On that fatal day we left in the early hours. I had guessed it was that day: it was inauspicious, but Akhenaten would ignore this and go into the valley whilst the next such day was not for another six weeks, too long for a Libyan war-party to survive on their own in the Eastern Desert. I drove Akhenaten’s chariot; small leather cases at my feet carried his war-kilt and armour. The dark was bitterly cold. The stars pressed down close whilst the yawning desert, cloaked in shadows, appeared sinister in its unspoken threats. We entered the valley in that grey light before day; the stars were dimming, the sky turning a strange colour as the creatures of the night roared their hymns and slunk away from the heat of dawn.
I left Djarka and Snefru’s retinue armed with shield and spear at the mouth of the valley. Djarka had his instructions. Akhenaten and I went ahead. Our horses, the fastest in the royal stables, were snorting and shaking their heads, the gold dyed plumes between their ears nodding in the early morning breeze. We reached the foot of the sheer cliffs at the end of the valley. Akhenaten thrust the fire-making instruments at me. I set fire to the dry brushwood piled on the steps of the makeshift altar, lit the oil lamps and placed the smoking incense bowls on the grey granite altar slab. Akhenaten serenely offered bread and wine to the Sun Disc now rising in glory, a majestic fiery glow. The God emerged from his Underworld, the Glory of Egypt rising to feast on the hideous banquet of death and destruction which would shatter that day. Akhenaten sang his hymn, an awesome sound in that sombre, ghost-filled valley. His voice rang true and strong, echoing up into the skies.
Once the sacrifice was completed I grasped a firebrand and made the signal to either side of the valley. The escarpment became alive with men pouring out of the caves, gullies and hollows. Mercenaries led by handpicked officers from the Nakhtu-aa, all armed with heavy shields, spears, war-clubs and curved swords formed serried ranks facing up the valley, shields locked, spears out, swords in their belts or between their feet. Each rank was separated by a line of archers, quivers full, heavy bows ready. Akhenaten armed himself in a coat of polished leather reinforced with metal scales. The war-crown of Egypt was formally fastened to his head with its gold-green straps. He stood like the God Montu in his chariot, javelins in their pouches, a long curved sword in his hand. I donned my armour and stood beside him in the chariot. I had hardly grasped the reins when further down the valley a conch horn wailed, shattering the silence. Our ranks moved to the murmur of men, the creak of leather, the rattle of weapons then that heart-catching silence which always precedes a battle.
Heart pounding, mouth dry, I watched the trackway. Djarka came racing out of the darkness, following the sliver of sunlight racing across the valley floor. The ranks parted. He came running through, bow slung over his shoulders; his quiver was gone but the war-club in his right hand was thick with gore. He knelt before the chariot.
‘They are here,’ he gasped. ‘More than we thought.’ A dull roar rang through the valley, followed by silence. I looked over the heads of our soldiers, along that valley, now brightening under the rising sun. At first I thought a shadow was spreading towards us; it was a horde of men racing like ants, spears and swords glinting. I glimpsed poles bearing the severed, bloody heads of Snefru’s men. The enemy poured towards us. They were running blind, dazzled by the light of the rising sun; they had not yet realised what lay before them. Behind the horde rose clouds of dust as their officers followed in a squadron of chariots. The war-cries of the Libyans rose, a bloodcurdling shriek echoing along that narrow trackway. ‘Now, Djarka,’ I shouted. ‘The sign!’
Djarka was ready with a new quiver of arrows and a pot of fire he had taken from the altar. He strung one arrow, dipped its point coated in resin into the flame. One, two, three streaks of red flared up into the sky then the horde was upon us. In the face of the dazzling sun, they realised, too late, our strength and preparations. The impetus of their charge could not be checked whilst their own chariots, moving so fast, clinging close to their rear, made any pause for deployment impossible.
The first wave of Libyans impaled themselves on our spears. Those who slipped and fell were quickly clubbed, trampled underfoot as our first rank stepped forward. Orders rang out. Our foot soldiers knelt as the archers, bows strung, poured volley after volley into the air, loosing a death-bearing hail of cruel barbs to wreck bloody damage amongst the massed ranks of the Libyans. The enemy milled about, their chariots withdrawing clumsily to create more space. Our archers loosed more volleys as we slowly advanced, a wall of razor-sharp death pushing the Libyans back. They desperately tried to break through, only to fall back and regroup. They had glimpsed Akhenaten in his chariot. I now displayed, at his order, the great silver fan, carved in half-moon shape, bearing the golden emblem of the Sun Disc. The Libyans tried to bring their archers up but the press was too great. We moved, trampling men beneath us, their bodies gashed with arrow and spear, heads a bloody mess from blows inflicted by our powerful war-clubs. Akhenaten stood like a statue, not even wincing as arrows sang by his head and face. He softly sang a hymn to the Aten. I moved the chariot forward; Nakhtu-aa on either side guarded our flanks, cutting the throats of the wounded. The fighting became intense. The Libyans threw themselves on our ranks, trying to scale the valley sides to outflank us. A few did, inflicting terrible damage. I desperately wondered when Horemheb and Rameses would arrive. The Libyans, clad in animal skins, shaven faces covered in war-paint, now concentrated on Akhenaten. Here and there our line buckled. The enemy captains, aware now of our true strength, searched for a weakness. So far I was not part of the fighting, just guiding the chariot; the horses, becoming increasingly frantic, crossed a carpet of tangled bloody corpses. Djarka, moving just ahead of these, slightly stooped, arrow notched, searched for a target. More and more Libyans appeared on our flanks.
‘Where is Horemheb?’ I screamed.
A group of Libyans came charging down the valley side, desperate to break the Nakhtu-aa. Our archers cut them down. The hideous din of battle filled our world as we hacked, clawed and clubbed. Sometimes it was hard to distinguish between friend and foe as clouds of dust rose, covering us from head to toe in a fine white powder. Once again the Libyans hurled themselves forward. I heard the war-trumpets, braying strongly through the clamour, followed by the thunder of chariots, and new clouds of dust appeared behind the Libyan horde. The Anubis squadrons of war-chariots had finally arrived, each carrying three soldiers. The Libyans were now hemmed in. The battle was won and the massacre began. Streams of blood curled along the valley floor. The Libyans were caught in a trap, a vice slowly closing. They were unable to break through either to the front or the rear. The two valley sides were too steep to scale. Those who tried it stumbled and came rolling down in a cloud of dust and a rain of shale and pebbles. Our men were waiting and cut their throats. We killed and killed until exhausted. I say ‘we’ though I never struck a blow, guiding the chariot whilst Akhenaten loosed javelin after javelin into the dwindling Libyan mass.