The Amarnan Kings, Book 3: Scarab - Tutankhamen

by Overton, Max

  "Imagine if that attack had been carried home, sir." Shabaqo grinned. "If you'd been an enemy, you'd be dead with your unblooded sword still in your hand."

  "Do you think you can teach the men that technique?" Menkure asked.

  "Easily, sir. The men are disciplined already. It will be harder with the tribesmen."

  "Forget the tribesmen. In fact, don't practice this if any of them are looking. If any should see, explain it as just a means of enforcing discipline."

  Shabaqo nodded. "Yes sir. Er, how long have we got to train the men?"

  "Two days," Menkure said grimly. "I will expect wonders of you. Now, how can we improve this?"

  "Sir?"

  "It's a useful technique, I can see the possibilities. However, we haven't got the time to try it out on a real enemy and refine the methods. Let's see if we can come up with an improvement or two now."

  "I have a question," Aspalta said. "What is the second rank doing? Are they doing the same thing?"

  Shabaqo shrugged. "I hadn't really thought that far. I suppose they could."

  "The reason I ask is because if they swing their spears forward, they are going to hit the men in front."

  "Then I suppose, no." Shabaqo thought for a moment. "The ranks behind don't need it. As long as the first rank is straight, they only need to keep a pace or two behind to keep in place."

  "It seems a pity, though," Kasaya said. "The front rank charging with a sudden spear thrust then with swords and clubs would provide a good shock to the front ranks of the enemy. It would be good if the second rank could do the same."

  "The enemy also might be standing shoulder to shoulder," Kashta commented. "The spears are only going to kill a few."

  "But if we stand closer ourselves, we won't have room to fight," Shabaqo replied with a grimace.

  Smenkhkare had been standing apart, half-listening as he poked a spear into the ground, drawing patterns and erasing them with his foot. "What if the second rank stood in between the soldiers of the first rank and ran with spears raised. If they lowered them as the first rank swung theirs, you'd suddenly have twice as many spears in action."

  "Wonderful, my lord," Shabaqo said fulsomely. "An inspiration."

  "Do not agree just because I am your king," Smenkhkare snarled. "If my reasoning is faulty, say so without fear."

  After a moment's silence, Menkure coughed. "The plan is good, my lord," he said slowly. "But there is a flaw."

  The troop commanders looked on apprehensively at the man who dared to correct the king.

  Smenkhkare scowled but only said, "What is the flaw?"

  "The men in the second rank commonly follow two paces behind the first. When they lower their spears, the points will be hardly past the first rank. It helps, but it is not the shock weapon we hope for."

  "Then make the spears longer."

  "That will make them harder to hold."

  The king, his Tjaty, and the five troop commanders continued putting forward ideas and tearing them to pieces while the sun climbed to its zenith and started slipping down the western sky. At length they admitted partial defeat and the king ordered them to start training their men in secret.

  "With respect, my lord, I would recommend we only train half immediately."

  "Why? We will need every man trained and you give them only two days."

  "We cannot try this technique out on the Suri Kan and we cannot risk our allies hearing of it before we are ready. I say we train half our men and stage an attack on the other half. If it works against disciplined troops, it will work against the tribes."

  Smenkhkare nodded. "See to it. I will watch the attack at noon tomorrow." The troop commanders hurried off, some to resume their training of the tribesmen, others to educate their own troops in the new methods. Despite the secrecy surrounding the training, there was a hum of excitement around the camp fires that night. When Psalta of the Tu'qa demanded to know what was happening, Menkure managed to allay his suspicions with a tale of the distant Suri Kan tribesmen being on the move. The chief scowled and left the Kemetu camp.

  The next day at noon, Kashta and Aspalta made sure the Tu'qa and Q'ema tribesmen were out of the way, leaving the Kemetu soldiers free to try their maneuver. Smenkhkare took up his position near the untrained soldiers.

  "I want to see what it looks like when they charge," he explained.

  Shabaqo took his trained soldiers a hundred paces away and formed them up in five ranks, ten men across. While this was happening, Menkure addressed the other men, striving to keep his voice casual.

  "This is just an exercise," Menkure explained. "And no-one will be hurt.'

  "Much," Djutep said loudly. He was greeted with a roar of laughter.

  "Much," Menkure agreed. "You have all been given sticks as swords as we don't want injuries before the battle. Now, Shabaqo's men will charge you with their...well, those are supposed to be spears, but are actually just reeds. They are going to try something different, and I want you to try and resist them." He nodded and strode back to the king, allowing Kasaya and Djutep to firm up the ranks. "We're as ready as we're going to be, Djeser," he murmured.

  Smenkhkare shaded his eyes and looked toward Shabaqo. "Is this going to work?"

  Menkure shook his head. "Who knows?" He checked both groups of men, then looked to the king for permission. "On your word, my lord."

  "Do it."

  Menkure waved and Shabaqo barked a command, the small force of fifty swaying forward, the front ranks with reed spears held horizontally along the rank, the ones behind held vertically. They broke into a trot and from there into a run, the men jostling each other a bit but the lines holding remarkably firm. Forty paces to go and the men charged, running flat out. Gaps started to appear in the ranks and one man stumbled and fell. Instantly, a man behind leaped into the hole and as he did so, Shabaqo screamed out a command and the reed spears started swinging round and dipping.

  The waiting men stared curiously at the attacking men, murmurs of wonder and amusement breaking the silence. As the spears started moving, a ripple of apprehension sent the defenders stumbling back, raising their sword twigs.

  Shabaqo's men clamored as they drove into the defenders, screams of pain joining the yells of rage and excitement as the fragile reeds snapped and scored the skin. The defenders fought back bravely with their branches and eventually repulsed the attackers, though not before the Kemetu men had been reduced to a jostling mob. Shabaqo and Djutep called a halt and had their men stand down.

  "What did you think, my lord?" Menkure asked anxiously.

  Smenkhkare drew out the silence as he pondered. "It was not as terrifying as I thought it might be, but that could be simply because even the defenders knew what to expect. If it came as a surprise it might be more effective."

  "Shall we try them again, my lord?"

  "With no surprise factor? They'll be slaughtered, but by all means. The men seemed to enjoy it anyway."

  Shabaqo took his men back to the starting point and issued them with fresh reed spears. He spent several minutes moving among the ranks, talking and gesturing.

  Menkure talked to the defenders again. "You know what's going to happen this time, so I'll expect you to break up their attack smartly. Alright, prepare yourselves."

  The attackers moved forward again, faster, but with better discipline. Smenkhkare shaded his eyes, watching them. "They're bunching up," he said. At the forty pace mark, Shabaqo's men charged but this time when the spears swung to the front, the second rank stepped in between the men of the first rank and the third and fourth ranks closed up, presenting a bristling mass of reed spears to the defenders.

  The waiting men knew what was coming but expected the few spears of the previous attack rather than a hedge, and cringed as the front ranks overran the defenders and burst through into the open. Only then did Shabaqo's men drop their shattered spears and turn on the disorganised defenders with their twig swords. Moments later, there was a struggling mob of men thrashing each o
ther with twigs and branches, the supple wood beating out an uneven rhythm on the hide shields. The defenders were incensed and ashamed at having been overrun, and fought fiercely, while the attackers were determined to finish the job. It took several more minutes for the troop commanders to restore order.

  "What was that?" Djutep demanded. "That was not what we expected."

  Shabaqo grinned. "It worked though, didn't it? I've got a couple of other ideas too."

  Menkure looked interested. "Such as?"

  "Well, I thought about presenting such a broad front when we have so few..." Shabaqo broke off and stared past the Tjaty. "It's Aspalta."

  The Nubian troop commander came running from the south, his kilt flying. He raced past the staring Kemetu men and dropped to his knees in front of Smenkhkare. "My lord king," he gasped. "The Suri Kan are here, in strength."

  Menkure stepped forward, half blocking his king. "Where? How many?"

  "A scout just returned, my lord...sir." Aspalta looked from his king to the Tjaty, unsure who he should be reporting to. "At least five hundred men moving north, about a day's fast travel south of the villages. They will be here by tomorrow evening."

  "So, we come to it," Smenkhkare said softly.

  Menkure nodded. "The two villages first, tomorrow morning. The other Suri Kan must be close enough to see the effects of our attack but not so close they can aid their brothers." He motioned Aspalta to rise. "Have scouts monitor the Suri Kan position continually. I must know exactly where they are."

  "Already done, sir."

  "Good. Aspalta, return to your tribesmen. Bring the two chiefs to see me as soon as possible. Kasaya, Shabaqo, Djutep, start training your men immediately in the new methods. You have until sundown. Tomorrow, we attack the villages."

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  Chapter Eighteen

  Darkness encompassed him, an unrelenting darkness that told him nothing of where he was. He tried to remember who he was, what he had been doing, what had happened to him, but the jars of his mind were empty, broken--and their contents scattered. He existed, but time had little meaning, for nothing broke the uneven flow of awareness. There! Something happened ...a sound invaded his mind--low and rasping, rising and falling, somehow familiar. Where am I? Is this the underworld? Where are the infernal gods then ? His thoughts slipped away from him and the sound faded again...only to return, stronger. Now there was an odour overlain, a smell of metal and rotting meat...and pain. I am in hell . The pain grew more urgent, stabbing yet also dull and pervading. He heard a groan, almost drowned out by the humming roar all around him. Who's there ? He tried to call but heard neither his own voice nor a reply. A gap occurred in his thoughts and somehow he knew that more time had passed. This time the roaring sound had ceased but he heard the lonely call of a jackal and shivered within the cradle of his skull. The Eater of the Dead has come for me ...and as he thought it he felt, at a great distance, teeth rip his flesh. He cried out and this time heard the agonised scream, all at once felt his own limbs and knew he was not dead--not yet.

  Jebu opened his eyes and panicked for his sight was limited to a vague comprehension of shapes in blackness unlike the previous murky darkness. Before, the blindness had surrounded him like a woolen blanket while this, by contrast was sharp and...and...like being at the bottom of a deep pit. A tiny pinprick of light danced and swam in a triangle of darkness surrounded by dimly perceived shadow. Gradually the mote of light drifted across the triangle and vanished into the shadow. A star! Then where am I ? Memory leaked back, trickling like the viscous blood from an old flesh wound...there was a battle ...the Kemetu king, and I nearly had him. Then ...his mind shied away from that train of thought. I am tumbled with the slain. My army is destroyed and I am numbered with the dead. These are corpses that lie above me .

  Mustering such strength as he could find, Jebu pushed at the bodies above him, easing out from underneath, trying to ignore the agony in his left calf, his aching left side, his throbbing head, and the wash of fire from his right hand. After what seemed half the night, he lay on his back between the bodies of his men, staring up at the most glorious sight he had ever seen, a chill-sharpened sky studded with stars and the cold wash of light that was Ama-ga, the Mother Milk. The pain from his wounds nagged at him, when all he wanted was to lie back and sleep and with a groan he tried to sit up. A scream of agony tore through him when he put his right hand on the ground and he rolled over, hugging his wound while his vision blurred and dimmed. A little later, the pain receded enough for him to try again, this time favouring his right hand. Jebu sat and looked down the long, shallow valley toward where he knew the plain should lie, but instead was a field of dancing golden flowers. He frowned, trying to make his mind work properly. Not flowers...can't be flowers...flame...fires... Kemetu camp fires .

  As Jebu's mind cleared, the pain in his mind became sharper, more localised and he became aware of other concerns, a mouth seemingly full of ashes and a swollen tongue, and lower down, a bladder that threatened forced relief. Fumbling at his armoured tunic and kilt, he rolled to one side and pissed, the stream splashing and hissing on the baked and trampled ground. A sharp, ammoniacal stink filled his nostrils and he groaned with the sheer relief of the action. Readjusting his clothing, he lay on his back once more and caught his breath, the mere act of relieving himself having drained the strength from his bones.

  The stars wheeled slowly across the sky until, in what he judged was the early hours of the new day, a waning half moon rose above the shoulder of the ridge and cast a silvery glow over the battlefield. Through eyes adjusted to the darkness, Jebu saw the mounds and drifts of bodies all around him as if a storm had swept through a threshing floor. With the vision came the realization that death, though it had missed him this time, had not wandered far. The Kemetu victors would return with the new day to strip the bodies and would certainly kill him unless he could hide. Can I travel, or am I too badly injured ? Gingerly, he drew his left foot up and felt his calf with his left hand. Puncture wounds, no doubt from the jackal's teeth, met his probing fingers, but seemingly no other injury. I can walk then . His head ached and his hand probed again, feeling caked, dried blood around a gash in the scalp and a swollen lump. The wound in his side concerned him and he fumbled with his tunic again, lifting the bronze-plated cloth aside and feeling for what might be a fatal wound. Relief washed through him as his fingers met only bruised and battered flesh but no blood, no open wound. Panting, Jebu lay back and braced himself for the last and possibly most serious of his wounds--his right hand.

  It can't be too bad , he told himself. I can move my fingers without added pain, so nothing's broken . Maybe ...He lifted his right arm and looked at it in growing horror and disbelief. His arm ended at the wrist in a swollen and earth-caked stump, his hand with its gnarled and callused fingers and gold general's ring, was missing. Jebu gasped and then cried out in anger and frustration. "Where is it? It can't be gone, I can feel it." He brought his left hand across to feel for the missing hand and screamed again, in agony this time, as his left hand bumped the throbbing stump. Tears of shame and humiliation filled his eyes as he realised the fate of his hand. The Kemetu soldiers, after the battle, had chopped the right hand off every Amorite, a battle-offering to their king. Thinking him dead and not recognizing him, Jebu had been treated the same and only a fortuitous dropping of the sheared arm into blood-soaked mud had prevented him bleeding to death. "I might as well be dead," he cried. "How can I fight without my sword hand?"

  The pale moon rose higher and behind it the first grayness of dawn faded the eastern stars. Jebu sat and stared at the scattered embers of the Kemetu camp on the plain, waiting bitterly for death to come and find him. He ignored the pain from his body, feeling the pain of loss and failure more keenly. How did this happen? How did I fail? We baited the trap, the Kemetu took the bait and we sprung it. The king was within our grasp, along with Paramessu. I saw the king's chariot overwhelmed and then...and the
n our own arrows cut me down . Jebu's hand went to the long gash in his scalp again.

  What were they thinking? How could they possibly mistake my standard for ...Jebu concentrated, willing his headache away. He thought back to the arrival of the archers and their division into three groups, the first volleys of arrows rising like startled birds into the sky...three? There should have been two. One for the king and his general in their chariot and one for Paramessu...The third was for me . He remembered the men falling around him, shaking his fist at the gods and the treachery of men, then the kick of a mule blow to his body, falling and the final blow to his head.

  Who planned this? It was Ashraz's strategy but he would not do this alone. What has he to gain? It was...it was Aziru. He wants me dead. Why ?

  A trumpet blew down on the plain, heralding the first hint of dawn. Jebu stretched as much as his wounds allowed and looked toward the hills. Why can wait , he thought. I'll never find out unless I survive, and I'll never survive unless I get into hiding...now .

  Gritting his teeth, Jebu struggled to his feet and stood swaying, banishing the sudden grayness in his world with an act of will. He cradled his right arm and stumbled forward a few paces before stopping to check his direction. Wrong way , he thought grimly. Turning, he tried again, and as the light grew, worked his way slowly uphill and away from the field of the dead.

  Full dawn found him near the scrub-covered entrance to the side valley and more in need of shelter than anything else, he turned aside and moved into the narrow defile, stumbling over large boulders and loose gravel. The scrub and the rapidly-narrowing valley walls hid him from any Kemetu searchers. As the sun rose higher, the heat bounced off the steep walls of the valley, and thirst became a prime concern. Already dehydrated by blood loss and dizzy headed, Jebu's mouth felt as dry as the land around him. He remembered something he had heard as a lad and stooped to pick up a small smooth pebble, the action graying his vision again. I need water . Putting the pebble in his mouth, he moved it around awkwardly with his swollen tongue, hoping to stimulate a flow of saliva. After a bit he spat it out, almost as dry as when he put it in.