by Wilbur Smith
The gradient tilted sharply upward, and at a word of command from Nefer they sprang down from the footplate and ran beside the horses, to lighten the burden. Dov and Krus surged ahead so strongly that they had to take a grip on the harness to keep pace with them. As they reached the crest, Nefer halted them and let them rest for a measured three hundred beats of his own heart.
He looked back at the city walls below and heard the regular roar swelling and subsiding like the sound of distant surf on a coral reef, the characteristic sound of the cockfight as the crowd hailed each attack of the birds. But the flag still flew on the crumbling top of the temple of Bes to signal that the fight had not been decided. He turned away and looked down the length of the level plain that stretched ahead, and picked out the line of javelin butts, five of them spaced at intervals of two hundred paces. There was a low fence of thorn brush running parallel to them that would keep the chariot at a range of fifty paces.
Nefer jumped to the footplate, and called, “Come away!” and the pair strode forward. He glanced back and the blue flag still flew on the tower of Bes.
As they raced in on the line of targets, Nefer wound the thong around his wrist and composed himself, seeing in his mind’s eye the target, imagining the flight of the missile from his hand to the inner red circle, ignoring the yellow outer. He watched the wind moving the flags.
He saw Shabako standing on a low knoll near the center of the line. He would show a red flag for an inner, and a yellow for a miss. They carried only five javelins, and they would be allowed only one yellow. If they failed on the first run they must turn back, retrieve the thrown javelins and run again until they had scored the four reds.
Nefer handed the reins to Meren, who steered in close to the dividing fence to give Nefer the best shot. The first target came up fast, and Nefer braced himself on the bouncing swerving footplate.
“Nile!” He gave the command and instantly Dov and Krus changed their gait into that wonderful gliding motion. The chariot steadied under him and he rode the easy movement with his legs and he threw. There was never a doubt from the moment the javelin left his hand, its velocity accelerated by the whip of the thong—he had allowed for the wind. It flew fifty paces swinging across the wind into the heart of the red circle, and from the corner of his eye Nefer saw Shabako wave the red flag to acknowledge the strike. He snatched another javelin from the bin, and wound the thong. He felt a supreme almost godlike confidence: he knew that the next four darts would fly as true as the first. He watched the second target come up, and he threw again. It was another perfect throw. He did not even have to glance at the flag, and beside him Meren shouted, “Bak-her, brother!” and steered for the third.
They were running in close, and the thorn fence flew by the off wheel in a blur. Nefer lined up and whipped his right arm into the throw, and at exactly that moment the wheel touched the fence and the chariot swerved violently and hung for a moment on the verge of capsizing. The horses pulled it straight with their combined weight, but the javelin was already in flight. With despair in his heart Nefer saw it fly wide, missing the target completely, and the yellow flag went up.
“It was me,” Meren gritted. “I ran too fine.”
“Hold her true now,” Nefer snapped at him. “We need two more reds.”
The fourth target came up, but Nefer felt the altered motion under him. Krus was leading with the wrong foot, the collision with the fence had unbalanced him.
“Ho, Krus,” Meren called, and tried to steady him with the touch of reins. Then Dov leaned lightly against him and he felt her rhythm and picked up the step from her just as the fourth target came up.
Nefer threw and beside him Meren called, “Red! A clean hit. You have done it.”
“Not yet,” Nefer told him, and snatched the last javelin from the bin. “One more to go.”
They came down fast on the last target, and the men were tense as drawn bow-stocks, every muscle rigid and every nerve stretched tautly. Krus sensed it, felt it in the reins from Meren’s right hand, with his right eye he saw the target come up, knew precisely the instant at which Nefer would throw and instinctively fell into his wicked old habit and broke step. The carriage lurched and swayed just as Nefer released. Even then it might have scored, were it not for the wind. A hot gust swept over them, strong enough to flog the heavy hair braids on the flag staffs. The javelin was already slightly off-line, but the wind aggravated the error. It drifted even farther to the right and missed the red inner by the width of two fingers and quivered in the outer ring. Shabako held raised the black flag high above his head and waved it from side to side so that folds of cloth volleyed and flogged loudly, the signal of failure.
Their first run had been disqualified. They must retrieve the javelins and run the butts again.
Grimly silent, Nefer snatched the reins back from Meren and spun the chariot into a tight turn around the end of the thorn fence and they started back. He pushed the horses to the top of their speed—there was no thought of husbanding their strength now. For all Nefer knew, one of the fighting cocks was already slain and ten chariots had begun the chase.
They flew back along the line of targets, passing them so closely that Meren was able to pluck the javelins from the packed straw bodies without having to bring the chariot to a complete stop. The fourth javelin that had missed the target completely lay in the open, but even from a distance Nefer saw that the impact with the rocky ground had snapped the shaft in two. They were left with only four missiles to score four red flags. A single miss would mean that they would have to make their stand here, two against ten picked warriors: they would have to capitulate or fight to the death.
With only four javelins in the bin, they reached the start of the line and Nefer halted the chariot and jumped down to the ground. He ran to Krus’ head and stroked his forehead. “Run true now, my darling. Don’t fail me again.”
From a great distance came the sound of a long, sustained cheering. This time it did not fade away.
“One of the birds is dead!” Meren called. “The chase has begun.”
Nefer knew it was true. One of the cocks had succumbed and the chasers were released to follow them. They had lost their starting advantage. The pursuing chariots did not have to run the test of the javelins. They would race past the butts without a check. Even if this time they managed a clean pass of the butts with four red flags, ahead of Nefer and Meren waited the wrestlers.
Mintaka and Merykara stood side by side, looking down into the cockpit. Though stools had been placed for them they could not sit, for their blood was afire with anxiety as they watched the closing stages of the bloody conflict below them.
The two fighting cocks had been carefully matched, veterans of many epic battles, both had proved their courage and stamina. They were long-legged, but their thighs were compact and balled with muscle. They could drive their wicked black spurs deeply through flesh to an adversary’s bone. With serpentine necks and massive hooked beaks they could reach out to rip away feathers and flesh, and when they had bled and weakened their opponent, they would seize the death-hold, pinning him while they stabbed into his vitals.
The older bird had feathers of gold and copper, bright as the sunrise. His tail was a proud cascade shot with sapphire lights. The other bird was black, but lustrous sparkling black, and his bare head was purple red.
They circled each other now. They had fought hard and long, loose feathers strewed the sand and drifted in the hot puffs of the west wind. Both birds were bleeding, fat heavy drops that sparkled on their plumage. Their strength was draining away, and they were slightly unsteady on their feet. However, their eyes were bright and fierce as they had been at the beginning of the conflict.
“Please, adored and worshipful Hathor, give them both strength to survive,” whispered Merykara, as she clung tightly to Mintaka’s hand. “Let them fight until the setting of the sun.” Even she knew how vain was her appeal. “And keep Meren and Nefer from harm.”
Suddenly the black bird flew up head high, and then with a powerful wingbeat shot forward with both legs fully extended. The red bird rose to meet him, but he was almost exhausted and his riposte lacked fire. He was slow to lift his legs to counter the thrust. They collided in a burst of feathers, rolled together, and when they separated the red cock was dragging a wing. It was very close to the end now.
Merykara sobbed aloud, “Oh, Hathor, do not let him die!” She seized Mintaka’s arm and sank her fingernails into the flesh, leaving bright red half-moons on the skin, but Mintaka hardly felt it. She was watching with horror as the red bird staggered weakly and the crowd howled savagely.
The black bird knew he had won, and his strength revived. He went high again, springing on those long, hard legs, his wings wide and brightly glittering. He dropped and hit the red cock before he could recover his balance and knocked him flat and fluttering. He pecked murderously for the eye, caught a fold of the wattled cheek and hung on.
The red bird regained his feet, but the black was locked into him. The red bird ran painfully, carrying his opponent’s weight, and the girls screamed in the uproar: “Let him go, black shade of Seth. Let him live!”
A full circuit of the cockpit the red carried him, but every stride was weaker, and at last he collapsed just below where they stood at the barrier.
“He is dead!” somebody yelled. “The fight is over. Let the chasers go.”
“No! He lives yet,” screamed Mintaka fiercely.
The black bird released his grip on the other’s head, and stood over him. With the last of his strength and courage the red bird forced himself to his feet and stood swaying, with both wings dragging in the sand and the blood pouring from the gash in his cheek.
The black bird seemed to be measuring the distance between them, then once more he leaped high and for a moment towered over his victim. Then he fell upon him and drove both spurs in to their full length, through heart and lungs. The red rooster crumpled under him and lay upon his back, his beak wide open in a silent death cry and his wings shivering convulsively.
The black rooster stood over the carcass, threw back his head and gave vent to a raucous crow of triumph that seemed to rip down Mintaka’s spine, and made her shudder.
“The god has spoken! It is finished.” Hilto lifted the torn and bloody carcass by the neck, and the flag on the tower of Bes dropped. He turned to the charioteers, who crouched behind their teams of horses.
“You are free to take the Red Road!” he cried. “Ride to death or glory!” The long whips cracked, the horses threw their heads, tossed their manes, and the ten fighting chariots swept together once around the forum, while the crowds scattered from under their wheels, women screamed, and men cheered. Then they burst through the city gates and tore away into the hills, following the line of flags.
Nefer took a moment longer to pamper and reassure the horses; he stood with an arm around each of their necks and whispered to them. Then he ran back and jumped onto the footplate. He started them at a walk, then brought them gently to a canter. Only when they were running in perfect unison, leading together, did he change their gait with the command, “Nile!”
Smoothly they swept down on the targets for the second attempt and he passed the reins to Meren. He gave him no admonition, for he knew that Meren was still smarting from their first blundered attempt.
While he wrapped the thong around his wrist Nefer watched Krus’ ears for any sign that he would break stride again, but he held them pricked forward and ran true. He held the line perfectly as they came level with the first target, and the javelin smacked into the red inner. It seemed that almost immediately the second target came up and he threw smoothly with just that final application of power in the stroke and the point sank deeply into the inner ring. Beside him Meren was silent, steering the team with his very breath and soul.
The third javelin twinkled like a beam of sunlight as it flew across the range and Shabako waved the red flag for another hit.
The last javelin was in Nefer’s hand, the thong clinched firmly around his wrist, and he crooned to the horses, making his tone firm but reassuring. “One more. Just one more for me!”
Krus seemed to gather himself and tuck in his chin and he held the line sweetly and as Nefer threw he knew it was going to strike in the very center of the red. He shouted to them while it was still in flight.
“Ha! Ha! Come away.” And they surged forward, breaking from the glide into full gallop so strongly that Nefer had to brace his legs and clutch at the grab rope to prevent himself being thrown over backward.
Shabako waved the red flag over his head and his voice carried clearly, “Bak-her, Majesty! You are through and clear!”
But Nefer knew they could never make up the ground they had lost, and the chasers were already coming up swift and hard behind them.
The line of flags led them in a wide circle to the north along the edge of a deep chasm with sheer sides, and on up a series of natural terraces where the bare earth was a soft peachy color that belied its harsh and barren nature.
The step of the third and final terrace was lined with over fifty of the more hardy spectators who had climbed up from Gallala. As Nefer’s chariot raced up toward them they cheered them onward, and opened their ranks to let them through. The summit of the terrace was flat and level. In the center of this open space the wrestlers waited.
Each stood in his own circle of white-painted stones. Nefer steered down toward them, with the crowds running after them cheering and laughing with excitement. Just short of the stone rings, Nefer brought the horses to a halt, and two grooms who were standing ready ran forward to take their heads.
“See they drink only one bucket each,” Nefer ordered, as he jumped down. This was the first point at which they were permitted to water the horses, but Nefer did not want their bellies blown up with liquid.
Swiftly Nefer and Meren stripped off their leather armor and the short chitons beneath until they stood stark naked in the sunlight. The crowd hummed with admiration when their hard young bodies, trained to athletic perfection, were revealed, and some of the women of low status and dubious morality ululated and cavorted lewdly with excitement.
Now every second that passed brought the pursuing chariots closer. Nefer did not even glance at the dancing women, but he and Meren strode forward, each toward the ring where his allotted opponent waited. Nefer paused outside the ring of white stones and looked at Polios of Ur, who stood in the center.
He was not exceptionally big or tall, no larger or heavier then Nefer, for the judges had matched them carefully and fairly. However, there was no fat or superfluous flesh on Polios. It was obvious that he had been limbering up, for he shone with sweat and oil and his muscles were engorged and flushed with blood. Everything about him was hard. His shoulders were in perfect proportion to his waist, his belly flat, his limbs long and supple. He stood with his arms folded over his chest and watched Nefer with a hard, flat stare.
Nefer took one long breath and heard again Taita’s words in his ear, as clearly as if he had spoken again in his ear, “The left knee. That is his only weakness.”
He dropped his eyes to the limb, but Polios’ left knee seemed as sturdy as the right. Hard and impregnable as the main stem of an olive tree.
Nefer touched the golden charm at his throat, and stepped into the ring of stones. The crowd howled and yelped and shouted. Polios placed his hands on his knees and hunched his shoulders, and watched him with the flat, implacable stare of a serpent. Nefer knew that he must make the first advance, for Polios was in no hurry. His task was to delay Nefer here until the pursuing chariots could catch up with him. Nefer circled him once, and Polios turned slowly to keep facing him.
“Yes,” Nefer told himself, “there it is. He drags his left toe.” But it was so tiny a flaw that he would never have picked it out without Taita’s advice.
“An old injury,” Taita had told him. “Here!” and he had pressed his thumb into Nefer’s knee to mar
k the exact site of it. But then Taita had gone on, “Even so, do not rate him lightly. He is a man-killer. This is his favorite throw, and it is well nigh irresistible.” Taita had demonstrated it.
Nefer circled back the other way and Polios turned with him. He saw it now, a faint unnatural hollow below the bulge of the kneecap. He could not afford another moment and he closed.
Each of them fell into the classical prelude, grabbing at each other with both hands, seeking the throwing grip, changing the holds, shifting weight, pushing and then giving, feeling the other man’s balance. Then suddenly Polios leaped forward, coming in low, under Nefer’s guard, and though Nefer had been expecting it he could not prevent one long arm whipping around his waist. Suddenly he was lifted high so only the tips of his toes touched the earth, and Polios spun with him in his arms, turning him backward so that he could not keep his balance. Then suddenly Polios dropped on his right knee, and brought Nefer down with him. His other leg was braced solid, left thigh parallel to the ground like a carpenter’s bench, Nefer came down across it and it caught him in the small of his back, at the level of his kidneys. It should have snapped his spine, but Nefer had practiced the counter a hundred times with Meren. He arched his back to take the strain and at the same time slammed both his heels in the ground to break the force of it. Even so he felt his spine creak as his vertebrae were strained to the very limit.
Polios came down on him with the full weight of his upper torso, but Nefer reached under his back and clamped his right hand on Polios’ knee. Taita had made him spend hours hardening his right thumb, squeezing a ball of leather until he could leave a deep indentation in the surface. Even then Taita had not been satisfied. He had made Nefer continue these exercises until he could crack a cowrie shell between thumb and forefinger. Then time and again Taita demonstrated the exact point under the kneecap where the injury lay, and the direction of pressure he must apply to sunder it. Nefer found it now, and drove his thumb into the hollow between the head of the tibia and the unattached kneecap.
