Sons of Tao: Hyksos, #7

Setting the Scene

This is a work of fiction, but fiction based on fact. The closest parallel I can draw is of a dramatised re-enactment of actual events in history.

I have tried to be historically accurate within this series of books, but I did not want it to read like a history lesson. I have invented dialogue, and many incidents that fill in the stories of men and women, both fictional and real, that lived and died in these trouble-filled years. I have also tried to make sense of tangled and sometimes contradictory lists of kings and relationships between real characters.

I am indebted to Professor Kim Ryholt of the University of Copenhagen for his book The Political Situation in Egypt during the Second Intermediate Period, which provided me with the bones upon which to hang the flesh of my novels.

I would also like to thank Sara Jane Sesay who is my first reader. She takes the time to go through my manuscript and is quick to point out any mistakes and places where my ideas need clarification.

My cover art is by Julie Napier. I have long admired her work and over the years, she has designed all my book covers.

I am grateful too to my many readers. Without readers, a writer's efforts are just a personal exercise in telling a story. I would probably write them anyway, even if nobody read them, but I like to think I am bringing enjoyment to someone.

The Second Intermediate Period in Ancient Egyptian history is the time between the Middle and New Kingdoms. It encompassed the 12th to the 18th Dynasty between about 1800 and 1550 B.C.E. Despite knowing the dynasties involved, the details of the period are obscure at best, and often lacking altogether. There are lists of kings but they are incomplete and sometimes they are names only with no information on what they did or how long they reigned.

The 12th dynasty merged with the 13th and can only really be distinguished by the later presence of a rival dynasty of Canaanite kings ruling from Avaris in the Delta (14th Dynasty). This dynasty arose from Canaanite settlers who gradually drew apart from the rest of Egypt during the 12th Dynasty and then declared their own kings. The 13th Dynasty ruled from the city of Memphis, known as Ankh-Tawy in those days.

The 15th Dynasty was that group known as the Hyksos (heqa khasut) or 'rulers of the foreign countries'. They invaded the Delta and conquered Avaris, ending the dynasty of Canaanite rulers there. They subsequently invaded the Nile Valley and defeated the native rulers of the 13th Dynasty, and after them the 16th and Abydos Dynasties.

The 16th Dynasty arose in the city of Thebes (Waset) in the south, because of the weakening and eventual collapse of the 13th Dynasty. The Hyksos conquered them after about fifty years.

The Abydos Dynasty was an ephemeral one that arose at the same time as the 16th, in the southern city of Abydos (Abdju), and fell quickly to the northern invaders.

The 17th Dynasty arose in the south of Egypt (Kemet) as the Hyksos invaders of the 15th withdrew to the north. The native kings followed them, and eventually reunited the Two Kingdoms under the reign of Ahmose in the 18th Dynasty.

The ancient Egyptians believed that a name was more than just an identifying label. A name meant something, it was descriptive, and a part of a person's being. For instance, Ahmose means 'Iah is born', and his other names Nebpehtire Aakheperu Tutmesut Tjestawy means something like 'The Lord of Strength is Re, Great of Developments, Perfect of Birth, He who knots together the Two Lands'.

I have simplified the names of the kings. Egyptian pharaohs had five names, two of which are important as far as these stories go--the prenomen and the nomen. Only the nomen was given at birth, the prenomen being a coronation name. I have generally used the birth names on informal occasions and limited the use of the prenomen to more formal occasions or when referring to past kings, or to distinguish between kings bearing similar nomens. Another reason to use a prenomen is that kings did not have a numbering system like us (Henry III, Henry IV), so Intef VI had the prenomen Sekhemre Wepmaat, Intef VII had the prenomen Nubkheperre, and Intef VIII had the prenomen Sekhemre Herhermaat.

Most of the names we know from Egypt, including the name of the country itself, come from the Greek. Ancient Egyptians called their country Kemet, the Black Land, but the Greeks named it Aigyptos. Similarly, they gave their own names to the king (Pharaoh), to the names of cities like Waset (Thebes), Ankh-Tawy (later Men-nefer, later still Memphis) and Behdet (Apollinopolis (modern Edfu)), and many of the names of the gods. Ausar became Osiris, Aset became Isis, Djehuti became Thoth, and Heru became Horus. I had to make a decision whether to use the real names as the ancient Kemetu (Egyptians) knew them, or to use the more familiar Greek names. Some people may disagree with my choice, but it just felt wrong to put Greek words in ancient Egyptian mouths.

The Hyksos name itself derives from the Greeks also, many years after the events detailed here. In the ancient Egyptian language, they were called heqa khasut, meaning 'rulers of the foreign countries'. Nobody really knows who they were, but the consensus is that they came from the region known as Retjenu or Kanaan, which comprises modern-day Israel, Lebanon and Syria. They possessed superior military skills and equipment, including bronze weapons, and introduced the chariot to Egypt. Later generations of Egyptians turned these skills and equipment back on the Hyksos and defeated them. One of the major powers of the time was kings that ruled over Amurru, Lebanon and Syria. It is reasonable to assume that these kings may have been the 'rulers of foreign lands' so feared by the Egyptians. Of course, these invaders would not have referred to themselves as heqa khasut, but rather by the name of their dominant kingdom--Amurru.

One last note on fictional characters. Many of the characters you meet in these books are real, lifted from the history books. They lived real lives, performed real deeds, and eventually died. Others are fictional, either created whole from my imagination, or based on other real characters from the times about which I am writing. Sometimes the two merge. For instance, nothing is known about the parentage of King Sewoserenre Bebiankh of the 16th Dynasty but it is perhaps reasonable to assume that this king whose name means 'Bebi lives' was descended from the elder of the two sons of Sobekhotep we met in Book 4. That elder son was given the birth name of Bebi, but changed it to Djehuty, later becoming King Sekhemre Sementawy Djehuty.

Now, enough of notes. On with the story...

Chapter 1

Sand and dust picked up by the strong westerly wind stung the watcher's face. Grains worked their way through the fine linen cloth bound about his mouth and nostrils, making him cough and lift the cloth from time to time to spit. He blinked repeatedly, using one hand to shelter his eyes, but continued to stare down onto the plain from his vantage point on a low hill.

The sand will be troubling them as much as us, father.

The watcher glanced at the man standing muffled beside him. I am counting on it. He gestured toward a body of men moving slowly southward in the sandstorm, their banners whipped to shreds in the abrasive blast. How many are they?

The younger man grimaced and brushed the dust away from his eyes. A hundred foot soldiers? Two? Maybe fifty chariots.

The watcher nodded. Very good, Commander Nebmaatre. And our forces?

One hundred and twenty chariots, Son of Re.

Enough?

More than enough, Son of Re. We shall trample them into the dust.

That was my thought. Let us gather our men and do so.

Should we not wait for the storm to pass, father? It will be difficult to fight in this.

"Didn't you say the sand would trouble them as much as us? I will not wait, for all Kemet cries out to be liberated from these heqa khasut. Come, it is time."

The two men scrambled down the side of the hillock, relieved to be out of the stinging blast of the storm, even if only for a few moments. Men saluted them as they approached the two chariot squadrons sheltering at the base of the hill, and the officers among them crowded close, the conditions allowing a proximity to the king that would normally be discouraged.

We attack, Nebmaatre told them. No more than two hundred men and fifty chariots. They cannot stand before us, and their deaths will signal the first of many victories for Senakhtenre Ahmose over the accursed Amurrans.

The men within earshot cheered, though the wind swept away their voices. Prince Nebmaatre rapped out orders and the men ran to their chariots and mounted up, waiting for the signal to advance. Ahmose and Nebmaatre took their positions at the head of the two small squadrons, and urged their teams forward. The squadrons passed round each side of the hill and started across the plain toward the enemy.

Keep close order, the king yelled. Do not breach the line.

The storm whipped away his words and each charioteer urged his own chariot onward, wanting to close with the enemy, and the squadron rapidly lost cohesion. Nebmaatre's squadron was experiencing similar difficulties and rather than two solid lines of chariots bearing down on the enemy, the charge disintegrated into a rabble of chariots. The squadrons were still a formidable force, however, and cries of alarm rang out from the marching Amurrans as they spied the Kemetu squadrons emerging from the blinding sandstorm.

The Amurran chariots turned ponderously to face the danger, while the marching men scurried to achieve some semblance of order in the face of impending death. Arrows were nearly useless in the conditions, but most were armed with spears, shields and axes. They formed up in rough lines, grounding the base of their spears in the soil and hoisting their shields.

Ahmose was no longer in the lead when his squadron crashed into the Amurran line, his initially tight formation unravelling and colliding piecemeal instead of as a concerted blow. The chariots broke through, smashing screaming men aside or trampling them under hooves and wheels, but the soldiers scrambled to reform and attacked the Kemetu chariots with axes as they poured through the line. Spears had taken their toll too. Several horses were impaled and added to the confusion, rearing and stumbling, screaming in agony, the men in their chariots thrown to the ground where they died beneath spear blade and axe.

Nebmaatre's ragged squadron met the Amurran chariots, but as the Amurrans were still in relative cohesion, they suffered less damage, and the sturdier build of their chariots offered some protection. The howling wind and blasts of sand interfered with both forces and after some ineffectual fighting, they were forced apart. Arrows proved almost useless in the storm, and as Nebmaatre withdrew, the Amurrans followed, preventing him from coming to the assistance of his father. His squadron fell apart into individual chariot manoeuvres, where neither side could gain the ascendancy.

The Amurrans surrounded Ahmose's squadron, hacking and stabbing, and the initial advantage his charge had given the Kemetu, now dissipated. Unable to see his son's squadron through the murky air, he believed him to have not pushed home the attack and ordered the rams' horns sound, calling him to the battle. The wind whipped the sound away and Ahmose scowled.

Sound a withdrawal, he ordered.

Again the horn sounded, but only those close by heard the signal. Others saw the king withdrawing and disengaged from battle as best they could, and followed. The Amurrans saw them withdraw, and let them. They were too thankful to see the enemy leave to worry about pursuing them. Ahmose sought shelter in the lea of the hillock once more to gauge his losses, and worried that his son's squadron was not there. He climbed to the top of the rise once more, and saw the Amurrans retreating to the north, but there was no sign of Nebmaatre or his chariots. Returning to his men, he ordered a slow withdrawal in the direction of Waset.

The sandstorm blew itself out the next day, and it was only then that Ahmose could take stock of his losses. Nearly a quarter of his chariots were lost, either because of damage to their structure or because of the death of horses and men. Nebmaatre's squadron turned up, and though they had lost fewer men and chariots, it was disheartening to see how depleted the squadrons were after what was only a simple skirmish.

The king was in a foul mood when he convened his Council the next day, but was determined to put a good face on the situation.

It was a victory, he declared.

Does that mean you know how many of the enemy you destroyed, father? Prince Tao said.

It does not matter how many, Ahmose said stiffly. The Amurrans retreated.

It is my understanding that you had to withdraw also, father, after losing twenty chariots and thirty men.

That is enough, Tao. You were not there.

Nebmaatre was, though. What do you say, brother?

I say that father is right, Nebmaatre said. We won a victory today; the first of many that will lead to the liberation of all Kemet.

The other Councillors nodded sagely or murmured their agreement, but Tao sneered. You are all blind to reality. At last we have a king who is prepared to fight the Amurrans, and you immediately assume the fight is over. He turned from the other men and stood facing the king, a determined expression on his face. Father, you know I love and respect you, but I must stand up to you on this. We gain nothing by pretending to have won when, at the very best, we have achieved a draw.

You are very outspoken for a man who has not faced the enemy on the battlefield, Ahmose said.

You denied me that privilege, father, while granting it to my brother...

I am the heir, Nebmaatre interjected. It is my right to stand beside the king.

Peace, brother, Tao said, holding up a hand. I have no argument with you or our father. We all have limited experience with warfare, having been at peace for nearly a generation. I only urge caution when it comes to claiming an ascendancy over our enemies.

Do you deny I inflicted a defeat on the enemy?

Regretfully, father, yes, I do, Tao replied, earning himself hisses of disapproval from the other Councillors. He shrugged. I am willing to be proved wrong, but what evidence is there that we inflicted this defeat? We lost twenty chariots; how many did the enemy lose? We lost thirty men; what were the enemy casualties?

How can we know that? Nebmaatre asked. The sandstorm prevented us finding out.

And of course, we did not stay on the field of battle to find out after the storm passed.

The enemy withdrew, Ahmose said, glowering at his younger son.

As did we, Tao reminded him. If neither army claims the field of battle, then who has won?

Ahmose stared at his son, anger written on his face, but he forced back biting words and smiled. What then, learned one, would you have done differently? How would you have snatched a victory from this encounter?

Tao flushed at the sarcasm in his father's voice. I do not pretend expertise in these matters, Son of Re, he said, but I have talked to men who were there, and it seems to me that things could have been handled better.

Please enlighten us, Ahmose said softly.

We are not disciplined enough, Tao said. An attack by our foot soldiers sees them charge forward in a mass, without regard for tactics.

One could say that they show an enthusiasm in confronting the enemy, Nebmaatre said. That is no bad thing.

I do not think badly of our men for their desire to fight, but rather in how they are managed. Our officers seem to have limited control over their men. They command them to attack, or they order a withdrawal, and that is about all they do. Where is the control that enables a king or commander to vary their tactics within a battle?

Commander Ptahmose, one of the King's Council, raised an objection. My lord Prince, it is difficult for a commander to make his desires known to the soldiers above the din of battle. We use rams' horns, of course, and banners, but not always successfully.

Tao frowned, thinking hard. Perhaps we need more officers...

We have plenty of officers, Nebmaatre said. That is not the problem. It is getting the men to pay heed to the orders.

Then have officers closer to the men. If you had an officer responsible for say, ten men, and above him an officer whose responsibility was to convey orders to ten of those lower officers...he would effectively command a hundred men. That would be enough to alter the course of a skirmish, and if you needed more men, then place another tier of officers above them.

I don't see how that will help, Nebmaatre complained.

I cannot be certain either, without trying it out, Tao said. But it seems reasonable to me. Look, imaging Ptahmose here has an army of a thousand men. He has ten officers beneath him...call them captains...each of them controls a hundred men and has ten lower officers...call them 'Tenners'...each with ten men under him. Now, in a battle, the ten captains look to Commander Ptahmose for instruction...

They cannot all be looking at me rather than at their men, Ptahmose objected.

So we have a few men, fleet of foot, whose sole duty is to carry commands to the captains. They in turn send instructions to their...what did I call them? Tenners? That way, the commander can order men around by the hundred or by the ten, depending on his need.

It sounds unnecessarily complex, Commander Djedhor said. Things are chaotic enough in a battle without having men running hither and thither carrying additional instructions.

How would it work with chariots? Commander Setau asked.

I don't know, Tao admitted, but perhaps you could still have swift chariots to carry messages.

Or just plain discipline, Commander Panhesy said. From what I have heard, the initial intent of the chariot charge was to advance in line abreast so that the entire enemy line was hit at once. Instead, the line lost cohesion and engaged the enemy piecemeal.

That was because of the sandstorm, Nebmaatre said.

Maybe, but if the squadrons were trained in specific manoeuvres, that should hold up in a storm.

Voices were raised as the commanders put forward other objections, or gave their support for one or other of the princes. Ahmose listened to them all, and as the arguments grew bitter, called for silence.

I have heard many good arguments voiced here today, and others that were not. What my son Tao proposes is a completely different way of organising our army, but such a change will take time to implement, even if it was deemed advisable, and the enemy may not allow us the necessary time...

So we do nothing? Tao interrupted.

Nebmaatre smirked at his brother's breach of protocol, and the king glared at him. Ahmose's reply was calm though.

I agree that our army must be the best we can arrange, the king said. It may be that some reorganisation is needed, but that is not something for the whole Council. I will set three members the task of quickly discussing what things might benefit us most, and implementing them under one commander. He looked at his commanders thoughtfully. Commander Ptahmose, your men will be experimented upon. My son Tao and Commander Hornakht will work with you on this.

The Amurran force that limped home after the attack also came in for some criticism from its commanders. Aliyan, the general in charge of the southern army, at least until King Apophis took over, was also the governor of Ankh-Tawy. He had various small groups of men scouting the land south of Henen-nesut on both the western and eastern banks of the river, and it was one of these that Ahmose attacked.

What happened? Aliyan demanded of Captain Artuk, who had led the scouting party. You had two hundred men and chariots besides, yet you were attacked by a smaller force of Kemetu.

I dispute it was a smaller force, sir, Artuk replied. He rubbed at one reddened and swollen eye. Three hundred chariots, at least. Maybe more. And there was a sandstorm.

Aliyan glanced at his son Zuma, standing to one side, before returning his attention to the captain. No more than fifty of the enemy attacked your foot soldiers, Aliyan said. Do you mean to tell me that your fifty chariots held off five times that number of theirs?

My men fought well, sir. At least fifty of their chariots were destroyed, and many horses and men. I counted at least fifty dead men.

So you claim this as a victory?

Yes, sir, I do.

Aliyan looked at the captain for several minutes, until the man squirmed beneath his gaze. The governor suspected the skirmish had been less a victory and more a stalemate, but he lacked evidence with which to confront Artuk.

Very well, dismissed. Return to your unit and make sure it is ready for action.

Artuk saluted and left, leaving Aliyan to consider Artuk's report and compare it to others received from other scouting parties.

He is lying, Zuma commented. Or at the very least inflating the figures.

That was my thought too.

You will punish him then? Or at least reprimand him?

For what? He claims a victory against the Kemetu. That is just what the army needs at the start of the final war. The king's men have experience in the north, but most of the southern army have faced nothing more strenuous or dangerous than patrols or keeping the peace these last ten or fifteen years. If they are to fight and conquer Kemet, they need to believe they can do it. Artuk has just shown they can.

Even if he did not? Zuma asked.

It is a plausible fiction if nothing else.

Give me a command, father, and I will give you a real victory.

Aliyan smiled. You will have your chance soon enough, my son, and not just to lead a scouting party. When the war starts in earnest, I will make you one of my commanders.

Will it start soon? Zuma asked. Apophis announced the start of it two or three years ago, but we have seen nothing happen.

War takes time, Aliyan said. Remember we in the south have effectively been at peace for twenty years. You cannot just take a peace-time army and put them on a war footing overnight.

But three years, father?

Aliyan nodded. Things have been happening, though perhaps you were unaware of them. When the Kemetu king Ahmose came to the throne, it created unrest in many cities all the way up into the delta lands. Governors in those cities have been putting down incipient rebellion as well as raising levies for the king. We are nearly ready, which is just as well, as Apophis grows impatient.

And old, Zuma said. He is sixty years and one has to wonder if he is too old to lead an army. Perhaps Apepi should be doing that. He is the heir, after all.

Too old, you say? I am seventy-six and still in command of my faculties. Would you say I am incapable of governing Ankh-Tawy or leading the southern army?

Never let that be said, father, though I would gladly lead the army in your name.

You are but a puppy, Aliyan said fondly. You will have your chance at fame and advancement, never fear.

What of Apepi?

Apepi will do as his father bids. At the moment he resides in Amurru, and whether he will come south to join in the war has not been revealed to me.

He will not like that.

What he likes is neither here nor there; he will do as his father dictates.

Apepi had been busy in Amurru. Left there when his father concluded the war of retribution against the Hurrians, he had applied himself to learning lessons of governance. Using his position as the king's son, he took charge of the northern cities and provinces, ridding himself of any man who showed the slightest disagreement with the policies of Apophis. The only thing he regretted about his northern sojourn was missing the war against Kemet. The south was where reputations would be made, and to be stuck in Amurru while others earned fame and wealth was irksome.

Not that everything in the north annoyed him. Apepi was a young man of twenty-one with all of a young man's appetites. Being in a position of power, he had the opportunity to slake his lust whenever his urges got the better of him, and over the last few years had fathered a number of children, none of whom he recognised. Children were a familiar if unlooked-for consequence of his recreation, but he felt he owed them nothing. An heir to the greatest empire on earth could not encumber himself with the claims of children born to women of low status. He was willing to recognise only the children that he fathered on a woman of high status, one worthy to be the mother of a future king.

Pashta was that woman. She was a daughter of Eridad, who in another time might have been a king of Ugarit. Apepi visited Ugarit and saw Pashta at a feast her father gave in honour of the heir of Apophis, and encouraged Apepi to spend time in her company. It was all very proper, as befitted men and women of their station, but Pashta was beautiful and Apepi hungered after her. She was willing, and her father could see the advantage of being related to the kings of Amurru--it was entirely possible that his grandson could be a future Great King. The marriage was arranged and took place amid great celebration and pageantry, both sides making the most of the union. Even Apophis in far-off Avaris did not object when he heard of the match, for Eridad of Ugarit was a rich and powerful nobleman, and it was better to have such a man within the family than as a possible future contender for the throne.

Pashta gave birth to a child in due course, but it was a daughter, which profoundly disappointed both Apepi and Eridad. A daughter was useful for creating ties with another family or kingdom, but only a son would succeed his father on the throne. Apepi's chagrin was felt all the more keenly when he heard that his sister Herit, in distant Avaris, had produced a son, Abdi. Not only was it annoying that she had given birth to a son while all he could do was engender a girl, but also that Abdi was descended from kings on both sides. It was entirely possible that a son of the Kemetu king Sobekemsaf and grandson of Apophis might lay claim to the throne of Amurru in the future, and Apepi vowed that would never happen. He, Apepi, was a grown man and heir to Amurru, and a lot could happen before Abdi even came close to maturity.

The existence of his sister's son made Apepi think though, and he knew it was important that he be in the south. Kemet was where things were happening, and if he were to make a name for himself, he would have to journey to Avaris, to Ankh-Tawy, and beyond. He would write to his father immediately and petition him for the right to join him as he waged war against the Kemetu.

Chapter 2

"He is a family member, husband. I cannot just turn him away."

You are asking me to admit the son of a petty criminal into the palace household, King Senakhtenre Ahmose said. What sort of message do you think that sends to my people?

One of love and understanding, Neferemsaf said. He is an innocent child, whatever the sins of his father.

You do admit that he was a criminal, at least, Queen Tetisheri said. I was not sure whether you understood the gravity of your request.

Neferemsaf bowed to Tetisheri, aware that as a secondary wife the queen could overrule anything she asked. I am well aware that my half-brother Harkhuf was found guilty of grave robbing, Majesty, and certainly do not excuse his crime...

I should think not, seeing as how the tomb robbed was that of your grandmother.

Indeed, yes, Majesty, but the child is innocent, as was his mother Menhet.

She died of the plague? Ahmose asked.

Yes, my lord. The boy Khay is without a mother's love.

And soon to be an orphan, no doubt, Tetisheri said. No one survives the mines for long.

Neferemsaf hated the satisfaction in the queen's voice, but knew better than to say anything about it. That is the reason I ask my lord's indulgence, she said. The child is my nephew and has no one else to look after him.

What of your sister Simat? Tetisheri asked. She has two children of her own, doesn't she? One more will not be a burden.

I have already asked her, Majesty, but her husband Amentep is sickly and the presence of a young child in the house would not help his recovery.

Well, I do not see why we should be inconvenienced, Tetisheri grumbled.

If my lord will grant his blessing, Neferemsaf said, I will take Khay into a house in the city and look after him there. You will never even know he exists, my lord.

A wife's place is by her husband, Ahmose said.

I will never be far away, my lord, and ready to fulfil your every demand.

Ahmose looked at Tetisheri, but his queen just shrugged. Very well, he said. You have my permission to raise the child Khay in a city house.

What about Sitnefer? Tetisheri asked. A thirteen year old girl should not be deprived of her mother's company.

That is true, Ahmose mused. Our daughter Sitnefer will have to leave the palace and reside with you.

Neferemsaf bit her lip, as sending their daughter away could be viewed as a slight. Still, she reasoned to herself, at least she will be away from the roving eye of Prince Tao who, though newly married to his sister Ahhotep, was not above tumbling any pretty girl to whom he took a fancy. At least Sitnefer would still be a daughter of the king, no matter where she lived.

Thank you, my lord, she said. I will go and make the necessary arrangements.

Harkhuf, if he had known of his sister's efforts on his son's behalf, would not have expressed even grudging words of gratitude. His thoughts were tied up completely with his own predicament--his whole life had unravelled with the death of his fellow tomb robber, his arrest and subsequent sentencing to the mines. Only his stepfather's pleas had prevented a life sentence but in truth, five years was as good as life sentence, such were the harsh conditions found in the quarries and mines of southern Kemet.

His journey started in Waset, shackled to ten other prisoners, shuffling southward with legs unable to stride, the copper metal of their fetters rubbing the skin raw, and the whips of the overseers hurrying them along whenever their pace slackened. It took them many days to pass south along the river, sometimes through verdant farmland where river breezes cooled them, but more often through scrubland or desert, the hot, dry winds from the east a foretaste of their future.

They were not ill-treated by the standards of the overseers, merely indifferently. In the eyes of the authorities and those set to guard them, the prisoners were a commodity, one to be used for as long as they continued to be of service, and discarded thereafter, and one did not damage a useful commodity. A schedule was to be kept, and a touch of the whip hurried the shackled prisoners along, but the overseers were not, for the most part, malicious. They dealt out punishment for infringements, but not sadistically, except for one man. Hepu had been a soldier, rising high in the army before being demoted because of his fondness for beer and a heavy hand with those under his authority. He killed a man in a drunken argument and was sentenced to the self-same mines for a year. Surviving, he found previous channels of employment blocked and now, embittered, he served as a guard where before he had been a prisoner. He regarded each man he guarded as a personal affront and took a savage delight in making their lives as miserable as he could.

Lift up your feet, you poxed degenerates, he would snarl, interspersing his words with a flick of the whip that would raise a welt or draw blood. You think your lot is tough now? Just you wait until we get to Djarrah.

The mine at Djarrah was east of the river, and reached by travelling a little to the south of Behdet before turning toward the arid, mountainous land of the eastern desert. The road to it led nowhere else, and for most men who were not guards or bringing in supplies, the road was the last one they would ever take. Already tired men became exhausted on this last road and the overseers were mostly content to let the prisoners move at their own pace along steep paths and across stony fields, but Hepu kept up his relentless torment.

The man in the chain just in front of Harkhuf was elderly and had once seen better days. Falling into penury, he stole to support his family, but the aggrieved party to his theft was influential and pressed for a greater punishment. Hepu took out his resentments on this man and lost no opportunity to torment him. He whipped him incessantly, until blood flecked Harkhuf's face. Staggering up the steep inclines toward Djarrah, the man fell and could not rise, despite the frenzied blows of Hepu's whip.

You've done it now, one of the other guards said. He won't go no further.

Hepu kicked the fallen man who groaned but did not rise. On either side of him, the men chained to him were forced to kneel, and Harkhuf felt the sharp stones of the path dig into his knees.

Cursing, Hepu hammered open the links of the copper chain that bound the man to his fellows, and dragged him aside. One of the other guards joined the links together again.

We was supposed to deliver eleven men to the mine. What are they going to say when we have one short?

Do you think they care one way or the other? Hepu asked. He wouldn't have lasted long anyway.

The other guards shrugged. What are we going to do with him then? asked one of them.

Kill him, of course.

This Hepu proceeded to do, cracking the unfortunate man's head open with a rock. They went on, leaving the body beside the track, flies already gathering. Harkhuf glanced back as he shuffled on, the enormity of his situation sinking in at last.

No one cares whether I live or die, he thought. Five years could be five years too long unless I take myself in hand right away.

The prisoners arrived at the mine. Djarrah was little more than a widening of a narrow valley with narrow shafts puncturing the steep rocky sides. Piles of rubble lay on every side, and the stink of faeces, sweat and decay lay like a blanket over the still air. Harkhuf wrinkled his nose as he drew near, but kept any expression of disgust off his face. One of the other prisoners muttered some comment about the loathsome nature of the place, and Hepu laughed, before cracking the man over the head with the handle of his whip. The blow laid open his scalp and blood poured down his face. The chief overseer inspected the new arrivals, casting a sour look at Hepu who shrugged.

What? They are going to die anyway.

I would like to get some useful work out of them first. The overseer beckoned to one of his subordinates. Assign them sleeping quarters and put them to work clearing away the waste rock.

Harkhuf and his fellow prisoners were released from the long chain that bound them all together, but their ankle chains were left on. The subordinate, whose name was Ankh, a name meaning 'life' that Harkhuf thought ironic, left them in no doubt as to what would happen if anyone tried to escape.

You won't get far anyway, and when you are brought back, you will be made an example of. No matter what you think of the conditions here, you will beg for death before it is granted.

The sleeping quarters were little more than a shallow rock overhang with a central stake hammered deep into the ground. A chain threaded through their ankle chains and secured to the stake, allowed them no more than a pace of movement at night. If they needed to relieve themselves before dawn, they did so where they lay, and for the first few nights, until their constitutions caught up with their new diet, or lack thereof, several of them, Harkhuf included, suffered the indignity of soiling themselves.

The work itself was backbreaking, heavy labour in the hot sun with insufficient food and water, little rest, and the constant threat of injury from the work itself or misuse by the guards. It soon became apparent that other guards favoured Hepu's methods. For several days, Harkhuf and the men who came with him shifted rocks and rubble, sorting out the white crystalline fragments, sometimes with a thin thread of gold showing, from the ground rock. The rock had been brought up from deep underground by other teams, labouring away in the hot airless depths of the mineshafts. Men from these teams would emerge naked, drenched with sweat and caked with dust, coughing and gasping, and it was all they could do to gulp down cups of water and chew a mouthful or two of bread before collapsing exhausted in their meagre shelters.

That will be you soon, Hepu said with a grin. Do not think that your healthy lifestyle out here in the sun and fresh air will last forever.

Why do they cough so much? asked one of the other prisoners. Are they sick?

Breathing the dusty and foul air below, Hepu said. Sometimes they last a year or so, other times a few days. Now you... the guard looked at the man critically, if I was a betting man, I'd wager gold you would last no more than ten days. You have that weedy look about you. Hepu glanced over to where one of the other guards stood in the shade, drinking from a water skin. What do you say, Ankh, will you take my wager? I say this man... he prodded the prisoner with his whip, will not last ten days.

Ankh looked over and scowled. Nobody will bet against you, Hepu. Not the way you treat your teams.

Hepu roared with laughter and flicked the prisoner with his whip. You know me too well, Ankh.

A few days later, Harkhuf's team took their first stint underground. Harkhuf was overcome by a feeling of panic as he was thrust down into the hole, the walls of the shaft seeming to close around him and the air, stale and reeking of sweat and dust, caught at his throat. He was not afforded the luxury of hesitation, though, being herded down through the murky darkness, lit only by a few sputtering oil lamps, to the end, where human-like forms rapped on the rock with copper chisels and hammers while others hauled the rock back from the face, passing it back in a chain to the entrance.

The one thing the prisoners did have a respite from was the presence of guards, for none of them ventured into the horrors of the pit. They were content to stand outside and monitor the quantity of ore-laden rock extracted by each team. If Harkhuf thought he would be able to relax a bit away from the oversight of the guards, he found he was mistaken. A few prisoners earned the trust of the guards and watched over the work, taking for themselves less arduous jobs. They carried no whips, nor dished out punishments, but Harkhuf soon learned that a word from one of these men could deliver a beating from a guard. Naturally, the system was open to abuse, and these men--Nebit was the one attached to Harkhuf's team--were bribed by the prisoners to not report them.

Harkhuf refused to offer a bribe and was, as a result, beaten for five consecutive days until, bruised and bleeding; he gave Nebit half his allowance of bread. Thereafter, he found the work a little easier in the pit, though the fumes made his senses reel and he would sometimes stumble outside and vomit. He watched the more seasoned prisoners and learnt from them ways of behaving that enabled them to avoid the worst excesses of the guards. The conditions underground were bad enough in themselves, without considering the guards or the trusted men. Dust worked its way into throats and lungs, leading to hacking coughs and gasping breaths. Stone chips flew, cutting the skin or even taking out an eye. One unlucky man lost both eyes in the course of a month and the guards killed him, burying his emaciated body beneath a pile of waste rock.

A month into his sentence, the man whom Hepu had sworn would not last ten days, did in fact die--but not from exhaustion. The man, by the name of Hesyre, hid a chisel one evening, and in the darkness prised at the links of the chain that bound his feet, eventually separating them. Harkhuf lay two places away from him and heard his efforts, and wondered whether he should say anything. From the point of view of self-preservation, alerting the guard would count in his favour, but it was hard to deny a man the chance of escape.

I will watch and see what happens, he whispered to himself.

Hesyre left in the early hours of the morning, holding his ankle chain in one hand to prevent the metal clinking, and Harkhuf watched him go. Only the muffled groans and whimpers of the sleeping prisoners could be heard, and it seemed like Hesyre had managed to slip away unseen. Harkhuf turned over and went back to sleep, only to be woken by a shout and a kick at dawn.

Where is he? Hepu screamed. I know you helped him.

Harkhuf stammered a denial, but he and the others in the team suffered several lashes from Hepu's whip before another guard called a halt.

Get them fed and working, Hepu. The man will be caught.

Harkhuf spent the day underground once more, where several men found the energy to whisper and mutter about Hesyre's chances. None of them seemed to think it was likely, and the more experienced men among them gloomily anticipated the punishment that was to follow. The workday ended a little earlier than usual, and Harkhuf could see daylight at the end of the tunnel as he shuffled out, blinking and coughing.

They have caught him, muttered the man behind Harkhuf.

How do you know?

That is why we have finished early--witnessing punishment.

Death?

Oh, yes, but not a quick one.

Hesyre stood naked, bound to a stake in the middle of the valley, slumped and bleeding, and as the prisoners emerged from the pits, they were herded into a circle around the victim, joining the men from the other work details. When everybody was present, the Overseer in charge of the mine declared that Hesyre had committed the ultimate offence of attempting to escape his just punishment and would therefore suffer the prescribed penalty.

"Do not think that you can escape