The Field of Reeds (Imhotep Book 4)

by Jerry Dubs

  The dust cloud behind the Hittites began to die and as the air cleared, Menena could make out a darker mass. He had hoped that the chariot company had been alone, scouting the land, looking for General Pen-Nebheket’s army. Instead this was the main force, an army that would have given the entire Egyptian army a difficult fight.

  Unconsciously he looked to his right and left, taking in the small number of the Egyptian chariots. Turning his head, he looked at Pharaoh Thutmose. The man-god was smiling, his eyes looking at the distant enemy.

  Menena wanted to be inspired by the confidence of his ruler, but he knew that Thutmose had never been in a true battle and, although he had quickly become a swift and accurate archer, he had never faced the points of enemy spears or heard the battle cries of charging infantry.

  The Hittite line began to slowly move forward, the horses walking, but shaking their heads in eagerness. Although they were still distant to see faces clearly, Menena could discern the glittering of the armor the spearmen wore and he could see the curved rectangles of the body shields held aloft in each chariot.

  The Egyptians had no shields nor spears nor reinforcing infantry.

  Menena felt his bowels gurgle and he clenched himself.

  He glanced again at Thutmose; his eyes were closed as he prayed to Amun.

  “When the Hittites are nearer we will charge. We will pass through their chariot line, charge through the infantry and then wheel about. Then our runners ... ” Menena stopped. There were no runners to follow their chariots and slaughter the bewildered enemy.

  What, he wondered, do we do?

  “We are Amun’s fist,” Thutmose said quietly.

  Menena clenched his bowels tighter and looked to Pawura, hoping to see the commander waving his arms to change the charge into a quick retreat. The Egyptian chariots were faster, the fastest in the world.

  There is no reason, Menena thought, to fight this fight. There are too many of them.

  The Hittite chariots were moving faster now, but still too distant to hear the heavy breathing of the horses or the clatter of the thick wheels or the shouting of the warriors.

  Pawura raised his bow hand over head, looked to his left and to his right. His face was a mask of concentration. “Through the chariots, through the infantry, then regroup on the far side!” he shouted to his left, then to his right.

  “For the Two Lands!” he shouted and the men echoed his cry.

  As the drivers raised their whips to spur the chariots forward, a knife-like voice, solid and sure, shouted, “For Amun!”

  The men turned to Pharaoh Thutmose, who repeated the rallying cry.

  The men joined his chant, the drivers whipped their horses and the quick Egyptian chariots began to charge at the massive Hittite army.

  ***

  Shu and Neith pounded forward, their strides matching, their powerful shoulders rolling and pulling the chariot faster and faster. Thutmose nocked an arrow. His legs bent to brace himself, he drew the bowstring to his cheek, angled the bow skyward and loosed the arrow.

  The armies were still too far apart for the arrow to strike anyone, but the Egyptians saw it and they saw that their ruler was eager and unafraid.

  The drivers shouted at the horses, the other bowmen nocked arrows and the chariots surged forward.

  Pharaoh Thutmose’s arrow rose into the blue sky, arced across the belly of Nut and began to fall to earth. As it dropped, the Hittite charge suddenly slowed.

  Menena could hear panicked shouting and saw the men pointing at the Egyptian chariots. A thrill went through him at the god-power of Pharaoh Thutmose and he began to believe that they truly were the fist of Amun and that they would live to see nightfall.

  As the Egyptian chariots raced onward, the Hittites began to swing their heavy chariots around.

  The Egyptian bowmen loosed a volley of arrows and saw them land on the unprotected backs of the fleeing enemy. The Hittite shield bearers turned and crouched, raising their shields overhead for protection as the Hittite chariots completed their turns and began to race away from the Egyptians.

  The Hittite chariots were heavier and they carried three men. Although the drivers whipped the horses furiously, the Egyptian chariots still gained ground.

  Pawura and the other archers were screaming now, nocking and firing arrow after arrow.

  Wounded Hittite drivers slumped forward. The Hittite spearman shoved the wounded drivers from the chariots and took the reins themselves. Screaming, they slapped their reins on the horses’ backs as they tried to outrun the closing Egyptians.

  Menena, gritting his teeth in the dust, turned his head slightly to glance at Pharaoh Thutmose. At the edge of his vision he saw darkness. Turning his head more, he saw churning behind them a giant wall of sand rising the height of twenty men.

  Suddenly, Menena understood: The Hittites were fleeing the sandstorm, racing away from the certain death it carried.

  He shouted at Pharaoh Thutmose and tilted his head behind him.

  At the same time, Pawura turned and saw the approaching storm.

  He waved and screamed at the other charioteers and now the Egyptian drivers leaned into their whips, driving the chariots recklessly toward the back of the fleeing Hittite army. There was no longer any thought of battle, only of survival.

  Pharaoh Thutmose calmly pushed the end of his bow into the leather quiver, gripped the chariot with both hands and twisted to look at the storm.

  He turned back to the front and scanned the landscape ahead of them.

  A small series of hills rose off to the right of the wide plain. Pharaoh Thutmose looked behind and saw that the fast Egyptian chariots were keeping ahead of the storm. But he knew that the horses could never outlast the fury of Shu, god of wind.

  Gripping Menena’s shoulder he pointed to the hills.

  “Try to get behind them,” he shouted.

  As Menena wheeled the chariot slowly to the right, Thutmose waved to Pawura and pointed toward the hills.

  Perhaps, Thutmose thought, we will find shelter there.

  ***

  As the Egyptian chariots veered away, the Hittite army disappeared to the sound of screaming men as the heavy chariots overtook their own infantry and raced through them, knocking down the soldiers, wheeling over them, crushing them as they raced away from the storm.

  Menena guided the chariot around the curve of the small hill and quickly began to pull up the reins when he saw another series of hills, too rocky for the chariots to traverse, standing before them.

  He turned in panic to Thutmose as the rest of the Egyptian chariots clattered to a stop beside them.

  This is why the Hittites didn’t seek shelter here, Menena thought. This is not shelter, but an unfilled grave.

  Pharaoh Thutmose leaped from the chariot and turned to face the opening behind them. The wind, front-runner of the sandstorm wall, already carried a sting with it.

  Quickly he turned to Menena and shouted, “Cut the horses free!”

  The driver hurried to the front of the chariot and began cutting the leather thongs of the harness.

  Pawura jumped from his chariot and ran to Pharaoh Thutmose.

  Hills too steep to climb rose around them. An overwhelming enemy army lay behind them and a wall of death was screaming nearer.

  “Cut the horses loose!” Pharaoh Thutmose ordered.

  Forgetting that his leader was a man-god, Pawura grabbed at Pharaoh Thutmose. “Why? We are going to die!”

  “Cut the horses loose and overturn the chariots. We will shelter under them!” Pharaoh Thutmose said calmly, his eyes moving from Pawura’s face to the archer’s hand that was gripping Pharaoh Thutmose’s arm.

  Pawura unclenched his hand, turned away and began to shout at his charioteers.

  “Cut the horses free and overturn the chariots!” Thutmose shouted over the wind. Then he turned to help Menena with their chariot.

  ***

  Shu slung sand at the dismounted charioteers, blinding them as they c
ut the horses free. The horses whinnied and snorted in terror, twisting against the restraints as the men struggled to release them.

  Pharaoh Thutmose and Menena pushed their chariot onto its side and then, grasping a wheel, they turned the chariot upside down.

  While Menena scrambled beneath the chariot, Pharaoh Thutmose ran from chariot to chariot, urging the men to hurry, putting his slim shoulders to the chariots to help overturn them.

  The wind grew stronger and heavier and darker.

  Shu added his voice to the wind now, a raspy keening cry that sounded to Menena like a thousand vultures wheeling in the sky. The chariot jostled as Pharaoh Thutmose slipped beneath it. He was naked, his shendyt held in his hand.

  “Quickly, Menena, use your shendyt to shield your mouth and eyes,” he said, tying the linen kilt around his head.

  The wind was no longer wind. It had become a wall of flowing sand and dirt and rocks, swirling over them, pounding against the wooden chariot. Over the howl of the wind, Menena could hear an unearthly scream and realized that it was the horses running blindly to find their own shelter.

  Sand pushed hard against the chariot and suddenly Menena saw that his feet and lower legs had disappeared into the growing, shifting sand.

  Pharaoh Thutmose saw it, too.

  He raised his hands overhead in the cramped space and pushed against the floor of the chariot.

  “Push, Menena!” he ordered. “The storm will bury us. We must turn the chariot so the front faces the wind and then we must move into the storm. Otherwise we will drown in the earth.”

  Menena crawled to the front of the chariot and together he and Pharaoh Thutmose put their shoulders to the wooden ceiling and slowly, slowly it began to move.

  “Don’t stop,” Pharaoh Thutmose said, his voice barely discernible over the scream of the wind, the hammering of sand and rocks on wood and the muffle of his linen mask.

  “I can’t breathe!” Menena said.

  The sand was blinding now, and through the darkness he felt Pharaoh’s hands on his face, pulling at the linen, adjusting the mask.

  “Push, Menena. Push, now, or we die here!”

  Eyes closed, feet sinking into loose land that gave way beneath them, Pharaoh Thutmose and Menena pushed at the chariot, fought the screams of Shu, and crept deeper into the storm.

  Pharaoh's Blood

  “Get Akila, quickly, please,” Imhotep told Admiral Ahmose, then his eyes darted around the tent. Stepping quickly to his right, Imhotep grabbed one of the embroidered linen sheets that covered three sides of the large tent. He tugged the cloth free, saw that Admiral Ahmose hadn’t moved and leaned to him.

  “Hurry, Admiral, I need Akila!”

  Dropping his staff as he moved, Imhotep took two quick steps to Pharaoh Hatshepsut who still held her hand at her face. Her head was tilted down as she watched in surprise as blood dripped from her hand to her gown.

  He knelt by her and slowly put his hands on her face.

  Unused to being touched, Pharaoh Hatshepsut jerked her head up.

  Imhotep nodded reassuringly as he put a hand on Pharaoh Hatshepsut’s bloody hand and slowly, firmly slid it away from her bleeding mouth. He pressed the linen against her parted lips and used the other end of the cloth to wipe Pharaoh Hatshepsut’s jaw and neck.

  While he worked, his eyes sought hers. Although she was squinting in pain, she was watching him intently, clearly aware of her surroundings.

  “I’ve sent for Akila,” he said softly, lifting the cloth to gauge how heavily the blood was flowing. A wet drop clung to the corner of her mouth, but there was no steady flow.

  “I’m going to touch your face. Blink, don’t talk, just blink when I touch a spot that hurts,” he said. He hung the cloth over his shoulder, reassuringly took her hands in his right hand and then touched the front of her chin with his thumb, pressing lightly at first and then harder.

  He began to work his way back along her lower jaw toward her right ear.

  When he pressed halfway along her jawline she blinked and then shook her head. Watching her closely, he gently slid his thumb up toward her cheek. Her shoulders tensed and she began to blink rapidly when his thumb reached her cheek outside her upper jaw.

  “OK, let’s take a look inside,” he said, forcing a reassuring smile.

  He glanced around the tent again, looking for a tool to use to hold her cheek wide, sighed at the waste of effort, there would be no sterile tools lying in her tent or anywhere else in this ancient land, and turned back to her with a smile.

  “I thought Akila would be here by now,” he said lightly.

  He wiped his hands on the linen and opened his mouth wide. Copying him, Pharaoh Hatshepsut opened her mouth and Imhotep slipped an index finger into her mouth and softly pulled her cheek away from her teeth.

  Suddenly she began to choke and he realized that the bleeding, temporarily stanched, had resumed. He removed his hands and backed away.

  “Lean forward and spit, Pharaoh Hatshepsut, just spit it out.”

  As she bent forward, the tent grew brighter and Akila entered.

  ***

  “She has an open sore on her upper right gum. The buccal side, the outside,” Akila told Imhotep in English after she had finished examining Pharaoh Hatshepsut.

  “She must be in horrible pain,” Akila whispered, again in English.

  “What can we do about it?” Imhotep asked.

  “I’ll have to think,” Akila said. “I’m not a dentist, so I don’t know how to ... ” she shook her head and crossed her arms. “I wouldn’t have the right tools to extract a tooth, anyhow.” She bit on her lower lip as she thought. After a moment she said, “Ideally she’d get antibiotics and then a root canal. That is obviously not an option.”

  “My grandmother used saltwater to rinse her mouth when she had a toothache,” Imhotep suggested.

  Lost in thought, Akila nodded to let Imhotep know that she had heard him, but she stared past Pharaoh Hatshepsut as she chased a solution. Her lips tightened as she remembered. “Yuya hit her jaw when we were fighting in the Forest of Myrrh. I remember her face being swollen,” Akila said to herself. “The blow must have cracked a tooth.”

  She turned to Pharaoh Hatshepsut. “Ma’at-ka-re, there is a wound here,” she opened her own mouth and pointed to the gum outside her upper, right molars. I will prepare a wash for you. Then we will give you a potion for the pain. I cannot remove the tooth, I don’t have the proper tools, but I can treat the injured gum and help reduce your pain. Once we return to Waset we can get proper care.”

  “Is there a worm? Can you remove it?” Pharaoh Hatshepsut asked.

  Akila looked at Imhotep who gave a small shrug and explained, “Some believe that toothaches are caused by worms. Pentu and I talked about it before we left Waset. He and Hapu, I mean, Sitre were trying to decide if they should include it ... ”

  “Worms?” Akila interrupted. She shook her head at the reminder that she was living now in a time more than three thousand years earlier than her former life.

  “No, Ma’at-ka-re, there is no worm, just a wound,” she said, leaning toward the pharaoh and taking her hand. “I will stay with you while Imhotep gathers the potions.”

  She looked over her shoulder. “I like your idea to use saltwater for the rinse and to clean the infection. We can use a garlic broth for the pain.” She tilted her head suddenly and smiled. “And some beeswax.”

  ***

  “Captain Djehuty, I need your help,” Imhotep said as he approached the commander of the company of soldiers that had accompanied Pharaoh Hatshepsut on the expedition to Ta-Netjer.

  Djehuty’s face fell as he turned to Imhotep. “I hope this isn’t about the baboons,” he said, his hands unconsciously clenching.

  Imhotep smiled reassuringly.

  I’m turning into a politician, he thought, full of empty smiles.

  A stab of homesickness pierced him as he thought of his early days in the ancient world when he was only a misp
laced artist with little more to do than sketch the landscape and the people, especially his beloved Meryt.

  “Oh, no,” Djehuty said, his voice falling as he saw longing wash over Imhotep’s face. “Something terrible has happened.”

  Imhotep waved a hand to discourage Djehuty’s worries. “No, no, I’m sorry. My thoughts wandered for a moment.” He worked his face back into a smile. Leaning on his walking staff, he looked back over his shoulder toward Pharaoh Hatshepsut’s tent.

  “Have you spoken with Admiral Ahmose?” he asked.

  Djehuty shook his head. “No.” He followed Imhotep’s gaze toward Pharaoh Hatshepsut’s tent. He looked back at Imhotep and waited, aware now that Imhotep’s request came from the ruler of the Two Lands.

  Imhotep nodded. “I need a few of your men to help me gather some water from the Great Green, evaporate it to gather salt, and then ... ” he stopped, shaking his head. He had noticed that he had developed a tendency to give long, detailed explanations. “I need some of your men to help me prepare some potions for Akila.”

  “Of course, Lord Imhotep,” Djehuty nodded, his eyes drifting to Pharaoh Hatshepsut’s tent.

  “And we’ll need your cook to prepare a garlic broth. And,” he added casually, “we’ll need some beeswax.”

  “Beeswax?”

  ***

  Four soldiers shifted uneasily beneath the thinly leafed branches of a balsam tree, their eyes darting from the beach behind them to the tree and then onward to a thicket of bushes where they heard leaves and branches swishing against each other.

  “I don’t see any bees,” one of the soldiers said, staring up at the dark green leaves that sprouted from thorny branches.

  “There aren’t any blossoms,” another said. “Everyone knows they live in blossoms.” His eyes rolled from the tree to the sound of a soft, angry grunt from the bushes.

  “Why do we need beeswax? We don’t need candles,” the third soldier said in a whisper.

  “We should be looking for fields of wheat,” the fourth said, louder so his voice would carry to the bushes.