The Field of Reeds (Imhotep Book 4)

by Jerry Dubs

  “It was Addaya who supplied us on our way here, general.”

  General Pen-Nebheket nodded. “Yes, it was. And we were deficient in beer,” he said, pointing an angry finger at the map.

  The army never has enough beer, Antef thought.

  After a moment the general turned, his arms still folded, his back straight and stiff. When he spoke, he surprised Antef by saying, “Pharaoh Thutmose will leave before the army.”

  No doubt he wants to return to the Two Lands while he is still young, Antef thought, and then quickly buried the thought before his face could register amusement.

  “See to it that Pawura is given this map and directions to the supplies.”

  “Pawura?”

  “Yes, Pharaoh Thutmose has decided to travel with the young heroes. The gods have instructed him to learn to drive a chariot. So he is going on ahead. To Waset.”

  ***

  Leaning toward the darkened doorway Sabestet held his breath as he turned his attention to Governor Seni’s bedchamber.

  There was no sibilant rustling of bed linens, no rumbling expulsion of gases, no rattling draw of breath.

  His ka has fled!

  Conflicting emotions swirled in Sabestet’s heart.

  He had known Governor Seni for so many years. He had watched him stumbling as a vice governor, watched him grow into manhood and take the reins of the province. Governor Seni had become lawgiver, judge and efficient ruler of the most wealthy of all the provinces of the Two Lands. He had added to the palace, he had expanded the market with bribes extorted from passing caravans. The city and province had thrived.

  And all the while Governor Seni had spurned marriage, his heart given to Mut-Nofret, who had been taken by Pharaoh Thutmose I so many, many years ago. The loss of his beloved Mut-Nofret had fed a torturous hatred for the house of Thutmose.

  Sabestet paused. The more he thought, the less he was sure of how he felt about his now departed master.

  His maudlin musings were interrupted by a shout from the governor’s bedchamber.

  “Sabestet! Come quickly!” the not-yet-dead master called. “We must pack. I am going to Waset!”

  ***

  “We shouldn’t separate the fleet, Pharaoh Hatshepsut. No one before us has sailed these waters and, yes, yes, I know that we sailed them on our way to Ta Netjer, but we don’t know if the gods allowed safe passage only to lure us into danger on our return.”

  Admiral Ahmose looked at the sandy ground, darted his eyes sideways toward Imhotep and then looked slowly back at Pharaoh Hatshepsut, who started to raise a hand to the right side of her face. She changed the open hand to a fist and forced it back to her lap.

  The ruler was dressed in a long gown with a low, scooped neckline obscured by a bright, wide necklace of gold, glass beads, and turquoise stones. She sat on a wooden chair, the back and seat covered with linen; her court wig of long black braids lay on a stand beside her, looking like a huge resting spider in the dim morning light.

  Three walls of the tent were lined with linen sheets that hung over wooden poles. The cloths were embroidered with colorful scenes of palace life in Waset. In addition to giving Pharaoh Hatshepsut privacy, the screen softened the harsh desert light.

  Outside, the camp was coming alive with the crackle of fires, the bawling of giraffes, the sleepy roar of a leopard and angry screams from the two baboons who had been tethered by neck, arms, and legs to keep them from escaping.

  Weighing the admiral’s advice, Pharaoh Hatshepsut stared at him for a moment and then turned her head to Imhotep.

  “What do you see?” she asked, the words forced out through clenched teeth.

  Imhotep leaned on the heavy, carved staff that he carried and smiled reassuringly at Pharaoh Hatshepsut. He had grown used to rulers asking him what he foresaw and he had learned to be reassuring and vague whenever possible.

  “The fleet will return intact, Divine of Appearance. It will be recorded on your temple walls. However, I do have a suggestion, one that shouldn’t change what has happened and yet will answer your needs.” He glanced at Admiral Ahmose, who scowled but said nothing.

  “Admiral Ahmose has wisely decided to build barges for some of the goods and for the animals. Their construction will take time. And, as Admiral Ahmose has explained, the animals do need to eat all that they can while we are ashore and the men do need to gather as much food and water as possible. And, once we put back to sea, the ships will doubtless move at a slower pace because they will be dragging the barges.

  “So I suggest that we send two ships ahead to Saww. You, Akila, Nehsy and I could return to the Two Lands on them. Then we could travel by land across the eastern desert to Waset. It will be easier to enter Waset unobserved by land. The ships that we take to Saww can wait there for Admiral Ahmose and the remaining ships.”

  “No! It isn’t safe. There might be pirates, or sea monsters. We simply don’t know,” Admiral Ahmose sputtered. “Imhotep sounds confident, but he admits that this is his first trip on the Great Green.”

  Pharaoh Hatshepsut nodded agreement. “I do want to return to Waset as quickly as possible,” she said, her voice unusually soft.

  Suddenly her right cheek extended and she put a hand to her mouth and blood began to trickle through her fingers.

  The Breath of Shu

  Menena never thought about the four leather reins he held in his hands — the way he tugged them or tossed them over the strong shoulders of Shu and Neith. He never gave thought to when he should raise the short whip he carried in his left hand to urge the horses to break into a gallop. These things were part of him, as natural as drawing breath.

  But standing now in the royal chariot, Menena found his hands had turned to stone as they waited for commands from a mind that was overwhelmed by the nearness of Pharaoh Thutmose III, Son of Re and co-ruler of the Two Lands.

  Pharaoh Thutmose III was slight, his arms and chest thin, his stomach flat and tight. His face was smooth and his head, beneath a tight, leather blue cap, the war crown of the ruling house, was smoothly shaved and oiled.

  His brown eyes, heavily protected by dark green kohl, were wide with interest, absorbing everything they saw. His mouth was curled into a slight, amused smile and his chin was wider than the statues Menena had seen of Pharaoh Hatshepsut, Thutmose’s stepmother, who also ruled the Two Lands.

  As unassuming as the individual parts of Thutmose’s divine body were, Menena sensed a fire within the ruler that seemed ready to burst through his skin and set the air itself ablaze.

  Staring at the broad backs of the twin horses that were hitched to the royal chariot, Menena felt eyes study him. He turned his head slightly and saw Thutmose watching him with an easy smile beneath bemused eyes, eyes that radiated expectation, trust in the future, eagerness to embrace every experience.

  He drinks from life as fearlessly as others drink from a pot of beer, Menena thought suddenly.

  He saw that Thutmose held his arms formally at his side, his fingers rolled into relaxed fists.

  “Pharaoh Thutmose, long life!” he said, his voice shaky.

  The smile grew larger and amusement danced in Thutmose’s eyes.

  “If you could hold onto the railing,” Menena nodded at the curved wooden top of the chariot’s body.

  The smile grew even larger as Thutmose raised his arms and gripped the railing.

  “And perhaps, Pharaoh Thutmose, long life!, if you could bend your knees slightly, like this.” Menena crouched, his legs ready to absorb the bounce of the chariot.

  Thutmose bent his legs and, eyebrows raised in question, he turned his face to Menena and then tilted his head slightly forward, a silent command to urge the horse onward and begin the long, overland journey back to Waset, civilized heart of the Two Lands.

  ***

  Pharaoh Thutmose had traveled with the army for almost a year, absorbing military tactics and mastering General Pen-Nebheket’s favorite subject: the logistics of moving, feeding, and arming a thous
and men.

  Although he had felt the heft of the short spears, the unwieldy balance of the long spears, the reassuring weight of a leather shield, the constrained anger of the bow, he had never ridden in a war chariot. Instead he had ridden in the wide, four-horse chariot that transported the general and he had ridden in his own, electrum-gilded chariot, gently driven by Pairy, an ancient warrior chosen by General Pen-Nebheket, who seldom goaded the horses beyond a hurried walk.

  Now, with the Shasu defeated, Thutmose was determined to experience army life outside of the command tents.

  He longed for Shu’s breath to blow across his skin as his chariot glided behind two galloping horses. He was eager to keep his balance on jostling floorboards while drawing a bowstring. He wanted to sweat and have his muscles ache.

  Menena spoke to Shu and Neith, Pawura’s horses which had been hitched to the royal chariot. He gently laid the thongs of his whip on their rumps and the horses lurched forward and began a slow jog.

  Around them the rest of the twenty-five chariots General Pen-Nebheket had dispatched to escort the lord of the Two Lands stirred into movement amid a soft patter of hoof beats on packed sand and the snap of leather thongs.

  “Heya!” Menena shouted, He slapped the whip against Shu and Neith. The war horses snorted, raised their tails and, straining against the leather harnesses attached to the long, curved pole that held them to chariot, they broke into an easy canter.

  Pharaoh Thutmose tightened his grip on the wooden frame of the chariot, felt his legs bend beneath his weight and leaned forward into the wind.

  Two other horses cantered up beside Pharaoh Thutmose’s chariot and Pawura, who was holding the reins, glared across the narrow divide between the chariots. He held out a hand, palm down and signaled for Menena to slow.

  “No!” Pharaoh Thutmose said into the wind. “Faster. I want to go faster.”

  Menena looked from Pawura to Thutmose. Suddenly he felt the divine hand of Thutmose on his shoulder.

  “Go faster, Menena,” Pharaoh Thutmose said, his voice filled with glee. “I command you, Menena. Lose Pawura in our dust.” Then Pharaoh Thutmose, Golden Horus, Mighty Bull from Waset, divine Son of Re, tilted his head back and shouted, “Heya!”

  ***

  By the third day, the small grin that Pharaoh Thutmose always carried had grown into a permanent smile.

  Life as a charioteer was exhilarating.

  He loved the rush of movement. He felt it through the wind sweeping across his skin and from the push of the land that rolled up through the bed of the chariot and into his legs. He loved dashing across the land, trying to outrun Re in his race to the western horizon. He loved the strange, wobbly feeling that swayed him when he stepped off the chariot onto solid land.

  Squinting against the glare of the bright sand and the brush of Shu’s hot, sometimes gritty breath, Thutmose imagined racing through the quiet, solemn temples of Waset, weaving through the painted, pillared forest of Amun, crashing through smoky clouds of incense. He imagined the startled screams of priests as the horses chuffed and their hooves clattered on stone floors. He imagined ancient Hapuseneb throwing his arms up in alarm and he imagined the great god Amun himself, throwing his head back and laughing as life coursed through his temple.

  For how could the gods not love the rush and the thrill, the speed and the bounce, the strain and the release of a racing chariot!

  Dismounting from the chariot as the company stopped to rest the horses, Thutmose slapped Menena’s sweaty back, a friendly gesture that the amazed Menena had now come to cherish.

  The man-god himself touched him with casual familiarity!

  “Tomorrow I take the reins,” Thutmose said, moving his hand up Menena’s back to cup the back of his neck. He pulled Menena closer until their foreheads touched. “We will fly across the desert like an arrow!”

  Thutmose released the startled Menena and turned to walk to Pawura’s chariot, which had just slowed to a stop behind them.

  Pawura jumped from the chariot and stopped himself from dropping to a knee before Pharaoh Thutmose. After a single day of traveling away from the watchful gaze of General Pen-Nebheket, the Pharaoh Thutmose had released all the charioteers from obeisance.

  However, they all were required to accompany Thutmose each morning as he welcomed Re to the Two Lands and again each evening as he offered protective prayers and spells to help Re in his overnight journey.

  “Pawura, while the horses regain their legs, I want to practice archery,” Thutmose said.

  Pawura smiled. The practice had started the first evening and continued at each rest stop. During the first two days the other charioteers had gathered to watch, but the novelty had worn off and now the men spent the pauses resting, checking supplies, and inspecting the undercarriage of the chariots, clearing sand and dirt from the catgut bindings.

  Thutmose held out his right hand for inspection. “Look, the skin is changing on my fingertips. Soon I will have calluses like you and the other archers.”

  “First you will have blisters, Pharaoh Thutmose. Then you will need to suspend practice for a few days while the soft skin turns hard.”

  Thutmose held his hand up to his face and scowled as he inspected the tender skin worn thin from squeezing the arrow’s shaft when he pulled the bowstring. “We shall see,” he said.

  Then his face brightened. “Set up the targets,” he ordered Pawura and then he reached past him to take the archer’s bow.

  ***

  Two weeks into the journey, as the chariots emerged from the shadow of a low plateau, Pawura, who was leading the company, pointed off to the south.

  Thutmose, who was driving his chariot with Menena standing beside him, followed Pawura’s gesture and saw a low cloud of dust. He felt Menena stiffen beside him.

  “What is it?” Thutmose asked.

  “I’m not sure, Lord.”

  “Guess.”

  Menena glanced at Pawura, who had unconsciously sidled near his quiver, which was strapped to the right side of his chariot.

  “It could be approaching chariots,” Menena said.

  As Menena spoke, Pawura signaled for the chariots to stop. He reined his horses to circle back to Pharaoh Thutmose.

  “Who are they?” Thutmose asked as Pawura slowed his chariot.

  Pawura shook his head. “They are too distant. And,” he looked at Menena, “it could be nothing more than a sandstorm.”

  “But,” Thutmose said, “if it is not a sandstorm?”

  “Canaanites. Or Mitanni. Perhaps Hittites,” Pawura said, his voice solemn.

  Thutmose digested the information quickly. “No matter. They should not be here.”

  “No,” Pawura agreed.

  “We came to Sinai to secure the trade routes,” Thutmose said.

  “Yes, Pharaoh Thutmose, the army came here to do that, not a small company of charioteers,” Pawura said. He glanced again at Menena.

  “He is right, Pharaoh Thutmose,” Menena agreed.

  Thutmose tilted his head as he turned slowly to Menena and Pawura. He studied them for a moment, understanding that their hesitation was for his sake. His broad smile slowly dissolved. “I am the mighty bull of Waset. I am golden Horus. I am the fist of Amun, not a boy to be coddled and protected like a bird with a broken wing.”

  His dark brown eyes burned into them.

  “Have I not pulled the bowstring and loosed the arrows? Have I not taken the reins and driven the chariot? Have I not endured the heat and the wind and the fire of Re?”

  Pawura and Menena looked down, afraid to see anger on Thutmose’s face.

  Thutmose reached out and placed a hand on each of their shoulders. “Pawura, Menena, I know that you are ordered to protect and shield me. As the living god Horus, I release you from those orders.

  “Today we are brothers. We are the young heroes of the Two Lands. We will turn our chariots toward the Canaanites or the Mitanni or the Hittites, whoever has been foolish enough to place their shado
w in our path.”

  He squeezed their shoulders now.

  “Look at me, Pawura and Menena.”

  Raising their heads the men saw the ka of Re looking at them through Thutmose’s confident eyes. “Together we are the fist of Amun and we will not be defeated.”

  He turned and mounted the chariot. Holding the reins out to Menena, he lifted his bow and tilted his head to the distant, growing cloud.

  ***

  The cloud rolled closer and they saw that it was a shifting, brown churning wave of dust chasing a wide line of square-bodied chariots. Each was pulled by two horses and carried a driver, a shield bearer, and a spearman.

  “Hittites,” Menena said over his shoulder to Pharaoh Thutmose, who was busy counting the enemy chariots.

  “There will be just the one line?” he asked.

  “Yes, Pharaoh,” Menena said.

  “Infantry?”

  “Following behind, hidden by the dust.”

  “How many?”

  “Usually the infantry is a smaller force,” Menena answered. “The Hittites depend on their large chariots to overwhelm the enemy. The infantry follows to dispatch survivors.”

  Thutmose finished counting. “There are more than a hundred chariots.”

  Menena nodded, his eyes darting from the enemy, still too distant to hear, to Pawura, who had given the reins of the chariot to a driver and was holding his bow, his eyes assessing the enemy in the same way Thutmose had.

  “Too many,” Menena said softly.

  Pawura called a command, his arms spreading as he shouted.

  The Egyptian chariots formed into a wide line matching the length of the Hittites. Thutmose looked at his own force, spread out, there was only one chariot facing every four of the heavier Hittite chariots, which had slowed now as their commander organized their charge.