In the privacy of our dormitory, or barracks as we now called them, we’d discuss and share the gossip of court. In the main the consensus was the same, though I never made any contribution: the Veiled One was a monstrosity.
‘Perhaps he likes young men?’ Meryre smiled, glancing girlishly at Maya. ‘That’s why he comes to watch our soft flesh sweat.’
‘Do you really think that?’ Horemheb demanded. ‘I looked at him and thanked the gods for Tuthmosis.’ Rameses nodded in agreement.
‘No, I don’t,’ Meryre replied. ‘But,’ his voice fell to a whisper, ‘I think the Veiled One is a symbol of the anger of the gods.’
Pentju put the Veiled One’s strange appearance down to his mother being frightened by spiders or scorpions when she carried him in the egg. Huy openly wondered what effect his appearance would have on Egypt’s allies when their envoys visited the court. Sobeck was more pragmatic and wondered whether the Veiled One was the result of some love potion his mother, the Great Queen Tiye, had indulged in. Of course these opinions were exchanged in whispers. No one would dare speak like that in the presence of Colonel Perra or, even worse, Tuthmosis. Only two people remained quiet, myself and Maya. I remembered that.
Our military training stretched into five seasons. The Veiled One was always in attendance, even when we moved down to the royal stables to acquaint ourselves with the horses — beautiful, sleek animals trained for the chariot squadrons of Egypt. We made the usual offerings to Reshef and Astarte, deities of Syria, the homeland of these swift, elegant carriers of war, as well as to Sutekh, the Egyptian Lord of the Horses. I loved that part of my training. I had no fear of horses, even those bloodied in war, arrogant and proud with their arched necks, flared nostrils and laid-back ears. We were trained and drilled in the use of harness, the head collar, noseband, blinkers and, especially, the straps, one across the top, the other under the horse’s belly; it was important for these to be fastened clear and smooth with no knots or obstacles. We were shown how to hang the blue and gold streamers or war tassels, how to fix the pole cap between the horse’s ears to carry plumes, feathers or artificial flowers which would display the colours of the regiment. After that we moved on to the chariot itself, with its semi-circular platform and curved wooden sides with a thin rail above it. We studied these instruments of Egypt’s anger and glory, both horse and chariot. Colonel Perra told us we had to learn how to put both parts together, then use them so we would merge as one: driver, chariot and horses, the most deadly weapon of war.
Now I was a poor archer, ever ready to fumble with the flaxen bowstring or hard shaft of reed. Sobeck my companion proved to be an indifferent charioteer so we decided on our respective roles and I found my gift for war. At first I was clumsy but I grew to love the rattle of the chariot, the speed and power of the two horses and the exhilaration of a charge with streamers flying and horse plumes nodding. Like all young men I believed I had been born to ride in a chariot. My real education began after a number of nasty accidents when both Sobeck and I had either to jump clear and, on one occasion, even onto the back of the horses when a wheel buckled and cracked against a rock.
I became a charioteer, a master of the chariots, an expert in their construction. I studied their fabric, the imported elm and birch, as well as the tamarisk, which provided the wood for the carriage, the axles and the yoke. The six-bolt wide-spaced wheels placed at the back of the chariot were of special interest; their construction gave the vehicle more speed and mobility, their hubs and rims protected by thick red leather. The craftsmen described the body of the chariot, how it could be covered with copper and electrum and emblazoned with any insignia, whilst a floor of closely knit thongs heightened the experience in a full charge of standing on air. We learned how to position the quiver of arrows, the embroidered container for javelins as well as the leather pouches placed at the side of the chariot containing food and water for two men.
I chose my own horses, two bays, the Glory of Anubis and the Might of Montu. Believe me, nothing was more glorious than the ‘Squadron of the Kap’ in full battle honours, blue and gold plumes dancing between the horses’ ears, their necks, backs and flanks protected by leather coats of the same hue, to which war streamers and tassels displaying the same imperial colours danced in the breeze. Our chariots, polished and emblazoned, would move in a straight line across the pebble-strewn hard plain to the east of the Malkata Palace, on the very border of the Red Lands. There were ten chariots in all, Prince Tuthmosis’ and Colonel Perra’s included. We advanced in a line, wheels creaking, horses neighing, streamers and plumage dancing, all a-glitter in the blaze of the sun. Sobeck standing beside me was dressed the same as me in a leather kilt, marching sandals and a coat of Syrian mail across his shoulders. I looked to the left and right, revelling in the power and glory of this moving line of war. The whole scene would be watched by the Veiled One sitting in his cart under an awning surrounded by his Kushites. Near one of the wheels of the cart, Weni, looking pathetic under his parasol, squatted on a camp stool and nursed his beer jar.
The drill was always the same. Colonel Perra would move forward and his tedjet, or fighter, would intone the war hymn.
Each time we repeated the refrain, the chariots would move faster. The half-moon standard on Colonel Perra’s chariot would rise and fall as it broke into a charge whilst we followed in fast pursuit. The earth rumbled under our wheels, the sky echoed to the crack of our whips, the sun bathed us in its glory as we broke into a breathtaking gallop across the grey-red ground, loosed like shafts from a bow, like hawks swooping through the air. All life, all thought, word and action narrowed down to that glorious cascade of charging horses and chariots. We would reach the arrow butts and the air would hum with our flight of arrows. Then we would be past, charging onto the narrow straw-filled baskets. I’d stand feet apart, slightly stooped, reins wrapped round my wrists, guiding and coaxing, singing out to my two beauties. I praised their speed, their fire. I’d watch their heads plunge and rise whilst, at the same time, keep a keen eye out for any obstacle or be ready to take any advantage of the ground. I was full of the heart-throbbing music of the God of War.
Beside me Sobeck leaned against the rail, his body taut, prepared to pull back the bowstring and, when the quiver was empty, stand, javelin in hand, ready for the next target. Once we dealt with that we’d turn, determined to outrace each other, though, of course, never pass Colonel Perra. It was a heartstopping, blood-thrilling, death-challenging charge back across the desert to that waiting cart almost obscured by the shifting heat haze. Once we had reached the line there would be jubilation, laughter, teasing and taunting. Tuthmosis would climb onto the cart and embrace his brother, a gesture which always provoked a stab of envy in me.