by Overton, Max
The field of wheat was one of several on the borders of the irrigated land; the edges defined by narrow ditches an arm-spread across and no more than knee deep. The chariot dipped and bounced as it entered the first of the fields, the horse's hooves and the thin chariot wheels crushing the tender stalks of the wheat. Far across the sea of waving green grass, two black mounds moved slowly, unconcernedly toward them.
Bey pointed, his eyes alight with excitement. "There, divine one. There be the beasts."
Tutankhamen nodded, his own eyes wide and nostrils flaring as he stared at the powerful bulls. At a hundred paces, the heads of the bulls rose from the pasture and they stared at the horse and chariot, nostrils raised and snuffing at the air. The king eased his stallion to a halt and stared back over the horse's back. Behind him, he could hear the approach of the other chariots and he raised a hand imperiously, so sure of instant obedience that he did not deign to look back.
"Stay back," he called. "On pain of my displeasure." He turned to the hunter and continued in a softer voice. "Leave me Bey. I do this alone."
The hunter stared at his king for a moment before nodding and alighting from the chariot. "May Ptah be with you, divine one."
Tutankhamen carefully wrapped the reins around his waist, bracing his feet wide on the wickerwork base of the chariot. His stallion felt the change in tension and tossed its head, stamping its feet. The king took his bow in hand and pulled an arrow from the sheath, examining its length, the sharp bronze head and the goose feathers that fletched it. Tossing it aside, he took another one and gave it the same intense scrutiny. This time, the king nodded and loosely fitted the arrow, holding it down as he clicked his tongue softly. The stallion started forward toward the bulls.
As he approached the two watching beasts, Tutankhamen saw that they differed markedly in size. One was small and lean, jet black, with horns that curved out and up. The other was nearly twice the size, heavy and muscled, black also but with a white tuft of hair between his splayed and broken horns that made the king think of the white Hedjet crown of Upper Kemet. He tapped the reins and the horse veered toward the larger animal.
"So, you are the king, are you?" Tutankhamen murmured. "Come and do battle with another king."
The smaller beast turned and retreated while the larger bull lowered its head and pawed at the dirt, scattering uprooted wheat plants and dust. It snorted loudly and fixed the oncoming chariot with a belligerent stare. As the horse crossed an imaginary line symbolising a challenge, the bull lowered its head and lumbered forward, bellowing.
At the same instant, Tutankhamen leaned slightly to the right and the motion of his body, transmitted through the reins wound around his waist, guided the horse to the side. The stallion broke into a gallop, moving in a wide circle, drawing the lumbering bull after it. Tutankhamen screamed a challenge and urged his stallion on as the bull thundered after them, trying to turn inside their circle and meet them. Ruts crisscrossed the field and the wheels of the chariot bounced high, forcing the king to steady himself with one hand. He glanced back and saw that the great bull, tiring already, was slowing and straightening its course, apparently satisfied that it had chased off the intruder.
The king hauled back on the reins and turned the chariot sharply, before urging his stallion forward again, parallel to the now trotting bull, but on an opposite course. The distance closed quickly and the bull snorted, slowing further and started to turn to face the rapidly moving foe. He could not turn fast enough and the chariot flashed by twenty paces off, wheeling to the left. Tutankhamen steadied himself on the bouncing chariot base and took aim at the exposed flank of the great bull. With a muttered invocation to Ptah, who sometimes took the form of a bull, the king released the bowstring and the arrow slashed across the intervening distance to bury itself up to its goose feathers in the chest of the king bull.
The animal stopped in its tracks and threw up its muzzle in a mournful bellow. A bloody froth flew from its nostrils and it shook its head, its heavy dewlaps shaking. Tutankhamen guided the chariot around the stricken beast onto its right side and drew back his bow again. This time the bull staggered and fell to its knees. The king grabbed two arrows from the sheath and leaped from the still-moving chariot, running close before loosing a third shaft. The bull bellowed again, spraying gouts of blood before toppling slowly on its side. Its chest heaved and stilled, the bloodied tongue lolling between its lips, the eyes glazing in death.
Tutankhamen threw his arms in the air and let loose a great whoop of joy. "I have slain my enemy in single combat," he screamed. "I am victorious over the king bull, I am..."
"My lord! The other bull."
A cry of alarm cut into the king's celebrations and he turned to see the other beast trotting toward him, head held high and slightly to one side, an eye fixed on the slim youth. Its horns were wide and curved upward at the tip and they looked very sharp. Tutankhamen licked his lips and glanced first at his own chariot over a hundred paces distant, whence the stallion had drawn it, and then to where the other chariots and the spearmen of Hemaka's squad waited. Too far . His own chariot was much closer but he felt a surge of shame at the thought of running before this beast. Without taking his eyes off the approaching bull, he fitted his only arrow to the string.
Staring down the length of the arrow at the approaching bull, young Tutankhamen felt a moment of indecision. By disregarding the lesser bull he had left himself in a dangerous situation, with only a single arrow to ward off death. The bull approached at the trot, head still high and the king debated his choices. A side shot into the chest is best but I cannot get that. Over the head and into the hump, severing the cord between the vertebrae is sure but impossible unless he lowers his head. What then? The eye? Or the base of the throat? Neither will put him down immediately .
The bull abruptly lowered its head and charged. Tutankhamen smiled as he saw his opportunity appear, the hump rising up and the arrow tip coming to rest over the expanding image. The king released the shaft and it flew over the bull's head, grazed the hump and fell to the ground. He stared unbelievingly, frozen to the spot for an instant as the bull raced across the few paces separating them and hooked with its horns. If the bull had charged straight, the king would have died, gored then trampled under sharp hooves, but it chose to swing its head to the left. The right horn ripped into the king's kilt and tore it from his hips and the beast's shoulder knocked the youth to the ground, spinning him away.
Tutankhamen rolled, losing his grip on his bow before staggering to his feet. The bull stood thirty paces away, shaking its head violently in an effort to dislodge the kilt impaled on its horn. The king looked round and saw two chariots bearing down on him. Panas had an arrow fitted to his bow and loosed a shaft as soon as it was brought to bear. The arrow struck the bull's flank but from too great a distance to do damage and it swung round to face this new threat with an angry bellow, charging the retreating chariot.
The other chariot was driven by a soldier, and Hemaka stood firmly in the bouncing chariot, a spear in his right hand. "Run, majesty," Hemaka shouted. "I shall draw the bull off." He drove his chariot fast between the naked king and Panas' chariot, casting his spear at the beast. The point of the bronze-tipped weapon entered the bull's shoulder and smashed into the shoulder blade, working loose and falling to the ground.
The bull hardly noticed, intent as it was on its chosen target. It smashed into the side of Panas' chariot, lifting it and tossing it to the ground in a splinter of timbers. Panas threw himself to one side with a wail of terror and landed hard, lying still on the trampled ground. The horse fled screaming, the remains of the chariot traces dragging behind it.
Hemaka circled and called to the king, urging him to flee to the safety of his chariot. Tutankhamen shook his head and instead ran to where the cast spear lay. Naked, the king resembled a small boy once more, his slim body tiny near the raging bull. Snatching the spear up, he quickly examined the bright point and straight shaft, dancing back a few
paces to give him room. He hefted the spear, feeling its weight and grimacing as he realised he did not have the strength to drive it home. As he shifted from foot to foot indecisively, the bull looked round from the remains of the wrecked chariot and saw the Overseer of the Hunt as he groaned and sat up. It snorted and lumbered forward and Panas screamed, scrambling away through the trampled wheat.
Tutankhamen judged the distances and knew that if he raced for his own chariot now, he could recover the bow from where it had fallen and the arrows in their sheath while the bull was killing Panas. That would be the safer course, but the young king shook his head, angry at himself for even considering it. Instead, he shouted and ran toward the bull, seeking to distract it.
Hemaka gestured toward his soldiers and they started running forward, together with the other chariots, while the lieutenant drew his sword and ordered the driver of his chariot to approach the bull. He shouted too, adding his clamor to that of the king.
The bull stopped a few paces from Panas, who was now curled up tightly, his knees drawn up into his chest and his arms over his head. It looked round at the chariot, then at the closer youth and snorted, swinging round and charging.
Tutankhamen raised the spear then lowered it, knowing he had neither the strength nor the skill to place the bright spear tip in a killing spot. "Left, Ptah, left," he muttered, remembering the bull's previous action. He dropped to one knee, grounding the spear butt in one of the field's furrows and lowering the point.
The bull's head dropped and it drove straight at the kneeling boy, at the last moment veering slightly to the left and swinging its murderous horn. Instantly, Tutankhamen raised the spear, aiming at the broad chest. With a shock that threw him backward, the bull charged full onto the spear, the point penetrating deep into its chest. The king clung to the shaft with a death grip, knowing his only chance lay in keeping the pain-maddened animal's hooves far from him. Tossing its head, the bull threw itself about as the spear point worked its way in, bellowing its fury and agony.
Tutankhamen's world narrowed to the spear shaft, whipping and bucking in his hands, a black mountain filling his vision and a spray of hot blood and ropey saliva drenching him. He was lifted from his feet and slammed to the ground again, shaken as a dog worries a rat, and driven back, the wooden shaft slamming across his chest. Dust filled the air, choking him and his vision swam. The bull bellowed and stood, flanks heaving, head down, fixing its tormentor with a reddened eye. Tutankhamen gasped and took a fresh grip on the spear, knowing the next few moments would be his last. He felt his strength slipping like water into the parched earth beneath him.
The bull drew back and hurled itself forward again, the spear shaft bowing out before snapping suddenly. The wood lashed back and caught the king across the right temple, dropping him to the ground as the bull fell forward and collapsed on top of the slim youth. A gout of blood erupted from the beast's mouth and nostrils, it shuddered, and lay still.
To Hemaka and the others in the hunting party still fifty paces away; it looked as if the king had been trampled beneath the dying bull. Coming closer, they saw the blood-soaked bodies and a wail of anguish arose from twenty throats. Bey ran forward and wrestled the bull's head aside, and Hemaka drew the king's body out and laid it on a bed of crushed wheat. The two men knelt beside the king and stared through tear-filled eyes, seeking the grievous wounds that they knew were there.
Bey whipped off his kilt and wiped the blood away, smearing it, but revealing a body that though covered with welts and the start of massive bruising, seemed otherwise unhurt. "Where lies the death wound?" he asked, raising his eyes to meet those of the soldier.
"Underneath him?"
Bey shook his head firmly. "Never. The king faced 'is enemy all time."
The king's blood-caked eyelids fluttered and he groaned softly. "Is this the Western Land? Am I in my tomb that I cannot see anything?"
"My lord, you are alive," Bey gasped. He spat on a cleaner corner of his kilt and wiped at the king's eyes, freeing them of the dried and sticky blood.
The king opened his eyes and smiled, wincing as he turned his head toward the little hunter. "Bey, is Panas alive still?"
"'E will live, divine one, though 'e shamed 'imself today. But you, divine one, you is a god." Bey took the king's hand gently in his and pressed it to his forehead.
"And the bulls?"
"Both dead, my lord," Hemaka said. "By your hand alone."
"Show me."
The two men helped Tutankhamen to his feet and half supported the youth as he stood looking down at the bull with the broken spear in its chest, then across at the king bull. He smiled and shook off the other men's hands, standing alone and proud. Lifting up his arms to the bright lapis of the heavenly vault, he gave praise to the gods and offered up thanks to Ptah for preserving him.
"I shall build a temple to Ptah as a heavenly bull," the king declared. "Have a scribe record my vow, Hemaka." He turned and limped across the rutted and devastated field of wheat toward the rest of the hunting party, clad only in bull's blood but looking every bit the conquering king.
The waiting hunters and soldiers broke into loud cheers, breaking ranks, and two of the strongest soldiers lifted their king on their broad shoulders and set off for the wagons at a run, the rest following with shouts and laughter.
Tutankhamen grinned and looked down at the men around him. Today I have truly become a king. Tomorrow I shall go to war and when I return victorious I shall reign in glory for a hundred years .
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Chapter Seven
The viceroy's palace at Sehotep-Neteru shone like beaten copper in the late afternoon rays of the sun. The whitewash of the great sandstone edifice had weathered, and a fine patina of red dust from the western desert took the edge off the brilliance of the light reflections. Below the official residence, a hundred lesser buildings crowded the low hill. They glowed too in the reflected light, though being less well tended, their glory was lessened. Further down were residences in simple unpainted stone, brick and mud, the habitations of lesser officials, merchants and well-to-do artisans. On the dry plain that bordered the river, the city sprawled with a hundred streets running in every direction. Here, the great mass of the populace lived, loved and conducted their business, work place and home being one and the same. Colours and sounds and smells filled the afternoon air, assaulting the senses--the brightly dyed clothing of the largely Nubian inhabitants; the clamor of voices shouting their wares, the screams of children at play and the chatter of women; and the pungent aromas of spices and cooking intermingling with the odours of thousands of humans and their wastes.
A little to the north of the city but close to the viceroy's hill, sat the squat compound of the army barracks. Home to a half legion of troops that held sway over a territory half the size of the Upper and Lower Kingdoms together, the buildings were far less colourful, far more austere, than the city. Men moved in a purposeful way, the only raised voices being those of the Leaders of Ten and Fifty as they guided the men in their commands, leading them through their exercises. The scents were much the same--food and excrement are a part of human life wherever it exists--but the atmosphere was one of purpose and dedication as befitted the defenders of the Two Kingdoms and the outlying provinces.
Horemheb stood on the deck of his barge as his small force of men came alongside the docks of Sehotep-Neteru. He gazed upon the city rising up to the copper furnace of the viceroy's palace and he looked long and hard at the faces of the men and women in the streets. Crowds gathered at the waterfront as the barge drew in to the shore, a murmur rippling through the gathering as they recognised the pennant of the General of all Kemet's Armies. The barge tied up, sailors throwing coils of thick ropes to eager hands on shore that pulled the craft firmly against the stone and timber wharf. The gangplank went down and soldiers formed up at both ends to escort their general. Horemheb nodded his satisfaction to his troop commander Mose, and walked
swiftly down the gangplank to the shore.
The crowd swirled and parted, scattering before a contingent of native troops moving swiftly to intercept Horemheb. The general saw them coming and waited, hands on hips, his own soldiers in a seemingly casual but alert cordon around him, for the officer in charge of the local troops to present himself. It was not long coming.
"Horemheb! By the gods, it is you. I had a garbled report from Kubban that hinted at someone of note, but I thought it could not be you. You'd be busy taking charge in Waset." The officer, the Lieutenant of the Sehotep-Neteru garrison, broke into a wide grin and only just restrained himself from throwing his arms around his superior officer.
"Penno," Horemheb replied. "I hoped to find you too. There are things we must discuss, but first I must see the viceroy. Is he in residence?"
"He's in the south, sacrificing at the temple of Nebmaetre Amenhotep at Soleb."
"I thought Soleb was the priest's name? When I was here last..."
Penno nodded. "You are right. He took his name from the town where his temple lies."
"It is of little importance. So Viceroy Huy is away? When does he return?"
"Ten days. In the meantime Deputy Amenemipet is in charge."
Horemheb grimaced. "Then I suppose I will have to deal with him. Is he up at the residence? Perhaps I should send word that I intend to call on him."
"There is no need for that, sir." Penno coughed and looked away. "I am under orders to bring the officer in charge up to the palace immediately. Hence my men."
"And here I was thinking it was an honour guard." Horemheb smiled sourly. He turned to his troop commander. "Mose, form the men up. Our presence is requested at the palace."
"Sir, you mean to take your men?" Penno's voice betrayed agitation. He licked his lips. "Amenemipet's invitation was for the commander alone. Your men are to remain behind. He was most specific."
