Warlock: A Novel of Ancient Egypt (Novels of Ancient Egypt)

by Wilbur Smith

  “Tell me all you can about Thane. Is Socco still in command there?”

  “We drank beer in the local brothel with a sergeant of the garrison. He told me that Socco has done such a good job there that Trok has promoted him to the rank of Best of Ten Thousand.”

  Ten days later Nefer and Taita sat in the thick green grass and pretended to watch over the herd of goats that grazed around them. Although the land around the garrison of Thane was well irrigated and rich in grazing, it was also flat, treeless and featureless. There were no hills from which they could overlook the camp. The nearest high ground was along the edge of the desert, a league to the east.

  The two of them were dressed in the ragged dusty black robes of the Bedouin. In this guise they were able to blend into the landscape as readily as a pair of hares or crows. At intervals they stood and herded the goats a little closer to the garrison, then squatted down again in the characteristic attitude of the Bedouin herdsman.

  Not far from where they sat, the herds of remounts were also grazing, tended by armed and uniformed herders. “I would think there are upward of two thousand animals here,” Nefer guessed.

  “Perhaps not as many as that.” Taita shook his head. “Closer to fifteen hundred, but still more than we can handle.”

  They watched and waited through the long, lazy afternoon. In the stockades alongside the cavalry lines the handlers were at work breaking the young animals to the chariot harness. Their shouted commands and the crack of the stock whips carried faintly to where Nefer and Taita sat. In the late afternoon the herds of horses were driven in from the fields and stockades to the long horse lines beyond the fort. From a distance they watched them tethered and bedded down for the night.

  As the sun was setting Nefer and Taita rounded up their goats and drove them slowly back toward the desert. In the dusk a small detachment of four chariots came bowling down the road from Avaris. At the reins of the leading vehicle stood a burly officer wearing the silver pectoral plate of the Best of Ten Thousand. As he came closer they both recognized him.

  “The curse of Seth on it,” Nefer murmured. “ ’Tis Socco, Hilto’s old comrade-in-arms. Will he recognize us?”

  They bowed their heads, slumped their shoulders in a submissive attitude and shuffled along after the goats. Socco swerved off the road and drove directly at them. “You stinking scum!” he shouted. “How often must I warn you to keep your filthy, disease-ridden beasts off my grass and away from my horses?” He leaned out and struck Nefer across the shoulders. The whiplash hummed and cracked against his flesh, and red rage blinded Nefer. Before he could drag Socco out of the chariot, though, Taita made a restraining gesture that riveted him where he stood. It seemed to affect Socco too, for his tone moderated a little as he coiled his whip and said, “If I catch you people here again, I’ll lop off your balls and stick them up your bunghole.” He steered the chariot back onto the road and trotted off toward the fort.

  Six nights later in the dark of the new moon, they returned to Thane in force, every man from Gallala who could ride astride, forty horsemen with black-dyed robes and soot-daubed faces. Each rider carried a large bag slung behind him over his horse’s haunches. The contents of the bags squirmed and writhed, emitting muffled yips and whimpers: for each contained two or three live jackals. Their legs were tied, and strips of flax twine were bound around their muzzles to gag them.

  The horses’ hoofs were muffled with leather boots so they made no sound as Nefer led them in single file in a wide circuit round to the westerly side of the fort, keeping well clear of the cavalry lines so that they did not alarm the sentries.

  Every man knew what was expected of him, for they had practiced this maneuver many times, and they kept silently in their formation, a half-moon of dark horsemen between Thane and the river. They were spaced at intervals just close enough together that a quiet command could be passed down the line. Nefer was in the center, Meren on the left wing and Shabako on the right.

  When Nefer was satisfied that they were in position he gave the warbling call of a nightingale, three times repeated, and saw the red line of glowing spots in the darkness as his men opened the lids of the clay firepots they all carried and blew the tinder into flame. He did the same, and then he opened the mouth of one of the bags on his horse’s rump and reached in. He brought out a fat vixen by the scruff of the neck. She writhed in his grip.

  There was a harsh, tarry smell, strong enough to mask the natural odor of the animals. The fur and brush had been soaked in a black viscous liquid. Taita had gathered this sticky substance from a natural seep that he knew of in the wilderness. It oozed from the earth and Taita said that it came up from great depth. It was highly inflammable, but he had mixed it with another substance, a yellow crystalline powder, that made it even more so. Every one of the captured jackals had been treated with this mixture.

  With his dagger Nefer cut the twine that secured the vixen’s four paws together. When she sensed freedom, she kicked and thrashed in his grip. He touched the firepot to her furry brush, which burst into spluttering, smoking flame. She redoubled her efforts to escape, but before he released her he slipped the point of the dagger between her lips and cut the loop of twine that muzzled her. She opened her jaws wide and let loose a screech, unearthly and terrifying. Nefer dropped her to the ground and the little creature shot away, spreading a stream of fire and sparks behind her, howling and shrieking in a fashion that set even his nerves on edge and made the hair rise down the back of his neck.

  He pulled another jackal out of the bag. All down the line balls of flame flared in the darkness and steamed out across the open fields and those terrible agonized howls made the night hideous. A few of the tormented creatures broke back toward the river valley, but the rest headed instinctively for their home in the desert, with the garrison of Thane directly in their path. In a pack they bore down on the cavalry lines.

  As Nefer released the last screaming jackal, he drew his sword and kicked his mount into a gallop. He raced after the burning animals, and on either hand his troopers rode with him. They were all yelling like demons, adding their voices to the uproar.

  Some of the jackals dragged their flaming tails through the dry horse fodder and bedding, which burst into flame also. The scene was lit by an eerie flickering light that made the dark riders seem monstrous.

  Ahead Nefer saw the nearest sentries hurl aside their weapons and flee, screaming as loudly as the burning animals.

  “Djinn!” they howled.

  “Save us! The dark legions of Seth are upon us!”

  “The hordes of hell! Run! Run!”

  The tethered horses were rearing and plunging. When a stake was pulled up from the earth, or one of the long lines snapped under the strain, twenty horses were freed at once and wheeled away before the line of yelling, shrieking riders that swept into the camp.

  Nefer leaned from his horse’s back and saberd one of the running guards, striking deeply between his shoulder-blades and letting the slack body slide off the blade. Then he swerved to where a bunch of terrified horses struggled against a line that resisted their combined efforts to break free. With a single slash he cut the rope and whooped to send them to join the panic-stricken horde, then rounded up another bunch of milling disorientated animals and pushed them out of the lines into the open fields. Shabako and his men rode with him, shouting and whipping the horses along, a racing tide of men and animals compressed into a single entity and lit only by the flames of the burning garrison behind them. The last of the jackals had burned to death and their black, smoldering carcasses were left in the grass as the riders thundered toward the hills.

  Shabako appeared out of the night and rode at Nefer’s side. “By the sweat and seed of Seth!” he shouted. “That was fun!” Then he turned and looked back. “No sign yet of any pursuit, more is the pity. A good hack and slash now would be the perfect ending to an entertaining evening.”

  “I promise you much entertainment later,” Nefer laughed,
“but now, we must head off the herd, before they run their guts out.”

  They pushed their mounts hard, moving through the galloping mass until they rode in the first rank, then cut across them, flagging them down from the gallop into a trot and then a walk, turning them in the direction of the open desert and Gallala.

  Dawn found the long herd of loose horses spread out down a gaunt, rocky defile, moving at an easy but steady pace with Nefer and Shabako pointing them while Meren and his drovers brought up the stragglers from behind.

  Nefer squinted into the first rays of the sun, and called to Shabako, “Keep them headed up and moving. I am going back to see if Socco and his men are after us yet.”

  As he rode back, Nefer singled out Meren and three others, all skilled with javelin and sword. He signaled to them and they galloped up to join him. “If they are after us, we should try to change their minds for them.”

  Nefer led them along their back-trail, and at a point where the rock defile narrowed they left the three troopers to hold their horses, and he and Meren climbed the steep rock-strewn slope.

  By the time they reached the top the sun was clear of the horizon, but had not yet dissipated the cool of the night and the dust and heat haze had not built up. The land glowed with that peculiar lambency of the desert dawn. Each distant detail of rock and dune, cliff and gnarled tree, was etched with breath-stopping beauty.

  “There!” said Nefer. Meren’s eyes were sharp, but his were more so.

  “Ten riders.” Meren tried to hide his chagrin at not finding them first.

  “Eleven,” Nefer corrected him, and he did not argue.

  Instead he grinned delightedly. “Fair odds to our five.”

  “We will take them there.” Nefer pointed down into the gorge. “There, where it narrows. We don’t want them to carry back their news to Avaris. There must be no survivors.”

  “That suits me above all things.” Meren laughed.

  They waited among the boulders, standing by the heads of their horses, hands over their nostrils to prevent them whickering or snorting and springing the trap prematurely. In the middle of the gap, Nefer had placed a leather bag that had earlier contained captured jackals. It was now stuffed with their cloaks, which were no longer needed in the rising morning warmth.

  Their heads went up as, from lower down the gorge, they heard the click of hoof against stone and the rattle of a dislodged pebble. Nefer looked across the open ground to where Meren and one of the other men were hidden on the far side of the defile. He held up his left hand with fingers spread. The signal for silence and vigilance. His father had taught him that hand signals were always preferable to spoken commands, especially in the heat of battle when they might be lost and drowned in the tumult, or in situations when stealth was paramount.

  Now he picked out other small sounds, loud in the great silence of the sands: the creak of tackle and the rattle of arrows in quivers. Nefer glanced around the boulder that hid him and two of his troopers. A scrubby growth of bottlebrush broke up the silhouette of his head.

  A rider appeared in the mouth of the gorge, and halted his horse as he saw the leather bag lying in the path. He looked around carefully and the rest of his troop crowded up behind him. Even under the crocodile-skin helmet Nefer recognized Socco, and his back itched where the whip had raised a bloody welt.

  Time to return a favor, he thought grimly. Socco took his time, an old soldier, wary and suspicious. Then he walked his horse forward and the others followed him. They halted in a tight group, all leaning out and staring down at the bag. Socco grunted an order, “Steady now! Watch my back,” and swung down from his horse. He stooped over the bag, and Nefer gave the command, a chopping motion with his raised left hand.

  The throwing thongs were wrapped around every one of their right wrists and the range was point-blank. They threw as one man, and because Hilto and Shabako had trained them to perfection no two picked the same target. Five javelins buzzed like enraged bees, and struck where no armor could deflect them, three in the throat and two in the back of the neck. Five men toppled from horseback, and fell under the hoofs of their startled steeds.

  Nefer and his men burst from ambush at the gallop, swords drawn and screaming their war-cry, “Horus and Seti!”

  The survivors of that first murderous flight of javelins turned instinctively to meet them but did not have time to clear their swords from the scabbards before they crashed into them, their horses trained to charge in chest to chest. Two more of Socco’s horses were taken off-balance and dashed off their feet, throwing their riders. Nefer picked the nearest man, who was still mounted, and killed him with a thrust to the throat. Now Socco cleared his sword and thrust up at Nefer’s belly. Nefer turned the blow and his horse reared and lashed at Socco with both hoofs, one of which struck him a solid blow. He was thrown sprawling into the sand. Before Nefer could finish him another of the enemy rode at him, sword lifted high. Nefer rode in under the stroke and engaged him, cut and parry, as they milled and shouted, struggling at close quarters.

  Socco’s men had only just rallied from the first shock when Meren chose his moment perfectly and led the trooper with him in a furious charge into the mêlée. He sent a thrust to the heart and yelled in triumph. Then immediately he reversed his blade and killed again, a cut across the neck. His victim slid down onto the earth with his head half severed from the trembling, jerking trunk.

  Socco had lost his helmet and his sword and crawled desperately on his knees to try to retrieve the weapon. He was the only one of all his men still able to resist. Nefer leaned out from his horse’s back and aimed at the opening where his breastplate of crocodile-skin armor was fastened between his shoulder-blades, but at the last moment could not bring himself to drive home. He changed his blow smoothly, rolling his wrist to present the flat of the sickle-shaped blade, and cracked Socco across the back of his grizzled pate. The man dropped face down in the sand.

  Nefer glanced round to make certain that Meren had everything in hand. Then slid off his horse to the ground just as Socco groaned, shook his head and tried to sit up. Nefer slammed his heel into his adversary’s chest and thrust him back, then placed the point of his sword at his throat. “Yield, Socco, or I will send the news of your passing to your mother and all the one hundred stinking goatherds who had a hand in fathering you.”

  Socco’s dazed expression cleared and became a defiant glare. “Let me reach my sword, puppy, and I will teach you how to lift your leg when you piss.” He was about to add more to the insult when suddenly the bellicose light in his eyes faded. He stammered wordlessly. He was gawking at the cartouche on Nefer’s thigh.

  “Majesty,” he gasped. “Forgive me! Strike! Take my worthless life as forfeit for those gross and stupid words of mine. I heard the rumors that you still lived, but I had wept at your funeral and could not believe in such a miracle.”

  Nefer smiled with relief. He had not wanted to kill him—he was an attractive old rogue, and Hilto said that he was one of the finest horse-handlers in all the armies of Egypt. Hilto should know. “Will you swear the loyalty oath to me as Pharaoh?” he demanded sternly.

  “Gladly, for all the earth fears you in your name of Nefer Seti, beloved of all the gods and light of this very Egypt. My heart beats only for you and my soul will sing my duty to you until the hour of my death.”

  “Then, Socco, I promote you to Master of a Thousand Chariots, and Taita had best guard his title of Poet Laureate, for you turn a pretty phrase.”

  “Let me kiss your foot, Pharaoh,” Socco pleaded.

  “Give me your hand, rather,” Nefer said, seized his horny fist and pulled him to his feet. “ ’Tis a pity about your men.” Nefer glanced at the corpses. “If they had shared your loyal sentiments, they need not have died.”

  “They died at the hand of a god,” Socco pointed out. “There is no greater honor. Besides, Taita the Warlock may be able to save the few who are still groaning and twitching.”

  Three days
later, when they rode into Gallala, they were droving nigh on four hundred horses, and Socco rode proudly at the right hand of his new Pharaoh with his helmet sitting high on the bandages that were wound around his injured head.

  Socco was not only quartermaster general of the armies of the false pharaohs with the rank of Best of Ten Thousand, but he was also an adept of the Red Road. He was able to give Nefer the exact tally of all the enemy fighting chariots and transport wagons, and where they were deployed. From memory he drew up a list of the numbers of horses and bullocks in depots of the delta, and the latest inventory of weapons stored in the armories.

  “Trok and Naja have taken almost the last serviceable fighting chariot with them on the expedition to the east. There are less than fifty left in Egypt, in either the Upper or Lower Kingdom. The military workshops at Avaris, Thebes and Aswan are working day and night, but every chariot they turn out is sent immediately along the road to Beersheba and Mesopotamia.”

  “Horses we now have, thanks to Pharaoh’s bold stroke at Thane, even though most are young and unbroken, but we cannot fight a campaign without chariots,” said Hilto gloomily. “We cannot seize what does not exist, and all the gold now in the royal treasury cannot buy a single squadron.”

  While they had been away from Gallala on the great horse raid, Hilto had brought in the remaining gold from the caches along the eastern highway. There was over three lakhs of the precious metal in the ancient cisterns under the city of Gallala. He went on, “Soon Trok must hear of our successes. He will realize that we have become a real threat. As soon as he has captured Babylon, he will divert part of his army to attack us here. If he sent only a hundred chariots, we could not stand against them in our present state.”

  When all the others had had their say, Nefer stood to address the council. He did not speak long. “Socco, you train the horses for me,” he said. “Taita and I will find the chariots.”

  “That, Majesty, will take a minor miracle,” said Socco gloomily.