‘You, too?’ I asked. The wine had emboldened me.
‘Not me,’ he replied lazily. ‘I shall not die here. My Father will protect me. You carry the scarab I gave you?’
I nodded.
‘Nor will you die.’ He drained the wine cup and grasped his walking cane. ‘Now it is cooler, we should go out.’
He crossed to the bed and picked up a pair of leather marching boots. Without asking I knelt and helped him put them on. He then demanded two military cloaks and, when they were brought, flung one at me. I’d heard the clatter and the neigh of horses as I finished the meal and found that a chariot had been prepared for us, a simple unadorned carriage with two horses. These were splendid creatures, with firm haunches and long legs, strong and black as the night. The Veiled One climbed in and handed me his cane. I took it and placed it in the javelin container. I wondered what was going to happen but was reluctant to ask. It was not yet sunset so the camp was still busy. No one stopped us as we rattled along the trackway past the horselines and quartermaster wagons into the brooding grey-brown desert. The sun was beginning to sink though it would be some time before it disappeared behind the horizon and the darkness came rushing in. The air was still hot and dry. The Veiled One clicked his tongue and shook the reins. We passed the picket lines; he then reined in and took the leather water jar from the pouch of gazelle skin attached to the side of the chariot. He pulled the stopper, handed it over and watched me drink.
‘Good?’ he asked, lifting the reins.
‘Fresh,’ I replied.
The Veiled One nodded. He waited a while then with one hand took the water jar from me and drank himself. He had used me as his taster. No wonder he was so confident that he would not die. He pointed with the waterskin to the distant mountain range which rose above the heavy haze.
‘They change colour in the sun,’ he remarked. ‘And become so hot even the precious stones are transformed.’
He let the horses walk; the chariot swayed and creaked as the desert ground dipped and rose, treacherous land with its gullies, shallow valleys and rocky outcrops. The Veiled One made the chariot twist and turn. The horses were nervous and so was I. Dark threatening shapes appeared, then vanished. The silence was oppressive, abruptly shattered by a howl, roar or the scream of some bird. I checked the bow and quiver of arrows. I eased the javelin in and out of the container. We passed scouts and foragers returning to the camp. Some were empty-handed, others carried the meagre game they had slaughtered. Soon we were by ourselves. No camp behind us, nothing but the sun, reddening the sky and that grey, dangerous land. The Veiled One nudged me playfully.
‘They say we will soon be in the heart of enemy territory; until then we are safe.’ He stared up, whispering to himself. ‘My mother takes me out to the desert. She always has since — well, since I can remember. I like the desert. No mean streets, no pomp or ceremony.’
The horses whinnied and the Veiled One reined in. In a small rocky gully we glimpsed bones white and shattered, cracked and chipped; a skull lay next to a boulder like some broken toy. The Veiled One handed me the reins, grasped his cane and climbed down. He walked over and sifted amongst the bones.
‘No copper or bronze,’ he remarked as he squatted down. ‘They must have been Neferu — raw recruits, deserters. They left the camp and fled in the wrong direction.’
The roar of a hyena did not disturb him.
‘What do you think, Mahu?’ He picked up a thighbone already turning yellow. ‘This once belonged to a man. We know where his flesh went, into the belly of a hyena. But where is his ka? According to the shaven heads,’ he pointed the bone at me, ‘the ka of this man will never reach the Fields of the Blessed: his body hasn’t been mummified, the blessing of Osiris is lacking. He has no heart, so how can he be judged on the Scales of Truth? Do you think he deserved that? Or doesn’t it matter?’
He rose, resting on his cane, threw the bone away and came back to the chariot, lost in his thoughts. ‘What do you think, Mahu?’ he asked softly. ‘What happened to the Ka of that man?’ He rubbed his fingers together. ‘Is it like smoke after the fire has gone out? Is that all he meant? Or will his Ka go somewhere else, to a place we cannot see?’ He drew his eyebrows together, refused my offer of help and climbed back into the chariot. ‘And what happened when he reaches the Fields of the Blessed? They must be crowded. Don’t you have any answers, Mahu?’
‘I am a soldier, not a priest.’
‘“I am a soldier not a priest”,’ the Veiled One mimicked, face only a few inches from mine. He kissed me abruptly on the cheek. ‘Do you know what I think?’
I stared back.
‘I think the priests lie. They make up stories to keep their power strong and their bellies full. I don’t think there is a Ka.’
‘Nothingness?’ I replied. ‘That’s possible.’
‘No, I did not say that.’ The Veiled One gathered the reins. ‘I think there is a Blessed West and the souls, of the chosen ones, like flames of fire, go there.’
‘And who chooses them?’ I asked.
‘Why, the One who has chosen them from all eternity.’
‘And how do you know you are chosen?’
Intrigued, I waited for an answer, watching the sun sinking fast, splintering the sky with red and gold rays. The roar and growl of night prowlers echoed on the strengthening breeze, and I caught that hideous stench of rotting meat. We had entered another small gully; the rocks around us, transformed by the setting sun, were no longer part of a landscape but something else which had sprung to life with a brooding menace.
‘How do you know you are chosen?’ I repeated.
The Veiled One turned the chariot round, flicking the reins. ‘You know you are chosen, Mahu — just as today, I have chosen to eat and drink with you and share my thoughts with you.’
I stared up at the rocky escarpment and caught the moving outline of a large head and ruffled mane. The Veiled One followed my gaze.
‘Don’t be anxious.’ He urged the horses up the escarpment and back onto the level plain. In the far distance the fires of our camp sparked and faded. The darkness was coming down, as it does in the desert, swift as a hawk from the sky. I looked to the left and right; shapes were slinking alongside us, watching the horses, searching for any weakness. I was concerned but the Veiled One began to sing:
He urged the horses into a gallop, guiding them skilfully back into the camp. Grooms and servants came hurrying up. Grasping his cane, the Veiled One climbed down and looked up at me.
‘You wonder why, Mahu, Baboon of the South, but in time you’ll learn.’
He walked away. I returned to my campfire. My companions had eaten well on a quail Horemheb had brought down. Now they were settling in for the night. I took my blanket, rolled myself in it and lay down, my head against a leather pannier. Horemheb asked me where I had been but I pretended not to hear.
Two days later, the enemy struck — but not to the bray of trumpets or standards flying. No, they came pouring out of a gully like locusts streaking towards our carts: warriors, black as night, armed with shields and spear, running silently, taking advantage of our column half-drowsy under the relentless sun. We barely had time to grasp our weapons then it was shield against shield, sobbing and cursing, hacking at oiled bodies, dodging and feinting. No glorious chariot war but a grim hand-to-hand struggle. Our unit was between the carts and the horses. The enemy had struck before we’d even realised it. They tried to break our line of march, dancing to the left and right, thrusting with spears, grim figures of death.