boy. “Let us go down and take your godbird.”
On the third night after leaving Gallala, when the constellation of the Wild Asses made its zenith in the northern night sky, Pharaoh halted the squadron to water the horses and to eat a hasty meal of sun-dried meat, dates and cold dhurra millet cakes. Then he ordered the mount-up. There was no sounding of the ram’s horn trumpet now, for they were into the territory where often the patrolling Hyksosian chariots ranged.
The column started forward again at the trot. As they went on, the landscape changed dramatically. They were out of the badlands at last, back into the foothills above the river valley. Below them they could make out the strip of dense vegetation, distant and dark in the moonlight, that marked the course of great Mother Nile. They had completed the wide circuit around Abnub and were in the rear of the main Hyksosian army on the river. Although they were a tiny force to go in against such an enemy as Apepi, they were the best charioteers in the armies of Tamose, which made them the finest in the world. Moreover, they held the element of surprise.
When Pharaoh had first proposed this strategy and told them he would lead the expedition in person, his war council had opposed him with all the vehemence they could muster against the word of a god. Even old Kratas, once the most reckless and savage warrior in all the armies of Egypt, had torn at his thick white beard and bellowed, “By Seth’s ragged and festering foreskin, I did not change your shit-smeared swaddling sheet so that I could send you straight into the loving arms of Apepi.” He was perhaps the one man who
might dare to speak to a god-king in this fashion. “Send another to do such menial work. Lead the breakthrough column yourself if it amuses you, but do not disappear into the desert to be devoured by ghouls and djinn. You are Egypt. If Apepi takes you he takes us all.”
Of all the council only Naja had supported him, but Naja was always loyal and true. Now they had won through the desert, and were into the enemy rear. In tomorrow’s dawn they would make the one desperate charge that would split Apepi’s army, and allow five more of Pharaoh’s squadrons, a thousand chariots, to come boiling through to join him. Already he had the mellifluous taste of victory on his tongue. Before the next full moon he would dine in the halls of Apepi’s palace in Avaris.
It was almost two centuries since the Upper and Lower Kingdoms of Egypt had been split apart. Since then either an Egyptian usurper or a foreigner invader had ruled in the northern kingdom. It was Tamose’s destiny to drive out the Hyksos and unite the two lands once more. Only then could he wear the double crown with justification and the approval of all the ancient gods.
The night air blew in his face, cool enough to numb his cheeks, and his lance-bearer crouched low behind the dashboard to shield himself. The only sounds were the crunch of the chariot wheels over the coarse gravel, the lances rattling softly in their scabbards and the occasional low warning cry of “Beware! Hole!” passed on down the column.
Suddenly the wide wadi of Gebel Wadun opened ahead of him and Pharaoh Tamose reined down the team. The wadi was the smooth roadway that would lead them down onto the flat alluvial plain of the river. Pharaoh tossed the reins to his lance-bearer and vaulted down to earth. He stretched his stiff, aching limbs and, without turning, heard the sound of Naja’s chariot come up behind him. A low command and the wheels crunched into silence, then Naja’s light, firm footsteps came to his side. “From here the danger of discovery will be stronger,” Naja said. “Look down there.” He pointed with a long, muscular arm over Pharaoh’s shoulder. Where the wadi debouched onto the plain below them a single light showed, the soft yellow glow of an oil lamp. “That is the village of El Wadun. That is where our spies will be waiting to lead us through the Hyksosian pickets. I will go ahead to the rendezvous to make safe the way. Do you wait here, Majesty, and I will return directly.”
“I will go with you.”
“I beg you. There may be treachery, Mem.” He used the King’s childhood name. “You are Egypt. You are too precious to risk.”
Pharaoh turned to look into the beloved face, lean and handsome. Naja’s teeth gleamed white in the starlight as he smiled, and Pharaoh touched his shoulder lightly but with trust and affection. “Go swiftly, and return as swiftly,” he acceded.
Naja touched his own heart, and ran back to his chariot. He saluted again as he wheeled past where the King stood, and Tamose smiled as he returned the salute, then watched him go down the side of the wadi. When he reached the flat hard sand of the dry riverbed, Naja whipped up the horses, and they sped down toward the village of El Wadun. The chariot left black-shaded wheel-tracks behind it on the silvery sands, before it disappeared beyond the first bend of the wadi. When it had gone Pharaoh walked back down the waiting column, speaking quietly to the troopers, calling many by name, laughing softly with them, encouraging and cheering them. Small wonder they loved him, and followed him so gladly wherever he led them.
Lord Naja drove warily, hugging the south bank of the dry riverbed. Every now and then he glanced upward at the crest of the hills, until at last he recognized the tower of wind-blasted rock that leaned slightly askew against the skyline, and grunted with satisfaction. A little farther on he reached the point where a faint footpath left the wadi bottom and wound up the steep slope to the foot of the ancient watchtower.
With a curt word to his lance-bearer he jumped down from the footplate, and adjusted the cavalry bow over his shoulder. Then he unslung the clay firepot from the rail of the chariot, and started up the pathway. It was so well disguised that if he had not memorized every turn and twist he would have lost his way a dozen times before he reached the top.
At last he stepped out onto the upper rampart of the tower. It had been built many centuries ago and was in ruinous condition. He did not approach the edge, for there was a precipitous drop into the valley below. Instead he found the bundle of dry faggots hidden in the niche of the wall where he had left it and dragged it into the open. Quickly he built up a tiny pyramid of the kindling, then blew on the charcoal nuggets in the firepot, and when they glowed he crumbled a handful of dried grass onto them. They burst into flame and he lit the small signal beacon. He made no attempt to hide himself but stood out where a watcher below would see him illuminated on the height of the tower. The flames died away as the kindling was consumed. Naja sat down to wait in the darkness.
A short while later he heard a pebble rattle on the stony path below the walls and he whistled sharply. His signal was returned, and he stood up. He loosened the bronze blade of his sickle sword in its scabbard and nocked an arrow in the bow, standing ready for an instant draw. Moments later a harsh voice called to him in the Hyksosian language. He replied fluently and naturally in the same tongue, and the footsteps of at least two men sounded on the stone ramp.
Not even Pharaoh knew that Naja’s mother had been Hyksosian. In the decades of their occupation the invaders had adopted many of the Egyptian ways. With a dearth of their own women to choose from, many of the Hyksos had taken Egyptian wives, and over the generations the bloodlines had become blurred.
A tall man stepped out on to the rampart. He wore a skull-hugging basinet of bronze, and multicolored ribbons were tied in his full beard. The Hyksos dearly loved bright colors.
He opened his arms. “The blessing of Seueth on you, cousin,” he growled, as Naja stepped into his embrace.
“And may he smile on you also, Cousin Trok, but we have little time,” Naja warned him, and indicated the first light fingers of the dawn stroking the eastern heavens with a lover’s touch.
“You are right, coz.” The Hyksosian general broke the embrace, and turned to take a linen-wrapped bundle from his lieutenant, who stood close behind him. He handed it to Naja, who unwrapped it as he kicked life back into the beacon fire. In the light of the flames he inspected the arrow quiver it contained. It was carved from a light tough wood and covered with finely tooled and stitched leather. The workmanship was superb. This was the accoutrement of a high-ranking officer. Naja twisted free the stopper and drew one of the arrows from the container. He examined it briefly, spinning the shaft between his fingers to check its balance and symmetry.
The Hyksosian arrows were unmistakable. The fletching feathers were dyed with the bright colors of the archer’s regiment and the shaft was branded with his personal signet. Even if the initial strike was not fatal, the flint arrowhead was barbed and bound to the shaft in such a way that if a surgeon attempted to draw the arrow from a victim’s flesh, the head would detach from the shaft and remain deep in the wound channel, there to putrefy and cause a lingering, painful death. Flint was much harder than bronze, and would not bend or flatten if it struck bone.
Naja slipped the arrow back into the quiver and replaced the stopper. He had not taken the chance of bringing such distinctive missiles with him in his chariot. If it were discovered in his kit by his groom or lance-bearer, its presence would be remembered, and difficult to explain away.
“There is much that we still should discuss.” Naja squatted down and gestured for Trok to do the same. They talked quietly until at last Naja rose. “Enough! Now we both know what must be done. The time for action has at last arrived.”
“Let the gods smile upon our enterprise.” Trok and Naja embraced again, and then, without another word, Naja left him, ran lightly down the rampart of the tower and took the narrow path down the hill.
Before he reached the bottom he found a place to cache the quiver. It was a niche where the rock had been split open by the roots of a thorn tree. Over the quiver he placed a r
ock the size and roughly the shape of a horse’s head. The twisted upper branches of the tree formed a distinctive cross against the night sky. He would recognize the place again without difficulty.
Then he went on down the path to where his chariot stood in the wadi bottom.
Pharaoh Tamose saw the chariot returning, and knew by the impetuous manner in which Naja drove that something untoward was afoot. Quietly he ordered the squadron to mount up and stand with drawn weapons, ready to meet any eventuality.
Naja’s chariot rattled up the pathway from the wadi bottom. The moment it drew level with where Pharaoh waited he sprang down.
“What’s amiss?” Tamose demanded.
“A blessing from the gods,” Naja told him, unable to stop his voice shaking with excitement. “They have delivered Apepi defenseless into our power.”
“How is that possible?”
“My spies have led me to where the enemy king is encamped but a short distance from where we now stand. His tents are set up just beyond the first line of hills, yonder.” He pointed back with his drawn sword.
“Can you be certain it is Apepi?” Tamose could barely control his own excitement.
“I saw him clearly in the light of his campfire. Every detail of his features. His great beaked nose and beard shot with silver shining in the firelight. There is no mistaking such stature. He towers above all those around him, and wears the vulture crown on his head.”
“What is his strength?” Pharaoh demanded.
“With his usual arrogance he has a bodyguard of less than fifty. I have counted them, and half of them are asleep, their lances stacked. He suspects nothing and his watchfires burn bright. A swift charge out of the darkness and we will have him in our grasp.”
“Take me to where Apepi lies,” Pharaoh commanded, and leaped to the footplate.
Naja led them, and the soft silvery sands of the wadi muffled the sounds of the wheels, so that in a ghostly silence the squadron swept around the last bend and Naja raised his clenched fist high to order the halt. Pharaoh drew up alongside him and leaned across.
