The Season of the Hyaena

Chapter 7

Horemheb, Chief of Scribes of the Army, Fan Bearer to the Right of the King, Fitting of Forms and Fair of Face, Horus in the South, the Vengeance of Ra, came storming into the Delta like Montu the God of War. Like Sekhmet of the legend he pounced, breathing fire against Egypt’s enemies. Cunning as the mongoose in military matters, Horemheb struck slyly and fast, taking even his own commanders by surprise. The enemy had expected Horemheb and Rameses to move slowly north, bringing up troops from Thebes, collecting more on the way and then arriving at Memphis to organise the two crack regiments and lead them into the Delta. No, that was not Horemheb, the Horus Incarnate! He ordered Rameses to bring up the reinforcements as fast as he could. Learning from Nebamun about Meryre, he had told General Nakhtimin to keep an eye on Buhen in the south whilst he made his own preparations. The Memphis regiments were ordered not to wait for Horemheb but to advance as quickly as possible to the edge of the Delta, where Horemheb met them at Bubastis, the City of the Cat. The Chief Scribe of the Army, with his own escort, moved rapidly upriver.

By the time the troops assembled at Bubastis, Horemheb was in command of four thousand infantry, crack troops divided into four corps: the Fire of the Horus; the Power of Isis; the Anger of Seth; and the Glory of Amun. He brought with him units of the Nakhtu-aa, the strong-arm boys, who rejoiced in the nickname of the Roaring Bulls of Anubis. In addition, two thousand chariots, led by the elite corps, Mighty as Horus, provided the hard backbone to this army. Any other commander would have followed the Nile and its tributaries north. However, Horemheb had collected the most accurate maps of the Red Lands to the north-east of the White-Walled City of Memphis, as well as the region around Bubastis, and struck east across the desert. Mercenaries, my own company included, were dispatched to seize wells, oases, any sources of water or shade. Horemheb was streaking east, following the narrow canals into the Delta. In the bitter cold dawn of that fateful day, the usurper’s camp was stirring, roused by the news, but it was sluggish; officers and men had drunk deeply, and for a while chaos reigned.

Orderlies came looking for Captain Usurek; we claimed that we hadn’t seen him. We furtively prayed that no one would search the mounds of refuse and discover his cold, stiffening corpse. Sobeck and myself were more alert than the rest. We were wondering what to do when we heard the screams from outside the Royal Enclosure. We hurried across. Two mercenaries from Horemheb’s advance guard had been captured; foragers or scouts, they now hung from a cross piece supported by poles, heaps of burning charcoal placed beneath their feet whilst their bodies and legs were beaten with flayed canes. The Hittite commander in charge of the torture was beside himself with fury. He tried to extract from them details of how many men Horemheb had brought, his position and line of battle. Of course the mercenaries couldn’t reply, even if they had wanted to. They were more hunters than soldiers and had blundered into the enemy camp picket line without thinking. Bloody welts criss-crossed their bodies, and even as we listened, we knew they were only telling their captors what they thought they wanted, exaggerated numbers, regiments which didn’t exist. The Hittite commander knew this, and silenced their screams by slitting their throats. By now the enemy camp was fully alert. The Hittite commander recognised us.

‘Where is Captain Usurek?’ he demanded.

Sobeck shrugged.

‘You are from his chariot corps, aren’t you?’

The Hittite wiped bloody hands on his leather jerkin with its metal scales and pushed back his long black hair, tying it into a queue at the back. He shouted to his three companions.

‘Get three chariots harnessed,’ he ordered. ‘You two,’ he pointed at Sobeck and myself, ‘shall come with us.’

A short while later, we left the camp, our chariot being pulled by the two bays we’d trained. It was one of those fresh, beautiful mornings, with the water and greenery of the Delta providing some coolness against the growing heat of the day. Behind us we left an enemy who had not yet decided whether they would prepare for defence or advance to meet Horemheb. I put the question to the Hittite captain as we guided our chariots along the narrow, dusty trackways between the trees.

‘Will we go out to meet the enemy, sir? Or wait for them to come on?’

‘Deploy, of course!’ the Hittite sneered. He spoke the lingua franca in a clumsy fashion. He was more concerned with Horemheb’s speed and surprise, and grasping the reins of the chariot he lost himself in a litany of abuse. We passed picket lines and hunters coming in, all surprised by the news that the enemy, who hadn’t been expected for weeks, was now almost upon them.

Eventually we left the greenery behind. To our right was the water of the Nile and its lush strips of grass, farming land, palm trees, sycamore and terebinth. We went thundering along that hardened strip which separates the harsh Red Lands from the fertile black soil along the Nile. A silent place, already feeling the heat of the sun, but excellent ground for an army to march fast and chariot squadrons to roll forward. At first there was nothing except the occasional vulture, or Pharaoh’s Hen, soaring above us. The heat grew more cloying. We paused to allow the horses to drink from water skins and wet their heads, and then continued. The chariots spaced out, ours in the middle, the Hittite commander to our far right, a battle standard of a lion’s head with three horsetails on the bar underneath. The ground dipped and rose. When we reached the top of the hill, the Hittite commander reined in. Beneath us stretched the desert plain, broken here and there by a dip in the land or clusters of dusty palm trees fringing small oases.

Sobeck’s keen eyes found what we were searching for. ‘There!’ he shouted.

At first I could see nothing, just the shifting desert haze and billowing clouds of dust. I picked up the water skin and wetted my face and neck. The Hittite commander took off his leather helmet, throwing it to the floor of his chariot.

‘You know we can do no more,’ Sobeck whispered. ‘We’ll never be given another chance like this.’

I followed his direction. The Hittite commander was scoffing that Sobeck had seen a mirage, but then I caught it: the glint of sun on weapons, a moving dust cloud, and above it a smudge of black smoke as if a fire had been lit.

‘A camp, or are they moving?’ I whispered.

Sobeck, not waiting for the Hittite officer, urged our horses forward down the incline. Clicking his tongue and shaking the reins, Sobeck moved our chariot into the shade of the palm trees of a small oasis, a rocky place with hardy bush and grass sprouting around a small pool. He got down and stood under a palm tree, shading his eyes as he stared out across the desert. The Hittites also brought their chariots down; not their clumsy four-wheeled ones, but fast-moving Egyptian war carriages. The captain was furious at Sobeck.

‘You should only go forward on my order. What is it you have seen?’

He and his companions clustered around us. There was an argument. Sometimes the Hittites would lapse into their own tongue. The dust cloud was drawing close; the flashes of light could no longer be dismissed as a mirage.

‘The Egyptians,’ the Hittite declared. ‘And it is not an advance patrol. The entire battle line is moving forward.’ He squinted up at the sun. ‘If they move fast, they’ll be at the camp by noon.’

Sobeck turned and looked at me, and I nodded. We could not go back. Usurek’s corpse might have been discovered, and when Horemheb reached the enemy fortress, he would annihilate it with fire and sword. The imperial standards would be hoisted. The broad red and gold streamers which hung above the entrance to the Temple of Amun-Ra in Thebes would be displayed, a sign that Horemheb and his troops would show no quarter and take no prisoners. Sobeck and I drifted back towards our chariot. He took our bow, whilst I moved across behind the Hittites to one of their two chariots. I unhitched a bow and quiver of arrows. The Hittites were still concerned about what was approaching. The commander turned. Sobeck and I loosed our shafts. Two of the Hittites fell immediately. The commander caught Sobeck’s arrow full in the face; he collapsed screaming and coughing blood. My shaft pierced his companion’s neck. The other two Hittites were quicker drawing their swords; they were too cunning to attack but, using the trees as protection, drew us into a deadly game of cat and mouse. We loosed shaft after shaft. The Hittite commander, despite his terrible wound, the arrow piercing one cheek and going straight through the other, also drew his sword and came staggering towards us, distracting Sobeck from his aim. This time Sobeck finished the task, putting an arrow through the Hittite captain’s throat. I loosed a shaft at the other two, but had to retreat as they burst from the clump of trees, racing towards the third chariot. Skilled men, one seized the reins as the other grasped the bow. Sobeck and I raced in pursuit, but the chariot drew away, arrows whipping the air around our faces.

‘They cannot escape,’ Sobeck gasped. ‘They must not return to camp. They will know we are spies, and the usurper mustn’t learn how close Horemheb truly is.’

The Hittite chariot wheeled and thundered out of the oasis, going back the way it had come. We followed in pursuit, Sobeck standing beside me, whip lashing the air. It was a deadly chase. The Hittite chariot was faster, the horses stronger, and the gap between us grew. Every so often the Hittite archer would turn; a master bowman, his shafts were directed at our horses, but we wheeled and shifted using the clouds of dust their chariot sent up. Sobeck moved our horses to their blind side so the archer had to lean across the driver to loose his shafts. We cleared the brow of the hill and continued our pursuit to the clatter of wheels and thundering hooves, the hot breeze breathing sand into our faces. The gap between us grew until the Hittites made a common mistake. Egyptian chariots at full charge require a special skill; wheels and horses must act as one while the driver keeps the chariot on a certain line behind the horses. On this occasion they were travelling too fast. The Hittite misjudged the speed. The chariot swayed to the left and its wheels hit a rock, trapping the horses in a tangle of harness, whilst the two Hittites were thrown out, their bodies bouncing along the ground as if they were already corpses. I reined in. One of the Hittites was sprawled in such a fashion we realised his neck was broken. The other, moaning, tried to drag himself to his feet. Sobeck jumped down and, bestriding his body, pulled his head back and slit his throat.

One of the Hittite horses had broken its leg and had to be destroyed, but we unhitched the other and led it back into the oasis. I told Sobeck to guard the horses; if they had broken loose they would have cantered back to the enemy camp. I climbed into our chariot and left the oasis, charging down towards the gleaming mass of weaponry moving ever closer. Of course scouts were sent out to intercept, lighter chariots, their horses small and fast, each chariot with its driver and infantryman. I slowed down, lifting my hand, shouting the words of peace. The scouts ringed me. One of them screamed at me to climb down. I did so and knelt at the back of the chariot. I heard the thunder of heavier war chariots and glimpsed their colours as they swirled about me. One in particular, with its red and gold electrum displaying the personal insignia of Horemheb, stopped before me. The Chief Scribe of the Army, General of Thebes, resplendent in his light blue and gold-scaled armour over a thin linen robe, climbed down, his square pugilist’s face gleaming with sweat and oil. Other chariots drew up even as I pulled myself to my feet.

‘My lord Mahu.’ Horemheb tossed his bow to his driver and clasped my hand. ‘One of our scouts was sure he had seen movement in the oasis. Well,’ he looked me over from head to foot, ‘your arrival proves the old proverb wrong. “Out in the Red Lands you only meet an enemy.”’

He shouted for wine and bread to be brought. I joined him in his own chariot. I lifted the wineskin and bit into the bread, then coughed.

‘I know,’ Horemheb grinned, ‘out here everything tastes of sand and dust.’

He then told me of what he had done. As the dust clouds settled, I looked behind and saw the massed might of Egypt, columns of infantry flanked by chariot squadrons, moving out of the desert haze. The pace of the army was determined by the foot; as the first units passed, I recognised their speed and urgency. The men looked exhausted, covered in dust. Officers strode up and down exhorting them on.

‘They were singing when we left Abydos,’ Horemheb murmured, raising his hand in salute as the first units passed. ‘Now they haven’t even got the strength to talk.’

The entire imperial army emerged from its dust haze, at least a mile across.

‘According to our maps and scouts,’ Horemheb took the wineskin from me, ‘we have at least three wells between here and the enemy camp. Now, Mahu?’

I didn’t tell him about what had happened at the oasis; only that his advance had taken the enemy by surprise. Horemheb lowered the wineskin, eyes rounded with astonishment.

‘You mean to say they were feasting last night and still haven’t left the fortress?’ He climbed down from his chariot, shouting at his trumpeter to summon his staff officers and urging his line commanders to continue their march. ‘Infantry gather at the oasis!’ he yelled. ‘Chariots further to the east. You’ll find fresh water there. The line mustn’t be broken. It will be the shortest respite.’

The foot soldiers continued, line after line passing us in billows of dust, clouds rising from the chariots on either flank. Horemheb gathered his corps commanders around him, talking bluntly, now and again asking me to describe the layout of the enemy camp. A scribe, coughing and spluttering, squatted and tried to make a rough map. I pointed out the positions — the moat, the mound, the palisade — and the quality of troops inside the fortress and the army of mercenaries outside. Horemheb’s suppressed excitement was shared by his commanders, one of whom was Nebamun. He clasped my hand but was unable to converse across Horemheb’s stream of questions and demands.

‘We have them.’ Horemheb was almost jumping from foot to foot. ‘My lords, we have them! They are drunk and sluggish. The real danger is the Hittite officer corps and their skilled soldiers. If we are fortunate they’ll demand the fortress be left and the entire army come out to meet us where we have little water or shade. They must know we are tired and thirsty.’

‘But still ready for battle!’ one of his colonels declared.

‘We must have victory,’ Horemheb replied. ‘If the enemy meet us out here and defeat us, Abydos and Memphis will be put to the torch. They will commandeer every barge and float down to Thebes, and take the City of the Sceptre.’

‘Meryre?’ I demanded.

‘He’s still locked up in Memphis,’ Nebamun retorted. ‘He’s allowed to take the air and nothing else. There’ve been rumours of unrest in the south.’

‘This usurper,’ Horemheb demanded, ‘this False Pharaoh. You have seen him, my lord Mahu? Him and his woman?’

‘They are both impostors,’ I replied flatly. ‘They no more have the right to rule Egypt,’ I gestured to a dung beetle crawling across the papyrus roll of the scribe, ‘than that. They are impostors, puppets.’ I gave a short description of the Hittite commanders, Prince Aziru and the two priests, Djoser and Khufu. Horemheb was only half listening. As the boy, so the man. In the House of Instruction, where we had been trained and educated together, Horemheb displayed one quality above all others: he would concentrate on a problem and would not be distracted until it had been solved.

‘We must move quickly.’ He kicked at the scribe to stand. ‘I want the army to be in three divisions. In the centre the foot, archers before them. On each flank the chariot squadrons, a thousand apiece. Skirmishers in front, war chariots behind. I intend to bring them to battle before this day is finished: if those Hittites have any sense they’ll know that. So, gentlemen,’ he climbed back into his chariot, ‘we reach that oasis and form a battle line. Mahu, clear your throat. You are going to do a lot of talking.’

Within the hour, Horemheb’s army was deploying its flanks on two oases: the left where Sobeck and I had killed the Hittites; the right about two miles distant, lost in the desert haze. Horemheb’s scouts had found Sobeck and brought him back. We were attached to Nebamun’s corps. The commissary wagons were brought up; the oxen wouldn’t move quickly enough, so chariots were used to share out bread and dried meat. At the same time the Neferu, the raw recruits, an entire legion of them, were given water skins and told to make sure that every soldier wetted his face and cleared his throat. Horemheb seemed impervious to the heat and dust, the host of flies brought in by the mounds of animal dung. Heat or shade, he was the same. Peering along his battle line, he issued a stream of orders. Officers were to check that every man had his weapons and his mouthful of meat, bread and water. The precious horses were also tended to, and the wheels, spokes and axles of the chariots carefully checked to ensure the animal grease still protected them against the harsh dust of the desert. Eventually Horemheb could no longer curb his impatience.

He ordered his splendid war chariot to be brought: it was pulled by magnificent black stallions with white star bursts on their foreheads, the standards of Amun-Ra pushed into the niches on either side of the carriage. He advanced slowly along the battle line, preceded by a herald and trumpeter and followed by the chariots of his commanders, strong-arm boys running on either side. Every so often he would pause so I could deliver my message.

‘Men of Egypt, soldiers of the Ra! The man you are marching against is a Hittite puppet, an impostor! I swear by all that is holy, by my own Ka, by sky and earth. I have seen him with my own eyes. He is an impostor, a pretender, a usurper, supported by vile Asiatics, rebels and traitors who will soon be slaughtered by your arms and devoured by eternal fire.’

Along the line we travelled. The heralds signalled the trumpeters to give a blast and I would repeat the message. My voice grew so hoarse one of the heralds had to repeat it. Each proclamation was greeted by a thunderous roar.

‘Lovely boys!’ Horemheb whispered. ‘They will march for me until we reach the Great Green. I have promised them all the plunder of the enemy camp, their gold, silver and women. I have told them to follow in the steps of the great Ahmose and their noble ancestors who drove the Hyksos out of Egypt. The one doubt they had was that they were marching against their own king. Yet they know you, Mahu.’ Horemheb had sent heralds ahead to proclaim my name and status. Now he grinned, ‘Why, they even consider you a hero!’

Eventually the other oasis came into sight. My message was completed. The salutation of the troops thundered to the sky, whilst Horemheb, like the great show-off he was, went charging up the line, horses thundering, chariot gleaming, to be greeted by the ecstatic cries of his troops.

‘They are the best,’ Horemheb whispered as he reined in, ‘and somewhere to the south, Rameses is bringing up more. The Hathor corps and whatever mercenaries we can find.’

For a while there was inaction, that ominous strengthening silence which precedes any battle. Our men rested in the shade of the chariots or sought more water. At last Horemheb was ready. The calls for the general advance brayed, cracking through the silence, sending the birds fluttering from the trees into a swirling arc against the sky. Sobeck and I were given a chariot as well as leather corselets and war kilts. We dressed, sweating under the strengthening sun. The battle line then moved until we reached a clump of greenery. Here a force of mercenaries waited to oppose us, but they were trampled down, pushed aside, sent scattering or transfixed with arrow, spear or sword. Scouts were sent out and came hastening back. The enemy were deploying from the fortress. By the time we reached the plain, the usurper’s forces, standards aloft in the centre, were waiting for us, rank after rank of foot, chariot squadrons on each wing. This was PerI, the Place of Battle, dominated by Heem Hen-T, the Cry of War. Horemheb did not give the enemy time to invoke the Gods. No heralds were sent forward, no proclamation issued, no makeshift altar built and offerings made to Seth the Announcer of Battles. Our opponents were traitors, pirates, bandits and outlaws, to be destroyed like any vermin.

The men of war prepared eagerly for battle under a blazing sun. Our left wing was based on the now deserted market town, our right on a small oasis, one of those dusty pools of green which bordered the coarse, open land fronting the desert. The enemy still manoeuvred before us. They had more infantry than us and stretched their battle front trying to outflank us on each wing. Sobeck and I clustered around the trumpeters and standard-bearers near Horemheb’s chariot. The Great General stood perched like a falcon, watching every manoeuvre, rapping out orders to a scribe. ‘Well, Mahu?’

I described our days of drilling raw recruits. Horemheb listened intently and ordered the front squadron of chariotry on the left wing to move backwards and forwards, creating a cloud of dust, whilst at the same time detaching squadrons, moving them behind our lines to bolster our right. Weakening our left flank was an unusual manoeuvre, which brought cries of protest from Horemheb’s staff, yet he was insistent. Once this stratagem was completed, Horemheb sent forward massed ranks of archers to loose volley after volley, scoring the enemy foot and their chariot squadrons on the left wing. The latter moved forward, eager to respond and engage, anything to stop that black rain of whistling death. As they did so, Horemheb gave the order to Nebamun, commander of our strengthened right flank and leader of an elite corps, to advance with all haste.

We hurried back to our chariots even as the trumpets shrilled and Nebamun’s standard-bearer, appraised of what was happening, shouted and called. Again the trumpet rang out. Sobeck and I were hardly ready as Nebamun’s chariot moved forward, standards aloft, displaying the God Ptah in human form, a small statue at the end of a gold-plated pole. We followed. Our chariot line rattled forward, drivers slightly crouched, their companions already notching arrow to bow. At first there was confusion, one chariot slamming into another, horses becoming too excited, but the faster we advanced the more our squadron began to break up into line. Order was restored, horses and charioteers grew settled, trumpets sounded. Our world became one of rumbling wheels, wind whipping the dust by our faces. More shouts, further blasts of trumpets, and our horses moved into a trot then a gallop, followed by the most glorious sights, a whole corps, squadron after squadron, line after line of charging chariots, carriages of electrum gleaming in the sun. The plumes between our horses’ ears rose and fell to the ominous rattle of the wheels; the embroidered javelin pouches and quivers slapped against the sides to be lost under the thunderous sound of thousands of charging hoofs.

Horemheb’s plan was brutal and simple: to shatter the enemy’s left flank and roll the remnants up on its centre, drive the enemy forces away from the fortress and trap them against the tributary of the Nile. Old men discuss such tactics. Veterans bore their grand-children with stories of such a charge. They dab their fingers into their wine or beer and sketch drawings on the table to show how it was or how it should have been. Yet if you were there, you felt the shock of battle, the thrill of the clash, the heart-stopping excitement of the charge. Sometimes I curse Horemheb’s name, for we have fought each other, yet one thing I will concede: he was blessed by the genius of the God of War. He had moved so swiftly, so fiercely to trap his enemy that the usurper had been caught unprepared, and whatever the Hittites were thinking, they failed to act. Instead of swinging their right flank to smash into our left, they did nothing except draw chariots and men from elsewhere to bolster that part of their battle line now under attack. Such fumbling lost them the battle: their own chariot squadrons were hardly moving when we smashed into them, sending soldiers, their mounts and chariots crashing over into the dust. Even the huge Hittite carriages tumbled over, their crews spilling out, bodies being ripped apart under hoofs and wheels. Those who were lucky to survive staggered to their feet only to be sent sprawling again with hideous blows from sword, axe, club or feathered shafts loosed at very close range. Sobeck and I were in the front of the advance, yet we broke right through, turning left to charge back into the rear of the enemy foot, who were so disconcerted they did not know which way to turn.

Even I, inexperienced in war, recognised that the usurper faced disaster. No greater force exists than massed Egyptian chariots at loose amongst enemy foot. Horses and wheels alone wreak hideous damage. If a man jumped aside, he would usually fall into the path of another chariot, and even if he escaped, there was the constant rain of javelins and arrows to face!

The enemy foot were paid mercenaries, more used to pillaging villages than battling against the elite corps of Egypt. They fell back, their left wing seeking protection in the centre. Horemheb then committed his whole battle line. The enemy were pushed back, away from the fortress, across the plain into the green shrubbery which divided the market town from the ancient city of Avaris. The noise and screams were blood-curdling. Men staggered around, holding gruesome wounds to head or body. Horemheb had ordered the imperial colours to be clearly displayed, a sign that no prisoners were to be taken. The battle turned into a rout, which slipped into a massacre. Sobeck and I faced no danger. Occasionally a mercenary would try to board our chariot or bring our horses down, only to be easily dispatched by an arrow or, if he came too close, javelin or club. The ground grew streaked with blood, and littered with corpses. We came up against the Hittite corps, professional fighters who, for a while, stopped our advance. Nevertheless, our chariots milled around them whilst our archers and foot danced in between seeking a gap in their line, a chance to hamstring horses or loose arrows at the chariot crew. Eventually they broke, leaping down from their chariots to join the fleeing mercenaries.

By now we were in front of the fortress. All the guards had disappeared. I drew my chariot alongside Nebamun’s, screaming my request at him. The heat of the battle had rejuvenated the old colonel. Lines and furrows had disappeared, eyes gleamed bright in his dusty, blood-streaked face. He listened to my request and turned, shouting at a staff officer. We guided our chariot out of the mêlée, followed by a dozen others. Accompanied by archers and a unit of Nakhtu-aa, we thundered towards the main gate of the fortress. We met no opposition. The gates hung half open, and the Nakhtu-aa pulled them aside and charged in. Other units of Horemheb’s battle line, realising the battle was over, followed us, eager for plunder. The camp was now given over to pillage and the rape of women left behind.

‘What do you want?’ Sobeck, weak with exhaustion, reined in his horses.

We’d reached the Royal Enclosure. Its gates were held open by the corpse of a priest whom our foot soldiers had disembowelled. From within I could hear the shrieks of a woman. I jumped down from the chariot and raced into the usurper’s pavilion, its beautiful gold-fringed cloths flapping in the breeze. Inside there was chaos. Corpses sprawled about in widening pools of blood. Two Kushite mercenaries had seized a kitchen maid and were holding her down whilst their companions were tipping over chests and pots. A soldier had found a jug of wine and was busy laying out cups, filling them to the brim, screaming at his companions to join him. I found an enemy scribe hiding behind a large couch; pinch-faced and bald-headed, he jabbered for his life. I seized him by his robe and pulled him to his feet.

‘Your life will be spared,’ I shouted, ‘on one condition. Where are the records? Where are the usurper’s letters, his proclamations?’

The man’s jaw quivered in fright.

‘The records?’ I repeated.

He pointed to the far corner of the tent, where three or four reed baskets had escaped the attention of the marauders. I went across and emptied the contents out on to the ground. Sobeck, using all his authority, ordered five of the mercenaries to come over and protect us whilst I went through the contents. The records were a mixture of papyrus rolls and clay tablets; all of them bore the cartouche or seal of Akenhaten. I wondered where the usurper had obtained this. Sobeck found me a leather sack and threw it at my feet. I filled it with anything which looked interesting. By the time I had finished, the scribe had disappeared. Sobeck told me he’d thrown off his robe, crawled under the awning of the tent and fled. He would do what many of the enemy would, dispose of anything which marked him as a follower of the usurper and merge with the victorious troops.

I sat for a while, soaked in sweat. The girl had stopped her screaming. She lay at the far end of the pavilion, throat cut, eyes staring sightlessly. Virtually all the furniture and furnishings had disappeared: chests, chairs, stools and weapons. As Sobeck grimly remarked, ‘If it was on two legs it was killed, otherwise it was taken.’ He dismissed our guard and crouched down beside me.

‘Is this what you were after, Mahu?’

‘It is my treasure trove.’ I pressed the sack to my chest. ‘My plunder.’

‘And?’ Sobeck asked.

Figures danced outside the tent, shouts and yells echoed, a firebrand was thrown in, whilst at the same time the awning around us was put to the torch. We left hastily. The Royal Enclosure had ceased to exist. The palisade had been broken down, the altars overturned, the fortress given over to wholesale devastation. Sobeck and I forced our way through. Our men were now fighting each other, some already drunk, quarrelling and bartering over the spoils of battle. The main gates had also been torched. Two great bonfires flared on either side of the entrance, flames leaping up into the afternoon sky, billows of smoke curling about. From the plain below we could still hear the clatter and clash of battle, the screams of dying men. Sobeck found a wineskin propped against the corpse of a Hittite officer and we went searching for our chariot. One of Nebamun’s officers, fearful of fire in the camp, had ordered it, together with the rest, to withdraw to the plain below. Drinking the wine and clutching my precious burden, we forced our way through the press of men down to where Nebamun’s men were milling about before the gates leading to the Field of Fire and the House of Darkness.

‘What’s in there?’ Nebamun demanded. His face was smudged with dust and smoke, and splashes of blood spoiled the finery and glitter of his leather mailed jacket and war kilt. ‘I daren’t go in lest there be a trap, yet the place seems deserted. What’s beyond there?’

I recalled the day we took the oath. ‘Why, Colonel, a vision of the Underworld. You are right to be prudent. Send across a few archers first.’

Nebamun repeated my request. A group of nimble-footed archers scaled the palisade; we heard their exclamations of surprise. The gates swung open. Nebamun, surrounded by his officers, walked in and stared speechlessly around.

‘By all that is in heaven and earth,’ he whispered. ‘How many, Mahu?’

‘Well over a hundred stakes, Colonel. Possibly two hundred. This is only a fraction of those the usurper killed.’

‘Shall we remove them?’ one of the officers shouted. ‘Sir, this is an abomination.’

‘No, no.’ Nebamun, hand raised, walked towards the grotesque statue of the Destroyer. He paused at the roar from that hideous Mastaba. The ramp leading up to the great door was now unguarded.

‘Is it the din of the battle, or did I hear a lion roar?’ Sobeck explained what the Mastaba contained. Nebamun, shaking his head, told us to withdraw.

‘We will touch nothing here,’ he said, ‘until General Horemheb sees it for himself.’

We left that gruesome place and sat down on the grass outside, sharing the wineskin, half listening to the chatter of Nebamun’s officers. Now and again the Colonel would go back to convince himself of what he had seen; that he had not suffered a nightmare. Somebody asked him if we should rejoin the battle.

‘It’s no longer a battle.’ The old colonel shook his head. ‘It’s a massacre. General Horemheb’s orders are strict. We led the advance; let others finish it.’

The aftermath of a battle is always haunting, as if you have left life hanging between heaven and earth. All around us men were groaning, pleading for water, only to be dispatched with a swift thrust of a knife. Smoke billowed across the fortress. The late afternoon air was rent with ghastly cries and yells. Soldiers drunk on wine staggered about, arms laden with booty or leading away female captives. Hideous cruelties and brutalities were inflicted upon the dead as well as the dying. The sky blackened with smoke, through which the vultures curled, drawn by the scent of blood. The cacophony of sound eased, and was followed by the onset of a chilling silence, like sweat on your body after you have run a race. The sun began to set. Soldiers drifted back from where the massacre had ended, down near the river. They too were eager to plunder and were busy looting the dead, showing no mercy whatsoever to the enemy.

Horemheb must have called a halt to the killing. Lines of prisoners began to appear; most of them were naked except for their loincloths, arms and hands bound tightly behind their backs. They were forced to kneel. Some of them begged piteously for help for wounds, others cried for water, as their thirst must have been dreadful. They were herded together like frightened sheep under the guard of Nakhtu-aa, and a makeshift fence was formed around them: chariots were unhitched, the carriages used to pen them in whilst the horses were led away. At first there was only a trickle of prisoners, but eventually they came in one long, dusty column. Most were mercenaries, though Horemheb had captured a number of high-ranking Hittite officers. They too were shown no mercy but treated like the rest. Following them came the chariot squadrons, their horses exhausted. Finally, amidst a blare of trumpets and preceded by his fan-bearers and standard-carriers, Horemheb himself arrived, exulting in his moment of glory.

The entire plain outside the fortress now became a vast barracks housing victor and vanquished alike. The cries of the wounded faded. Officers moved through the ranks imposing order, beating the drunks with their sticks, confiscating booty, ordering the dead to be dragged out, their right hands chopped off so that Horemheb’s scribes could draw up a tally of the slain. Makeshift hospitals were set up with cloths and coverings filched from camp awnings. A line of water carriers was organised. Stretcher-bearers began to comb the entire battlefield. Armed with sharp knives, they finished off the enemy wounded but tenderly lifted on to pallets the Egyptian injured. Horemheb ignored us; surrounded by his own staff officers and entourage, he had solemnly processed around the fiercely burning fortress to receive the plaudits and salutes of his victorious troops. The triumphant procession ended in front of us. Horemheb, still clutching his bloody sword, his right arm splattered with gore up to his shoulder, stepped off his chariot. Staff officers gathered round clapping their hands, kneeling before him to offer their congratulations. Standard-bearers came hurrying up to brief him and provide news of what was happening. Horemheb listened to them all, now and again turning to the scribe crouched on the ground beside him. He then climbed back into his chariot and raised his bloody sword skyward. A gust of smoke from the fortress came billowing down, carrying black soot. Horemheb waited until it had passed.

‘Gentlemen.’ His voice was hoarse. I was standing pressed against the chariot and noticed how his eyes were red-rimmed, his lips dry and caked with dust. I offered him a wineskin but he shook his head. ‘Gentlemen,’ he repeated, ‘a great victory! Our dead lie only in hundreds, but the enemy are in thousands. We have taken much plunder and booty. To be fair, all spoils of war must be gathered together and distributed evenly. No man shall profit more than another. Here.’ He gestured towards the main gates of the fortress. ‘Here I shall set up my altar and give thanks to Amun-Ra, the Ever Silent but All-Seeing God, who has provided us with victory.’

I caught Sobeck’s eye and grinned. Horemheb was getting the protocols right. The day of the Aten, of the One, was over. This was a victory for the old Gods of Egypt, especially Amun-Ra of Thebes.

‘Before this altar I shall sacrifice the prisoners, or at least their chiefs and princes. I shall make a tally of the hands, a true count of those Horus had delivered into our power. I give thanks to Horus of Henes.’ This was a reference to his birthplace, not far from where the battle had taken place.

On and on Horemheb went, the same message over and over again. How Amun-Ra and Horus had chosen him, their divine son, to shatter the power of Egypt’s enemies. As Sobeck drily remarked later, if the Lord Ay wished for any evidence about Horemheb’s secret dreams, then this speech provided it. Horemheb saw himself as divinely selected, a man anointed by God himself. Of course, he was carried away with elation and the victory of the moment; only when he caught me staring at him did he begin to falter and bring his bombastic speech to an end.

He climbed off the chariot.

‘Now, Lord Mahu, I will take the wine.’ His rugged face was wreathed in smiles as he realised he might have said too much and, perhaps, not acknowledged the contribution of others. ‘You know how it is,’ he declared, wiping the dust from his lips with the back of his hand. ‘When the blood is hot, the tongue babbles.’

He paused as a staff officer pushed his way through the throng and whispered in his ear. Horemheb’s smile faded.

‘My lord General.’ I stepped forward. ‘I too am a member of the Royal Circle. What has happened?’

Horemheb’s eyes, full of fury, glared at me. ‘I know who you are Mahu,’ he whispered. ‘I recognise what you have done, but the usurper and his entourage have escaped!’