by Jerry Dubs
“Wheat?” the third soldier asked.
“For beer. We need beer, not wax. You can’t eat wax.”
“Over here!” Imhotep shouted from the bushes. “Hurry!”
The soldiers exchanged glances and then ran toward the voice of the strange man who was whispered to be a god from the time before the ancient Pyramid of Djoser had been built.
“There!” Imhotep said, pointing to a white-petaled flower with a half dozen stamen protruding like the long legs of a spider. “See it?”
The soldiers crowded close to the plant. Suddenly, a bee flew from behind the blossom, swirled around the extended stamen and began to fly away.
“Follow it to its hive!” Imhotep shouted. “Don’t lose it!”
The soldiers looked at each other a moment and then at Imhotep, who pounded his heavy walking stick against the rocky earth and shouted, “Follow that bee!”
Amid stifled laughter, the men ran into the shrubby undergrowth.
***
“I don’t think we handled that very well,” Imhotep said as he presented Akila with a small clump of beeswax that afternoon.
Although she was worried about the pain Pharaoh Hatshepsut was enduring and the chance of the wound developing an infection, Akila couldn’t suppress a smile when she took the wax from Imhotep; his face and arms were covered with angry, red swellings.
“Are the others as bad?” she asked when she was sure her voice wouldn’t carry a trace of humor.
Imhotep shook his head.
“No, they are faster runners,” he said with a small grin.
“Well, clearly you aren’t allergic to bee stings. I’m sorry,” she said with a gentle smile. Then, sighing, she added, “I’m afraid that I don’t have anything for your pain.”
“I’ll be fine. I just feel like I was attacked by ... ” he frowned as he tried to conjure a comparison.
“By a swarm of angry bees?” Akila said.
“At least I drew them away so the men could get this,” he nodded toward the wax.
“You didn’t use smoke?” she asked.
“Apparently not long enough. Oh,” he said as he turned away, “there is fresh honey for tonight’s meal.”
Akila smiled.
Imhotep turned back. “Do you need any help?”
“No,” she said. “I’m just going to use the wax to cover the wound. I think Pharaoh Hatshepsut will be more comfortable if only one pair of hands is poking around her mouth.”
“She’ll be OK?”
“As long as there isn’t any infection. But her teeth are terrible, Tim,” she said, lapsing into English and using his modern name.
He nodded. “I’m not a dentist, but even I noticed how hard this life is on teeth. There is sand in everything. It grinds down the teeth.”
She shook her head. “You really don’t like sand, do you?”
He looked around the sandy ground and the thin covering of grains on his bare feet. “Yet, apparently, I can’t get enough of it,” he said with a smile.
Within the storm
“Keep moving!” Pharaoh Thutmose commanded through clenched teeth, the words forced through the filthy swatch of linen tied around his face.
He and Menena were on their knees, their backs scraped raw from pushing against the floor of the overturned chariot. Around them the storm screamed with Shu’s wrath and sand and rocks slammed against the chariot, the battered wooden shell that protected Pharaoh Thutmose and Menena.
Time had disappeared beneath the constant wailing. Re’s fiery barque was hidden by the storm, perhaps gone forever. The air itself had become a swirling brown slurry that pounded the chariot, swept under it each time they lunged forward and coated their linen masks.
They had no proof that they were actually moving the overturned chariot except the measure of loose earth beneath their cramping legs. With each exhausting push it seemed that they moved and it seemed that their legs were buried less.
Then more sand poured in around them, the storm pounded on the chariot and Pharaoh Thutmose spit out the command again.
“Keep moving!”
His own mind numbed to exhaustion, Menena followed his master’s commands.
He had heard of desert sandstorms, huge walls of rocks, sand and dirt that swept across the land, but he had never believed they truly existed. How could the earth come to life and sweep across the land?
“Keep moving!”
Menena, his eyes closed, his shoulders numb, his back aching and burning, his legs turned to dead weight, gasped as he choked on inhaled dirt. Yet he leaned forward, felt his legs sink into the earth, felt fresh pain in his shoulder and felt the chariot inch forward.
He thought of his mother, his father and his younger brother. He thought of green palm leaves and gently flowing water, and dates. He loved dates. The sweetness! The fragrance! The pulpy deliciousness! He loved to feel his teeth pierce the fruit and release the nectar.
“Keep moving!”
He would never taste the fruit again. Instead his throat would fill with this wall of dirt and he would die here, away from the Two Lands. Thoth would never record his name, never weigh his heart. His ka would shrivel and die, pounded into nothingness in the wasteland of nowhere.
Crying, Menena pushed again, throwing his anger and fear and weight against the chariot.
“Stop!”
Menena heard the command, but it made no sense. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder. Yes, he remembered now, the hand was that of Pharaoh Thutmose, who never grew weary or lost heart.
The hand moved from his shoulder to his face.
“Menena!” Fingers pulled at the linen mask. He felt the gritty cloth slide away and now light tapped at his closed eyelids.
“Listen!”
He slowly opened his eyes. They were still trapped beneath the overturned chariot. The brown light that he had last seen had cleared and now Re’s own brightness washed across the chariot, pushing between freshly made cracks in the chariot bed.
“I think Shu has moved on,” Pharaoh Thutmose said. “Push upward instead of forward.”
Blinking as his eyes adjusted to the light, Menena gathered himself beneath his feet, still buried in the sandy earth.
“Now!”
He pushed, felt splinters dig into his bare back, pushed harder, and felt the chariot rise.
“Harder!”
The chariot rose higher, daylight streamed in around dirt waterfalls.
“Harder, Menena!”
He stood, pushing his arms overhead. Looking beside him he saw Pharaoh Thutmose straining against the chariot bed. Blood streamed down his arms and back and rivers of dirt ran over his face and chest. And still, grimacing as he pushed, his eyes were afire with life, as if his ka had grown within and filled his mortal shell.
Suddenly, the chariot turned sideways, a wheel passed overhead and Menena found himself alive and standing in the middle of a freshly made desert.
Beside him the son of Re raised his arms to the sky and began to chant a mighty song of praise.
Alive
Standing on legs that quivered and cramped, Pharaoh Thutmose and Menena squinted in the harsh sunlight and surveyed the aftermath of the sandstorm.
Off to the west a dark swath of air filled with swirling sand and soil rose high above the battered land. But above them, they saw that Re had survived the storm and was riding across Nut’s belly, chasing the storm. His fiery light swept now across an alien landscape.
Turning to get his bearings, Pharaoh Thutmose saw the hills that they had hoped to hide behind were just off to the south. Closer than he thought they would be.
Menena made the same assessment. “We haven’t moved very far,” the young charioteer said as he swung his cramped arms and shook his legs.
“Where are the others?” Pharaoh Thutmose asked himself.
Then he noticed the scattered mounds.
“Come, Menena,” he said breaking into a light jog.
With his feet sliding
in the deep layer of loose soil and sand as he slogged across the narrow valley, Pharaoh Thutmose cast his attention from one mound to the other, hoping to see movement.
Reaching the first mound, Pharaoh Thutmose bent and began to drag the loose sand away from it. Menena joined him and they quickly felt the hard edge of a wheel. They worked faster, scooping away the soil, ignoring the ache in their backs from being crouched beneath their own chariot as the storm passed over them.
When the floor of the chariot was exposed, Pharaoh Thutmose beat on it, hoping to hear a reply. When a moment passed, he frowned and, leaning forward, began to dig faster. Menena also redoubled his efforts and soon they were able to edge their fingers below what had been the top railing of the chariot.
Straining against the weight of the sand that covered the other side of the chariot, Pharaoh Thutmose and Menena slowly felt the chariot rise. Suddenly, it picked up speed and, as sand slid into the suddenly growing opening, a hand snaked out toward them. Pharaoh Thutmose grabbed it, felt the fingers close desperately around him and leaning back, pulled with all his weight and strength.
Menena kept lifting on the chariot, Thutmose pulled on the extended arm, and soon a head and heavy shoulders emerged from the earth.
“Satnem!” Menena said as the charioteer pulled himself to freedom.
The freed charioteer nodded his head as he coughed. Then, without getting to his feet, he curled around to face the chariot and reached his arms under it. “Turo, take my hand. Turo!”
As Satnem struggled to free his driver, Pharaoh Thutmose dashed to the next mound and began to clear it. Menena joined him moments later.
“Turo lives!” he said, bending to pull soil from the mound.
Soon he and Pharaoh Thutmose scraped against wood and began to dig faster. They tore skin from their fingers, broke their fingernails, watched the fresh blood mingle with the dirt and still they dug.
Satnem joined them and then Turo, his face awash in disbelief that he still lived, knelt beside them and together the four uncovered a wheel and began to lift. As soon as the chariot began to move they heard scraping from beneath it.
Satisfied, Pharaoh Thutmose touched Menena’s shoulder and nodded at the next mound. The men ran off leaving Satnem and Turo to free their fellow soldiers.
***
Re chased the sandstorm into the red western sky as the growing band of charioteers worked to free their comrades. Many of the chariots were lifted only to uncover dead men, their faces twisted in agony, their mouths filled with the dust of death. Others held a single survivor, a few held two men.
Each time a chariot was overturned and a survivor was found, there was a shout of joy and the newly reborn warriors, exhausted, yet exhilarated, rose from the belly of Geb and joined in unearthing the remaining chariots.
Pawura was in the sixth chariot that was uncovered. Crawling from the grave that failed to hold him, he quickly looked for Pharaoh Thutmose, who was digging at a chariot a dozen paces away.
“He lives,” Menena told his commander. “He carried our chariot through the storm and has led the rescue.” Leaning closer to Pawura, he said in a voice that was a mixture of awe and love, “If he is not a god, then there are no gods!”
***
When the final mound was excavated, Pharaoh Thutmose saw that there were seventeen survivors from a company of fifty.
With Re still chasing the sandstorm, Pharaoh Thutmose directed a second search through the overturned chariots, rechecking for survivors and searching for water skins, food, and weapons.
“Once we have rested,” Pharaoh Thutmose told Pawura as the men completed the search, “we will follow the path of the storm.”
Pawura looked to the west. The storm was no longer visible.
“The Hittites are still there,” Pharaoh Thutmose said.
Pawura shook his head at the idea of the small band of survivors pursuing the Hittite army.
“We must find and kill them,” Pharaoh Thutmose said.
Pawura began a protest, then he saw the fire in Pharaoh Thutmose’s eyes.
“The storm will have killed them,” Pawura said, hoping to dissuade Pharaoh Thutmose.
Pharaoh Thutmose smiled. “Yes, I’m sure Shu has killed them.” Then he turned to Pawura with a frown. “The gods ask a price for their blessing. I grieve for the men we have lost. Yet the Hittites will have lost ten times our number.”
Then the smile returned to Pharaoh Thutmose’s face and he said, “Re is preparing to descend. Gather the men so we can strengthen him with our prayers.”
***
In the morning, after celebrating Re’s return from the underworld, Pharaoh Thutmose and the surviving charioteers shouldered the water skins they had found and began following the shroud of sand Shu had swept over the land.
A low series of hills lay to the south and off to the north. Just at the edge of the horizon, there was a long, low plateau marked by the shadow line that thinned as Re raced westward. Ahead of them stretched a pockmarked plain, its surface a series of uneven mounds, some marked by wooden wheels, some by the eerie sight of a horse’s head rising from the sand.
“They didn’t free the horses,” Pawura said, his voice hollow at the idea of the death of so many of the noble beasts.
Pharaoh Thutmose shook his head, awed by the horrendous devastation Shu had hurled at the Hittite army.
The seventeen Egyptians spread out in a wide line, stopping at each mound and prodding the dirt, sometimes pausing to scrape away some of the loose soil. Occasionally one of the men would shout and the others would gather to help free a quiver of arrows or a clutch of spears or a water skin.
Just before noon one of the soldiers called the others to help him pull gold armor from one of the dead Hittites.
When Pharaoh Thutmose joined them he ordered them to stop. “No, we are not looting. We are dispatching wounded, we are finding supplies,” he said. The men paused, looked at each other and then at Pawura.
He nodded curtly and the men slowly backed away from the gleaming armor.
After the men had moved away, Pawura softly said, “Pharaoh Thutmose, you said that I should speak openly.”
Pharaoh Thutmose turned to him, his ever-present smile a thin line on a face that was streaked with sweat rivulets.
“We are soldiers,” Pawura hesitantly began.
“We are maryannu,” Pharaoh Thutmose said, nodding agreement while disagreeing.
“Yes, Pharaoh, we are the young heroes. And we give our lives, we offer our kas to the service of the Two Lands, to the service of you, and of Pharaoh Hatshepsut.”
“And to the gods,” Pharaoh Thutmose added.
“Yes, to the gods,” Pawura agreed. He paused a moment and then continued, “Chariots are expensive. The shaft alone costs three silver deben. The body of the chariot at least five more. Then there are the horses, the attendants, the driver, the weapons.”
Pharaoh Thutmose’s smile broadened. He had never considered that someone would pay for something. He understood that food, water, weapons, all the items that General Pen-Nebheket was so insistent to talk about, had to be acquired, but he had never considered how. It had always been his experience that one asked for something and it appeared.
He leaned toward Pawura, his dark eyes wide with interest.
Pawura unconsciously wet his lips. Seeing Pharaoh so interested was unnerving. His mind suddenly pictured a long-eared jerboa twisting in the talons of an owl as the night predator watched it hungrily.
Blinking away the thought, Pawura said, “The charioteers depend on the gold and silver, the horses, the weapons, everything they can take from the defeated enemy.” He looked away from Pharaoh Thutmose as he tried to gather his thoughts. “It is like a hawk, Pharaoh Thutmose. We are the hawks and we work hard to capture our prey. So, when we are victorious, we must feast,” he said with a shrug.
“Plunder is how you get your silver deben,” Pharaoh Thutmose said.
Pawura nodded, encouraged
by the understanding in Pharaoh Thutmose’s voice.
“And you need the silver deben to acquire and maintain your chariots, which you use to defeat enemies so you can plunder them to acquire more silver deben.” Pharaoh Thutmose’s smile spread to his eyes. “It is like the great cycle of Re or the flooding of Iteru,” he said happily.
“Yes, yes,” Pawura said, relieved at Pharaoh Thutmose’s understanding. “Then I can tell the men that they are permitted to retrieve what they can?”
But Pharaoh Thutmose shook his head. “Another time, Pawura.” He spread his arms at the wide plain and the countless hillocks, each containing a dead Hittite, each a potential treasure trove. “We have no way to transport plunder. We will need our arms and backs to carry water and food, for I doubt that we will find horses. We will have to walk back the trail.”
Pawura looked at the same landscape, imagined the riches that were lying just a few scrapes beneath the loose ground. He closed his eyes and sighed. Pharaoh Thutmose was right, there was no way to transport all the plunder.
Suddenly, Pharaoh Thutmose clapped Pawura’s back. “Rejoice, Pawura! We are alive while our enemy is lying dead beneath our feet. That is our treasure today, Pawura. There will be other days to plunder.”
Seni arrives in Waset
The journey from Kerma to Waset wore on Governor Seni’s spirit.
The gentle swaying of the boat, which had once felt to Seni as if the great river was embracing and protecting him, now made his stomach uneasy. Compared to the special dishes his own cook prepared, the food had been coarse and bland. The boat didn’t stop often enough for him to relieve himself and so he had to order them to put ashore so frequently that he caught the sailors smirking.
But most troubling was the lack of discord.
The deeper he traveled into the Two Lands, the nearer he got to Waset, center of the world, the more his spirits sank. There was no sense of unbalance in the Two Lands. There were no rumors that Pharaoh Hatshepsut was in danger or even that she had departed from the Two Lands.
