The Egyptian by Mika Waltari

Posted by admin_akashic on Mar 4th, 2022 in Stories

While the escort equipped themselves for the journey and water bags were filled and horses brought in from the grazing ground and smiths reinforced the wheels of the chariots, I looked around, and while I was looking, I realised the secret of all military training and what makes men braver than lions. A proficient commander keeps his soldiers in such a terrifying discipline and burdens them with exercises and makes their lives in every way unbearable so that any other fate, be it war or death, too, is more desirable than life in the barracks. But the strangest thing is that despite all this, the soldiers do not hate their commander, but they admire and praise him and boast about all their hardships and stick marks on their backs. So unexpected and surprising is the nature of man, and pondering this made the city of Akhenaten in my mind like a distant dream and a mirage.

By Horemheb’s command, ten chariots were allotted to me in Tanis, each drawn by two horses and leading a spare along with having, besides the driver, a warrior and a spearman. When the leader of the escort reported to me, he bowed deeply before me and lowered his arms at his knees, and I scanned him very narrowly, for I was entrusting my life to him. His loincloth was as ragged and as dirty as those of his men, and the desert sun had burned his face and body black, and only his silver- braided whip distinguished him from the soldiers. But because of this, I had more confidence in him than if he had worn fine clothes and had an attendant to shield him from the sun. When I spoke of a carrying chair, he forgot his respect and burst out laughing. I believed him when he said that our only safeguard was speed and that I must therefore go with him in his chariot, leaving chairs and other home comforts behind me. He promised that I should sit on a sack of forage if I wished, but assured me that I would do better to stand and learn to balance myself to the motion, or the desert would jolt the breath from my body and crack my bones against the sides of the chariot.

I drew myself up and told him haughtily that this would be by no means my first ride in a chariot but I had once driven from Zemar to Amurru in the shortest possible time so that even Aziru’s men marvelled at my speed, though at that time I had been younger than I

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now was, and my dignity required me to restrain myself from bodily endeavours. The officer, whose name was Juju, listened to me politely, after which I committed my life to the hands of all gods of Egypt and stepped up behind him into the foremost chariot, and he broke out his standard and roared at the horses. Away we went along a caravan route into the desert, and my body bounced about on the forage sacks as I clung to the sides of the chariot with both hands and bumped my nose and bewailed my misery. But my groans were drowned amidst the din of the chariot wheels, and the drivers behind me yelled madly for joy at driving out into the desert away from the scorching hell of the mud huts.

Thus we drove the whole day, and I spent the night on the sacks more dead than alive, bitterly cursing the day of my birth. Next morning, I tried to stand in the chariot, holding Juju’s waist, but after a while, the wheel went over a stone, and I flew out in a high arc, landing on my head in the sand, where prickly plants tore my face. But I was past caring for this. When night came, Juju seemed uneasy about my condition and poured water on my head even if he did not allow his soldiers to drink enough in order to save water. He held my hands and comforted me, saying that the journey had been fortunate so far and that if the voluntary forces did not surprise us on the following day either, the fourth day should bring us up with some of Aziru’s scouts. To comfort me, he told me about his experiences at war and said:

“Frankly, there is nothing more monotonous than war since war is endless waiting. War is useless waiting for the enemy, since the enemy is always late and never appears where he was expected. War is also useless waiting for meals, since at war meals are always late, and nothing is more accursed than the slowness of the food wagon. War is useless movement from one place to another and marching back to where one left from, and marching back and forth until tongue is glued to palate and legs are like dead logs. But all this is military art, and to learn it, officers need to attend military schools and learn to read and write. All this is war, and when the enemy attacks, he attacks when no one expects him to come. The enemy also attacks in a different way than they taught the enemy would attack and in a different order, and during the battle, the commander has no idea where his men are, and the men do not know where their commander is but everyone shouts as

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