by Andre Norton
To the veteran, much of this was already an old story. To Rahotep some of the information was puzzling. The rest he grasped because of his interest in the north. But most of all he listened eagerly to all Nereb had to say about the Hyksos military might.
When the invaders had lapped over the Sinai causeway into the delta lands two hundred years earlier, they had come as a destroying wave into an Egypt already war-torn and divided by puppet kings and rebel nobles. Nobles drew back to their nomes, holding what they might, trying to take more from weaker neighbors. They had not joined together to fight a common enemy.
The chariots of the invaders swept like locusts across a field of new grain. And, like those avid insects, they left but the bare earth behind them. In the delta they built Avaris, that city that was mainly a fort such as Egypt--or Nubia--had never dreamed could stand. From it they ruled not only Egypt but also the lands of the Asiatics, until a man wondered where they had not set up their false god and their frowning cities.
Every Egyptian, from the delta to the Third Cataract in the Kush lands, knew that old tale of destruction and death. But it was from Nereb that the Nubian party heard for the first time of the Theban challenge.
“Chariots,” said the northern officer. “We have horses. We have bought them, traded for them, stolen them!” His teeth gleamed suddenly in a smile as if he remembered some foray of his own. “The Royal Son and Heir, Kamose, is a master of chariots, training his own horses, schooling young officers in the art. Look you, a smashing line of chariots to front your attack, and then footmen to follow after--”
“Archers on the wings!” Rahotep could visualize that in part--though he had seen only one chariot. And his examination of that had been limited to a passing stare.
“Archers?” Nereb did not appear to be impressed. “Archers could not stand up to the barbarians’ charge before--”
Methen laughed softly. “Ah, but, Lord Nereb, the Captain Rahotep speaks of archery as it is not known among us in the north. Show the lord your bow, Kheti!”
The Nubian brought out his weapon and strung it. Nereb tested the strength of its pull, ran a questing hand down the curve of the arch, which was built of layers of wood and horn glued together.
“You have not seen such a weapon at Thebes,” said Methen. “Nor could any archer of the north loose a shaft from it, for the desert archers are trained to launch their arrows to the mark from the month they first stand upon their feet. Moreover, Lord Nereb, they have yet another trick to aid them besides the excellence of their arms.” He looked to Rahotep, and the captain took the hint.
“Hori, Kakaw, Intef, Baku.” He named some of his men.
Glad of the chance to vary the monotony of sailing, his small force assembled on the narrow deck in line, their bows strung, blunt hunting arrows to hand. One of the rowing oars splashed on the river surface, sending a covey of waterfowl flapping up into the blazing sun. As one, bow cords were drawn, and, almost as one, the arrows were released at a snap of Kheti’s fingers.
Fowls fell. And Nereb uttered a short word of surprise. They had been aiming at birds. But supposing such archers had been sighting against a troop of charging chariots?
“Had the Hyksos urged their forces into Nubia,” Methen said, “perhaps they would have discovered that their horses and chariots might not have won the day. We have brought you archers, Lord, such as Egypt has not truly known before. Also they have as keen noses for a tangled trail in tracking as they have keen eyes for an arrow target. Pharaoh may not have his three regiments, but you do not return to him quite empty-handed!”
“So it would seem.” Nereb was watching the crew of the ship retrieve the dead waterfowl. “Such archery as that I have not seen before. Nor has our lord.”
“Plant your archers on the wings”--Rahotep took up the argument where he had left it before Methen’s practical demonstration--”and lead your enemy between them--”
Nereb hooked his fingers in his dagger belt. “The prince must see this and speedily. Aye, perhaps I have brought Pharaoh some good out of Nubia after all and am no failure in his service.”
Chapter 5: KAMOSE, COMMANDER OF CHARIOTS
The fleet of ships came into the quays before Thebes in mid-morning, Nereb’s smaller vessel leading. Behind the city of the eastern bank stood the limestone cliffs, already faded from their early morning red-gold to a dull, whitish-brown overlaid with a gathering heat haze.
But it was Thebes itself that held the full attention of the party from Nubia. Semna was a great fort with its attendant administration courts, the villas of its officials. Elephantine, the Ivory Island, had been a fine sight. But this was Thebes, for centuries capital of Egypt. And to the men from the border, it was as unknown as the courts of the Minoans in the salt sea.
Soft fur brushed the underside of Rahotep’s chin as the cub he held made a jealous bid for his attention. The captain was struggling not to reveal his wonder at the sight before him as a crewman tossed a mooring rope to the quayside and the Shining in Thebes was brought into her berth.
The larger troop vessels, which had joined them at Elephantine, were maneuvering to land, the men crowding their docks, when there was a stir ashore. Merchants gathered up their wares and hastily pulled back from the road, hearing a shouting from the town, the scurrying of burdened work slaves.
Two spearmen, their heavy pikes at carry, their shields between their shoulders, came as outrunners, and behind them was a light chariot, the stallion that drew it snorting impatiently as the driver kept him to a trot. It was clearly a war chariot. Strapped to the sides of the light equipage were cases of arrows, and a standard pole was mounted beside the young man who stood on a swaying platform, his body weaving expertly to balance against the movement of his unsteady flooring.
A company of spearmen, which Rahotep was forced to approve, followed at a steady lope. They had neither the height nor the heavier build of his archers, but any officer could appreciate that these were seasoned fighting men. Did they represent a picked corps, the well-trained personal guard of a High ranking commander, or were they representative of Sekenenre’s whole force? If the latter were true--the captain’s excitement grew--Out of Thebes hundreds of years earlier had poured such a force under Sesostris, the conqueror of Nubia, the subduer of Kush. If another Sesostris had arisen here--!
The chariot came to a stop at the end of the dock, and one of the spearmen darted forward to grasp the reins the officer tossed him. Nereb had leaped ashore and gone to meet the newcomer, but the impatience of the latter was such that that meeting occurred halfway down the quay.
As the young charioteer’s head moved, Rahotep saw a wide strip of patterned linen drooping from the side of his headband. And he did not need to witness Nereb’s low obeisance, the prostrations of the commoners along the dock, to know that this was one of the royal princes.
But it was a prince impatient of ceremony, for his staff of rank touched Nereb’s shoulder, excusing the ceremonial greeting, and it was apparent he was asking a flood of questions. Then he looked to the Shining in Thebes. Rahotep was ready. His archers were drawn up in a line behind him, Kheti a little to the left. And at the rattle of his sistrum they gave their native salute, the deep-throated roar of their war cry carrying across the river, into the town, until the buzz of life there stilled for an instant in wonder.
Then Rahotep made his own salute, echoed by Kheti and Methen. And he waited with bent head for acknowledgment. It came quickly, called across the short space between deck and shore.
“You are seen, Captain!”
He straightened to face the prince. Seen so closely the Royal Son was younger, younger and somehow frailer than he had seemed when in command of his chariot. He might be Rahotep’s age, or perhaps a year or two older. His thin young body moved tautly, almost awkwardly, as if he had to force it to his will. The flesh on his face was close to the delicate bone structure, but his eyes were intent, old, measuring, as he surveyed the men from Nubia.
; Those eyes examined the line of archers, weighing, speculating--as if each man was checked, assayed, and fitted into some pattern known to their new commander alone. Rahotep was certain that not a single foreign detail had been missed--that the size of those bows and the lean fitness of the men who bore them had been noted. And when that stare reached him, he braced himself to meet it unmoved.
“These are Border Scouts, Captain?” The clipped northern speech was spare and to the point.
“They are, Royal Son. All veterans in that service.”
“We have heard of the Scouts.” That was a quiet, almost colorless statement, but it warmed Rahotep. His men were accepted with the recognition they should and did merit.
“You will remain unattached until Pharaoh commands you--”
Rahotep could not allow his instant disappointment to show. So they were not yet accepted into the army after all. It would depend upon Pharaoh’s decision. And his thoughts went on to practical matters--where could they find quarters in the city when they had no official standing? Or should they remain on the ship? But he continued to stand at attention with his men while the prince spoke to Nereb, then moved on to inspect the regiments now disembarking from the ships of the southern nomes.
Rahotep dismissed his men before he spoke to Methen. “So we are not after all in the service of Pharaoh,” he broke out hotly. “These northerners perhaps class us with the barbarian Kush--”
“Hold your tongue!” Methen bade him as sharply as he had a decade earlier when he had been putting a boy hardly out of the Women’s Hall through his training. “Our Lord uses his tools handily. You have not been passed over--to the contrary, you will appear before Pharaoh personally--a great honor. That was Prince Kamose, the Royal Heir, and the commander of the right wing of the army. And has he not said that you shall rest under the orders of Pharaoh? Walk carefully, Rahotep. There were dangers in plenty in Semna--there may be more waiting in Thebes for the unwary.”
“Prince Kamose knows men when he sets his eyes upon them, Lord,” Kheti agreed. “He is no fortress soldier, but one who runs with his men in the wastes. There shall be work for bows, spears, and axes, for those who march at his heels.” His head up, he sniffed at the mixed smells from the shore. “All towns are alike, save that some are bigger or older than others.
I shall keep a close eye upon these archers, Lord, lest they plan to go exploring for the reason of tasting strange beer or some such foolishness. Do we remain on this ship?”
The problem of their immediate quarters was solved when Nereb returned to the ship with the information that they were to be guests in his father’s house until Pharaoh signified their future. So, with slave porters bearing their limited baggage, they marched through the crowded ways about the dockside of Thebes out into the wider avenues and so at length to the walled city homes of the nobles.
Though he was used to the simplicity of the frontier forts, Rahotep had been reared in the luxury of the Viceroy’s palace in Nubia. And from the tales of his mother’s servants, from the nostalgic reminiscences of Hentre and Methen, he had built up a picture of the old northern capital that had led him to believe that Semna itself was as a Kush village when compared to Thebes. But reality erred from that picture. There was the setting of wealth, of fine and easy living, but it was only a setting. The jewels it had been fashioned to display were gone. Thebes was shabby, old, a beggarman of cities, shadow capital of a ravished land. And Rahotep, seeing the holes in the time-worn fabric, was as disconcerted as he had been at Prince Kamose’s reception of his archers. The wealth of Egypt had been sucked north to the treasure houses of the invaders. There were only remnants left for her own people.
Just as Thebes was a shadow capital, so was Nereb’s father a shadow officer of its rule. Sa-Nekluft, Treasurer of the North, Fanbearer on the right hand of Pharaoh, occupied an office without power or duties--for northern Egypt was enemy held and there was no tribute to be reckoned in its treasury, no business to transact in its judgment hall. Yet the very fact that Sa-Nekluft had his skeleton organization argued that time might work on their side once more and the Red House of the north rise beside the White of the south.
The porter admitted them to the outer court with a salute to Nereb, and they found themselves in a garden. Sa-Nekluft’s duties kept him in Thebes, but his house was that of a country nomarch. Trees grew in circular beds of watered earth, vines looped in trellises, and fronting them on the other side of a long pool were the two-storied central chambers with a high-roofed veranda extending out toward the water. Thebes was a cauldron of baking heat under the sun, but here was an oasis of coolness.
There were bright rugs on the walls between the carved and painted pillars supporting the veranda roof, and the sides of the pool had been cleverly painted above the water line with reeds and dragonflies. The scent of flowers was in the air, and the noises of the city were so faint beyond the high walls that one could almost forget it existed.
A young gazelle picked a delicate path toward them, its wide eyes curious, and a dog-faced baboon, eating a date, made an indelicate comment and hurled the stone with such accuracy that it struck upon Kheti’s quiver. Whereupon the baboon screamed in triumph and went to all fours in a victory dance.
The leopard cub, thoroughly aroused by such bad manners, spat and struggled in Rahotep’s grip, eager to avenge the indignity upon an old enemy of his tribe. The captain had to use his cloak to bag the fighter for his own protection.
“Belikae!”
The baboon paused, its head turned over its shoulder to survey--a little apprehensively--the man coming along the edge of the pool. Then Nereb strode forward, going down on one knee, bowing his head beneath the sign the other sketched with his hand, before he rose and they embraced as close kinsmen.
“My lord”--Nereb beckoned to the Nubian party--“may I bring before you the Commander Methen, once Captain of the Striking Hawk, the Captain Rahotep, leader of Desert Scouts and son to the Viceroy of Nubia that was, and the worthy Kheti, Leader of Ten among the Scouts, also those archers who have pledged themselves to the service of Pharaoh in the sight of Amon-Re--”
The Nubian force saluted. Sa-Nekluft smiled, making quick acknowledgment of their deference.
“To the Commander Methen, the Captain Rahotep, and those of their company, welcome, three times welcome! It has been long since those of the south have come to serve under Pharaoh in this city. But neither has it been forgotten how well they served in the past! This roof is your roof as long as you have need--”
He clapped his hands and gave swift orders to the serving man who answered. The archers were to be quartered with his own guard, and Kheti was introduced to his officers, while Rahotep and Methen were accorded the welcome of honored guests.
Though the magnificence about him might be faded, the appearance of wealth but a slicking of paint across sun-dried and powdery wood, yet Rahotep was ill at ease as he rummaged through his chest of possessions, hunting for the best of his limited changes of apparel. His single piece of “gold of valor,” granted him on the occasion of a successful border foray the year before, was a cuff bracelet, a plain band of gold with the figures of lions raised above a background of minute bits of dark blue lapis lazuli. And he could wear the twin upper armlets of his rank, simple gold rings inset with the hawk of his mother’s family in green malachite.
But for the rest he had only a warrior’s dress, not even the transparent overskirt of a nobleman. Well, what was he but a warrior? He would proclaim his calling openly. But he took care in donning the finely pleated kilt of linen, the cross belts for the upper body, and in adjusting his sphinx head-cloth with determination that its ends lie smooth and even on his shoulders. A last searching examination of his person in the bronze mirror showed him a figure fit to appear at a military inspection, if not in the company of noble feasters.
Though the last buckle was clasped, the last stiff fold in place, Rahotep still lingered in the guest chamber, reluctant to venture out in
to the bustle of the great hall where Sa-Nekluft was entertaining. Had the captain been sent directly to the barracks, he would have been far happier. But to plunge so directly into a life of which he knew very little, of which, in the person of Unis, he knew little good, was an ordeal that awakened in him those same uneasy symptoms he experienced before a dawn attack. And because he recognized those, he moved to attack--or rather to face those in the great hall.
Luckily he counted of low rank among the present assembly, and as such, he would not be given one of the seats of honor with his host at the upper end. He hesitated a moment in the doorway, trying to mark down some seating mat behind a pillar or in a corner from which he could spy out the land and yet not be noted. But he was not to escape so easily, for Nereb appeared out of nowhere to hail him.
After one swift glance at the northern officer’s dress, Rahotep felt more keenly than ever the pinch of his own poverty, for the Theban wore not only a gold circlet of rank binding in his ceremonial wig, but a wide collar, armlets, and belt ax, all gold and gem-set. On the other hand, his kilt was the short one of a field soldier, though its front lappet was ornamented.
“Captain, General Amony has come and would speak with you.”
With a swallowed sigh Rahotep followed the other on a path threaded between occupied seat mats to the upper end of the hall, where the stools of lesser nobles and the high chairs of the chief guests stood in an irregular half circle, each with a small table loaded with delicacies to hand.
In passing, Rahotep marked Methen seated on a stool and deep in talk with an older man in the dress of an Amon priest and an even older one with the look of an administrator-scribe. Then they reached the high seats, and Rahotep bowed to Sa-Nekluft. Beside the treasurer sat a thick-bodied man with a width of shoulder almost that of a Kush warrior. His short soldier’s wig was crowned with the circlet of a general, and his arms and chest glittered with what could only be gold of valor, since the bee and lion designs were repeated over and over in bracelets, armlets, pectoral, collar, ax, and belt. He was holding a goblet as the two young men advanced, and he did not put it down but surveyed Rahotep levelly over its rim as he drank.
