by Howard Fast
“Yes, my father.”
“‘Yes, my father,’” Ramses mimicked him. “Is that all you are going to say to me?”
“I will answer any questions you put to me, my father, as best I may.”
Ramses threw back his head and roared with laughter—so that all in the throne room turned to look at him curiously and wonderingly. His whole body shook with laughter, until finally he subsided, rubbing his knuckles into his wet eyes. “By all that is holy, Moses, you are a strange man and a brave one. A foolhardy one and without much sense as yet, but that may come. You remind me of the great ancient lords of Upper Egypt who fill our olden sagas, and you have the same knifelike look as the sculptures of them. I confess I half like you, but you are too stimulating for our quiet life on the Delta, and it seems that where you are trouble gathers. Why didn’t you kill that wretched product of one of my less profitable nights in bed when he fought you?”
“I had no reason to kill him, my father,” Moses shrugged. “He had only insulted me, and that didn’t seem to measure up to his life.”
“And your honour? Your pride?”
“My honour will survive. And as for my pride, my father, it died with my mother, the holy Enekhas-Amon, who gave it to me.”
“Now what do you mean by that?” Ramses snorted. “Don’t talk in riddles, boy. I hate riddles. Yet I think you’re right. You’re not cut to the cloth of murder, for which, be sure, I am grateful—since Seti-Hop seems to think that when you are angry, no man in this palace could stand against you. War is something else. Seti-Hop considers that you will make a good soldier, and I am inclined to agree. Here you will bring only sorrow and trouble, Moses, for I think you were born to sorrow and trouble—but on our borders you can give much to Egypt. Also, it will be good for you to go away from here until tempers cool and fancied wrongs are forgotten. In ten days from now a punitive expedition of some fifteen thousand men leaves for the Land of Kush, where the black men have forgotten that while my patience is long, my forbearance is short. You will go along with them as a captain of chariots and you will remain away for three years. You will learn a good deal, I imagine, in three years; and after that time, you can return here to this city of mine.”
“Yes, my father,” Moses said, still flatly.
“A wiser man, I hope,” Ramses concluded, his voice as humourless as Moses’ now.
So ended the audience with the God Ramses, and the childhood and youth of Moses as well.
PART TWO
The Captain of Kush
[1]
OLD WAS THE Land of Egypt, but the Land of Kush was also old, and though there were a thousand of nations, cities and peoples the world over, there was only one Kush, and like the Kushite were no others. In the olden times, the Egyptian guarded one end of the world and the black man of Kush guarded the other; from Egypt’s Delta, the blue sea tolled away, endless and boundless until it poured over the rocky edge of the world-to run underground and bubble anew from the dark and unknowable mystery of Kush. That was in the olden times, but long before the time of Moses, men had grown wiser and and had learned the art of shipbuilding, and the great ships of Egypt had sailed all over the blue Mediterranean—so that the edge of the world was no longer the edge of the world. So the Delta and the great City of Ramses became a gateway to the whole world beyond Egypt; but to the world beyond Kush, there were no gateways.
And as the world opened and unfolded, the armies of Egypt marched forth to conquer. If they were defeated now and again, it was the way a river is defeated by a log and brush jam; the block breaks eventually, and the river rolls on—and so did the armies of Egypt toll over the world. Nothing could resist them, seemingly, for with Egypt came organization, order, and planned lines of battle, and against these organized lines of spears and columns of chariots, neither the heroes of Philistia nor the warriors of Hatti could persist. The Babylonian fled in terror and the heroic Sea Rover cast his spear and ran back to his ships. But the men of Kush only returned to Kush—for Kush was as boundless as it was distant, and who had ever conquered it?
“There is a man of Kush,” Moses had been told once, long ago, by Amon-Teph as they walked in the market place of Tanis. “There is a man from far away, and with the things of far away, one should always be concerned, O Prince of Egypt—”
But more than with Amon-Teph’s words was Moses held and entranced by the great black man who was occupied in trading a thick, hammered-gold bracelet for sacks of wheat and barley. To Moses, who was then still a boy, the man seemed a giant, and his towering headdress of red and yellow feathers made him appear even taller. Many brown men of all shades had Moses seen, but this man of Kush was black as ebony, so black that the sunlight danced and sparkled on the sheen of his skin; and the sight of his great frame with its broad shoulders and mighty muscles made the boy realize why the people of Kush were spoken of for their beauty as well as their valour. This man had a long, narrow head, a small, tilted nose, and a heavy-lipped, wide mouth. The bones of his face were large and strange, so that it was hard to tell at first whether he was more beautiful than he was ugly or more ugly than he was beautiful; but from the way the Egyptian women could hardly take their eyes from him, it did not seem to matter. He stood like a prince himself, not willing to bend his spine even a trifle to the bargaining, and his broken Egyptian came in deep, resonant tones from his great chest.
His feathers were fixed in a copper band that circled his brow, and Moses could see that he did not have hair as he knew hair, but what looked like tight-curled wool. Down the length of his back, its tail sweeping to his heels, he wore a leopard skin, and the two front paws were fixed around his neck with a gold buckle. Beneath this, in front, he wore a necklace of three rows of enormous claws, each claw separated from the next by a white ivory bead. Around each calf, just below the knee, was a bracelet identically made, and similar bracelets circled each arm above the elbow. On each wrist, he wore a hammered-gold bracelet like the one he was trying to sell, and around his waist he wore a short woollen kilt, striped yellow and red. instead of sandals, he wore low boots of some soft skin, embroidered all over with yellow and white beads, and he wore a belt of white leather, from which many pouches as well as a long bronze dagger hung. He wore a round shield of bullhide, three feet in diameter, and a great spear, eight feet long and tipped with metal.
Colorful and tall and strange and barbaric he was, yet for all his erect and proud manner, his attitude was somehow pervaded with an air of amusement and easy good humour that robbed his presence of any threat. This, above all, Moses was to remember in reference to the strange and distant Land of Kush, and some of Amon-Teph’s words too; for the priest said, as Moses watched,
“O Prince of Egypt, it is not merely that Kush is far away, it is also the fact that Kush is Kush, which is something you must understand. It keeps itself so, for many men believe that they have been to Kush, but few have been there. I talk not of the land beyond the Sixth Cataract, not of the desert highlands, but of the actual and elusive Land of Kush, from where this man comes—and few like him will you see here upon the Delta. So look well. The world is filled with wonders and with people who do not pray to the dark gods of Egypt’s night. This man, when he dies, will be wrapped in his cloak and put bare and unembalmed into the ground, his shield under him, his spear upon his breast, yet he fears death as little as you and I fear a stray gull from the sea—”
Meanwhile a crowd of dirty, naked street-urchins had gathered around the tall black man, and they pressed closer and closer, in spite of the efforts of the merchant to drive them away with an intermittent outpouring of abuse and threat. They goggled with such awe and interest at his colourful headdress that finally he took it off and placed it on the ground in front of them. A few of them gathered enough courage to touch it, and then one bold child of eight or so lifted it and placed it on his head—but it was so large that it slipped down to rest on his shoulders. At this, the black man burst into deep roars of mirth—mirth so contagio
us that in a moment the children were laughing with him, and even Moses and the old priest were smiling in delight.
So it was when Moses saw for the first time a man from the Land of Kush.
[2]
AND SO HE thought and recollected now, the spirit and vigour of his youth putting grief and depression aside. It was not his nature to cling to pity of himself, and after all, the God-King Ramses had treated him not too badly. The Great House and all the City of Ramses were sour to him, and of the three people he had loved, two were dead and the third had to be avoided, if only out of simple forbearance and consideration. He had always yearned for the South, for the mysterious, legendary world of Central Africa, whose northern boundary was Kush—just as he had always admired the men of Upper Egypt, who held the border marches against the wild black men.
And there he was going, after all. He was eighteen years old, tall and strong, and it never entered his mind that the war of Egypt against barbarians could be anything but exciting and glorious. It was true, he reflected, that he might have come off better in his exchange with Ramses. Facing the man he regarded as his mother’s executioner, he had held back all the bitter words that were in his heart, but on the other hand-as he told himself—he had been put off by the obvious lack of hatred or even anger on the part of the God-King. At worst, Ramses was annoyed with him, at best, amused; and this not only puzzled Moses, but frustrated his desire to nurse his own hatred. The truth of the matter was that Moses hated poorly—which was hardly surprising, since nothing tempers passion so well as knowledge, and Moses had not only absorbed the fruits of Amon-Teph’s tutelage but the scepticism of Neph, the engineer, as well.
Whereby, he was content to transfer his vengeance to the distant future three years away. At eighteen, three years is a lifetime.
These thoughts were in his mind as he walked across the old City of Tanis a few days after Ramses had pronounced judgment. He was bound for the chariot stables and the parade ground, where, he knew, he would find Seti-Keph, the Captain of Hosts who would lead the expedition to Kush—and where he, Moses would present himself for service. As he walked through the old, twisting streets, past the little houses of sundried mud brick, he hardly noticed the naked children scampering out of his way, the men and women touching their brows at the holy sight of a prince of Egypt, for his thoughts were full of the adventure and excitement that would be his. He pictured himself balanced on a swaying chariot in the wild mêlée of battle, shouting his war cry and striking down the enemy. So much did his imagination occupy him that he arrived at the parade ground with no sense of how he had come there, and stood surprised, staring over the great spread of hardpacked mud at the long building, the famous stable of Ramses, where ten thousand horses were housed and fed.
The parade ground, however, linked reality to his thoughts, for at least a hundred chariots were being exercised, and the drumming of the horses’ hoofs, the cries of the drivers, the grinding and shrilling of the wheels, and the great clouds of dust that hung over man, horse and chariot made it very easy to imagine this the field of battle. All this Moses had seen before, but always as a detached spectacle; now he was of it and in it, and as he circled the field toward the barracks and stables, he felt trepidation mixed with anticipation.
Nor did Seti-Keph lessen the reality. A short, broad, hard-muscled, flat-faced man of fifty or so, Moses found him standing in front of the stables, a handful of his officers around him, watching the chariot exercises with a sour and exasperated expression. Barefoot, he wore a loincloth, no ornaments, no weapons, no mark of his rank and distinction except the network of scars and the patches of scar tissue that covered his whole body, even his face and his balding head. But that in itself, Moses knew, was his distinction, and who in all Egypt would not recognize this son of a nameless peasant who had gone to the wars in Canaan as a weapon-bearer at the age of ten, and who had never known or desired a year of peace since?
Similar badges of scars were worn by the men around him, and they were alike with the alikeness of occupation, just as one sailor is like another sailor, one carpenter like another carpenter. So were these men similar in the brown, dry quality of their skin, the hardness of their faces, and the tight squint of their eyes as they gazed across the sunlit field. Like Seti-Keph, their master, they wore only loincloths and, at the most, a leather-hung dagger low on the hip. But what struck Moses about them, seeing them here in their own habitat and not in the palace with all its gaudy trappings, was an awful lack of any suggestion of humanness. It was not that they appeared cruel or bestial—but simply non-human; yet if he had been asked concerning this, Moses would have been hard put to explain why or how the impression came to him.
Then, abruptly, Seti-Keph flung out one arm and cried, “Enough of that and be damned with it! There are no chariot men in Egypt! Give me the worst lout of Hatti, and he’ll do more with a team and a wagon than those peasant dolts you pretend are charioteers! Am I a fool?” he roared at his captains, and when they met his furious gaze in silence, he shouted,
“Then do it yourselves, the god’s curse on you! The God-King says—Take two thousand chariots to Kush! Two thousand! Ha! Where? How? All right—all right! Now leave me alone!” And he stamped past them and came face to face with Moses.
For a moment, Moses thought the Captain of Hosts would swell up and explode with sheer, frustrated rage, Arms akimbo, he stood staring speechlessly at the prince, at the stiff, white pleated-linen kilt, at the belt of golden bars, each bar inlaid with rubies and pearls; at the great golden collar, with its sphinx-head pendant; at the silver-trimmed sandals, and the gem-set silver scabbard that held the prince’s dagger, But sanity and sagacity overcame rage, and Seti-Keph drew a deep breath, swallowed, and managed to say,
“Are you looking for me or another, Prince of Egypt? I am Seti-Keph, Captain of Hosts.” His voice was cold and flat, a statement of duty that could ill afford emotion.
“I come to you, Seti-Keph,” Moses answered unhappily, conscious of the unflattering and unfriendly look of the lieutenants of Seti-Keph. Evidently, they had no high opinion of the children of Ramses, and perhaps a little experience to back up their judgment. Moses had not expected to be welcomed with open arms, but as a matter of course he had anticipated the same deference accorded everywhere to his rank and birth.
“And why, may I ask, O Prince of Egypt?”
“Because the God-King would have me with you to Kush, as a captain of chariots.”
“Oh?” Seti-Keph nodded his head ominously now. “I remember. Moses—the prince of the half-name. Indeed, and as a captain of chariots! Yes, indeed! It has been whispered, O Prince, that you have made something of a name for yourself in your palace brawls. Therefore, you are fit to be a captain of chariots. This is something I don’t deny. I don’t deny any decision of the God-King. No doubt you are a practised charioteer?”
“No. Seti-Keph, I am not.”
“You are not. But a captain of chariots you are! Ah!” he spat out, shaking his head and clenching his fists as he strode past Moses toward the barracks. The chariots were coming in from the field now to the stables, and slaves came running to meet them and handle the bridles, and the officers of Seti-Keph drifted off, some after the Captain of Hosts, some towards the chariots. Moses was left standing alone, ill at ease, not a little disturbed at his introduction to the next three years of his life. “What now?” he wondered. “If it means so little to be a prince of Egypt here at the parade ground, what will it mean in Kush? And whom do I turn to?”
As if in answer to his question, one of the officers who had gone to the chariots turned back to him now, a tall, rather good-looking man with a long white scar running from temple to cheekbone on the right side of his face, just touching the corner of his lips and giving him permanently the expression of a derisive grin. He smiled at Moses, saluted by touching both hands to his forehead, and said without ceremony,
“My name, Prince of Egypt, is Hetep-Re, Captain of Chariots under the Ca
ptain of Hosts. It would seem to me that at this moment you require a friend and advisor. I place myself at your disposal. Without someone like myself, things will go from bad to worse with you. Not because Seti-Keph is a cruel man, but because he is a completely frustrated man at the moment. I can help you. I will be happy to help you.”
Moses’ immediate reaction of relief and gratitude was tempered with caution. This was a new world, as he had begun to learn, and instead of accepting Hetep-Re at his word, he asked to know why.
“Why indeed, Prince of Egypt? If I said it was because I honour the godhead of the Great House, it would take us for ever to get to the point. Let me be both blunt and honest. I am a poor man, as most soldiers are. There’s precious little truth in the stories of the fortunes in spoil a soldier brings home with him. He takes what he can carry, and the tavernkeepers and the whores get most of it before he ever reaches home. I have a wife and three children in the city, and who knows whether one returns from Kush or anywhere else? You are a prince of Egypt. My friendship is for sale at a price.”
Moses smiled. “I see. So are things done in the army. And suppose I were to regard your words as an insult and kill you here on the spot? I am a prince of Egypt.”
“Agreed. But I am an old soldier, and I don’t kill easily. Take my advice, young man, and learn something about the horse before you ride him. A spear or an arrow is ill trained on questions of royalty, and only a prince out of favour and twice cursed goes for three years to the Land of Kush, where every manner of heat and hell prosper. Don’t threaten men so easily. I made you an offer. Take it or leave it.”
“How much?” Moses said shortly.
“Twenty minas of pure gold.”
