‘A soldier,’ Colonel Perra roared, ‘has to be beaten like a carpet, cleaned of all dirt and impediment. He campaigns in Syria and marches over the mountains. He carries bread and water on his shoulders like an ass. He slurps from brackish pools and sleeps with one eye open. When he encounters the enemy he must fight like an animal caught in a snare. He becomes a whirling piece of wood. He becomes ill and sick. His clothes are stolen and he eats dust every day of his life. That, gentlemen, is part of being a soldier. But, remember, there is the other side. The name of a brave man will never vanish from the face of the earth. You are here to serve Pharaoh, a magnificent soldier, the descendant of a magnificent soldier.’
‘I think,’ Sobeck whispered, ‘we are going to know this speech by heart.’
‘The Divine One’s grandfather,’ Colonel Perra continued in a roar, ‘was strong of arm, a master of bowmen, rich in glory. So was the Divine One’s father while he whom we now serve, Lord of the Two Lands, makes the people of the earth tremble at his move. Why?’ Colonel Perra walked up and down the line, striking each of us with his swagger cane. ‘Because of the might of Egypt, because of the glory of its regiments and the power of its army! When we go to war we are like raging panthers, lions on the hunt, eagles in the sky. You will be part of that glory.’
I assure you there was little glory! Day after day of route marches, running in a heat which seemed to have gusted up from the Underworld. We would go without bread and water, to camp in the Red Lands. Yet this was only the beginning. Roused at dead of night, we were ordered to drill. On one occasion we were marched down to the Great River; a war barge took us across, but instead of beaching we had to jump into the cold, fast-flowing water, curb our panic, the heartstopping terror, and make our way to shore. It was an experience I came to dread. Sobeck always helped me. Yet the current was very strong and, on one occasion, Horemheb’s Danga dwarf, hair and beard now greyed, having insisted on accompanying his master, was swirled away in the darkness. Hideous screams shattered the silence. He had been swept into a crocodile pool and the next morning the only remains we found were part of his head. Huy cracked a joke about the curse of Weni’s sacred goose. Horemheb just glared at him and, from that moment, Huy was his enemy. Horemheb hid his grief well and accepted it as part of the harsh training we all had to undergo. Rameses told me he had made an offering to a mortuary priest and dedicated a statue to Danga but, apart from that, Horemheb made no further reference to the dwarf or his hideous fate.
Colonel Perra was equally unperturbed. In fact, our training became even more rigorous. We learned to fight with the mace, the axe and the khopesh. Hours were spent standing at the butts practising with the composite Kushite bow, loosing arrow after arrow, with their cruel barbs and goose-feathered flights into a target of soft wood. Sometimes we’d fight in sandals, other times barefoot. If it was cold, we’d sometimes go naked, or just wearing a loincloth with a leather groin guard. In the hot season Colonel Perra made us walk in tight-sleeved Syrian coats of mail. Some of us were not cut out to be soldiers. Maya, Pentju and Meryre were hopeless — unable, as Colonel Perra remarked, to tell one end of a war-club from another. Nevertheless they provided constant amusement to Weni, who had now become a mere spectator. He’d sit on a bench drinking his beer and chortling with laughter. As for me — well, I was indifferent with the sword, spear, dagger or bow. Indifferent because I didn’t like using them. Indifferent because I didn’t want to be hurt.
The others excelled, particularly Horemheb. He proved himself to be a born fighter, a skilled archer, excellent with hand weapons. By now, he had filled out, and sported strong muscular shoulders and arms, a slim waist, powerful thighs and legs. Nothing seemed to trouble him, neither the heat of the midday sun nor the biting cold of desert nights. He was a man born with the breath of Montu in him. Rameses was just as good, though more cunning, a little faster on his feet. Of course not all of us had our hearts set on being warriors. Meryre wished to be a priest, Maya and Huy hoped to enter the House of Scribes, while Pentju wanted to be a physician. Sobeck, always laughing, asserted his wish to be the Overseer of the Royal Harem. Nevertheless, as a unit we were skilled enough. The Crown Prince joined us as the Kap had shrunk, due to death and departures, to no more than eighteen, whilst the Horus unit under Horemheb and Rameses outshone the rest. Tuthmosis was a constant reminder of the Veiled One, not so much his face or form, but that calm calculating look in his eye. I secretly wondered if the Veiled One would send me a message, a gift, engineer some form of contact — or should I go back to him? In the end, I did not have to do anything; the Veiled One came to us.
Tuthmosis always joined us in the morning just after our run when, under Colonel Perra’s lashing tongue, we’d prepare for the daily drill. One morning, however, quietly and without much pomp, a conch horn brayed out beyond the walls of the Residence. The gate opened. Tuthmosis led in the cart, pulled by red-and-white oxen, bearing that frame, draped in a gauze veil, behind which a figure sat. The retinue of Kushites followed led by the one-eyed man. He grinned evilly at me and raised his hand, as if we were longlost friends — a salute not lost on my comrades. They stood fascinated as Tuthmosis climbed onto the cart and pulled away the veil. He then did a strange thing: despite being elder brother and Crown Prince, he bowed before the Veiled One sitting on his thronelike chair. Then Tuthmosis turned to us, hands held up like a herald.
‘Behold,’ he proclaimed, ‘my beloved brother.’
He did not give him his proper name, the same as his father, Amenhotep, but the translation of that name, ‘Amun is Satisfied’. We, of course, clapped, bowed in greeting, and pretended not to be surprised. The Veiled One sat, his face open to the world. His body and face were a little plumper; a sidelock of reddish hair hung down over his left ear. The face was the same, possessing its own uncanny beauty: high cheekbones, sensuous pouting mouth and those well-spaced almond-shaped eyes that glowed like Syrian wine. He didn’t move though his glance took us all in: his eyes caught mine, face creasing into a faint smile. He raised his hand as a sign to continue, long fingers splayed out. Perra roared at us to prepare for our drill and, as we did so, the Veiled One sat on his throne watching us intently.
We finished just before noon and rested in the shade of the trees drinking watered beer and chewing hard bread. Tuthmosis joined his brother on the cart, squatting on a makeshift footstool, feeding him with his own hand as they chatted and joked together. The Veiled One’s shoulders shook with laughter. A deep, heavy sadness filled my heart. I had glimpsed something I had always wanted yet knew I would never have. I would have given the length of days to be in that cart joking with them, to be part of something, to be loved and accepted. I half-rose. Sobeck, who must have been watching me, grabbed my arm.
‘Sit down, Baboon. Don’t enter the panther’s cage.’
‘Physician, swallow your own remedy,’ I retorted.
The moment passed and we fell to quarrelling, interrupted by Pentju who wanted to tell us a filthy story about men-starved temple girls pleasuring each other.
The Veiled One stayed for the rest of the day and returned each morning. Many years later he confided how his father had reluctantly agreed for him to join the Kap and enter the House of War. Sometimes Hotep arrived and sat on a chair beside the cart. Although he always treated the Veiled One with great respect and honour, he actually seemed more interested in watching us lash and cut each other. In truth Hotep came to assess our worth, to choose and confirm which path we followed. Huy was marked down for the House of Envoys, Maya for the House of Scribes, Pentju for the House of Life, Horemheb, Rameses and Sobeck for the House of War. Hotep shared this information with us as we sat gasping on the ground, letting our sweat cool. He’d walk among us, sometimes crouching down to whisper his advice, punctuating his statements with elegant movements of his hands. He never approached me. I didn’t know what was intended and, in truth, I didn’t care. I was more hurt that the Veiled One made no attempt to welcome, greet or salute me whilst I did not dare tell my companions about my earlier meeting with him.