One day, during the boiling heat of Shemshu, in the thirty-second year of the Magnificent One’s reign, the Veiled One rose and, resting on his cane, its head carved in the shape of a Nubian, he clambered down from his cart. Veil pulled back, he walked along the line of chariots, impervious to the dust still clinging like a cloud around us. He stopped at every team and talked softly to the horses, letting them nuzzle his hand which, I suspect, was smeared with the juice of crushed apple. He looked at each of my companions, then passed on. He had certainly grown; the protuberant belly and breasts and broad hips were more pronounced; although his hands and feet remained delicately long and thin. His face was still striking, the cheeks slightly sunken, the lips fuller and those almond-shaped, well-spaced eyes luminous and liquid. He walked slowly but gracefully. A Kushite carrying parasols and sandals came hurrying up behind, only to be summarily dismissed. Silence reigned, broken by the creak of a wheel, the snort of a horse and the low buzz of flies hovering over the dung. Above us circled vultures, their broad wings dark against the sky. The Veiled One stopped before me and lifted his head, revealing a beautiful smile, warm and generous, and eyes bright with excitement.
‘I will take Mahu, the Baboon from the South.’ His eyes held mine. ‘He shall be my tedjet.’
Sobeck immediately clambered down. I glanced at Colonel Perra who just shrugged. Weni was giggling behind his hand. Tuthmosis stood a little distance away, hands on his hips, a knowing look on his face.
‘I will be the driver.’ The Veiled One did not shout but his voice carried, an imperious command which no one dared question. He asked the names of my horses and, when I told him, he whispered to each, caressing their necks, letting them hear his voice and smell his sweat. He glanced up. ‘We forget how horses can smell so keenly. But come, before they cool!’
The Veiled One let his shawl slip away exposing copper-skinned shoulders, their blades protruding, his back slightly bent. Resting on his cane, he walked along to the chariot and clambered in, ignoring my gesture of support. He slipped his cane into the empty javelin container and grasped the reins, spreading his bare feet, clicking his tongue. I sensed that his skill was as great as mine though the chariot was strange and the horses new. He stood next to me, misshapen yet graceful, careful not to brush or knock me. Beads of sweat ran down his neck, and his body exuded a sweet cloying perfume. Clear of the veil I now noticed how strange his head was: the sloping forehead, the egg-shaped skull, the strangely elongated neck. His movements were carefully measured. He backed the chariot out, turning it for the long run, urging the horses forward. Once we were some distance away he reined in and turned his face to the sun, staring up narrow-eyed. I wondered if his sight was as strong as our own.
‘Praise me, Father,’ he raised a hand, ‘as I have praised you who existed before all time began. Bless me, Father, as you have been blessed by all creatures under the sun. Support me, Father, Lord of Jubilees, Ruler of the Years, beautiful in aspect. Let the rays of your power guide my heart with an iron hand. Oh, Joyous One, listen to your son the beloved.’
The others could not have heard him. He turned and winked at me.
‘So we meet again, Mahu.’ He clicked his tongue and urged the horses on. ‘Even though I have watched you from afar.’ He then glanced over his right shoulder and spoke in a tongue I couldn’t understand, as if someone else was standing on the far side of the chariot. Sharp guttural words. I wondered if it was Akkadian, the language used by Pharaoh’s scribes when writing to his vassal kings. He spoke again and turned back. ‘You are not frightened, Baboon of the South?’
‘Should I be?’ I grasped the chariot rail.
The Veiled One chuckled. ‘Do you know a funny story, Mahu? Can you tell me one?’
I racked my memory. ‘An old woman had a very garrulous husband. He would never stop talking even when asleep.’
Again the chuckle. ‘Every day,’ I went on, ‘she used to lead the cart on which he perched down to the market.’
‘And?’ The Veiled One grasped the reins more firmly.
‘One day a passer-by ran up. “Oh ancient one,” he yelped, “your husband has fallen out of the cart.” “The gods be thanked,” the Old Woman replied, rubbing her ear. “Why is that?” the passer-by asked. “Because for a moment I thought I had gone deaf.”’
The Veiled One threw his head back and bellowed with laughter, loud and clear. He then urged the horses forward, snapping the reins, calling out their names, sometimes lapsing into that strange tongue. I was about seventeen summers old, the Veiled One a little older, but he drove like a Lord of the Chariots. Undoubtedly he had been trained yet he possessed a gift and I realised the chariot freed him of any disability; he could now fly like the Horus falcon. He stood slightly stooping, his arms, wrists and hands displaying surprising strength and skill. There is a time as any soldier knows when a war chariot, both horses and driver, become united, long like a spear speeding through the air; you are not aware of the barb, shaft or feathered flight, just its swift death-bearing beauty. The Veiled One urged the horses on. They galloped as one, their direction straight. He guided them round the potholes and ruts. I clung to the rail aware of the ground racing away beneath us, the buffeting breeze and the Veiled One immersed in the thrill of the charge. Now and again he would whisper under his breath. We reached the targets, turned and streaked back like a javelin to the mark. We slowed down, but then picked up speed again and the Veiled One, leaning slightly to the left then the right, made the horses perform the most complex twists, as any war chariot would in battle, slicing deep into the enemy foot. At last we stopped just in front of our admiring audience who cheered and clapped. The Veiled One grasped his cane and clambered down. A servant hurried up carrying his shawl, veil and dark leather wallet. The Veiled One grasped this, opened it and handed me an amulet of jasper, cornelian and red sandstone: it was carved to depict the two celestial hills of the Far Horizon with the sun rising between them. He pressed this aknty, this Sun-in-the-Horizon amulet into my hand, stroked my finger, winked and walked away.
Later that day we celebrated, though Tuthmosis and the Veiled One were not present. Colonel Perra had also gone to the palace to convey the Squadron’s congratulations to the Princes. Naturally we discussed the Veiled One’s skill, his strange, ungainly movements yet his mastery of the horses. Horemheb looked a little jealous, not so much of me, but rather that he had been outclassed: however, he had the good grace, once the beer loosened his tongue, to praise the Veiled One’s prowess. Naturally I was teased and taunted. The beer jug was passed round. We stretched out our hands to the brazier, welcoming its heat against the cold night air. Weni, of course, was already drunk — clasped, as we say, in the arms of Lady Hathor. He abruptly put the jug down and, picking up a soiled napkin, covered his face and pretended to be the Veiled One driving the chariot, flailing his arms and hands around and provoking bursts of laughter from everyone except myself and Maya. Encouraged in his parody, Weni persisted, demanding what would happen if the Veiled One engaged in battle with a sheet across his face? Or, what if his chariot crashed? Again the imitation.
‘Would he go hobbling round the battlefield?’
I emptied my beer jug onto the ground and walked away.
The following day was a festival. There was no drill but we went down to the stables to tend to our horses, and check the harness, frames and wheels of our chariots. I was immersed in memories of the previous day; the amulet I kept in a wallet, and now and again I would walk away, take it out and study it carefully. I stayed late that day, long after the others had left. Sobeck came hurrying down.