Chapter 121 - 15: War Clouds over the North — Horenheb Rides to the Border

Chapter 121: Chapter 15: War Clouds over the North — Horenheb Rides to the Border

The urgent report from the north entered the new capital in the small hours, when the city was deepest asleep.

The messenger’s horse had run two horses to death on the road, one after the other. When the man rolled off the horse’s back, he could no longer speak whole sentences; he only raised a roll of sweat-stained paper above his head, and his arm was shaking: "Urgent report — urgent report from the north—"

The guard at the gate held his torch to the paper and glanced at the wax seal — it was the military seal of the north, unbroken. Without another word, he carried the man on his back and ran for the palace, torch in the other hand.

The report entered the palace, and in one night, the lamps passed through three halls.

The report held one matter only: the Hittite host had moved.

Thirty thousand horse and fifty thousand foot, come down all the way from the Hittite heartland. The grain road was built to the border. The forward camps grew denser day by day. The old hunters said the northern sky glowed red every night — campfires, layer upon layer, with no end in sight.

The pharaoh summoned the war ministry’s generals through the night. Before dawn, he sent out one more spoken decree: summon Horenheb to the capital for council.

"Within ten days," the pharaoh said, "I will see him in this hall."

The fast horses carrying the decree left the south gate before dawn and went north, vanishing into the dust.

That night, the lamps of the palace lit one after another, hall to hall. The war ministry’s three old generals sat before the table half the night, the map spread between them. The eldest stroked the map of the north, again and again, his hand flat on the border line, and said: "Eighty thousand men. I have fought wars forty years, and this is the first time I have seen a formation this great." He paused. "Thankfully, the wall is ours. And this man Horenheb is ours too."

"He alone," another said, "is worth one whole wall."

"Then it is right." the eldest said. "One wall, plus one man, plus the three hundred thousand common people behind the wall." He looked out at the night, where the wind moved. "This war is not soldier against soldier. It is the wall against men."

"The wall against men." The pharaoh, no one knew when, stood at the door. "Well said. Go and rest, all of you. At first light, there will be more than enough to do."

"Yes." The old generals withdrew.

At the sky’s edge, there was already a little white. The flag on the palace city’s wall shook in the morning wind, like a horse eager to run.

The people of the new capital only knew on the second day, and the word went through the city like a cold wind.

In the market, on the docks, in the lanes, everyone spoke of the north, and of nothing else. Some said: "The Hittites mean business now." Some said: "Let them move. Behind the border wall stands General Horen." Others said: "General Horen is still up north at this hour. Eighty thousand men pressing down — can he hold it alone?"

"He can hold it." the old grain seller said. "You have not seen his wall. That wall was built with lives."

"Eighty thousand men," a boatman squatted at the dock’s edge, counting on his fingers, "from the siege of Thebes to these fights in the north, I have never seen eighty thousand men press down all at once."

"Afraid?" someone asked.

"Afraid of what." the boatman said. "I am just reckoning how much grain a war like this will take."

"The grain is there." the merchant house’s man beside him said. "The Ever-Normal Granaries have stood a year now. The north line’s storehouses are pressed fuller than mountains."

"And the material?"

"The material is there too. The merchant house’s boats are already scheduled to the eighth trip."

"And the people?"

"The people," a guild craftsman set his chisel on his shoulder, "are standing right here."

On the worksites, the tamping did not stop. But in the tamping there was one more thing than usual — heavier than before, more urgent than before, as if the whole city’s people were using their rammers to lay the foundations of the northern wall in advance.

In the court, another matter was being deliberated, and the hall was full to the last row.

The pharaoh sat high at the head, and slapped the urgent report down on the table, flat: "Speak, all of you. This war in the north — how is it to be fought."

The generals stepped out, one after another, each with his own word. Some said march the whole army north — eighty thousand men on a long expedition from home, just right to be cut off halfway; some said hold the wall to the death — the stores behind the wall are full, hold a year, and the Hittites will withdraw of themselves; some said open talks first and drag out the days — the north has just caught its breath, and every day dragged is one more day of wall-building. They quarreled a small half hour, and the pharaoh did not speak.

He waited until the sound had fallen, and only then said: "All of you speak with reason. But I ask one thing only—" He looked around the hall. "What is this war, in truth, fought over?"

The hall went quiet.

"It is fought over the wall." the pharaoh said. "The Hittites, coming south, must first cross the wall. The wall stands, and the country stands. The wall falls, and half the realm lies open before the horse and men." He paused. "And so, set everything else aside. The first matter — make the wall stand."

"The pharaoh is sage." the generals said.

"Mending the wall," the pharaoh said, "takes men."

The old noble stepped out.

"Pharaoh," he said, "with a great war before us, this servant has one word." He looked around the hall. "For the north to make war, the most vital thing is men. Mending the wall takes men, hauling the grain takes men, and holding the city takes men above all. This servant dares to ask — does this corvée law still hold or not?"

The hall went quiet.

"This servant means nothing else." the old noble said. "Only that with a great war at hand, if we still hold to the four words ’no levies in the busy season’ — who will mend the northern wall? Who will haul the northern grain? Surely we cannot let the Hittites wait for us to finish the harvest?"

His words were neither soft nor hard, but the knife was hidden inside them.

The pharaoh looked at him a while, and said: "The minister speaks rightly. For the north to make war, the most vital thing is men."

The old noble was about to take the words up when the pharaoh said again: "And so — I will press no men."

The hall went quiet again.

"I will hire them." the pharaoh said. "Paid labor in the idle season, every requisition on the books. This is the law of the land, written on the stele and carved in the code. War cannot break it." He paused. "The northern works go at the guild’s rates, plus three tenths more. Whoever goes to mend the wall, whoever goes to haul the grain, whoever goes to hold the city — the wages, not one coin missing."

"Plus three tenths?" Low murmurs ran through the hall.

"Yes." the pharaoh said. "I mean to see which comes faster — men brought in with ropes, or men brought in with wages."

"This servant has reckoned it." Tia stepped out. "Three thousand workmen in the north, sixty days, wages plus three tenths — the extra money spent comes to one county’s tax for a year." She paused. "But pressing men in the busy season misses one spring plowing, and the grain lost is enough to feed three counties for a year. Which is more and which is less — the account is written out plain."

"One layer more." Asaf stepped out. "The pressed men build the wall by day and think of home by night, and one day does not turn out half a day’s work. The hired men are entered by the piece, and one day is one day." He paused. "This servant has run the corvée for half a life at the lower desks. These things, I have seen plenty."

The old noble’s face changed, and in the end he said no more.

"One thing more." the pharaoh said. "The Civil Affairs Bureau, attend. The northbound hired men — one household, one register. The wages, half paid in advance. At the northern border, the other half. On the register, not one name may be wrong."

"This servant receives the decree." Asaf stepped out.

"And the merchant house?" the pharaoh asked.

"Your servant is here." Meru stepped out.

"Are the north line’s boats enough?"

"Not enough." Meru said. "Prepare them for seven trips as planned. Before the autumn grain comes down, press three months of grain behind the border wall."

"Granted." the pharaoh said. "Grain, material, medicine — not one may be missing. Whatever the north wants, you write the manifest. The things on the manifest, I approve one by one."

"The pharaoh is thanked."

"Pharaoh!" From the generals’ ranks, a man stepped out — it was the centurion back from the northern border. "This servant served three years in the north. The soldiers of the north know no one but General Horen. This servant begs the decree to go north with the general. This servant’s life was picked back up at the foot of the northern wall. Now — return it there."

"Granted." the pharaoh said. "The north is just short of men who know the roads."

"This servant has one word more." the centurion said. "The northern hired men need not all be drawn from the south. The people behind the border wall — who does not want to mend their own wall? Wages plus three tenths, and the men of the northland will trample the post road flat."

"Well said." the pharaoh said. "Hire on the spot in the north, and draw the craftsmen from the south. This charter, the Civil Affairs Bureau will carry out."

"This servant receives the decree." Asaf answered.

When the court rose, the old noble’s steps were heavier than on any day before.

"Sir," the tall thin man came up, "this move — they have seized the lead again . . ."

"Seized the lead?" The old noble laughed coldly. "Hired labor plus three tenths. Reckon it — this northern war, how many workmen, how much money?" He paused. "They are using the treasury to fill the northern hole. Fill it for a while — can they fill it for a lifetime?"

"The gentleman’s meaning is . . ."

"Wait." the old noble said. "Wait for the northern account to roll up. Once the account rolls big, the law will not look good." He lowered his voice. "Besides — war is living on a knife’s edge. The moment the north slips, all these new laws of the whole court will be buried in the snow along with them."

"Then . . . should we add a little fire to the north?"

"Add what fire." the old noble said. "The Hittites will add it themselves. If we add it and are found out, it is the crime of the whole family’s extinction." He waved a hand. "Go back. These days, all of you, keep your mouths shut tight."

"Yes."

Horenheb entered the new capital at dusk on the eighth day.

A riding party, twenty-some men, came in through the north gate, riding two by two. The leader flew no banner and wore no armor, only an old campaign robe, washed pale. But the people at the city gate knew him at one glance — the build, the walk, and the hand resting on the sword hilt, easy and sure.

"General Horen!"

"General Horen is back!"

The shouts traveled from the north gate all the way to the palace gate, faster than the horses. The common people pressed along the street, not daring to come near, just watching. Several old soldiers stood in the crowd with their backs ramrod straight, saluting him with their eyes. One old soldier missing half an arm beat his chest with the hand that remained, thump, thump.

"General," he shouted, "the west line’s old camp — still alive!"

Horenheb clasped his fists toward him from the saddle. A few steps on, he reined in, jumped down, and walked to the old soldier.

"The west line’s wall," he asked, "does it still stand?"

"It stands!" the old soldier said. "The old squad leader patrols it every day. Sixteen towers, one column of smoke, all at peace. The children run at the wall’s foot, just like at their own doors."

"Good." Horenheb said. "The west line’s wall was held by you." He patted the old soldier’s half-empty sleeve. "The northern wall, I will go on holding."

"General!" The old soldier’s voice suddenly caught. "When the north is at peace, come back and look at the west line. The dates of Date-Grove Village are sweet."

"Look I will." Horenheb said. "When the war is over, I will look at every village, one by one."

He swung back into the saddle and rode on. The people at the street’s edge no longer pressed close; they just stood and watched him go. The hoofbeats rang along the street, like knocking on the breastbones of a whole city.

The hooves trod the stone-paved street, tok, tok, tok. The windows on both sides pushed open, one after another. A woman lifted the child in her arms: "Look — that is the general who guards the north!" The child was too small to understand, and only clapped along with the whole street, hard.

"General," an old man squeezed out of the crowd and raised a bag of dates above his head, "the north is cold — take them for the road!"

"Keep them." Horenheb said. "The north has its own."

"The north’s are the north’s," the old man said, "and these are the new capital’s."

Horenheb did not refuse again. He bent down and took the bag of dates: "Good. These dates, I will carry them to the border wall."

He rode all the way into the courtyard of the Bureau, alone, his guard left at the gate.

Lu Zhu was waiting for him in the courtyard, standing beside the well platform.

"You have come." Lu Zhu said.

"I have come." Horenheb said.

Two men, one the Chief Builder, one the commander of the frontier, stood in the courtyard, and neither spoke. The evening light lay across the ground between them. After a long while, Horenheb said: "Six years. Six years ago, you built me the forts on the west line. Now, I am going north, to fight a war ten times that one."

"The wall is ten times bigger." Lu Zhu said. "The principle is still that principle."

"What principle?"

"The wall raised by people is harder than anything." Lu Zhu said. "That is what you taught me, in those years."

Horenheb smiled. When he smiled, the wind and frost of his whole face moved with it: "Good. For that one sentence, this trip south was not made in vain."

"Six years." Lu Zhu said. "We have both grown old."

"Old?" Horenheb raised an eyebrow. "I can still stand on the border wall until dawn. You can still sit a whole night before your drawings." He paused. "In our trade, as long as the wall still stands, a man is not old."

"The wall stands," Lu Zhu said, "and the man stays young."

"Those words," Horenheb said, "sound like yours."

The two went inside. On the table, the map of the north had long been spread. Horenheb glanced once and frowned: "This map is old. The Hittite camp has pressed south again. The flats outside the border wall — this summer, they have taken three stretches."

"Three stretches." Lu Zhu noted it down. "Seb arrives tomorrow. The matter of the maps, he knows."

"He knows." Horenheb said. "That boy, in three years, has measured every inch of the northern border. The Hittites’ night campfires — he can mark seven or eight tenths of them on a map for you."

"He is my apprentice." Lu Zhu said, and in his voice there was a held-down, barely-detectable pride.

"I saw it." Horenheb said. "The same as you — few words, sharp eyes."

Seb arrived the next day, his road-dust still on him.

He had left one day after Horenheb, escorting three donkey-loads of drawings, each load roped double. Entering the Bureau, he first knocked his head to Lu Zhu, on the stone of the courtyard.

"Teacher." he said.

"Rise." Lu Zhu said. "The drawings — brought?"

"Brought." Seb said. "Three years — all of it is here."

He unloaded the drawings from the three donkeys, roll by roll, and spread them over the whole courtyard, until the stones of the yard were covered. It was the full map of the north’s three lines of depth — the border wall, the second line thirty li behind the wall, and the fort group at the mountain pass. One tower every five li, every tower with its smoke. Every height and every thickness of wall marked with its number. At the map’s corners, packed dense, small characters everywhere, written again and again: "the northland revisions."

"This is what you drew three years ago," Horenheb said, "your towers."

"It is." Seb said. "Now, they are all about to come alive."

"Teacher." Seb pointed at the map and suddenly said, "Do you remember the west line? The first tower stood outside Date-Grove Village. That day, the whole village came out. Once the tower stood, the children’s courage grew."

"I remember." Lu Zhu said.

"In those days, one tower guarded one village." Seb said. "Now, the towers of the north must guard a whole country." He paused. "I am still me. The towers are still towers. Only what is on my shoulders has grown heavy."

"Heavy," Lu Zhu said, "is what makes the walk steady. The heavier the burden, the more firmly the feet must press the ground."

"Press firm." Seb said.

Lu Zhu crouched down and looked at the drawings one by one. At the third, his fingertip tapped lightly on the drawing’s edge: "This second line — half a foot thicker than last winter."

"The northern snow is harsher than expected." Seb said. "A wall too thin cracks in one winter."

"A right change." Lu Zhu said. "The wall wrestles with the sky."

"Wrestles with the sky." Seb said. "The Hittites are a sky too. One wall must wrestle with two skies."

"Then build the wall until both skies bow their heads." Horenheb said.

Seb drew out another sheet, the detailed drawing of the border wall: "Teacher, look at these places. The crenellations — following what you taught on the west line, I narrowed them half a foot. The northern wind is strong; wide crenellations let the wind pour straight into the wall’s eye, and a man cannot stand. And this wall foot — bedded with a layer of grass ash. When the frozen earth thaws in spring, the wall foot sinks. With the grass ash, it holds three more springs."

"The west line’s methods." Lu Zhu said. "You carried them to the north."

"Not only carried." Seb said. "Changed them. The northern frozen earth is harsher than the west line’s. The west line beds one foot at the wall foot; the north must bed one and a half."

"Bed one and a half." Lu Zhu changed the number on the drawing. "Good. This is your ’northland revision.’ Your towers stand on the northern border, and your methods have entered the law of the land — I said it three years ago."

"In the law of the land," Seb said, "there is a wall drawn by me."

"There is." Lu Zhu said. "In the Ever-Normal Granary law, there is your frozen-earth method sent back; in the dwelling standard, there is your slanted flue." He patted Seb’s shoulder. "Your body is in the north, and your handcraft has long been all over the country."

Seb hung his head and rubbed the charcoal black from his hands, and said nothing. But his ears went red.

That afternoon, Seb briefed Lu Zhu and Horenheb on the military situation of the north, and the two of them listened without interrupting.

He drew on the sand tray with the charcoal pencil, line by line: "The border wall, thirty li, six mouths. Last winter, five were mended. One remains — the river-bend mouth, the most dangerous. The mouth is wide, the water deep, and the Hittites’ boats can ride the current straight to the wall’s foot." He paused. "Troops: three thousand on the wall, one thousand behind it. Grain: forty days. Material: short. Medicine: short. People: the shortest of all — the night-watch hands are short by half."

"The river-bend mouth," Horenheb said, "before I left, I had the barrier chains laid."

"The chains are laid." Seb said. "But the water rose with the summer. Where the chains cannot hold, the gaps show."

"Then seal half the mouth first." Lu Zhu said. "Fill it with earth, drive the piles. Water no boat can enter is dead water."

"Seal it." Seb said. "The first-line work — the river-bend mouth is first in the queue."

"The men on the wall," Horenheb said, "a thousand, in two shifts. If the men run short, let the craftsmen fill in first. Craftsmen on the wall — repair by day, hold by night. Wages, double."

"Double." Lu Zhu said. "With lives staked on the wall, the pay must not be thin."

"One thing more." Seb said. "The horse-stopping stakes the west line used — the north must double them. The northern horses stand half a foot taller than the west line’s. Stakes too low, and the horses step right over."

"Raise them." Lu Zhu said. "Stakes four feet high, driven slantwise, two feet into the ground. One row not enough — two rows."

"Two rows." Seb noted it. "And shallow trenches. The horses pass the stakes, then drop into the trench. Lime scattered in the trench, so it shows even at night."

"Good." Horenheb said. "These fine points are yours. You were taught by the Chief Builder. Every inch of the wall — your word is the rule."

"Yes." Seb said.

That night, the lamps of the Bureau burned until dawn, and the oil was refilled twice.

The three-line maps lay across the long table, end to end. Lu Zhu reckoned the material, Seb noted the numbers, and Horenheb watched, one hand on the table, putting in one word at the vital points.

"The first line," Lu Zhu said, "the border wall. Thirty li, six mouths. The mouths sealed, the wall raised, the crenellations made whole. Material: stone, timber, straw binding, lime earth." He wrote them one by one, down the page. "Labor: stonemasons, four hundred. Carpenters, two hundred. Tampers, six hundred."

"The tampers, add two hundred." Horenheb said. "The north has much frozen earth. The days of soft soil are only those few months."

"Added." Lu Zhu changed the number.

"The second line," he went on, "thirty li behind the wall, one tower every five li. The towers must house men, watch far, and send smoke. Six in all." He looked up at Seb. "The tower’s shape — you drew it."

"The towers are thirty feet high." Seb said. "Stone bases, mud-brick bodies, a timber loft on top. Six towers, like eyes, watching the north."

"The third line," Lu Zhu said, "the fort group at the mountain pass. Seal the pass with two forts, holding each other’s horns. This work is the slowest. It will take a year."

"A year it takes, then." Horenheb said. "First, race the first line up before autumn comes in. The Hittites will not give us many days."

"Before autumn comes in." Lu Zhu circled the three words on the paper. "Sixty days."

"Sixty days." Seb said. "Enough. The northern work, I know it."

"Where do the men come from?" Lu Zhu asked.

"Hire them." Horenheb said. "The pharaoh has set it — wages plus three tenths. Which northern man will not have his eyes heated?"

"Good." Lu Zhu said. "Money spent in the open, and the wall stands in the heart." He paused. "The accounts — Tia sets the register. One household, one register, half paid in advance."

"The material, I check." Hapy had come in at some point, carrying a stack of material manifests. "The quarry’s stone goes first to the north. Wages paid as they should. The numbers on the manifests, I check one by one — one foot off, and back it goes."

"You check the material," Horenheb said, "and my heart is easy. The material yard you keep in the new capital has not put out one cart of bad stone."

"That is my duty." Hapy said. "For the northern wall, bad stone is filling the cracks with lives."

"The civilian side, the state keeps." Asaf came in from the door. "What I keep is the movement of grain, material, and medicine. The north line’s seven boats have been scheduled." He looked at the numbers on the table. "With these work figures, the grain must be added."

"Added by how much?"

"By three thousand workmen, sixty days, two jin of grain a man a day." Asaf said. "The storehouses behind the border wall must be pressed with eighteen thousand jin more."

"Press them." Meru’s voice came from behind. "The boats, I will even them out. Seven trips become eight."

"Eight trips." Lu Zhu said. "The merchant house’s whole store has been emptied out."

"The store is for using." Meru said. "If the north cannot be held, the store is kept to feed the Hittites?"

The whole courtyard laughed. The laughter was not loud, but in the night under the pressing war clouds, it rang especially clear.

"And the medicine." Imset’s voice, unhurried. "The north’s three medical points — the medicine is not enough. Shafi has already checked out the north line’s medicine manifest. The wound medicine doubled, and the frostbite prescriptions copied thirty times, going north with the boats."

"The matter of the medicine," Lu Zhu said, "you teacher and student keep it; I will not ask. What Teacher Imset nods to is the settled number."

"The matter of the medical points is no small matter." Imset said. "One man frostbitten on the border wall is one pair of hands less to hold a spear." He paused. "The rules of the physicians’ examination do not change in wartime. The northern physicians must be examined the same. Only the examined may go up on the wall."

"Examine them." Horenheb said. "An examined physician following behind the wall is stronger than any medicine."

The next day, the pharaoh conferred the seal of the commander-in-chief in the hall.

The civil and military officials stood in two rows. The Royal Steward held a roll of yellow silk and read aloud: "The decree reads: the northern border, eight hundred li, is the gate of the country. Now the Hittites invade, and war clouds press the border. It is specially conferred upon Horenheb, Commander-in-Chief of the Northern Border, to hold the whole line of the frontier defense, and the government of soldier and civilian alike is given into his hands. Of all the north’s grain, material, medicine, and labor, no office may delay or err. Thus decreed."

The hall was so quiet you could hear the yellow silk unroll.

Horenheb set aside his old sword, straightened his campaign robe, and walked step by step to the center of the hall.

"Horenheb." the pharaoh said.

"Your servant is here."

"The eight hundred li of northern defense — from this day, all of it is given to you." The pharaoh laid the seal of the commander-in-chief in his palm, with his own hands. "I ask nothing else of you. One thing only — of the northern common people, not one may be lost."

"Your servant," Horenheb’s voice was not loud, but it struck the hall into a hum, "holds the north."

"Good." the pharaoh said. "I will await your triumph."

"Your servant will bring no triumph." Horenheb said. "Your servant will stand in the north, until old age."

The hall went still for a moment.

Then, no one knew who led it, the generals of the whole hall, all together, brought their right fists down on their left chests. The sound was like a wall rising in the hall. In the rows of the conservatives, a few old men slowly pressed their hands to their chests too — whatever was in their hearts, at this moment, the north was everyone’s north.

"And him." The pharaoh pointed at Seb. "Officer of Works Design for the Northern Border. The maps of the three lines are drawn by him. I have seen them, and remembered them. The towers he draws will be the eyes of the north from now on."

Seb stepped forward and saluted, and said nothing. His charcoal pencil was still tucked behind his ear.

"Seb." The pharaoh suddenly walked down from the jade steps and stood before him. "I ask you — how long before the three lines of wall stand?"

"The first line, before autumn comes in." Seb said. "Sixty days. The second line, before winter comes in. The mountain-pass forts of the third line — a year."

"Before autumn comes in . . ." the pharaoh pondered. "Will the Hittites give you sixty days?"

"They will." Seb said. "Their grain caravans have not all arrived. Eighty thousand men need eighty thousand jin of grain a day. Until the grain comes, the horses cannot leave their pens." He paused. "The old hunters of the north say — the Hittites march by the grass. When the grass yellows, the horses fatten."

"When the grass yellows." the pharaoh said. "Then it is just right. Before the grass yellows, make the wall stand."

"Your servant receives the order." Seb said.

"One sentence more." The pharaoh swept his eyes over the hall. "I have given the north to Horenheb. Whoever skimps the north’s grain, material, medicine, or wages—" He paused. "Military law works just the same."

The hall was so quiet you could hear the wind past the eaves. The rows of the conservatives hung their heads, not daring to breathe aloud.

Out of the hall, the crowd had already filled the space outside the palace gate.

"General Horen!" someone shouted.

"With General Horen holding the north, we are steady!" another shouted.

Horenheb did not stop. He swung into the saddle and only clasped his fists toward the crowd. The crowd opened a road with a rush. The hoofbeats, tok, tok, tok, went all the way off.

"All set at ease now?" the old grain seller said. "With him, the north is steady."

"Steady." The whole street followed.

The preparations, from this day, spread out.

Before the law stele outside the palace wall, the Civil Affairs Bureau set up a long table, and the table was there before sunrise. Tia, with two scribes, registered the northbound hired men, writing and writing. Before the table, from morning to night, the queue ran long, and it did not break.

"I will go!" a young stonemason said, stepping up first. "Wall-mending, I have done eight years of it."

"What is your name?" Tia asked.

"A-Ken. Of the West Bank."

"The wages, half paid in advance." Tia said. "At the northern border, the other half. On the register, your name is written, character by character."

"I do not want the money." A-Ken said. "What I want is that the wall I mend can block the Hittites."

"The money too." Tia said. "It is written in the law. Your handcraft is worth this price."

In the queue, there were West Bank stonemasons, new capital tampers, Thebes carpenters, and a few retired old soldiers. One old soldier with only nine fingers left signed up too. Tia looked at him a long while: "Your hand . . ."

"The hand is ruined," the old soldier said, "and the eyes remain. I can read the line. A man who reads the line is worth three tampers."

"Written down." Tia said. "The north wants exactly men like you."

By evening, the register held more than four hundred names. Tia closed the book: "More registering tomorrow. The north wants three thousand. Our new capital alone can round up half."

On the day before the departure, Tia sent the hired-labor register to the Bureau.

"Five hundred and twenty-three names." she said. "From the West Bank, the new capital, Thebes, and the northern border’s own. Every one with the hands checked and the registers matched. The wages, half already paid." She handed the book to Seb. "This register, you carry it. At the north, one man one register, and go on keeping it. Whose hand the wages are paid into, whose handprint is pressed on the book."

"I will hold it." Seb said. "The book there, the men there, the work there."

"One sentence more." Tia said. "The people in this book are all volunteers. Do not let their hearts go cold."

"They will not." Seb said. "What the law writes, the north carries out."

That night, Seb gathered the three donkey-loads of drawings again. Rolled and re-rolled, wrapped in oilcloth, the cord knots tied three times. When the knots were tied, he sat under the lamp a while, then drew out one more sheet — the detailed drawing of the river-bend mouth of the border wall. At the drawing’s corner, he added two small characters: "MEND FIRST."

"Right here," he said to himself, "if the Hittites come in, they come through here first."

At the guild, the sign-ups were even more. Kamon opened the branch hall’s gate wide: "The north wants four hundred stonemasons, and the guild gives two hundred. The rest, picked from the worksites." He paused. "Those who go get wages plus three tenths. But the life is your own. At the north, listen to Seb. He was taught by the Chief Builder."

"We will listen to Officer Seb!" the craftsmen shouted.

"One thing more." Kamon said. "Of the guild’s best hands, keep half. The northern wall must be mended, and the southern houses must be built. Both ends are the work of the world, and neither end may fall."

The craftsmen heard it, went quiet first, and then someone shouted: "Then let us all go! For the southern work, on our road north, we will carry two extra stones back!"

"Nonsense." Kamon laughed and scolded. "Enough. Those signing up, line up. I will pick them one by one."

On the new capital’s worksites, among the three thousand, the word spread through too. After work, a dozen and more young fellows went in a group, running for the law stele. The foreman shouted after them: "There is work tomorrow!" The fellows shouted back: "Signing up! Signed, and we come back and keep tamping!"

"These boys." The foreman cursed, and smiled himself. "When it comes to tamping earth, they are the solidest of all."

On the West Bank, Old Camel squeezed two more trips out of the north line’s boats. The men loaded the boats day and night: grain, material, medicine, reed mats, ropes, wooden stakes. On the dock, the torches burned bright.

"The north line’s boats," Old Camel said, "from today, one trip every five days. The men rest, and the boats do not."

"The men rest, and the boats do not!" the men answered.

The west line’s Date-Grove Village and North Shoal Village moved too. The village heads went door to door collecting dried dates and hides — not as donations, but to sell. The money from the sales, each household adding a little, was entrusted to the guild’s people to send to the northbound craftsmen: "The north is bitter. This money, for a bowl of hot soup on their road."

"The people of the west line," Old Camel took the money and said, "have always been of one heart with the people of the north."

"One heart." the village heads said. "The wall is everyone’s wall. The west line that General Horen held never scattered."

"Uncle Old Camel," someone suddenly called from the dock.

Old Camel turned. On the dock stood five half-grown young fellows, each with a pack on his back. The leader was exactly A-Yan.

"You . . ."

"Defense apprentices of the craft school — A-Yan." A-Yan said. "The five of us, by our teacher’s order, go north. With senior brother Seb, to learn the drawings and learn holding the wall."

"Good lads." Old Camel said. "You have come at just the right time. Officer Seb is right here in the new capital. Tomorrow, you go north with his column."

"That is exactly what we thought." A-Yan said. "Uncle Old Camel, is there room on the boats? The five of us, the deck is fine."

"There is." Old Camel said. "The northbound boats keep places for you."

The Thebes letter came too. The chief officiant wrote: "The north is in trouble, and the lamps of Thebes do not go out. The city’s able-bodied men — three hundred have signed up, to go north with the guild. They said it — the wall of Thebes was built with lives. The wall of the northern border, they will go and build it." Nefer added a note: "The women of the Haven have rushed two hundred winter coats. The north is cold — let the wall-mending men all wear them."

Horenheb read the letter, folded it, and put it inside his robe: "Answer for me. Say — the north thanks them."

On the day Thebes sent its men, the west-gate flats filled with people. The chief officiant gave each of the three hundred able-bodied men a small lamp, with his own hands — not for lighting the road, but for lighting the heart. Woser opened the official granary and filled each man a bag of dry rations: "The granary’s grain goes to the men going north. Eat full, and lay the wall straight." The three hundred answered together, and followed the guild’s boats north.

"This boatload of men," the chief officiant said, standing on the flats, "is Thebes repaying a debt. A year and more ago, the soldiers of the north held off the Hittites for us. Now, our men go north, to build their wall for them."

"A debt," Woser said, "repaid this way, is repaid."

"One more letter." Lu Zhu said. "It is Kes’s. Shunzi’s boat brought it last night."

He opened the letter. Kes’s characters were better than before:

"Teacher: the south is steady. The second row of houses — twelve risen. Before the autumn harvest, the clan’s whole forty and more households can move into the new houses. The granary’s grain is enough for the winter. Teacher, I have heard of the north. Tell General Horen for me — whatever the north needs, what the south has, take it all. Kes."

When Lu Zhu had read the letter through, the courtyard went still for a moment.

"That young fellow," Horenheb said, "has come into his own."

"He has." Lu Zhu said. "Only with the south steady can we fight this northern war with easy hearts."

"South and north," Horenheb said, "have always been one board of stones." He looked at the southern sky. "Every house Kes stands in the river valley is confidence added to this board."

In the medical house, the lamps burned long these nights too.

Shafi took Tuxi and packed the north line’s medicine, chest by chest. Wounds, wind and chill, stomach pains, frostbite. Every chest raised half a foot and wrapped in three layers of oilcloth. On the chests, labels were pasted with their destination: "THE NORTH, THE BORDER WALL, THE MEDICAL POINT."

"This chest — paste the north-character label." Shafi said.

"The north-character label . . ." Tuxi pasted as he was told, and when it was done, asked, "Sister Shafi, will the north fight for very long?"

"I do not know." Shafi said. "But the medicine must be prepared to the full. In the days of war, medicine is life." She paused. "Your brother Kes’s medical point is in the south. These northern medical points, if they run short of medicine one day, will also look to these chests."

"Then I will paste a few labels more." Tuxi said. "Paste them firm, so that however far the road, they cannot come apart."

Imset copied the frostbite prescriptions under the lamp. At the thirtieth copy, he set down the brush and said: "The northern winter comes three months earlier than the south’s. These prescriptions — one day earlier they arrive, one day earlier they save someone." He rolled the prescriptions, tied them with hemp cord, and handed them to Shafi. "They travel with the medicine."

"Travel together." Shafi said.

On the night before the departure, in the courtyard of the Bureau, each person was busy with his own work, and the courtyard was full of small sounds.

Kamon ground chisels on the stone steps, one after another, the stone singing. He ground and ground, until the edges turned blue. Hapy matched the material manifests beside him, page after page, and at the third matching said: "Uncle Kamon, your chisel is sharp enough."

"Not enough." Kamon said. "The northern stones, frozen through one winter, are hard as iron. A chisel not sharp, and the craftsman’s hand pays ten times the force." He paused. "I have ground one for each of A-Ken’s men. When a craftsman goes out the door, the chisel is his courage."

"Then grind a few more." Hapy said.

Meru, in the account room, checked the north line’s boat manifests one last time. When the checking was done, he drew a circle at the head of the master account with the charcoal pencil: "Eight boat trips, grain, material, medicine — not one item off. Tomorrow the first batch of people leave, and the boats follow the day after."

"Shopkeeper Meru," Shunzi came in from the door, "the south line’s boats have been freed up by two, changed to the north line. Brother Kes said it — the southern goods can wait. The northern cannot."

"Good." Meru said. "This kindness of Kes’s, the merchant house remembers it." He knocked his pipe. "When this war is over, south line and north line are still brothers."

Lu Zhu stood alone before the great map of the north, with a lamp on either side of it.

On the map, three lines, three roads, winding from west to east, and the villages and towers marked along them like beads on a string. He looked at the map a long time, and the lamp flames leaned with his breathing. Every line on it, he could recite from memory — where it was thick, where thin, where to be mended, where to be held.

"Tomorrow," he said in a low voice, "these lines will begin to grow into the ground." He reached out his hand, and his fingertip moved slowly along the northern lines, from one end to the other. "From the lines on paper to the walls on the ground — between the two lies the lives of how many people."

Outside the window, the north wind rustled the old tree in the courtyard, like something hurrying from very far away.

The departure was set for the fifth day.

The night before, Lu Zhu and Horenheb sat a long time in the courtyard of the Bureau, and the night deepened around them.

One pot of water, two bowls. No wine, and neither of them remarked on it.

"Six years." Horenheb said. "Six years ago, on the West Bank, I saw you for the first time. In those days, you led a band of people raising a settlement on the waste ground, with nothing but drawings and rammers."

"In those days," Lu Zhu said, "I thought this life of mine would be mending granaries and building houses, and nothing more."

"And now?" Horenheb asked.

"Now," Lu Zhu said, "the granaries reach Nubia, the houses reach the northern border, and the laws stand across the whole land." He smiled. "And you? Six years ago — what did you think of?"

"Merit." Horenheb said. "Rewards. Bringing glory to the family name."

"And now?"

"Now," Horenheb looked at the northern sky, "all I think of is — the wall, one more day it blocks, is one more day." He paused. "My son lost a leg. This life of mine — I keep one thing clear. What blades cannot cut through, that is what is real."

"The wall." Lu Zhu said.

"The wall." Horenheb said.

The night wind came from the north, carrying a little chill. The stars at the sky’s edge, one by one, burned bright and hard.

"This war," Lu Zhu asked, "in your heart — how many tenths do you hold?"

"Seven tenths." Horenheb said. "The wall, seven. The grain, seven. The men, seven."

"Which three tenths are unsteady?"

"Heaven." Horenheb said. "The northern heaven. The Hittites always choose their day before the snow. When the snow falls, their horses cannot run. But what if the snow comes late?" He paused. "And the water. The northern rivers run shallow in autumn. Where the boats cannot reach below the border wall, it must be carried on men’s backs. That stretch is the most dangerous."

"And so the first line’s grain must be pressed to the wall’s foot before autumn comes in." Lu Zhu said.

"Right." Horenheb said. "Your side fast by one day, and the northern wall is thick by one foot."

"Fast." Lu Zhu said. "Tomorrow, the first batch of people takes the road."

"You draw towers," Lu Zhu suddenly said, "and I draw granaries. You guard the country, and I feed the people."

"That sentence," Horenheb said, "was in the letter you wrote Seb three years ago."

"Now," Lu Zhu said, "it is still that sentence. He draws the northern towers, and I draw the granaries of the world."

"Then you and I?" Horenheb asked.

"You guard the country," Lu Zhu said, "and I feed the people. With you and me here, the country is here. The wall falls — raise it again. The granary empties — fill it again. As long as people live, there is always something to mend."

"Something to mend." Horenheb raised his bowl and slowly drank the water dry. "For those four words, this war must be won."

Seb did not sleep. He squatted under the lamp and proofread the three-line maps once more. At the fifth sheet, he suddenly stopped the brush and said: "Teacher, I am a little afraid."

"Afraid of what?" Lu Zhu came over.

"Afraid of drawing wrong." Seb said. "One line on this map is one life. One line drawn wrong, and the northern wall leaks in one place."

"Then proofread it once more." Lu Zhu said. "You have drawn three years and proofread three years. Trusting your maps is trusting yourself."

"I trust." Seb said. "I do not fear the war. What I fear is the wall not being good enough."

"The wall will never be good enough." Lu Zhu said. "Which is why you go. With you there, the wall can be better." He patted Seb’s shoulder. "You are my eldest apprentice. The northern wall is given to you."

"Given to me." Seb gripped the charcoal pencil tight in his hand.

"One thing more." Lu Zhu said. "A-Yan and his five go north with you. At the northern border, you lead them. Teach them to read the line, teach them to know the frozen earth. They are the north’s next batch of eyes."

"I will lead them." Seb said. "The methods the teacher taught — not one missing, all of them taught on."

"Right." Lu Zhu said. "One generation passes to the next. Only then does the wall you stand in the north have people to go on standing it."

"Teacher." Seb was silent a while, and suddenly said, "Today, I thought through all of us, one by one. Kes is in the south, I am in the north, Hapy keeps the material in the new capital, and Mery tours the granaries in the south." He paused. "The four of us have taken the four corners of Egypt."

"You have." Lu Zhu said. "Seb holds the north, Kes stands the south, Hapy keeps the material, Mery keeps the grain. The four of you standing there, this country has roots in all four corners."

"Then you, teacher?" Seb asked.

"Me?" Lu Zhu said. "I am in the middle. For the four of you, going on drawing the maps, and going on teaching the people." He smiled. "The maps I draw, you stand them. What you stand up is mine."

"Ours," Seb said, "is yours."

The dawn came early, and the sky went pale in the east first.

On the post road outside the north gate, the people stretched two li long, from the gate to the first rise of the road.

Three hundred hired men, two hundred craftsmen, twenty riding personal guards, and the five newly made general’s banners. The banners were black-ground, with a golden eagle embroidered in gold thread — Horenheb’s war banner, the banner of the Commander-in-Chief of the Northern Border. The poles were new timber, still carrying the smell of bark, and the eagles had been stitched through three nights. Behind the column were thirty grain carts, ten material carts, two medicine carts, and one medical-tent cart — Imset had watched its loading himself the night before, checking every rope.

"The medical tent," he said, "when you reach the north, set it up first. Behind the wall, in a place with its back to the wind."

"Remembered." the medicine boy escorting the cart said.

The common people pressed the post road until no one could pass, and the noise of them rose like a market. Some brought flatbreads, some brought water, some hung strings of dates on the horses’ necks. The old flatbread seller moved his whole steamer to the roadside and pressed breads on everyone he saw, one after another: "For the road! The north is cold — the belly must be solid!"

"Uncle," a young hired man said, taking the bread in both hands, "this bread of yours, I have eaten it. At the north, the wall I mend will have your share in it too."

"That is exactly the word I wanted!" The old man laughed until his face folded into itself.

The old grain seller pushed his last bag of new wheat into a grain cart: "The northern soldiers must eat new grain."

"Taken." the centurion escorting the grain said. "At the north, the first meal — we steam it."

"Steam it." the old man said. "Let them taste the south’s harvest."

In the crowd, a woman stood at the very front, leading her child by the hand. The child looked up and asked: "Mother, where are they going?"

"To the north." the woman said. "To mend the wall. To mend a wall that blocks bad people."

"Then when will they come back?"

The woman said nothing. She pressed the child’s face gently into her bosom.

Tuxi came too. He squeezed into the crowd and stood on tiptoe to look. After a while, he took out his small board and drew one stroke on it, and one more. When the strokes were drawn, he pressed the board to his chest and said in a low voice: "Senior brother Seb, Brother Kes said it — you hold the north. When I have finished studying medicine, I will guard people like you do."

Kamon, Meru, Imset, Shafi, Tia — all stood at the roadside. No one spoke. Only Kamon pressed a newly forged set of chiseling tools into a guild craftsman’s hands: "Carry it. The northern stones are hard."

"Hard," the craftsman said, "and our chisels are harder."

When the column began to move, Kamon shouted toward its tail: "The northern wall is built by the guild’s men. It will not be smashed!"

"It will not be smashed!" The guild’s craftsmen answered together.

Meru shouted one line too: "The grain — no shortage!"

"No shortage!" The grain escorts cracked their whips, sharp.

Horenheb rode in armor, his hand on the sword hilt. He turned back and looked once toward the palace gate.

The pharaoh stood on the palace city’s wall. The wind blew his royal robe snapping. He raised his hand, and pointed north, once.

That one point said nothing, and said everything.

The Royal Steward hurried out of the palace gate carrying the general’s banner, and went down on one knee: "General, the pharaoh commands me to place this banner in your hands with my own."

Horenheb dismounted and took it in both hands. The banner was heavy in the hand, and the golden eagle was embroidered as if spreading its wings to fly. He handed the banner to the banner-bearer and mounted again.

"Steward," he said, "answer the pharaoh for me — wherever the banner goes, your servant goes."

"This servant will surely deliver it." the Steward said.

"Move out." Horenheb said.

The horns rose over the gate. Three blasts, long and deep, and the sound of them went down the post road and back again.

The general’s banner moved.

Horenheb reined his horse and stopped once before Lu Zhu, and the whole column halted behind him. Two men, half a horse’s length apart, neither spoke. At the last, Horenheb said: "Master Lu."

"General."

"Wait for me to come back." Horenheb said. "And we will build walls for ten more years."

"Good." Lu Zhu said. "The granaries, the houses, the walls — all kept for you."

Horenheb nodded, pressed his heels in, and was gone, without looking back.

The column of three hundred and more went slowly north along the post road. The general’s banner spread in the wind, the golden eagle spreading its wings, as if to fan the sky bright.

Lu Zhu stood at the roadside, watching the whole time.

Seb rode out of the column and knocked his head once more before him: "Teacher, I am going."

"Go." Lu Zhu said. "At the northern border, the first matter — report your safety."

"Yes." Seb said. "The second matter — mend the wall."

"Right." Lu Zhu said. "And there is a third matter."

"What?"

"Stay alive." Lu Zhu said. "The wall falls, and it can be mended. You fall, and the north’s eyes go blind."

"I will remember." Seb said. He turned his horse’s head and caught up with the column.

In the column, A-Yan and his five were helping Old Camel’s men drive the last material cart. A-Yan turned back and bowed deep toward Lu Zhu. Lu Zhu nodded to him, and raised his voice with one sentence: "A-Yan! The northern wall — like the one at home, it must be looked at every day!"

"Looked at every day!" A-Yan shouted back. "What the teacher taught — not one item dropped!"

The shout rolled far along the post road. In the column, someone laughed along, and laughing, everyone straightened their backs all the more.

The column went farther and farther along the post road, and the dust of it rose behind them.

The general’s banner, at the post road’s end, still jumped with one point of gold, smaller and smaller.

On the upper floor of the deep mansion, the old noble saw the banner too, from far off.

He stood behind the window, one hand on the sill, and watched that point of gold, slowly, sinking into the northern sky. He watched a long time, without moving, and said to himself: "All staked on it. The people, the money, the grain, and that set of laws of theirs." He paused, his voice so low only he could hear it. "This war — if they win it, this country will never again have a word for us. If they lose . . ."

He did not finish, and did not need to.

Outside the window, the wind rolled the northern dust past the eaves, moaning, like horns far off, and like a sigh close by.

"Teacher," Hapy stood beside him at some point, "can they hold it?"

"They can." Lu Zhu said.

"Why?"

"Because the wall is alive." Lu Zhu said. "Behind the wall is the granary, in the granary is the grain, behind the grain is the law, and behind the law are the people. Behind the people is this post road, running all the way to the new capital, to the West Bank, to Thebes, to the river valley of Nubia." He paused. "The eight hundred li of the northern border, on its back, carries the whole Nile."

He turned and walked back.

"This war," he said in a low voice, "is the last hard war. When it is fought through, the granaries, the houses, the walls, and the laws of this world will all have stood."

The northern sky was blue to the point of heaviness. In the wind, there was already a little of autumn’s smell.

The general’s banner, at the post road’s end, turned a bend, and went slowly toward the direction of the border wall.

And further north along the post road, beyond the border wall, the Hittites’ campfires had already joined into one stretch. The wind carried the smoke over, past the wall’s head, past the towers, past the faces of the men on watch. The men on the wall gripped their spears and looked south once — on the southern post road, there were hoofbeats, little by little, coming nearer and nearer.

It was the general’s banner they were waiting for.

The great war of the north is about to come.

The general’s banner at the post road’s end — one point of gold, smaller and smaller, and at last it sinks into the northern sky. The wind comes from the north, carrying the smell of campfires. The people of the new capital all look north. They know: where that banner goes is the coldest battlefield under heaven. And the things behind the banner — the granaries, the boats, the law, the registers, and the hearts of the whole Nile — have all followed it. The war clouds have pressed to the wall’s head. This wall of three lines of depth, this wall stood up with lives and law, is about to receive the final test.

(End of Chapter 15)