Shadow Hawk Page 8

  Rahotep’s hands tightened behind his back. Never had his mother mentioned life at the court of Thebes. Had that been because she dared not let herself remember--in a house where the Lady Meri-Mut ruled--a happier day? Looking now upon the Royal Mother, the captain did not doubt that her household was far different from that of his father’s half-Nubian First Wife’s.

  “Tell me of Nubia, son of Tuya!” The Queen was alert again, and as Rahotep hesitated, not knowing whether she wanted to hear of his mother’s unhappy life there or of the land itself, she prodded him into speech with a skillful question. So that, as time measured by the water-jar clock dripped away, he realized she was wringing out of him information he had not even known that he possessed, squeezing him dry as a man squeezes dry a grape skin.

  And, gathering confidence because he did know those answers, he dared to glance once or twice beyond the Royal Mother’s chair. A rug hung against the wall there, but now and then it stirred slightly as if it did not cover wall but some alcove or doorway. And he was convinced that while the Queen Teti-Sheri, the Royal Wife Ah-Hetpe, and the Prince Ahmose listened to him openly, there was another listener behind that rug and that he spoke to a larger company than he saw.

  “This Prince Teti--would he raise his own standard?” asked the Royal Mother.

  “It is so rumored, Royal Lady. But rumors are not always rooted in the truth.”

  She smiled. “You are cautious, Captain. It is a good trait in one so young. The Prince Kamose has heard tales of the skill of your archers. It is likely that they shall be asked to display that same skill before our Lord. Meanwhile, know this, child--the favor that was Tuya’s is also her son’s. Now bring me this Nubian leopard which the Horus Hawk showed you”--for that story, also, she had had out of him. “I would see him the closer.”

  Her change from the exacting inquisitor to the gracious lady was so sudden that Rahotep blinked, but he obediently looked about him for Bis. Then he started. The leopard cub was installed under the chair of the Royal Wife and he was very much engaged. By some means known only to himself, Bis had stolen a section of roasted pigeon from a small table laden with delicacies. And this he was devouring with great gusto and dispatch.

  Ahmose, following Rahotep’s horrified gaze, broke into laughter. His mother, startled, leaned over the arm of her chair, striving to see what they were all looking at.

  Teti-Sheri echoed her grandson’s mirth. “A thief in the palace! A looting warrior!” She stooped gracefully and snapped her flat fan against Ah-Hetpe’s chair. Bis, clinging to his pigeon, backed out to where Rahotep could seize him. But when he would have pulled the remnant of bird away from the cub, the Queen Mother shook her head.

  “Let the bold one keep what he has taken. A good omen for you, Captain. When the occasion warrants it, be as bold as Horus’s gift, for the time has come for boldness and an end to lurking!” It seemed to Rahotep that her eyes went to the rug as if her words were meant as an encouragement to someone else also.

  Shortly thereafter he was graciously dismissed, and his return to the house of Sa-Nekluft was engineered in the same manner as his earlier departure. If the treasurer or his son knew about that secret expedition, they said nothing, and Rahotep gathered, without its being told him, that the whole surprising episode was to be kept to himself. Later he found his way to Methen’s room and, under the pretext of learning more about Theban life and the undercurrents to be found in the city, asked the veteran questions to build up a background into which he could fit the personages he had met that evening.

  Methen spoke of the Royal Mother with the deepest respect. As the Heiress she would have been queen whatever betided, but she had been queen in fact as well as in name. To her influence was attributed her husband’s resistance to the Hyksos, and now her son’s open rebellion. The Royal Wife Ah-Hetpe, her daughter, was of the same independent mind. Sekenenre, himself, though as yet untried in any great battle, had the foresight of an able administrator, and his son, the Prince Kamose, was a leader of value--

  “And the Prince Ahmose?” questioned Rahotep.

  For the first time Methen shook his head. “Ahmose is very young, unproven. It is rumored that he has petitioned Pharaoh for a command in the campaign. The Prince Kamose, as Royal Heir, is the one men look to for leadership.”

  But when Rahotep was stretched on his couch late that night he wondered. He had felt the impact of the Prince Kamose’s personality there on the quay true enough. But there was something elusive in that Royal Son, a consuming fire within his slender body, as if he were a flame igniting a palm frond, burning fiercely, yet as quickly gone. But Ahmose was different, the same drive and purpose but on as solid a base as the young prince’s stronger body. Kamose could fire men to victories, but he would waste himself cruelly in the process. Ahmose would set to battle methodically, as a man would follow a trail, and in the end the same victory would be his and he would still be fresh.

  Rahotep swung his feet from the couch and sat up, staring into the dark. How he knew this, or why, he could not have explained. But in that moment he was certain that if he had any choice in the future, it would be to serve under Ahmose. And, as if he had made the necessary decision, he straightway found the sleep that had eluded him earlier.

  The summons to assemble his men and march them to the field of warriors came early the next morning via Nereb. Since the heat of the day was such that the sun punished those laboring under it, any training must be held before Re’s Boat was in mid-sky. The northern commander had put aside his dress uniform and appeared in the simple kilt of a field officer, marching beside Rahotep as a guide.

  Yellow dust was churned up from the broad expanse of the level, sun-baked soil where chariots seesawed into line. The impatient stallions reared and squealed, and then, at the flash of their commander’s baton, thundered across in a spearhead formation led by the vehicle of the Prince Kamose. Rahotep, watching that charge, could now well understand the downfall of Egyptian arms when such an advance had been turned on spearmen and bowmen by the Hyksos who had poured into the Two Lands generations earlier. But also he could estimate, with eyes narrowed against the sunlight, how a company of well-placed archers could deal havoc. A horse, even when galloping, was a larger target than a man. Pick off the horses and your chariots would crash and foul against each other. Your spearhead would crumple in upon itself.

  Kheti’s archer-wise eyes had marked that as quickly. “A volley from the right and left, Lord,” he remarked, “and those wheels would cease to turn. Though I grant you they have speed, and the archers would have but a single chance and needs must be well placed to do it!”

  Nereb turned to them with an intent look. “You both believe that your archers could break such a charge?” he half challenged.

  “It is as Kheti has said. The ground must be right, the archers posted properly, and it must be well timed--there would only be an instant or two in which all would be just right. But--given those instants, aye, even a gang of Kush raiders could cause you trouble. Nubian bows have both the power and the range.”

  “You may have to make good that boast,” warned the other.

  “It is no boast, Lord,” Rahotep returned. “I have seen Hori of my command drive an arrow clear through an oryx while it fled. And all of my men are proven marksmen.”

  Nereb left them to report to his superiors, and it seemed that they were not to have an early opportunity to prove their skill and so win formal admission to the ranks before them. The archers grew restless, grumbling in half whispers. And those whispers became pointed criticism at the performance of a company of bowmen using the shorter bow of the north and shooting at targets the Nubians viewed with open contempt. Only his presence, Rahotep knew, kept those comments from being voiced aloud.

  He was heartily tired of breathing dust, baking in the sun, and standing without employment, when a runner dodged around a company of spearmen, to reach the Scout archers.

  “Lord,” he panted to the captain. “P
haraoh would look upon you--come!”

  They followed the messenger at a jog trot in a zigzag path to avoid chariots and footmen, until they came up before a platform on which was a folding stool under a sun canopy. Two fanbearers kept the sultry air moving over the blue war helmet of the man who sat there. Captain and archers alike, they prostrated themselves before the Lord of the Two Lands.

  “Pharaoh would see the power of your arms, Captain. Let your men fire at the targets.” It was the Prince Kamose who advanced to relay the order. And Rahotep, not daring to look up at the face beneath that blue helmet, worked his way backward through the dust until it was permissible to rise and face the stuffed cowhide bags being set up on the range.

  He frowned at the shortness of that range and, forgetting everything but the necessity of doing their best, waved the targets back and yet back again, though the men setting them were agitated at his gestures.

  “Each man will fire in turn,” he said to Kheti, “and then two volleys together upon signal.”

  “Even so, Lord,” the other agreed and passed along the order.

  One after another the Nubians stepped to the line, the huge bows were bent, and arrows sang through the air, to be buried feather-deep in the hide targets. Kheti took his place, and, last of all, Rahotep, the silver bracer winking on his hand. Though his bow was less than these his men carried, it was made to the same pattern and his aim was as good.

  Then, as one man, the archers drew into a level line, Kheti at one end, Rahotep at the other. The captain threw a quick glance along the line and then his lips shaped a whistle. Twelve arrows flew almost as one, and all twelve hit the targets. A hum of comment arose from the watching officers and men, but a messenger came from Pharaoh’s platform.

  “It is Pharaoh’s will that you fire against moving targets now,” the officer told Rahotep. “They shall release birds from a net. Let your men be ready.”

  What followed was much like the exhibition they had given Nereb on the Nile ship. None of the birds got across the field to freedom. And Rahotep was given orders to approach the platform once again. He stood with bowed head to hear the Lord of the Two Lands speak for the first time.

  “It is pleasing that Captain Rahotep and his men be taken into our service. Let them be enrolled as Scouts attached to the troops of the Prince Kamose.”

  “Life! Prosperity! Health!” Rahotep voiced the conventional answer. “May the Son of Re live forever!”

  He was turning over in his hands with a vast pride the new Captain’s flail that had been presented to him, admiring the lion head on its butt, when a chariot pulled up in a puff of dust. Its driver, controlling the impatient horse with ease, leaned over the rail to call to Rahotep.

  “Captain!”

  He recognized Ahmose, the prince’s broad face framed by a linen headdress as simple as his own but bearing the royal uraeus. He saluted with his newly won baton and hurried closer.

  “Tomorrow we hunt lions in the desert strip. Since your men are noted Scouts, let them display their talents in that manner--as well as they have shown their marksmanship here today.” He smiled. “It is in my mind, Captain, to attach to my heels a cub like unto yours--if we can flush out any such. At any reckoning, we should have good sport--very good sport--” He spoke the last words slowly as if they might convey some double meaning. Then he released the reins and whirled away.

  “That is a great lord, brother.” Kheti had come up behind his commander. “A true warrior by his looks.”

  “That is the Prince Ahmose”--Rahotep corrected him with a hint of sharpness--”the younger of the Royal Sons.”

  “So?” Kheti watched the rapidly dwindling chariot across the training plain. “Well, still I say he is a warrior before he is an officer--or a Royal Son. What wished he of you, Lord?”

  “That we go with him tomorrow for the hunting of lions. He desires to see our Scout craft--”

  Kheti nodded. There was satisfaction in his tone as he replied: “And so he will, Lord. I trust that one may someday come into Nubia--for Teti will not find him an easy mouthful in any feasting! Aye, Scouts we shall be, and if any lions lie in this land, they shall come forth for his sport!”

  The archers, now accepted into the royal command, were given a section of the barracks, a small side building opening on a court, which offered them semi-privacy. Rahotep and Kheti had a room to themselves, and the others spread their sleeping mats in a hall. This was infinitely better than their quarters at Kah-hi, and when they were supplied with good rubbing oil, excellent rations, and not called upon for immediate duty, they chanted their praises of this new life.

  Hori produced one of the small hand drums of his people to mark time, and one after another the men joined in the warriors’ dance, which was a part of their training, its body movements designed to keep a man both lithe and quick on his feet.

  Then, as they flung themselves panting to earth, they were aware of a group of newcomers, some of the spear-armed infantry by their dress. They were escorting a taller man, his skin glistening with oil, only a brief cloth about his loins. Rahotep grinned, knowing well the reason for such an approach--the old challenge to be faced by any company new to a fort. And he glanced around to see Mereruka already rising to his feet, unbuckling his kilt belt, while his fellows sat up alertly, bringing out of their belt pouches small personal possessions that were good items for wagering. Having seen Mereruka in action, most of them indeed having served as his easily thrown wrestling partners, none of the Scouts had any doubt about the ability of their champion.

  If these northerners thought their man fit to stand against a Scout, especially one whose skill had enabled his comrades to beggar most of the frontier posts of the Kush border, they had better take second and longer thoughts. With sighs of pure happiness the Nubians settled down to what they knew would be a profitable evening. Truly Dedun smiled upon them this day!

  Chapter 7: “LION” HUNT

  The hunting party set out from the barracks before dawn, in order to be well on its way before the full heat of the sun hit the desert lands. And for the second time Rahotep shared a chariot, holding on with one hand to the rim of the bucket as Nereb, at the reins, rocked them along in the wake of the prince’s more resplendent vehicle. His men were pattering on ahead with the houndboys, having been given a good hour’s start on the drivers.

  “A bull of Min’s temple herd was pulled down by lions this month,” Nereb said between jolts. “There is a pair of young males seemingly without fear of man.”

  As Nereb spoke, Rahotep was assessing the equipment lashed to the sides of the chariots. Throwing spears--aye, a trained hunter used throwing spears against lions--and the bow case and quiver were also usual. But he continued to use his eyes and make no comments on the two shields that the pressure of Nereb’s knees kept in a standing position before him. Nor had the captain missed the fact that Nereb’s spearmen had padded off along with the houndboys earlier. They might be required as beaters, that was true. On the other hand, there was surely no need for them to perform that duty in complete battle array.

  As the chariots made a turn from the Theban road onto a wide expanse of black baked clay, which, when flooded a month or so later, would be productive fields, Rahotep approached the subject indirectly.

  “How far south do the Hyksos hold?”

  “From a day’s journey north of Thebes our people still pay tribute. But their first fortress is again a sunrise away. Twenty years ago Thebes loaded tribute ships and invader princes sat in government here--”

  “You expelled them? Why did they not then return in force?”

  Nereb smiled, an odd cold smile. “They did not go, they died. Their god turned his face from them and there was a plague. What man can raise bow or spear against the sickness that strikes between sunrise and sunset? Their king sent a message unto the Lord of Thebes saying he was awakened by the snorting of the hippopotami of the river and that we should clear our land of anything that displeased him. So
with those who returned his governor’s body to him, we sent also the hides of hippopotami. But it seemed that with those hides went also the curse of Amon-Re, for the sons of Set sickened and the plague struck into their ranks, though it did not harm those who obeyed the true gods. And fearing the illness, the barbarians made a decree to withdraw from the south until the danger was past. Only it seems that that time has not come yet. There are tales that in the lands of the Semitics there has been much trouble and that the King of the Hyksos needs must turn his attention to putting down rebellion there.” Nereb shrugged. “It matters not how it has come about--plague, curse, or trouble beyond the rim of the world, but they have given us a space in which to set about the preparations for their undoing.”

  There were odd gaps in Nereb’s story to Rahotep’s mind, a certain evasiveness on some points. Also he noted that they were now traveling a northward route. But he shelved his suspicions when they came at last to a wide waste area where dried reed beds and papyrus thickets stood brittle and sere on the parched land. Smoke, black and thick, curled up from isolated points in a semicircle and moved slowly forward through the crackling reed forests, marking the advance of the beaters with their torches, the smell of which was designed to rout out any lion that was lying up after a good night’s hunting.

  The dogs, freed from their leashes, were yapping excitedly, their paths through the dead and dried wilderness marked by the wild waving of yellow reed crowns. There was a deep, coughing roar. Nereb had pulled the reins of his chariot horse about his waist as he would do in battle, leaving his hands free for the throwing spear he drew from its carrying thongs. Rahotep, a little uneasy as to marksmanship from his unsteady footing, selected an arrow and set it to bow cord.