by Wilbur Smith
“Go in peace, my friend and my king, and may you live for all eternity,” he said aloud, and made the sign for long life and happiness.
He turned away, and would have started back down the hill to where the chariots waited, but something stopped him in his tracks. He lifted his head and tested the air again. There was still a faint whiff of that evil smell, just an elusive trace of it. Warily he turned back up the slope, passing the place where Pharaoh had died, and went on. With each pace the stench of evil grew stronger, until it caught in his throat and made his gorge rise. Once again, he realized that this was something from beyond the natural order. He went on, until after twenty measured paces the odor began to fade. He stopped and retraced his steps. Immediately the stench grew stronger. He quested back and forth until it was at its zenith. Then he stepped off the path and found it stronger still, almost suffocating.
He was standing under the twisted branches of a thorn tree that grew next to the path. He looked up and saw that the branches were strangely shaped, as though they had been fashioned by a human hand into a distinctive cross that stood out against the blue of the sky. He looked down and a rock the size and shape of a horse’s head caught his attention. It had recently been dislodged, then replaced in its original position. Taita lifted it out of the depression in which it sat, and saw that it had covered a niche between the roots of the thorn tree. He laid it aside and peered into the niche. There was something in it and he reached in gingerly—it was the kind of shelter that might hide a snake or scorpion.
He brought out a magnificently carved and tooled object. He stared at it for a moment before he realized that it was an arrow quiver. There was no doubting its origin, for the design was in the Hyksosian heraldic style, and the image tooled into the leather cover was Seueth, the crocodile god of war revered by Hyksosian warriors.
Taita twisted off the stopper cover and found that the quiver contained five war arrows, fletched in green and red. He drew out one of the shafts and his heartbeat fiercely as he recognized it. There could be no mistake. He had minutely examined the broken, blood-caked one that Naja had brought before the council. This was identical to the arrow that had killed Pharaoh.
He held it to the light and peered closely at the signet etched into the painted shaft. It was a stylized head of a leopard, holding the hieratic letter T in its jaws. This was the device he had seen on the fatal arrow. This was its identical twin. Taita turned it over and over in his hands, as though trying to draw from it the last grain of information. He held it to his nose and sniffed it. There was just the smell of wood, paint and feathers. The foul odor that had guided him to the cache had disappeared.
Why should the assassin of Pharaoh hide his quiver? After the fight the Hyksos had been left in possession of the field. They would have had all the time they needed to recover their weapons. This is a beautiful and valuable object. No warrior would abandon it, unless he were forced to, Taita thought.
For another hour he searched the hillside, but found no other item of interest, nor did he detect again the supernatural odor of putrefaction and evil. When he went down to where the chariots waited in the sand of the wadi he carried the quiver concealed under his apron.
They waited hidden in the wadi until after nightfall. Then, the wheel-hubs freshly greased with mutton fat to stop them squealing, the horses’ hoofs covered with leather boots and all the loose weapons and tack carefully muffled, they went on deep into Hyksosian territory, with Gil guiding them.
The lance-bearer knew the area well, and although Taita made no comment, he wondered how often the man had traveled this way with his master, and what other rendezvous they had kept with the enemy.
By now they were down on the alluvial plain of the Nile. Twice they had to turn off the road and wait while parties of armed men, anonymous in the darkness, rode past their hiding-place. After midnight they came to an abandoned temple of some forgotten god that had been hollowed out of the side of a low clay hill. The cave was large enough to shelter the entire squadron, vehicle, horses and men. It was immediately apparent that it had been used before for this purpose: lamps and an oil amphora were hidden behind the ruined altar, and bales of horse fodder were stacked in the sanctum.
As soon as they had removed the horses’ harness and fed them, the troopers ate their own meal, then settled down on mattresses of dried straw and were soon snoring. In the meantime Gil had changed from his cavalry uniform to the nondescript attire of a peasant. “I cannot use a horse,” he explained to Taita. “It would attract too much interest. On foot it will take me half a day to reach the camp at Bubastis. Do not expect me back before tomorrow evening.” He slipped out of the cave and disappeared into the night.
Honest Gil is not such a simple bluff soldier as he seems, Taita thought, as he settled down to wait for Lord Naja’s allies to answer the message that Gil was taking to them.
As soon as it was light he posted a sentry at the top of the hill, where the air shaft from the subterranean temple emerged. Just before noon a low whistle down the shaft warned them of danger and Taita climbed up to join the sentry. From the east a caravan of heavily laden donkeys was heading directly for the temple entrance, and Taita guessed that it was these merchants who used the temple as a makeshift caravanserai. It was almost certainly they who had left the store of fodder in the sanctum. He scrambled down the hillside, keeping out of sight of the approaching caravan. In the middle of the roadway he arranged a pattern of white quartz stones while he recited three verses from the Assyrian Book of the Evil Mountain. Then he retired to await the arrival of the caravan.
The leading donkey was fifty cubits or so ahead of the rest of the column. It was clear that the animal knew of the temple and the delights it contained, for he needed no encouragement from his driver to come on at a trot. As he reached the pile of white quartz stones in the path the little animal shied so violently that the pack slid over and hung under his belly. He started to buck and gallop at the same time, heading out across the plain away from the temple, hoofs flying in every direction. His hoarse honking and braying affected the rest of the animals in the column, and soon they were rearing and throwing their heads against the lead reins, kicking out at their drivers and running in circles as though attacked by a swarm of bees.
It took the caravan drivers half of the rest of the afternoon to catch and reassemble the runaways, to pacify the terrified animals and to set off again on the road toward the temple. This time the portly and richly robed figure of the head driver marched in the van, dragging the reluctant donkey behind him on a long rein. He saw the stones in the middle of the road and stopped. The column crowded up behind him, and the other drivers came forward. They held an impromptu conference with raised voices and arms waving. Their voices carried to where Taita sat hidden among the olive trees on the hillside.
At last the head driver left the others and came on alone. At first his step was bold and assured, but soon it slowed and became timid until at last he stood ill-at-ease and, from a distance, studied the pattern of quartz stones. Then he spat toward the stones and jumped back, as if he expected them to return the insult. Finally he made the sign against the evil eye, turned and trotted back with alacrity to join his fellows, shouting and waving them back. The others needed little convincing. Soon the entire caravan was in full retreat along the road it had come. Taita went down the hill and scattered the stones, allowing the influences they contained to disperse and opening the way for the other visitors he was expecting.
They came in the short summer dusk, twenty armed men riding hard, Gil leading them on a borrowed steed. They swept down past the scattered stones and up to the entrance of the temple, where they dismounted with a clatter of weapons. The leader was a tall man, wide across the shoulders with a heavy beetling brow and a fleshy hooked nose. His heavy black mustaches were trained to droop down onto his chest, and colored ribbons were plaited into his beard.
“You are the Warlock. Yes?” he said, in a thick accent.
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Taita did not think it opportune to let them know he spoke Hyksos like one of them, so he replied modestly in Egyptian, neither claiming nor denying magical powers. “My name is Taita, a servant of the great god Horus. I call his blessing down upon you. I see that you are a man of might, but I do not know your name.”
“My name is Trok, Paramount Chief of the Clan of the Leopard, and commander of the north in the army of King Apepi. You have a token for me, Warlock?”
Taita opened his right hand and showed him the broken shard of blue glazed porcelain, the upper half of a tiny votive statue of the god Seueth. Trok examined it briefly, then took another fragment of porcelain from the pouch on his sword-belt and fitted the two pieces together. The broken edges matched perfectly, and he grunted with satisfaction. “Come with me, Warlock.”
Trok strode out into the gathering night with Taita beside him. They climbed the hill in silence, and squatted down facing each other in the starlight. Trok kept his scabbard between his knees and his hand on the hilt of his heavy sickle sword. From habit more than distrust, Taita thought, but nevertheless the war chief was a man to reckon with.
“You bring me news of the south,” Trok said, in a statement, not a question.
“My lord, you have heard of the death of Pharaoh Tamose?”
“We know of the death of the Theban pretender from prisoners captured when we took the city of Abnub.” Trok was careful not to acknowledge by word or inference the authority of the Egyptian Pharaoh. To the Hyksos, the only ruler in either of the two kingdoms was Apepi. “We heard also that a child now pretends to the throne of Upper Egypt.”
“Pharaoh Nefer Seti is only fourteen years of age,” Taita confirmed, equally careful to insist on the title of Pharaoh when he spoke of him. “He will not attain his majority for some years. Until then Lord Naja acts as his regent.”
Trok leaned forward with sudden intense interest. Taita smiled inwardly. The Hyksosian intelligence was poor indeed if they did not know at least that much about the affairs of the Upper Kingdom. Then he recalled the campaign that, just before the King’s death, he and Pharaoh Tamose had waged against Hyksosian spies and informers in Thebes. They had winkled out and arrested over fifty. After interrogation by torture, they had executed every one. Taita felt a smug satisfaction at this confirmation that they had cut off the flow of information to the enemy.
“So, then, you come to us with the authority of the Regent of the south.” Taita detected a strange air of triumph about Trok, as he demanded, “What message do you bring from Naja?”
“Lord Naja wants me to carry his proposal directly to Apepi,” Taita hedged. He did not want to give Trok any more information than was strictly necessary.
Trok took immediate umbrage at this. “Naja is my cousin,” he said coldly. “He would wish me to hear every word he has sent.” Taita had such control over his emotions that he showed no surprise, although it was a grave indiscretion on Trok’s part. His suspicions as to the Regent’s antecedents were confirmed, but his voice was measured as he answered, “Yes, my lord, this much I know. However, what I have for Apepi is of such moment…”
“You underestimate me, Warlock. I have the complete confidence of your regent.” Trok’s voice was rough with exasperation. “I know full well that you have come to offer Apepi a truce, and to negotiate a lasting peace with him.”
“I can tell you nothing more, my lord.” This Trok might be a warrior, but he is no conspirator, Taita thought, but his voice and manner did not change as he said, “I can give my message only to the Shepherd Chieftain, Apepi.” This was how the Hyksosian ruler was referred to in Upper Egypt. “Can you take me to him?”
“As you wish, Warlock. Keep your mouth shut, if you will, though there is no purpose in it.” Trok stood up angrily. “King Apepi is at Bubasti. We will go there immediately.”
In stilted silence they returned to the subterranean temple, where Taita called Gil and the sergeant of the bodyguard to him. “You have done your work well,” he told them, “but now you must return to Thebes as secretly as you have come.”
“You will return with us?” Gil asked anxiously. Clearly he felt responsible for the old man.
“No.” Taita shook his head. “I will remain here. When you report to the Regent tell him that I am on my way to meet Apepi.”
By the dim light of the oil lamps the horses were harnessed to the chariots, and within a short time they were ready to leave. Gil brought Taita’s leather saddlebag from the chariot and handed it to him. Then he saluted respectfully. “It has been a great honor to ride with you, my lord. When I was a child my father told me many tales of your adventures. He rode with your regiment at Asyut. He was captain of the left wing.”
“What was his name?” Taita asked.
“Lasro, my lord.”
“Yes.” Taita nodded. “I remember him well. He lost his left eye in the battle.”
Gil gazed at him with awe and wonder. “That was forty years ago, and still you remember.”
“Thirty-seven,” Taita corrected him. “Go well, young Gil. I cast your horoscope last night. You will have a long life, and attain much distinction.”
The lance-bearer took up the reins and rode out into the night, speechless with pride and gratification.
By this time Lord Trok’s troop was also mounted and ready to leave. They had given Taita the horse on which Gil had returned to the temple. Taita threw the saddlebags over its withers, then swung up behind them. The Hyksos did not have the same scruples about riding astride as the Egyptians, and they clattered out of the cave entrance and turned west, in the opposite direction to that taken by the column of chariots.
Taita rode in the center of the party of heavily armed Hyksos. Trok led them and he did not invite Taita to ride alongside him. He had been distant and aloof since Taita had refused to give Naja’s message to him directly. Taita was content to be ignored, for he had much to think about. In particular the revelation of Naja’s confused blood-lines opened a host of fascinating possibilities.
They rode on through the night, heading west toward the river and the main enemy base at Bubastis. Even though it was still night-time, they encountered more and more traffic on the road. There were long lines of wagons and carts, all heavily laden with military supplies, moving in the same direction as they were. Returning toward Avaris and Memphis were equal numbers of empty vehicles that had discharged their cargo.
As they came closer to the river, Taita saw the fires of the Hyksosian troops encamped around Bubastis. It was a field of flickering light that stretched many miles in both directions along the riverbank, a huge agglomeration of men and animals unseen in the darkness.
There was nothing on earth like the smell of an army encamped. It grew stronger as they approached until it was almost overpowering. It was a mixture of many odors, the smell of the cavalry lines, manure and the smoke of dung fires, of leather and mouldy grain. On top of this was the smell of unwashed men and their festering wounds, cooking food and fermenting beer, unburied rubbish and filth, the ammoniacal reek of the latrine pits and the dung heaps and the even more biting stench of unburied corpses.
Underlying this stifling blend of odors Taita picked out another sickly taint. He thought he recognized it, but it was only when one of the sufferers staggered drunkenly in front of his horse, forcing him to rein in sharply, that he saw the rose-colored blotches on the pale face and he was certain. He knew now why Apepi had failed so far to follow up his victory at Abnub, why he had not yet sent his chariots tearing southward toward Thebes where the Egyptian army was in disarray, and at his mercy. Taita pushed his horse up alongside Trok’s mount, and asked him quietly, “My lord, when did the plague first strike your troops?”
Trok reined in so roughly that his mount danced and circled under him. “Who told you that, Warlock?” he demanded. “Is this cursed disease one of your spells? Is it you who have laid this pestilence upon us?” He spurred away angrily without waiting for a denial. Taita
followed at a discreet distance, but his eyes were busy taking in every detail of what was happening around him.
By this time the light was strengthening, and a weak, hazy sun barely showed through the heavy bank of mist and woodsmoke that blanketed the land and blotted out the dawn sky. It gave the scene a weird, unearthly aspect, like a vision of the underworld. Men and animals were transformed by it into dark and demoniacal figures, and under the hoofs of their horses the mud of the recent inundation was black and glutinous.
They passed the first of the burial carts, and the men around Taita used their cloaks to cover their mouths and noses against the stink and the evil humors that hung over the heap of naked, bloated corpses piled high in the back of the cart. Trok spurred his horse to overtake it quickly, but ahead there were many more similarly laden vehicles almost blocking the roadway.
Farther on they passed one of the cremation fields, on which more carts were unloading their grisly burden. Firewood was a scarce commodity in this land, and the flames were not fierce enough to consume the heaps of corpses. They spluttered and flickered as the fats oozed out of the decaying flesh, and sent up clouds of oily black smoke that coated the mouths and throats of the living men who breathed it.
How many of the dead are victims of the plague? Taita wondered. And how many from the fighting with our army?
The plague was like some grim specter that marched in step with any army. Apepi had been here at Bubastis for many years in camps that swarmed with rats, vultures and the carrion-eating marabou storks. His men were crowded together in their own filth, their bodies crawling with fleas and lice, eating rotten food and drinking the water from the irrigation canals into which the effluent from the graves and dung heaps drained. These were the conditions in which the plague flourished.
