The Way of the Seed_Earth Spawn of Kalpeon

by Richard Dean Hall

  69

  King Narmer rested in the oasis, shaded from the brilliant sun by the ancient palms that formed the leafy canopy overhead. The fragrance of lotus flowers floated on the warm air, the only sound the splashing of water cascading over rock-lined stream beds. Rubbing his forehead, he stared off at nothing, deep in thought. His troubled thoughts didn’t mesh with the calm and beauty of his surroundings. The land of the Remeth was out of harmony, the peace and people in danger. The threat from the lower regions had to be answered, and as the embodiment of Horus, he would do it. Brow furrowed in resolution, he stood and waved his vizier and several war leaders forward. They listened carefully as he explained their response. They were to conscript and train as many men as possible. They were to prepare for all-out war to conquer all the lower regions and unify the land of all Remeth.

  As the first dynastic king of Upper Egypt, Narmer was the living deistic embodiment of the creator god Horus, and his rule was absolute. Within months of his order, conscripts and volunteers throughout the land poured into Memphis, and the ranks of the standing military swelled to over twenty thousand men. When training was complete, the entire army divided into groups by weapons and tactics. Sledges were loaded with supplies and the date of departure set. Throughout the entire process, the king was a constant presence, checking equipment, assigning responsibilities, and planning with his officers.

  As Narmer rushed to prepare his campaign, Djar in the south was joined by the dark-skinned Nubians of the far lower regions. Fierce warriors and skilled archers, they too had heard of the riches of the upper regions and were eager to become part of the conquering horde that would claim it.

  At Memphis, Narmer and his officers hastened their final preparations, and after almost four months, the army was ready.

  As dawn broke over a broad plain south of the white-walled city, Narmer, his general, and his commanders exited their tents and strode out before over twenty thousand assembled, well-armed warriors. At the front of the troops, row after row of archers stretched in straight lines across the black soil. Behind the farthest row of bowman, infantry in squared-off phalanxes stood straight and still while banners emblazoned with crocodiles, hippopotamuses, lions, jackals, and other animals flapped high above each formation. The banners identified individual units and allowed commanders to locate positions on the battlefield. Farther back, hundreds of sledges loaded with food, weapons, and grain stood behind the donkey teams that would haul them over the sand.

  Narmer climbed a high platform in front of his army as commanders trotted to their formations. Narmer stood erect on the platform, the bright sunlight glinting from the white, conical crown that identified him as king. He stared out over the vast assemblage of warriors before pulling a gold sword from his waist and raising it in a silent salute to the largest army ever assembled in the land of the Remeth. In response, every man raised his own weapon to signal their respect and readiness to march on Djar’s forces. As Narmer climbed down and gave the signal to begin the march, the only sound was the braying of hundreds of donkeys straining at their sledges.

  There was only one way to the lower regions. The army would follow the ancient trade route that paralleled the river and connected all the major cities and towns along the banks of the Nile. Narmer looked out to the water, where over a hundred vessels of varying sizes set sails and dropped oars. The boats carried additional supplies and would pace the army as it moved into the lower regions to find Djar and his forces.

  To the south, a day’s walk from the white-walled city of Memphis, was a sprawling expanse of land lush with greenery and shaded by hundreds of ancient, towering palms. It was crisscrossed with rivulets fed by larger streams that formed small pools and ponds surrounded by leafy fronds, smaller palms, and flowering plants. It was a huge area of untilled fertile plain where sunlight stabbed through large breaks in the canopy, while in other areas the verdant growth was washed in dappled gold and soft shadows. On the western side, the land looked out over the slow-flowing Nile, while on the eastern border, the greenery thinned out and the black soil gave way to scorching sand and the barren desert beyond.

  In this vast oasis stood the homes and estates of nobles, officials, skilled craftsmen, and wealthy merchants who preferred to live away from the busy confines of the city with its clamor of crowds and busy temples, administrative buildings, shrines, and the massive complex of King Narmer. On the far west side of this retreat, facing out over the river, stood the grounds of Ott, Cha, Graf, and Yaan. Constructed of polished granite, white-plastered limestone, and carefully hewn wood, their homes now sparkled in the light of a golden sunset washing over the far side of the river.

  Ott and Graf stood on a rise above the bank and watched as the flotilla rounded the bend. It was more vessels than they had ever seen on the river at one time, and they realized Narmer’s army was on the move.

  “The army won’t be far behind the ships.” Ott pointed inland. “It’s probably approaching on the far side right now. Let’s go watch.”

  Everyone knew of the army being assembled at Memphis, and Ott had been expecting it the last few weeks.

  Graf adjusted the bow slung over his back. “How many warriors do you think he has raised?”

  “From the talk I’ve heard, he is bringing the entire army and all the volunteers and conscripts. Judging from the supply ships,” Ott pointed to the flotilla, “I would guess at least fifteen to twenty thousand in total.”

  “Will it be enough to defeat Djar and the Nubians?”

  “I don’t know. The army of Djar combined with the Nubians will probably be as large, and the Nubians are deadly archers.” Ott’s face was stern.

  Ott and Graf continued along the bank to a point where they could see the open trade road in the distance. A dust cloud rose above the open fields. As they watched, Ott’s thoughts turned again to what had been troubling him since he had first learned of the coming war. Was this his fight? Should he join the forces of Narmer? What of Cha, Graf, and Yaan? Did they see this land as a home they should help defend? Conflicted, Ott watched the army approach at a steady pace, the dust swirling in the hot desert breeze.

  The entire army moved into the open fields around the lush settlement and began pitching camp for the night. Hundreds of large and small tents sprang up, and fires sparked as the sun glinted behind the horizon. On the river, vessels of all sizes gathered close to the bank, where the larger boats dropped anchor stones and smaller vessels were lashed to their sides until the entire flotilla extended out into the river like a giant floating island of papyrus reeds and wood. Food was unloaded from the sledges and boats, and by dark the entire encampment was prepared to eat. Narmer, his officers, and his administrators had planned well. The army would arrive intact and ready.

  Far to the south along the lower regions of the river, Djar’s army and his Nubian allies occupied the city of Edfu. They had sacked the city two days before, killing thousands and driving the remaining population out to die in the scorching desert. Resistance had been nonexistent. Now, confidence bolstered by another easy victory, Djar was anxious to continue up the river.

  70

  Ott, Cha, Graf, and Yaan stood on a low rise overlooking the hundreds of fires that glowed and silhouetted the tents in the soft light of a full moon. Never in their existence had they seen so many men gathered for war.

  “The number of warriors here is large, but it is said that the Nubians from the land called Ta-Seti have joined the forces of Djar.” Graf pointed over his shoulder. “Many will die in this war.”

  “And for no good reason,” Ott responded, shaking his head side to side.

  At the comment, Yaan shifted her gaze to Ott with a twisted brow. “For no good reason?”

  Ott continued staring out over the encampment. “The people of the lower regions have black soil to grow food. They raise herds of animals; trade with gold, ivory, and copper; and they have many ships to move their goods. Yet they raid and kill. They do this only to serve Dja
r’s greed and envy. He has taught them his way, and now they won’t stop. It has become their way. Djar will bring his evil and destruction to the Remeth and to all who wish only to live in peace and harmony with the land. There is no good reason, only the evil of Djar.”

  A thoughtful silence hung for several more seconds, and then Graf again motioned to the encamped army.

  “We should go with the army of Narmer.” He turned to face Ott. “This land and these people have been good to us. We should go.”

  Now Cha turned to Ott. “And if we go and we kill, are we not the same as Djar?”

  Ott’s face flushed. “It is not the same. Djar kills and takes because it is his way. He has accepted evil as his way. He brings chaos. Narmer does battle to restore the balance and harmony and keep peace as the way. Yes, to kill is evil, but now it is a necessary evil and a lesser evil than the death and chaos Djar will continue to spread and never stop unless he is destroyed.”

  When Ott finished, everyone remained silent. They would journey to the lower regions to stand against the forces of Djar and the Nubians.

  The following morning, as the sun glinted above the horizon, Ott, Cha, Graf, and Yaan walked out to join the ranks of the archers at the front of the assembled force. As they approached, several men exchanged surprised expressions. Even with their hair pulled back in tight braids and their leather kilts and vests worn over linen garments, it was obvious Cha and Yaan were women.

  Spats of laughter rippled through the ranks. The laughter turned to silence when a man strode forward along the front row. The men straightened and kept their eyes forward. The officer wore a well-made vest fronted with a small, ivory breastplate and a kilt of pleated leather. Each pleat was cut to an angled point and tipped with a ball of solid gold. The vest was piped around the shoulders and down the front in rolled yellow-and-green stitching. On his head he wore a low, brimless skullcap piped with the same stitching as the vest. A long, black bow was slung over his back. It was obvious from his uniform and demeanor that he was in charge of the unit.

  He slowed to a stop while eyeing Cha and Yaan from head to foot. He blinked in thought and then shifted his gaze to Ott.

  “You have come to join my archers.” He pointed to Ott.

  Ott waved a finger to Graf, Cha, and Yaan. “All four of us have come to join the march against Djar.”

  “You are merchants and traders, not Remeth warriors. Why do you wish to join the fight against the people of the lower region?”

  “We live among the Remeth and trade along the river. We call this place home and have lived here in peace. The land remains in peace under Narmer. We join you out of respect for the king and his promise to restore the peace by defeating Djar.”

  The officer looked again to Cha and Yaan. “Do you two use the bow as well as any warrior?”

  Cha and Yaan exchanged glances. “As good as any,” Cha answered.

  “And better than most,” Yaan added.

  The officer eyed both women for another moment. He then motioned a warrior over and ordered him out into the open field. The soldier jogged forward until the officer hollered for him to stop and place his shield upright in the soft dirt. The distance to the shield was nearly fifty yards and would be a difficult shot for a well-trained and skilled archer. With the entire formation straining to watch, the officer waved the man away from the shield, pulled the bow from his back, and nocked an arrow.

  “You match this shot,” he said, nodding at Yaan, “and you all join my archers.” He then pulled and loosed the arrow, which slammed into the wooden, hide-covered shield and protruded out the other side halfway up the shaft.

  The officer turned back to Yaan with a tight smile. “That was better than most.”

  Yaan’s eyes narrowed. She peered out at the shield, and then up to the sky, and back again to the shield. “I would like a second shield,” she said, glancing again to the sky overhead.

  The officer ordered another warrior forward, grabbed his shield, and handed it to Yaan. She took the shield and walked toward the upright shield, but stopped after no more than ten yards. She dropped the shield faceup on the ground. Up and down the rows of bowmen, heads and eyes shifted to watch the spectacle unfolding before them. Yaan walked back to the officer’s side, swung the bow from her back, and stuck two arrows in the ground beside her. The officer watched her every movement. Yaan pulled an arrow from the ground, nocked it, and cocked her face to the officer.

  “Sometimes the enemy gets close,” she said with a slight smile. She rolled back, pulled the bow full, and loosed the arrow almost straight overhead.

  As the shaft flashed up, she nocked the second arrow and released it at the distant upright shield. The shaft cracked into the shield next to the arrow shot by the officer. Yaan then took a few quick steps forward and, with the tip of her bow, pointed to the shield a few yards to her front. Her first arrow streamed down and sliced through the shield with a resounding crack, penetrating the soft soil below. Cheers and laughter rose from the ranks as Yaan walked back to the officer.

  “Better than most,” she said loud enough for everyone to hear.

  Yaan’s shots were a symphony of body, eye, and hand skills practiced over a time she had no way of measuring. Her bow skills were so refined they had become ingrained into her mind and muscle memory. She could have easily repeated variations of the skill, but it wouldn’t be necessary. The look of astonishment softened on the officer’s face and turned to a tight grin of respect. He motioned to Yaan and the others with one hand and pointed out along the first row of archers with his bow.

  “You may all,” he nodded to Yaan, “join the archers of the army of Narmer.”

  As the officer continued down the front of the troops, his brow furrowed. There wasn’t an archer in the entire force—including himself—who could match the skills he had just witnessed. Merchants and traders, indeed.

  Who were these people?

  71

  The battle at Edfu was short, fierce, and decisive. Djar and his army of overconfident, undisciplined men massed in front of the city when Narmer and his army appeared on the open field in the distance. Djar smiled to himself. Although well formed, Narmer’s forces appeared to be almost half the size of his massed troops, and there appeared to be very few bowmen. Narmer had not raised enough men, while his own force had grown with each new conquest. Now, with what appeared to be an overwhelming advantage, he felt even more confident of a victory that would leave him unopposed to march on Memphis. As he looked out over the smaller formation, he knew that with this victory, Narmer would be destroyed, and Memphis would be his for the taking.

  What Djar didn’t know was the troops to his front were a decoy to draw him from the city. Before coming into sight, Narmer had split his army and sent two-thirds of his troops, including most of his archers, out along the edge of the desert in a flanking maneuver. The ploy worked so well that Djar didn’t even bother to have the Nubians loose their arrows, but instead ordered them to join all his men in a headlong charge to overwhelm the smaller force.

  Sensing an easy rout, the mob shouted and waved their weapons as they awaited the signal to advance. Off to the side, standing erect with the red deshret squared on his head, Djar waited for the shouting to reach a frenzied pitch. Finally, satisfied that his men were ready for battle, he jabbed his crooked sepulcher toward the troops in the wheat fields and the advance began.

  In the distance, Narmer and his warriors remained poised and silent. Out of sight, his main force, fronted by his elite bowmen, ascended the dunes on a perpendicular heading toward the flank of Djar’s advancing troops.

  At midpoint to Narmer’s stationary forces, the shouting rose to a crescendo and Djar’s men broke into a full charge. As they surged forward, the hidden archers crested the high dunes and sprouted against the skyline by the hundreds with the infantry emerging behind them. Djar’s horde caught sight of the bowmen, and instantly their bloodlust turned to surprise and panic. The charge slowed and men p
lowed into each other, stumbling and tripping to the ground. Others turned to retreat, only to be slammed by others still lunging forward. The charge disintegrated to a sprawling melee, and that’s when the first flight of arrows rained down in a sheet of pain, blood, and death.

  From his vantage point, Djar watched as his victory turned into a massacre.

  Decimated by the hailstorm of arrows, Djar’s men thrashed about as Narmer’s frontal troops started forward and his larger force streamed over the dunes. The mob was hit by screaming infantry from the front and along the entire flank. Outmaneuvered, overwhelmed, and in full panic, they were no match for Narmer’s disciplined and well-armed warriors. Within an hour, Djar’s men were dead or wounded.

  When the last of the fighting was over, Narmer surveyed the carnage. The flanking tactic had been devastating, and Djar’s army was destroyed. Those not killed or wounded outright had dropped and now sat cross-legged, heads bowed in surrender. As Narmer reached their rear ranks, a small group of warriors approached. In the center of the group, led by a rope around his neck, walked Djar. Unhurt, he walked erect and still wore the red deshret of the king of the lower regions.

  A crowd closed around Narmer and Djar as they eyed each other. Ott, Cha, Graf, and Yaan stood motionless on the inner fringe. Narmer fixed his gaze on the red deshret and then looked directly into Djar’s unblinking eyes.

  “You wear a crown,” he said, “and call yourself a king, yet you bring only death and chaos to the Remeth. Now you shall be judged by Horus.”

  Narmer thrust an outstretched finger to the ground, and the men forced Djar to his knees. In his right hand Narmer held a mace crafted from wood and fitted with a stone disk that held a sharp, beveled edge. As Djar raised his eyes with a defiant glare, Narmer removed the red deshret and slid it over his own, taller headpiece to form a single red-and-white crown.