Kingdom alive. And Horemheb did not want to leave his brave dung snouts to languish alone in the desert but decided to stay with them and therefore summoned his entire army into the desert, which was an act without precedent, since when the great Pharaohs had waged war in the land of Naharin, they had always shipped their troops to the cities of Syria during autumn and only from there continued their march through land. But during those times, Syria had been under Egyptian rule whereas Horemheb ruled only Gaza, and he had no supremacy at sea.

Everything that I have told here about Horemheb’s first attack on the Hittites, I know from his own words, and as his men told it, as well as from stories that were later told about his attack — for I was not with him myself and would scarcely be alive writing this had I been with him. Only the strongest and the most resilient managed to live through the attack with him. Therefore he left me in the Lower Kingdom to follow the infantry, saying that he had no time during the attack to cure or tie wounds but a man who fell from a chariot or wounded had to lay where he fell and choose himself whether to cut his throat with knife or to remain at the mercy of the Hittites. He thought the wounded had enough to ponder in that when they lay on the ground bleeding, they wouldn’t be bored nor feel the pain of their wounds, nor desire bandages or ointments for their wounds. It was told that most who fell from the chariots resorted to their knives but some remained at the mercy of the Hittites, and the Hittites flayed them to turn their skins into various purses and embroidered bags during idle moments — for the Hittites were skilled in such handicraft.

But how much of all this is true, I cannot say, since Horemheb was eager to brag, and his chariot men were even more eager to brag. I mean those few men who survived the war, and all their stories cannot be taken for their face value. The legends are even sillier, and I barely bother to relate how the legend has it that Horemheb flew before his chariots in the form of a falcon and scared the Hittites’ horses apart — and this legend was preceded by the stories about the pillars of storm and fire, like I have told before. Whatever the case, his fierce strike gave him the control of the desert water stores where the Hittites had with great trouble and cost collected hundreds of thousands of water jars during a long period of time, and it also eased the siege of Gaza and encouraged its defenders when he and his men shouted in one voice before the Gaza walls the message, “Hold Gaza! For the sake of Egypt, hold Gaza!”

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But otherwise this trip provided only little loot, and the men who had followed him in the chariots did not get rich since jars are just jars when they are drank empty, though sometimes water is more valuable than gold in the desert. Those men who defied Horemheb’s orders and stepped down from their chariots to plunder in their frenzy the Hittites’ camp in front of Gaza all died miserably, and their heads were left standing on sticks, grinning towards the walls of Gaza, while their skins were filled with rushes to make mattresses and pillows for the tents of Hittite commanders.

But perhaps as a human being and as a physician, I am not able to properly appreciate the meaning of this attack since I am not a soldier myself. Perhaps this attack indeed saved Egypt, like Horemheb claimed, and the soldiers who followed him earned an everlasting honour. But they could not cut clothes for themselves from their honour alone — nor build houses or buy gardens or land for their old age — and I think most of them would have gladly changed their honour for a handful of silver if they got to choose. They murmured a lot how the loot was minor and their hands were empty.

If I had participated in this attack myself, I would properly appreciate it more, as it is certain that the great speed and thunder of the chariots as well as the victories have something intoxicating in them that makes the soldiers more drunk than wine, forgetting their suffering. It fell to me to survey the traces of the struggle from my carrying chair as I followed the foot regiments on their forced march behind Horemheb, beneath the glare of the pitiless sun and through the scorching dust. And all I saw was a man here and there, fallen from a chariot, neck broken, while desert vultures pecked his blackened belly. And all I saw were the corpses of exhausted horses and broken jars whose water had flowed into the desert and the bodies of the Hittite guards who had been robbed naked and then sliced and erected on sticks around the water stores as trophies by the desert bandits and voluntary troops from when Horemheb had rushed past. So it is understandable that it is easier for me to tell about suffering and death than everlasting glory and intoxicating victories.

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