Trumpets blew and the royal standards, depicting different gods all paying obeisance to Amun-Ra, were lifted. Priests made sacrifice on the makeshift altars and the order of march was issued. Three corps, ours in the centre, were to advance east to secure the mines, re-fortify the settlements and mete out Pharaoh’s justice to the rebels: any enemy taken captive was to be executed immediately.
We began our slow advance into hostile territory, Colonel Perra in charge. The Veiled One, travelling in his cart, was attached to our unit which was sent far ahead of the rest. We moved forward across a landscape so heinous I thought I was in the Underworld: boiling sun above grey, arid land, broken by the occasional oasis, or small village. Dust devils stung our eyes and filled our mouths. We progressed slowly, dependent on water, foraging both for ourselves as well as the horses, oxen and donkey trains. We left the protection of other great forts, ‘The Repelling of Seth’, ‘The Defence of the Bows’ and ‘The Power of Pharaoh’, a slow-moving column of chariots, carts, horses, donkeys, oxen and men. At first the trumpets blared and different units sang ribald songs about each other, but soon the fiery heat sucked the life and breath out of us. Our feet, despite the leather marching boots, became scarred and stubbed by the hard ground. Above us the sun, our constant torturer, like a hole of fiery gold in the light-blue sky, moved along with us. Clouds of shifting dust and storms of sand, whipped up by the wind, made us look like a troop of ghosts moving across the arid Red Lands. The heat haze played tricks with our eyes, and taunted our hearts as well as our tongues with the prospect of cool running water. We piled our armour onto the carts and fashioned makeshift masks and hoods for our heads and faces, rubbing thick black kohl around our eyes. Sobeck quietly joked that we were now all ‘Veiled Ones’, though Horemheb pointed out that the secretive Prince, travelling in his chariot, asked for no special favours.
We kept to the fortified royal roads built years previously across the Province of Waat. Our scouts went out before us armed with maps to locate the wells and any source of running water. Of the other two divisions moving parallel to us we saw no sign. Their mission was to secure the amethyst mines in the North, ours was to reassert control of the gold and copper mines.
The rigour of the march shattered any illusion about the beauty of war. No longer were we glorious chariot squadrons moving majestically across the plain to confront an enemy; now it was nothing but a searing trudge through a boiling cauldron, dependent on brackish water, hard bread and stringy, salted meat. We’d camp at night near some well or oasis. The stars hung low in the dark velvet sky whilst the biting cold made us pray for the heat of the day. All the beasts of the blackness closed in around us, attracted to the smells from our cooking pots as well as the fresh flesh of our oxen and horses. Yellow-skinned, dark-eyed lions coughed and roared. Jackals bayed like some demented choir at the moon but the greatest danger were the hyena packs, striped or spotted, great ruffs of hair round their necks. They would come in very close, so we’d catch their stench, hear their grunting and watch their amber eyes glow in the dark. They were ready to brave the fire, or the danger of an arrow through the darkness, to steal in and attack the horselines or oxen pens. Hideous neighs and dreadful animal screams would pierce the night. Trumpets sounded as the alarm was raised and archers brandishing flaring torches hurried to drive the night prowlers away.
We soon grew used to the horrors of the night, only too pleased to sleep on the ground and forget our present troubles. We would be kicked awake long before dawn to continue our march, and be given coarse biscuit to chew on with a couple of mouthfuls of watered beer. We’d kneel to pray to the rising sun and honour the Divine One with a hymn thundered out to the heavens:
After that our gruelling march would resume until the heat of the day grew so oppressive we would stop to camp. The Veiled One’s cart, no longer protected by his Kushites but by a unit of the Strong-Arm Boys, trundled in front of the donkey-train. He made no contact with me or anyone else until six days after leaving Buhen, in the first coolness of an afternoon whilst we camped at an oasis. Exhausted after finishing a march of about thirty miles, I was with the rest, crouching in the shade of a tree ready to share out bread and water. Any teasing or taunting, superficial conversation or arguments had long since ceased. We had neither the energy nor the inclination for them. Only three things mattered: food, water and sleep.
I was chewing on a crust when I received an invitation to join the Veiled One in his rectangular scarlet pavilion standing to the left of the makeshift altar to Amun-Ra where our standards were piled. The pavilion was quite small, erected so the vents caught the breeze. The Veiled One sat on a pile of cushions fanning himself vigorously. The small acacia table before him bore two reed platters of gazelle meat, bread and dried fruits, and a jar of white Charu wine. The pavilion was deserted. Some chests and boxes lay about. A clumsily erected camp bed screened by sheets stood in the corner, weapons were slung from a hook on a pole: a bow, a quiver of arrows, a leather corselet and a helmet of the same material. The Veiled One, however, was not dressed for war but in a gauffered linen robe with an embroidered sash. Beside him lay a curved sword and dagger, their blades glinting in the light of the oil lamps. He followed my gaze and smiled.
‘It looks impressive, Mahu, but we have to be ready.’ His smile widened. ‘Even though we know the rebels won’t attack.’
‘Where are your guards?’ I asked, obeying his gesture to sit at the other side of the table.
‘Left in Thebes,’ he replied lightly. ‘Can’t be trusted, or so my father says.’ He leaned across the table and pushed a small piece of gazelle meat into my mouth, his dark eyes glowing with humour. ‘We all know that’s nonsense. One of the reasons Egypt has been able to conquer Kush and Nubia is that their inhabitants hate each other more than they do us Egyptians.’ He bit into a piece of meat and I noticed how even and white his teeth were. He chewed his food slowly. The flap of the pavilion had been pulled back so he could watch the sun set behind the heat haze. He bowed his head and murmured a prayer then looked up, as if he was recalling something.
‘You are wondering why I am here, aren’t you?’ He lifted his cup and toasted me. ‘The answer is, I asked to come. Mother thought it was a good idea. Permission was granted surprisingly easily. I wonder,’ he laughed dryly. ‘I do wonder if the Magnificent One wants me back?’
I continued eating. The food was better than my own meal. Servants came and went, faint noises echoed from the camp: shouting, the neigh of horses, the lowing of oxen, whilst the wail of a conch horn marked the hours. The Veiled One asked about the Horus unit and the horrors of the march.
‘I feel so secure in my cart.’ His eyes held mine. ‘I have to sit there, whatever the heat, whatever the dust. Now, how about this campaign, Mahu?’
We discussed its finer points. The Veiled One showed a surprising knowledge, voicing the same concerns raised by Horemheb.
‘Our squadron is too small and too far ahead.’ He grasped his wine cup close to his shoulder and leaned across the table. ‘The nearest support is over thirty miles away, either to the North or West. We could easily be trapped and ambushed.’ He drank from the wine cup. ‘We could all be killed.’