by Diana Gainer
"Yes!" Amunmusís shouted, waving his arms frantically, "unless we stop them now, and I do mean immediately, the two armies of the invaders will meet here at Manufrí before the New Year festival!"
Siptáha gasped and choked. His lanky frame shook so violently that his knobby knees banged together. The lesser nobles, in row upon row behind the two high officials, began to shout at one another in alarm. On his gilded throne, Mirniptáha kept his inscrutable eyes straight ahead, as oblivious to the onrushing danger as he had been, earlier, to the praise and the briefing.
Siptáha glanced from the immobile king to the furiously pacing official beside him. "But, but," the tall overseer of Upper Mízriya sputtered, "a few of those miserable, mud-brick towns of the north fall every year to Libúwan hands. That is simply part of the uncivilized tradition of Mízriya's lesser kingdom. The people there are used to such things. It has never kept them from paying their taxes before." A clamor rose from the assembled nobility, agreeing with Siptáha. The crowd of high born Mízriyans clad in white linen pressed forward to hear the shorter official's reply.
"Speak," commanded the Great House, his shrill, imperial voice instantly silencing the assembly. Without turning his head under its heavy, double crown, Mirniptáha raised a beneficent, if shriveled hand. All eyes turned to the sovereign to note the old man addressing a kilted soldier. The warrior had trotted to the very foot of the royal dais, escaping the notice of the bickering officials. Kneeling now upon his leather apron, the panting soldier called out, "O Great House, I am Bikurnár, commander of your mercenary troops from Kanaqán. I have just come from Un and I have momentous news! The camp of the invaders has been located, just a day's march from the city's walls."
"By Amún!" cried the broad-shouldered Amun-musís, "You must hear me now, my lord. Listen!" This time Siptáha did not interrupt his shorter brother, but sank down upon the steps of the dais, stricken with terror. But Amun-musís addressed the warrior first, quietly asking, "What word has come from the rest of the delta? How many fortresses have fallen?"
The soldier shook his head. "We do not know. No written message can penetrate the enemy lines to find out. Only a few officials of low rank have come from the north to take refuge in Un. Even so, each man tells roughly the same tale. All the small towns have fallen into the invaders' hands. If the citadels have not yet been sacked and burned, they are certainly under siege and cut off from each other and from us. The situation is truly critical now. The Libúwans have even overrun the southern oases. The whole of the Lower Kingdom is lost."
Amun-musís shook his fists in the air in frustration. He made an abbreviated bow toward the throne, shouting, "My royal father, life, prosperity, and health, you must act now! Give me your command, but give it immediately. Say the word so that I can assemble an army to drive these invaders from our lands. You would not listen to me before, nor would your father, may he rest in Ra's horizon! For uncounted years our southern-born kings have come and gone from the throne without addressing the problem of the Libúwans. No Káushan bowmen have been stationed in the north to protect the palaces and temples there. Now all of Mízriya will suffer for that neglect. How can I make it any clearer to you? These invaders love death and hate life. They go about the countryside, fighting daily. That is all they live for. Do you see now? They earn their very bread and beer with spears and arrows. The whole delta is desolate, as if the sterile sands of the Red Land had covered it over. All of the livestock has been removed from the lands of the nobles and even from the sacred estates of the temples. Many of the people are even sending tribute to the Libúwan chief now. I mean to say, they are paying taxes to the chieftain Dawúd rather than here to their rightful sovereign in the south!"
The Great King's white eyebrows rose abruptly at the mention of the misdirected taxes. The old man came to sudden life. He sat up straight. "Livestock gone!" he called out, his thin voice rising querulously. "Tribute to Libúwans! I will not stand for this. All men must pay their taxes without delay. Amun-musís, this is your fault. I made you governor of the Lower Kingdom. This is your problem. You will solve it before the New Year’s festival or I will have your ears and nose cut off!"
The broad-shouldered official stared at his overlord for a moment in disbelief. Beside him, Siptáha managed to throw off enough of his fright to gloat, pleased by the imperial disfavor shown his brother. Recovering himself, Amun-musís bowed low to the sovereign. Then the stocky governor of the Lower Kingdom readjusted his wig. Amun-musís turned to the assembled nobility in their ankle-length gowns. "My brother Mízriyans," he called out, "call up all the trained warriors from your provinces, every last one of them. Send them, with their arms and armor, here to Manufrí. Also, give me any young men you can spare from the grain fields, some from every town and village, all that you can possibly gather. Go now! Quickly! We must be ready to march in fourteen days!"
The soldier who had brought the dire message to the king now rose. He came to the governor's side as the nobles began to disperse. Turning to Bikurnár, Amun-musís continued speaking, leaning close to the soldier's ear in order to be heard over the erupting bustle of frightened, high-born men. "Bikurnár, send messengers to every part of the country. Every mercenary who can be reached must come as well, your Sharudín tribesmen as well as the Káushans. See that all the chariots are in good repair. Have the bronze-smiths cast more arrow heads and spear points. Put the weaving women to work making quilted armor for as many of the soldiers as they can. We cannot afford to lose the first battle with the invaders, while they are still divided into two armies.
"I want you to remind your troops that they are not to stop fighting when they have killed a man in battle. Mízriya will not allow any warrior to choose his share of the booty, whether he is native born or a paid mercenary. Make sure that your men understand this. No soldier may strip a dead man of his bronze until the battle is over. Each warrior’s allotment will be distributed afterward, you understand – afterward!"
"Yes, yes," Bikurnár said, nodding emphatically, "we know. I will remind the warriors, but we know. Afterward, everything is brought to the Great King. The Great House, Mirniptáha, himself will allot the booty as he sees fit."
"Exactly," Amunmusís said. "Now, you must tell me everything you know. Where is this enemy camp located?"
"Close to the town of Pribaráist," the soldier answered curtly.
"And how many of the enemy are there?" asked the governor.
"We are not certain. I advised my spies not to go too close to the camp. If they were caught, not only would we learn nothing, but we might actually hasten an attack. But the camp is certainly very large. I can tell you that much. It stretches from the Shakán canal on the one side, to the Atí canal on the other."
Amun-musís grimaced at the news. "Can you tell me, at least, how many nations have allied themselves with that miserable chieftain, Mirurí?"
"My spies recognized some, but not others. Most are men we have seldom seen this far south, from the northern islands of barbarians, called Ak'áiwiya. A few are from Kanaqán, mercenaries no doubt, and men from the eastern side of Kep'túr like our own Sharudín. Some are from the Náshiyan empire. My men recognized their conical, felt hats."
"Náshiya!" cried the governor, his anxiety forgotten in sudden rage. "I cannot believe the ingratitude of Emperor Tudqáliya! Have we not sent generous shipments of grain in his time of need? How dare he join an attack on us!"
Bikurnár shrugged. "I imagine Tudqáliya has troubles of his own, these days. Hunger is probably the least of them. Kizzuwátna has sent us emissaries of their own, as in ancient times, and Alásiya is said to be an independent kingdom again, too. The whole northern empire would seem to be falling apart."
Amun-musís groaned and shook his head. "The presence of Náshiyan soldiers among our enemies is definitely an evil omen, whatever the reasons for it. My father will have to make a great sacrifice to appease the gods who allowed this misfortune to fall upon us. Let us hope that his mind c
an turn from the tax lists long enough to find us a good omen."
"May Astárt and the divine baqál hear him!" Bikurnár agreed. "If we are going to win this battle, we will certainly need the support of the gods."
aaa
True to his word, Amun-musís prepared to lead Mízriya's army north in fourteen days' time. From the towers of Manufrí's walls, officials in transparent, linen cloaks waved and cheered the ranks of the hastily assembled army as they met in the fertile plain outside the great wealthy city.
Amun-musís, governor of the Lower Kingdom, stood in his gilded chariot to watch them come. His imperial father and the others of highest rank waited in equally rich carts beside him. That day, Amun-musís wore no diaphanous linen and he had not painted around his eyes with kohl. His short, linen kilt was bleached a spotless white, and his sandals, as always, were new and rubbed with oil to make them gleam. But he wore a soldier's protective, leather apron, and his torso was covered with bronze plates sewn to a quilted base. His appearance was as splendid as the ruler's, but, unlike the Great House, the aged Mirniptáha, the governor was prepared for war.
A thin column of spearmen marched before the royal chariots, making brief bows of respect as they passed. These spearmen bore their large shields on their backs, the stiff hide curved behind each man's head upon its wooden frame, the straight bottom rim tapping the back of the man's legs as he walked. The spears they carried were stout and serviceable, with wide, bronze points. Identical, black wigs ended at their shaved chins. Every man's short, white kilt was immaculately clean, his sandals new, his upper body clothed in an embroidered and quilted corselet. In neat lines, they strode forward confidently, their leaders bearing the standards of their native provinces on tall poles.
Bikurnár, holding the reins of Amun-musís's horses, announced to the governor, "As you see, the nobles were responsive. We have troops from as far south as the provinces of the Hare and the Antelope. There are also a good deal more from the Date palm than I expected."
As Amun-musís nodded with satisfaction, the Mízriyan spearmen halted and turned their faces toward the chariots of the men of paramount rank. Alongside them came officers of intermediate status, their bronze-plate corselets alone distinguishing their dress from that of the spearmen. But these kilted and sandaled men carried no spears or shields. Bows of cane and antelope horn were their weapons, quivers of arrows on their backs. They, too, ended their march before the assembled royalty.
Behind the native Mízriyans, the mercenary troops of various lands came forward, far outnumbering the first ranks of spearmen and archers. Heavily armed and armored warriors of Kanaqán formed well over a third of the army, men bearing their native, circular shields, their heavy spears, and curved daggers. On their heads they wore their traditional leather cap-helmets adorned with the horns of bulls. Only their shaved chins and the insignia of the crescent moon, emblem of the divine baqál, mounted atop the helmets, would distinguish them from their brethren who served the enemy.
Bikurnár drew his own curved dagger and raised it over his head, signaling these men to stop their forward progress. "My men are aware that some of our kinsmen have sided with Libúwa, governor Amun-musís," the mercenary leader informed the imperial son. "But you have no reason to doubt our loyalty, or that of our fellow spearmen from Kep'túr who have joined our ranks. The Great House, Mirniptáha, has paid us all well for our services, so far, as his father did before him."
"May he rest in Ra's horizon forever," Amunmusís responded automatically, not taking his eyes from the warriors in the field.
The final ranks took their places, the tall, dark men of Kaush. A few wore the costume of their homeland, a kilt of lion- or leopard-skin, their bodies artificially colored white with chalk or red with ochre. But most dressed like the native Mízriyans, in bleached linen kilts, hanging to mid-calf in the back, cut short in front above the knee. All their chins were shaved, in the Mízriyan fashion, and their heads were closely shorn, the officers wearing short, Mízriyan wigs. Their cane arrows bore Mízriyan bronze points, as well. But their longbows, as tall as the men themselves, were Káushan. These archers formed the largest component of the assembled army, well over half the total.
Amun-musís felt his chest swell with confidence at the sight. "It is not for nothing that the Káushans serve as the chief security force throughout our country," he announced quietly to Bikurnár, leaning down to speak in the mercenary's ear. "They are my own mother's people, these blackest of men, and their color is a sign of the sun god’s favor. Their homeland is the closest to the birthplace of our own holy river, too. It is surely a sign of divine favor, also, that so many could be brought here to the capital so quickly."
Bikurnár nodded. "If anyone can hunt down Mirurí, it will be these southerners."
"O great and noble, imperial Father, may life, prosperity, and health be yours, for a million years!" Siptáha suddenly cried out, from his chariot on the opposite side of the Great King from Amun-musís. "Your own divine father, Ra, who shines in the sky every day, will certainly decree you a momentous victory in the coming battle. Let us now send for a priest to come with the bull for the sacrifice. The army wishes to see an auspicious omen, as they prepare their hearts to face the peoples of the desert and of the sea."
"Call my officers," Mirniptáha ordered, his voice crisp. "Bring them before me, as witnesses to the portent we are about to see."
Bikurnár nodded and bowed, releasing the governor's horses to jog among the various companies of soldiers, assembling the men of highest rank. Close to the Great House, the troop leaders quickly gathered, trotting alongside the imperial cart, each dressed in his native costume. Each company commander came from the same foreign land as his men, to ensure the loyalty of the troops. But all the highest officers, along with the companies of highest rank and greatest privilege, the archers, were native Mízriyans. These archers moved in closest to Mirniptáha's chariot, the foreign troop leaders in a semi-circle around them.
"Send for the bull," the sovereign commanded.
All eyes turned to the long-horned animal now being led by kilted priests and their assistants from the gates of the city. The fat bull's horns were decked with threads of gold and copper, wreaths of flowers around its heavy neck. The imperial ruler stepped down from his chariot, his sons, Siptáha and Amun-musís, accompanying him on either side to an open space between the officers and the waiting troops.
The oldest priest presented the monarch with an ancient ax, its blade chipped from green flint. Mirniptáha grasped the gilded handle, his hands trembling with age, and rested the weapon on his shoulder, ready to fell the sacrificial animal. The bare-headed holy men of Manufrí's great temples officiated, their bodies naked to the waist. Chanting enigmatic words, they stood before the Great King while temple assistants, clad only in kilts like the priests, led the placid bull to the place of slaughter.
Mirniptáha stood on unsteady feet, leaning toward the heavy ax on his shoulder. His withered lips parted and his breath came and went in quick, shallow gasps. Siptáha silently moved behind the monarch to help support the sacrificial weapon while the ox was prepared.
With practiced ease, the temple assistants wound ropes about the animal's legs and, when it bellowed in protest, whipped another around its tongue. Angered, the once quiet beast tossed its tale and kicked, lowering its head to thrust decorated horns at its captors. One assistant leapt boldly upon the back of the bull and grasped the horns, trying to turn the animal's head. Another seized the tail and twisted it with both hands. At the same time, the other temple workers pulled the ropes that bound its legs, bringing all four limbs together under the bull's body. It fell, helpless, onto its side.
The Great King stepped forward with his ax to deal the death blow, a slice deep into the bull's neck. All the soldiers cheered and raised their weapons in the air. But the old man stumbled backward afterward. Siptáha had to embrace the monarch's waist to keep him from falling.
As the temple a
ssistants held the dead animal's bound legs, wrestling it to its back, the priests came forward with burnished bronze dishes to collect the blood of the bull. With sacred flint knives, the assistants next had their turn, cutting up the sacrificial animal. The legs were removed first, these choicest portions dedicated to the gods, along with the heart. As the lesser men worked, soon reddened from chin to feet, the oldest of the priests carefully smelled the blood and examined the meat for signs of the acceptability of the offering and the will of the deities.
The high priest declared the sacrifice acceptably pure and Mirniptáha nominally presided over the distribution of the various portions of the carcass. His royal feet swimming in gore, he gestured at each part held up by the assistants and pointed out his chosen recipient. His face remained as pale as death but for a red patch on each cheek. Sweat trickled down in streams from beneath his heavy, red and white crown.
When the ceremony was over, Siptáha whispered to the aged monarch, "Let me address the army in your place, my great royal father, may life, prosperity, and health be yours." The old man nodded weakly, taking the arm of a surprised Amun-musís as the taller man moved away.
"I speak on behalf of the Great House of the Black Land, our king and golden Harú, the falcon of the beautiful silver plumes, Mirniptáha Hutpí-hírma!" Siptáha called out. "He stormed forth from his mother's womb to establish his fame with great victories, to trample all enemies beneath his feet. He does not care whether it is ten chiefs who face him or ten thousand. For last night he had a dream, a most promising sign from the gods."
