Queen Ty kissed his hand. “Go, son, quickly.”
Tuthmosis raised his hand, and the chariot sped away.
“Wait! Tuthmosis!” Teppy shouted, racing down the steps after him. When he reached the last stair, he stumbled. Queen Ty caught him in time to break his fall.
“Let him go,” she said to Teppy holding him tightly.
“Where is he going? I want to go with him.”
The queen embraced him. “Your brother has gone to war against the Nubians.”
Teppy frowned.
“Why are you sad, my little prince?”
“I didn’t get to say goodbye.”
“There’s no need for goodbyes. He’ll soon return, and when he does, he will be co-ruler of Egypt alongside his father, forever revered by the people.”
Queen Ty and Teppy stood together, in each other’s arms as they watched Tuthmosis’s chariot disappear in the distance.
CHAPTER 4
Across a vast stretch of the Nubian Desert, five thousand Egyptian soldiers stood in battle formation, two thousand horse-drawn chariots lined in front of them. Each chariot held a shield man, a bowman, and a driver. Two thousand infantrymen carried spears and leather shields in the rear of the formation. The exhausted army remained still as Amenhotep reviewed the front line from his royal chariot.
Nasheret, his general, a bull of a man and nine years his senior, stood next to Amenhotep as the driver directed the chariot along the path. The general’s face was heavily scarred and blotches of skin on both his arms protruded in places where it had been sewn back together but had never completely healed. Nasheret’s battle wounds were like an amulet of honor to the general, and no one was more proud of Nasheret’s wounds than Amenhotep.
“Here we are again,” said Amenhotep, looking out in the distance. “You would think after three wars they would just pay us the tribute.”
Nasheret spat on the ground. “A degenerate people like the Nubians will always prefer death over concession.”
“That would be an admirable quality, general, not a degenerate one,” said Amenhotep.
He took a closer look at the front line of his army. “Our infantry looks like plucked birds, especially the Libyans that you’ve positioned throughout the front line. Have you drained them of all their strength?” asked Amenhotep.
“I assure you that because of my reputation, the Libyans are more than eager to fight for Egypt.”
Nasheret’s bumptiousness irritated the pharaoh, though he knew it was useful in motivating the army. On this day, however, because of his toothache, he had no patience for the general’s boasting.
“Eagerness alone does not win a war, general.”
“My Pharaoh, I have trained this army extremely well in the art of engagement. As you are aware, I’ve led them in three battles against the Nubians and was easily victorious.”
A sparrow hawk returning to its nest in a nearby willow tree interrupted their debate when it flew above their heads with its prey captured between its claws.
“As a child, general, did your father tell you the story of the little bird and the crocodile?”
Perplexed by the question, Nasheret squinted at the pharaoh. “No.”
Amenhotep nodded. He’d told the story to Tuthmosis and Teppy once before.
“There was a little bird that wandered into a marsh where a lone crocodile lived. The crocodile was friendly, and soon the bird would perch on the crocodile’s snout and take rides across the river. Every day this would happen. The bird perched on the crocodile’s snout and the crocodile swam around the river. One day, the little bird told his father about the friendly creature. The father bird was skeptical, so he flew to the marsh to see if what his son was telling him was true. The little bird told his father to watch. It then perched on the crocodile’s snout and in the blink of an eye, the crocodile devoured it. The distraught father asked the crocodile why he ate his son when many times before he had been friendly with him. The crocodile replied, ‘You should have taught your son, there’s always a risk of being eaten when riding on the snout of a crocodile.’”
Amenhotep checked Nasheret’s face to make sure he had understood the message. “We’re always on the nose of the crocodile, general,” he said before signaling his driver to stop. The effectiveness of the cure was fading and Amenhotep’s toothache grew more severe. He moaned as he placed his hand against his cheek.
“My pharaoh, if you’re not well enough to fight. I can lead this army alone and have a remnant circle you for protection.”
Repelled by the general’s suggestion, Amenhotep stood up straight and ignored the pain. “I’m forever strengthened by the gods Amun and Montu.”
Nasheret stepped down from the pharaoh’s chariot and bowed to him. “And may Amun and Montu fight our battles, and may you, my magnificent pharaoh, live—”
The rumbling sounds of war drums in the distance interrupted him.
On the far side of the battlefield, the Nubian army emerged from the cliffs three thousand men strong—a little over half the size of the Egyptian army. The one thousand horse-drawn chariots they possessed were inferior to the workmanship and ingenuity of the Egyptians’ two thousand chariots whose axles were covered in metal, reducing the friction between the wooden parts. This lightened the load on the horses and improved their performance far beyond the all-wood construction of the Nubian chariot.
A thousand Nubian spearmen on horseback rode in front, followed by a thousand bowmen on foot and another thousand spearmen marching behind them. The Nubians formed within twelve hundred cubits of the Egyptian army, unintimidated by Amenhotep’s grand display. Suddenly, all became quiet.
Nasheret stepped into his chariot and faced his troops. “We battle for our great Pharaoh Amenhotep!” he exclaimed. The army rattled their swords and shields. Amenhotep turned and faced them as well, shouting, “We battle for Amun and Montu! We battle for Egypt!”
The army roared. Amenhotep nodded at Nasheret. When the general raised his shield, the army charged full speed toward the Nubians.
Tuthmosis’s chariot arrived at the northern bluff during the initial attack. The Egyptians charged toward the Nubians, and Tuthmosis raised his shield and alerted his driver to speed them toward the battle.
Below, the Egyptians’ mighty chariots ripped through the Nubian front line, striking down the Nubian infantry to just a quarter of its original size. Those who were fortuitous enough not to be trampled or speared by the onslaught scattered into open areas where they were struck down by the hundreds of arrows from the Egyptian archers. The Nubian archers returned arrows as best they could, but the volleys were easily deflected by the Egyptian army’s copper shields. Amenhotep pointed to specific areas of the battlefield and barked orders, urging his men on and guiding them as they impaled, decapitated, or dismembered the Nubian soldiers with their spears and battle axes.
Once the Nubian lines broke, the battle descended into chaos, and Amenhotep went to spearing Nubians from his chariot. Their arrows shot at him, but his shield man blocked them as the pharaoh continued killing enemy soldiers. Amenhotep had come close to death many times, but he had always emerged from battle unharmed. He proclaimed this was the work of Montu, the god of war that protected him.
His chariot driver instinctively made a 180-degree turn. A Nubian spotted him and shot an arrow into the horse’s belly. The horse neighed in agony and rose on its hind legs, hurling Amenhotep out. The pharaoh tumbled in the dust as another Nubian warrior rushed over with a spear in hand. As Amenhotep turned over, the warrior raised the spear above his chest ready to thrust it in for the kill.
There was a muffled sound of impact. Drops of blood sprinkled on Amenhotep’s face. The pointed tip of an arrow jutted out of the Nubian’s chest, just before the warrior dropped dead to the ground. Amenhotep tried to make out the identity of his savior but only the rear of the soldier’s chariot was visible as it raced back into the heart of the battle.
THE BATTLE WITH THE NUBIAN
S wound down as the desert sun sank behind the horizon. The fierce confrontation was over, and hundreds of dead bodies littered the field and bled into the cracks of the dry sand. Egypt had lost many of their soldiers to the carnage, but it was a negligible loss compared to the number of dead Nubians. A party of Egyptian soldiers was left with the task of combing the grounds and spearing the hearts of the wounded Nubians still squirming or moaning among the corpses. This was Amenhotep’s grandest act of mercy.
The healthiest Nubians were spared and taken prisoners, bound by rope at their waists, ankles, and wrists and made to stand in a single-file line for inspection. Exhausted, Amenhotep and Nasheret strolled along the line together examining each one of them.
“There’s over two hundred of them. The rest are wounded and desperate for their death blow,” said the general, proud of his coffle.
They paused in front of a Nubian outfitted in red and yellow, a salient difference from the blanched uniforms of the other prisoners. Under his kilt, his thighs and calves were unusually thick and muscular and his forehead and cheekbones pronounced. His sinewy body was covered with smooth and unblemished skin that was dark as the night. He jerked at his rope restraints, unaffected by the pharaoh’s presence.
“I suspect he’s an officer,” Nasheret said.
Amenhotep stepped up to examine him. Without warning, the Nubian lunged forward the one-half cubit that his rope restraints had allowed him. Nasheret took one step back and unsheathed his dagger.
“No need for that, general,” said Amenhotep. “His restraints will hold him.”
The Nubian’s sudden act of aggression intrigued Amenhotep. He stepped up close to the prisoner and faced him.
“So what are you? A general? A captain?”
The Nubian eyed the pharaoh but didn’t answer. His vibrant garment was tattered and his arms thoroughly tattooed. The symbols made no sense to Amenhotep; it was a language he did not understand.
“This carnage could have been avoided if you would have listened to the Mitannians and paid us the tribute,” Amenhotep said.
The Nubian prisoner remained silent. The pharaoh assumed him incapable of communication in any tongue but his own pagan language. When he took a step to leave, he discovered differently.
“You foolish little man,” the prisoner said in perfect Egyptian. “Do you really think the Hittites and the Mitanni will continue to honor your frivolous peace treaties? We will all unite against you one day; the Hittites, the Mitannians, and my Nubian kingdom will unite to bring Egypt to its knees. And when we tear you from your country, pharaoh, and throw your worthless corpse to the dogs, know that your precious Egyptian people will celebrate your death with us.”
Nasheret was enraged at the Nubian’s every word. “Let me carve the eyes out of his head for you, my Pharaoh,” he pleaded and unsheathed his dagger again. Amenhotep stopped him with a raising of his hand.
“No,” the Amenhotep answered. Then he turned and walked away.
Confused, Nasheret returned his dagger to its scabbard and trailed him. “So what shall I do with him?”
“Unbind him. Let him return to his land of Kush.”
“That would be madness! Why would we do such a thing?”
“His king needs to know what to expect if he doesn’t release the tribute to us.”
“We can go there and take the tribute.”
“No. They will give it to us. Willingly.”
“My pharaoh, he’s a valuable prisoner of war. He could even be an officer.”
Amenhotep’s patience with Nasheret had come to an end. He stopped and faced him.
“Did you understand my order, general? Let him go.”
Nasheret spat on the ground again before trudging back over to the Nubian and staring him in the face.
Amenhotep had recognized the Nubian captive as his equal in rank and demeanor. What sort of man kills a restrained opponent and feels victorious? Honor to Amenhotep was like the air he breathed. He couldn’t survive long without it, and he granted it liberally to even his worst enemy.
Nasheret unsheathed his dagger and cut the Nubian’s rope restraints. The Nubian shot a furtive glance at Nasheret.
“Don’t be mistaken. I would’ve loved to have slaughtered you instead,” Nasheret said, as he lifted his kilt and urinated in the Nubian’s direction.
The harsh sound of Amenhotep’s shrill voice calling out to him took his attention from the Nubian captive, and after he shook himself off and ordered additional guards to preside over the remaining prisoners, Nasheret rushed back to his pharaoh’s side.
A hundred cubits away, a damaged Egyptian chariot approached slowly. The driver appeared injured. His right arm was in a sling and wrapped in bloodstained bandages from his wrist to his shoulder and tied around his neck. Another soldier walked alongside the chariot, directing its famished horse through the maze of dead bodies and body parts scattered throughout the battleground. The driver’s bruised and scarred face was familiar to Amenhotep.
“The dust in the wind has weakened my eyes. Identify those two soldiers for me,” he said to Nasheret.
“The man walking alongside the chariot is Horemheb, one of our best-skilled captains. The soldier driving the chariot is the one whose arrow saved your life today, my Pharaoh. It is your son, Tuthmosis.”
“Who? How can that be?”
Amenhotep strained to focus on the soldier driving the chariot. It indeed was Tuthmosis. Stunned and confused, the pharaoh vacillated between gratitude to his son for saving his life and intense anger that he once again had disobeyed him. It was disheartening to see that his son was scarred and injured. But this offense was the worst ever committed by Tuthmosis—a blasphemy against Amun and the war god Montu. It didn’t matter he had saved his life.
“You can defy me all you want, my son, but you must never defy the almighty god Amun. You will leave this battlefield now and return to the temple where you will plead for forgiveness at the foot of his statue!”
Weak from his injuries, Tuthmosis struggled to stand straight in his chariot as it continued to approach. He used all the strength he had left to shout back to Amenhotep. “I am not a priest, Father. I am a warrior. I don’t care about Amun or Montu. You are my father. I should be by your side fighting with—”
An arrow ripped through Tuthmosis’s neck, and blood sprayed across his breastplate. His defiant expression changed to one of shock. Blood dripped from the corners of his mouth as he fell forward.
Amenhotep screamed and whipped around to find the assailant.
Behind him, the Nubian prisoner bore a proud grin as he nocked a second arrow and aimed it at the pharaoh himself. Still in shock, Amenhotep froze. Before he or Nasheret could react, Captain Horemheb sprinted with the grace of a panther full tilt toward the Nubian with a spear in his hand, launched himself through the air, and, at the pinnacle of his leap, released his weapon. There was a sickening crunch as Horemheb’s spear pierced the Nubian’s skull. The bow and arrow dropped from the Nubian’s hands, and his dead weight fell to the ground.
Amenhotep ran over to Tuthmosis’s chariot. “Not my son. Amun, I beg you, spare him, not my son.”
Amenhotep prayed it wasn’t as severe as it had looked. The arrow couldn’t have slashed clean through his son’s neck. But all hope vanished when the men reached Tuthmosis.
Nasheret and Horemheb helped lift Tuthmosis’s limp body from the chariot and placed the boy in his father’s arms. There was a reverent silence as Amenhotep cradled and rocked his son as he had done the day he was born.
CHAPTER 5
The priests’ majestic healing temple stood adjacent to Amenhotep’s palace. It was an uninviting structure, oddly dark and brooding for a temple originally designed to bring good health and rejuvenation. In the center of one of its darkest rooms, Tuthmosis lay suspended on a platform hung between four cat-shaped columns, with a cloth wrapped around his neck and arm. Hundreds of lit candles flickered around the perimeter, yet the light was not enough
to completely illuminate the unconscious figure.
Meri-Ra unwrapped the bandages and replaced them with new ones. He was a priest of the Aten god and much younger than the Amun priests who practiced at the temple. Dressed in gray hooded robes, the Aten priests were the only faction of priests Tuthmosis had respected and even revered. They were the gatekeepers of his almighty sun-god, the Aten.
Meri-Ra placed a concave vessel down on the platform next to Tuthmosis. He dipped a cloth into it and washed Tuthmosis’s wounded arm with ox blood. It was not a familiar treatment for a puncture wound, and Amenhotep was skeptical of it.
“This is not the ritual of the Amun priests,” Amenhotep said to him.
Without pausing from his work, Meri-Ra responded. “Were you not aware your son despised the Amun god? I am Meri-Ra, a priest of the Aten, my Pharaoh. I am not an Amun priest.”
“Then promise me that the Aten god will save him,” said Amenhotep.
Meri-Ra stopped for a moment. He glided his hand over Tuthmosis’s chest area. “Where is the Aten amulet?” he asked. “It should have been around his neck.”
“What amulet? I’ve never seen him wearing one.”
“The Aten high priest gave him the amulet to wear for his protection.”
“Enough with the amulet!” Amenhotep shouted. “Can the Aten god save him?”
Before Meri-Ra could answer, Sia entered the room with Neper, carrying a burlap sack, right behind him.
“There is no power greater than Amun,” Sia said. “Have you forgotten what was written in the scrolls, my Pharaoh?” he asked.
Amenhotep shook his head. “No, I have not.”
Sia glared at Meri-Ra. A sneer spread across his face. “Why is this Aten priest here in our sacred home?”
“The combined power of Amun and the Aten will surely heal my son,” said Amenhotep.
“You’re mistaken, Pharaoh. Neither the Aten nor its priests possess healing powers inside the temple of the almighty Amun god,” Sia replied.
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