Chapter 122 - 1: The Hittites March South — Alarm Along the Whole Northern Line

Chapter 122: Chapter 1: The Hittites March South — Alarm Along the Whole Northern Line

The fires of the North Stockade were lit in the small hours.

Three piles, one after another. The black smoke shot straight up at the sky; the north wind twisted it, scattered it across the sky, and it covered half the stars.

"Three smokes — call for aid!" The watch soldier on the border wall saw it first. He banged the butt of his spear on the crenel and shouted with all his strength: "The North Stockade calls for aid—"

His shout had not yet fallen when the northern sky turned red first.

The North Stockade stood ten li beyond the border wall — the fist thrust out at the northernmost point.

The stockade was not large: earth walls on four sides, none higher than twenty feet, held by one hundred and twenty men. Old Da had kept guard inside it for twenty years. With his eyes shut he could count every breach in its walls.

This night, he counted something else.

"They are here." Old Da stood on the wall’s head in his old armor, looking north. In the wind there was a sound — muffled, rolling close along the ground, as if a thousand drums far off were being beaten together. He had heard this sound before. Hooves. Thousands upon thousands of hooves, wrapped in hemp, treading on autumn grass.

"Light the smoke." Old Da said.

The three piles of smoke rose almost at the same moment as the fires in the north.

"Squad leader!" The youngest soldier ran up onto the wall, his face white. "Hittites! A black mass of them — beyond counting!"

"Count what." Old Da said. "If they could be counted, would we be lighting smoke?"

He turned and looked into the stockade. All one hundred and twenty men were already up. Some were putting on armor, some held spears, some still bare-shouldered, standing under the torches and looking at him. No one spoke. The north wind rattled the stockade gate, clang, clang.

"All of you, listen." Old Da said. "Forty to the east wall, forty to the west wall. The rest come with me to hold the gate. Archers, all of you to the wall’s head. The arrows are few — thirty to a man. Spend them sparingly."

"Squad leader," an old one-eyed soldier said, "thirty arrows — two rounds and they are gone."

"Then take up stones." Old Da said. "The stones piled at the foot of the wall are enough to give them a bellyful." He glanced out beyond the north wall — the firelight had already spread to the edge of the meadow. "A-Song."

"Here!"

"You — ride south. The border wall, the main camp. Ride through in one breath. Say one thing only—"

"The North Stockade cannot hold." A-Song cut in.

Old Da looked at him. "Nonsense. Whether the North Stockade can hold is not for you to say."

A-Song stood dumb.

"You will say this," Old Da said, one word at a time, "the Hittites have marched south. The vanguard is all mounted. The North Stockade can hold four hours more. Four hours later, they reach the foot of the wall."

"Taken down!" A-Song said.

"Is the horse fed?"

"It is!"

"Go." Old Da said. "Out the back gate. Do not look back. The smoke — keep it burning in the stockade."

A-Song swung onto the horse. The horse snorted, its hooves pawing the ground. He looked back once — the torches in the stockade were moving up toward the walls. He lashed out hard with the whip. The horse burst forward and was swallowed by the blackness to the north.

For the rest of the small hours, the walls of the North Stockade were held with the bodies of men.

The Hittite horsemen first washed the wall with arrows. The arrows fell thick as locusts, standing in the wall so full that the wind made them hum. The one-eyed old soldier lay behind a crenel counting: "One round, two rounds, three rounds . . . Squad leader, their bows are half an arm longer than ours!"

"Half an arm," Old Da said, "and the arm must have strength. Shoot three rounds, and a man is winded. Once they are winded, the ladders come."

Sure enough, the moment the arrow rain stopped, the ladders came — a black mass of them, seven or eight at once, thrown up against the wall’s head. The ladder heads were wrapped in oxhide, and they struck the wall with a dull, heavy sound.

Old Da led his men, fighting on the wall. Stones smashed down, spears stabbed, fire oil was flung over. One pot of fire oil poured down, and one ladder — men and all — burned into a snake of fire. The Hittites fell shrieking, but the ones behind trampled over those in front and kept coming.

"The east wall is hard pressed!" someone shouted.

"The west wall — send ten men!" another shouted.

Old Da took up his spear and fought from the east wall to the west wall. The men on the wall fell, and the men below pushed up to take their place. When the one-eyed old soldier’s arrows were spent, he hauled stones. When the stones were gone, he snatched up a blade chipped along its edge, blocked the mouth of a ladder, and cut down whoever came up. As he cut down the third man, his blade broke.

"Squad leader!" he shouted. "In the next life, I will still keep the North Stockade with you!"

Old Da did not turn around. Behind him he heard a sound — like a sack of grain toppling off the wall.

They fought until the sky’s edge turned white. The gate was broken open.

"Withdraw." Old Da said. "Out the south gate. Burn the grain store. Do not leave them a single grain."

The fire of the grain store rose up. Its smoke was ten times thicker than the three piles of smoke that had called for aid. Old Da led the forty-odd men left, out through the south gate. He walked at the very rear, and looked back once — the walls of the North Stockade still stood straight. Only the walls were already stuck full of Hittite flags.

"The stockade is gone." he said. "The wall — they have left it to us."

The fire of the North Stockade was seen plain from the border wall.

The watch soldier struck the gong. The sound ran along the wall, spreading as it went, and the thirty li of wall woke up. Torches were lit one after another, and seen from far off they were like a burning river lying across the darkness.

"Pass the word." the centurion on the wall said. "Every section on guard. Bows strung. You men of the watch — open your eyes wide, all of you."

In the barracks at the foot of the wall, the old cook soldiers had lit their fires in the middle of the night. They were neither flustered nor disordered; they set pot after pot of water on the stoves. Someone asked: "The battle has not started — what is the water for?" The head cook did not look up. "Once it starts, who will have time to boil water? Keep it boiling. When it is hot, send it up to the wall. The weather is cold. A soldier’s hands must not go stiff."

At first light, a second column of smoke rose from the direction of the Mountain-Pass Fort.

Three piles as well.

Then, the River Fort.

Three columns of smoke, strung in a line from north to east, like three gashes cut into the edge of the sky.

The old soldiers on the border wall said nothing. They tightened their bowstrings once more, took the quivers off their backs, and set them close at hand. These men had been in the north three years. They knew what three piles of smoke joined together meant — the three forts up ahead were about to be gone.

"Check the sign." The centurions called out, section by section.

"West Bank!" the east end of the wall shouted.

"There is smoke!" the west end answered.

The watchword was an old phrase, unchanged in three years. But shouted this night, every man felt those two words carried ten times their usual weight.

When A-Song’s horse reached the post road south of the River Fort, the day was fully bright.

The horse’s mouth was frothed white, and its four legs had gone soft. A-Song wanted to rein in, but his hands would not obey him — he had been bounced about on horseback all night, and his two legs were no longer his own. Crossing the meadow in the small hours, he had heard movement behind him, and turned to look: two dark shapes, hugging the ground, following one on his left and one on his right. He took them for wolves and gripped his short knife. After half a li, the two shapes drew level, and only then did he see them clear — messengers of the River Fort, two riders as well, carrying the same words.

The three of them rode abreast in silence. At the fork in the road, the River Fort messengers turned east, and one shouted: "Brother — see you at the foot of the wall!"

"At the foot of the wall!" A-Song shouted back. His voice was hoarse beyond all tune.

On the post road, a column was coming straight toward him.

Three hundred-odd hired workmen, two hundred-odd craftsmen, twenty mounted guards, and the grain carts, material carts, and medicine carts stretched half a li. At the column’s head, a general’s banner of black ground and golden eagle cracked and snapped in the morning wind.

A-Song knew that banner. He rolled off his horse, knelt by the roadside, opened his mouth — his throat felt scraped raw by the north wind, and no sound came out.

"Give him water."

A voice came down from horseback. Not loud, but steady and sure.

A water skin was held to A-Song’s mouth. He gulped twice, caught his breath, and looked up — the man on the horse wore old armor, his hand on his sword hilt, looking down at him. Those eyes were like two nails driven into the wind.

"G-General . . ." A-Song recited the North Stockade’s words, one word at a time. "The Hittites have marched south. The vanguard is all mounted. The North Stockade can hold four hours more. Four hours later, they reach the foot of the wall."

Horenheb did not speak. He raised his head and looked north. The northern sky was gray and dim; no smoke could be seen, but the burnt smell in the wind could already be caught.

"Old Da of the North Stockade," he asked, "sent you with these words?"

"Yes."

"And him?"

A-Song’s tears welled up at once. "The squad leader . . . sent me on ahead. He said the smoke — keep it burning in the stockade."

A silence fell over the column. Even the sound of hooves pawing the earth stopped.

Horenheb shut his eyes a moment. When he opened them again, everything was in them.

"Pass the word." he said. "The column forms three files. Grain carts and material carts in the middle. Guards front and rear. Reach the border wall before nightfall."

"General," the northern centurion rode up, "over a hundred li of ground, before nightfall . . ."

"Run." Horenheb said. "When a man cannot run, he rides. When a horse cannot run, he walks. The wall does not wait for us."

The order passed down, and the column did not fall into disorder.

The grain carts moved to the middle, the guards split front and rear, the hired workmen tightened the loads on their shoulders and stretched their stride. One fellow hauling material had long worn through his soles and walked on bare feet. The carter saw him and called: "Lad, get on the cart! There is still room on the shafts!"

"I will not!" the fellow said. "The cart is for hauling material. If I ride, the wall loses a stake."

"Nonsense." the carter said. "You walk north on those two legs of yours, and you will still be able to drive stakes? Get up. Sleep a while. When we arrive, there will be plenty of getting down for you."

The fellow argued two more rounds, but in the end he was hauled onto the cart. He flopped down on the material and, even so, held his rammer tight to his chest.

As the column got moving again, Seb rode up beside Horenheb.

He did not look well. The charcoal stick was still tucked behind his ear, and in his hand he gripped a rolled map — the detailed map of the border wall, which he had still been checking point by point at last night’s camp.

"General," he said, "I reckoned wrong."

"Where?"

"I said the Hittites march by the grass. When the grass yellows, the horses fatten." Seb said. "I left their vanguard out of the reckoning. The vanguard’s horses are not fed full — only half full. A half-fed horse runs fast, and drops fat just as fast — but they had it all reckoned: half a month of fat, traded for catching us off guard."

"Half a month." Horenheb said. "You have put their household’s account down on our heads."

"Yes." Seb said. "It is my mistake. The first line had sixty days. Now, I fear it has not even ten."

"Who says you are wrong?" Horenheb said.

Seb started.

"You reckoned the grain right, the horses right, the days right." Horenheb said. "The one thing you did not reckon is that the Hittites would dare to gamble half-fed horses on this fight." He paused. "If the enemy wants to gamble, we take the bet. Every inch of that wall — you know it better than I do. That is enough."

"Is it?" Seb asked.

"It is." Horenheb said. "If they dare come half a month early, we raise the wall half a month early. A war fought to this point is a race to see who is faster."

Seb said no more. He unrolled the map and studied it on horseback. As the horse’s back jolted, he braced the map against his knee, took the charcoal stick, and drew one more circle at the position of River-Bend Mouth. Outside the circle, he added three characters.

"Repair first."

On horseback, he laid out the work of the next three days all over again. Each jolt of the horse’s back, he wrote a line; each jolt, a line. By the time he stopped, the small characters along the map’s edge were crowded like a column of ants hurrying down a road.

At nightfall, the column did not halt.

Torches were lit, bright from the column’s head to its tail. The northern sky glowed red through the black, like coals not yet burned through in a stove. Not one hired workman asked what it was. They kept their heads down and hurried north, cart after cart. Some had sand in their shoes and stopped to empty it. Some were thirsty and sipped from their water skins. One old carpenter whittled short stakes as he walked, tucking each finished stake into his coat.

"Old master," A-Yan went up beside him, "what are these stakes for?"

"Horse-stopping stakes." the old carpenter said. "The horses in the north are half a foot taller than the west line’s. The stakes have to be longer — four feet, set in at a slant, two feet into the earth." He gestured. "When a horse’s leg strikes one, it should not break."

"How do you know it so fine?"

"When the west line was building its wall, I was there." the old carpenter said. "Officer Seb was only this tall then." He held a hand at a height. "Now he has charge of thirty li of wall. Old bones like us, we pass him the stakes."

At the column’s rear, A-Yan and his five were also striding at full speed.

Five half-grown youths, each with a bundle on his back, helped drive a material cart. As A-Yan drove, he kept turning to look north. After a few looks, he asked the carter beside him in a low voice: "Uncle, is that smoke in the north really never going to clear?"

"Clear?" the carter said. "That is the smoke of a burning grain store. By the time it clears, the Hittite horses will be right in front of you."

"Then . . ." A-Yan swallowed. "Will our wall make it in time?"

"If it cannot make it, it still has to make it." The carter cracked his whip. "Boy, no more questions. Walk hard. At the foot of the wall, there will be work enough for your strength."

A-Yan asked no more. He hitched his bundle tighter and trotted to keep up with the column. Inside the bundle were the charcoal stick and grass paper the teacher had issued. He felt them — hard, still there.

On the river, the boats were hurrying too.

Old Camel’s boat fleet had only left the last dock at dusk. Five boats, loaded to the brim: grain, material, medicine, straw mats, rope, wooden stakes. The hands knew something had happened in the north. No one urged them on, but the oars moved three parts faster than usual.

"Uncle Old Camel," a hand pointed at the north bank, "look over there."

Along the north bank’s skyline floated a layer of dark red, as if someone had laid a sheet of red-hot iron along the sky’s lower edge.

"The three forts’ fires." Old Camel said. "Not yet out."

"Then . . . do our boats still go north?"

"They go." Old Camel said. "Wherever there is fire, there is the greater waiting for grain." He spat over the side. "We reach the north bank and unload. By day the Hittite scouts are thick, so we make land by night and finish unloading before dawn."

"Land by night . . ." The hand swallowed. "Uncle, I do not know the shoals at River-Bend Mouth."

"I know them." Old Camel said. "When I was young, I carried salt across those shoals for twenty years."

He raised his head and looked at the northern sky. The wind filled the sail full; the prow cut through the black water with a fine, thin sound, like someone in the night sharpening a very long knife.

The urgent report entered the new capital on the morning of the third day.

The messenger’s horse collapsed before the palace gate. The man scrambled up, raised a tube of urgent report above his head: "The northern border — the three forts cry for help—"

In the palace, once again the lamps were not put out all night.

The war ministry’s three old generals entered the palace before dawn. The eldest read the urgent report twice and said: "Half a month earlier than we reckoned."

"And Horenheb?"

"On the road." another said. "By the count of days, he should be inside the northern border by now."

"Will he make it?"

"If he cannot make it," the eldest said, "he still has to. The three forward forts were there to buy days from the start. How many days they have bought now depends on whether those thirty li of wall have been built to the right heat."

The pharaoh stood in the hall and said nothing. He walked to the map of the northern border and looked at it a long time. "Send the decree." he said. "The northern border’s grain, material, medicine, and wages — press them on at double speed. Whatever prefecture or county along the road dares to delay, military law."

"Yes."

"One thing more." the pharaoh said. "The Civil Affairs Bureau — run through the hired-men register once more. The northern border needs three thousand workmen; the register holds five hundred and twenty-three. The shortfall is to be made up from the prefectures and counties along the road. If the north’s men are not enough, draw from the south. If they cannot be drawn, I will issue the edict in person."

"This servant receives the decree." Asaf stepped out, and answered clean and crisp.

"Tia." the pharaoh said.

"This servant is here."

"The northern border’s account — you watch over it. One report every day. Whatever is late, whatever is missing, report it to me. I mean to see whether military law can keep the whole court’s officials in hand."

"This servant has it down." Tia said. Her brush had already come to rest on the register, the tip hovering, waiting only for the first number.

In the courtyard of the Chief Construction Bureau, Lu Zhu was looking at the same map.

The copy of the urgent report lay open on the desk. With the charcoal stick he touched the border wall’s six openings, one by one. Coming to River-Bend Mouth, he paused a moment, and tapped the map lightly twice with his fingertips.

"They have come early." Lu Zhu said.

"Teacher," Hapy stood beside him, "the second batch of hired workmen — the lists are all checked. Three hundred men. Uncle Old Camel has spared two boats."

"Add one hundred more." Lu Zhu said. "The north’s account must be reckoned three days faster." He looked up. "The material list is to be checked again. Lime, grass fiber, wooden stakes — three tenths more of each. The medicine — have Shafi go through the count of the chests tagged ’North’ once more."

"Yes." Hapy answered, and turned to go.

"Wait." Lu Zhu said. "Take a letter to Seb."

He walked to the desk and lifted the brush. He thought a moment, and wrote only three lines:

"The vanguard comes first; the main host comes behind. Half-fed horses cannot last three battles. The days you reckoned were not wrong. What is wrong is that the men beyond the wall cannot wait for the grass to yellow. Stand the wall firm — everything else, set aside for later."

When he had written, he folded the letter and gave it to Hapy. "It goes with the boats. Make it fast."

Hapy reached the courtyard gate, then turned back. "Teacher, over at the guild, Uncle Kamon is already picking out the second batch of chisels. He says the stone in the north has been through a winter’s frost, and it is hard as iron. Each man must have two chisels — one to use, one to sharpen."

"Let him pick." Lu Zhu said. "His hands are surer than my accounts."

In the upper room of the deep mansion, the old noble had heard the news too.

He was drinking tea. When he had heard it through, he set the cup down slowly and said: "I know."

"My lord," the thin tall man said, "now that the north has opened fighting, should we not . . ."

"What is the hurry." the old noble said. "Are they not good at keeping accounts? Hired men’s wages, grain, material, medicine — one item after another, all pouring out of the state treasury." He paused, looking north. "Wait until the north’s account rolls up."

Horenheb reached the northern border’s main camp at dusk on the second day — one day later than his own order.

The column had not rested all day; men and horses had reached their limit. But the moment they entered the main camp, no one had time to catch his breath — the routed men were coming back from the north in an unbroken stream.

Men of the North Stockade, of the Mountain-Pass Fort, of the River Fort. Some on horseback, some on foot, some carrying the wounded. Their clothes were scorched black and their eye sockets sunken deep, yet the ranks were not in disorder. The leaders, coming to the camp gate and seeing the general’s banner, all stopped.

Old Da came out of the crowd.

There was a gash on his face, the blood crusted over. The forty-odd men followed behind him, drawn up in neat order.

"North Stockade garrison, one hundred and twenty men." Old Da said. "Fallen, sixty-one. The remaining fifty-nine have all returned to the ranks."

He paused, and his voice sank low: "The stockade — did not hold."

Horenheb dismounted and walked up to him.

"Who told you to own that?" he said. "One hundred and twenty men held twenty thousand horse for four hours. The stockade did not hold — but the war kept its first move."

"First move . . ." Old Da repeated, dazed.

"If you had left one hour later," Horenheb said, "the Mountain-Pass Fort’s smoke could not have been lit at all. Three columns of smoke, one passing to the next — only so could the whole wall’s men put on their armor." He clapped Old Da on the shoulder, on the scorched armor. "The North Stockade’s smoke was the first warning of these thirty li of wall."

Old Da’s lips trembled, and no words came out. The fifty-nine men, all at once, straightened their backs.

"General!" Out of the crowd squeezed a young soldier — A-Song. "The Mountain-Pass Fort . . . the Mountain-Pass Fort’s smoke — I lit it. The centurion of the fort sent me and the River Fort’s man out, one rider each. He said smoke is worth more than men. Once the smoke is lit, the men have been well spent."

"And the Mountain-Pass Fort’s centurion?" Horenheb asked.

A-Song’s voice sank low. "At the withdrawal, he held the rear. He said his leg had an old wound, that he could not outrun a horse, and would not drag the others down." A-Song took a bronze tag out of his coat and held it up in both hands. "He told me to bring this back. He said to give it to the general. The Mountain-Pass Fort’s soldiers — not one ran."

Horenheb took the bronze tag. It was an old name plate, its edges worn bright. He closed his hand around it and gripped it. "Keep it." he said. "After the war, the Mountain-Pass Fort will raise a stele. This tag will be set into the stone."

"And the River Fort?" he asked.

"The River Fort came out whole." a one-armed sergeant said. "Our squad leader burned the grain store and brought the whole fort’s people back inside the wall. Three fell."

"Good." Horenheb said. "Forts may be given away. People may not. You withdrew rightly."

In the main camp, the cooking smoke rose. Three great pots stood in a row, simmering hot gruel. The routed men lined up, one bowl each. Old Da held his bowl without drinking and asked the cook on ladle duty: "Is there salt in this gruel?"

"There is." the cook said. "The general ordered it. Soldiers come back from defeat must first taste something salty. When the salt goes down, the spirit comes back."

"The spirit . . ." Old Da drank a mouthful, and his eyes suddenly went hot. "It is back."

Horenheb swung onto his horse and started for the border wall. A way out, he reined in. "Pass the word. The routed men — not one dismissed. Form them into three units and send them up the wall with the craftsmen. The north’s wall — the north’s own men will hold it."

"Yes!" The whole camp’s soldiers answered like one roll of thunder.

At the border wall, Seb had already arrived first.

He followed the northern centurion from east to west, looking over the thirty li of wall, point by point. Coming to River-Bend Mouth, he crouched at the foot of the wall and did not get up for a long while.

River-Bend Mouth was a gate the wall opened over water. A branch of the Nile ran from north to south, passing through the wall here. In the wall there was a water gate, and under the gate, barrier chains — laid last winter. Now, soaked in the water through the summer floods, the chains had loosened by three tenths. Where they hung slack, a gap opened. That gap would just take the prow of a small boat.

"The water has risen again." A voice came from behind him.

Seb turned. It was an old man, barefoot, his trouser legs rolled to the knee, a fish spear stuck through his belt. Behind the old man walked a half-grown child carrying a fish basket.

"Uncle Old River." Seb knew him — the old boatman of River-Bend Mouth, who had lived by the river forty years. "This gap — can a boat pass through it?"

"It cannot." Old River said.

"It cannot?"

"Not by day." Old River said. "Not when the water is high. But in the small hours, when the water drops half a foot — then the gap will pass. The boat’s bottom grazes the chains; the man on the pole lies flat; one push, and it slides in."

Seb’s face changed. "You have tried it?"

"Fishing, I have slipped through." Old River said. "I slipped in chasing a big one. I chased it to the foot of the wall, and dared go no farther south." He paused. "I am an Egyptian, slipping through my own house’s gap. Let a Hittite slip through, and that is the taking of lives."

"Can it be blocked?" Seb asked.

"It can." Old River said. "With stone. The river shoal has plenty. Fill it in under the water gate, then drive stakes. The stakes — use water-soaked hardwood, driven at a slant, in two rows. A boat’s prow strikes them, and it turns over of itself." He pointed out over the river. "Ahead of that, hang two nets. Leave the mesh small — a man cannot swim through, and a boat cannot pass either. It only costs labor."

"How much labor?"

"With enough men," Old River thought it over, "three days and two nights."

Seb said nothing. He crouched on the shoal, picked up a pebble, and drew in the sand. Water gate, stakes, nets, barrier chains. He drew and wiped out, wiped out and drew again.

"Uncle," he said suddenly, "is there anyone else in your household?"

"Just the two of us, grandfather and grandson." Old River said. "His mother passed two years ago. Little River, come here."

The child walked over and set the fish basket on the ground. In the basket, two fish were still beating their tails.

"Little River," Seb asked, "would you like to learn stake-driving?"

"Yes." Little River said. "I have seen the stake-driving masters. They eat journey cakes, three at a sitting."

"Then you must work first." Seb said. "Carry stakes. Carry a day, and you eat your fill."

"I will carry!" Little River said.

Old River laughed to one side, and as he laughed, the laughter stopped. He looked at the plan Seb had drawn in the sand. "Officer, this plan . . ."

"What of it?"

"It is drawn just like the river I have slipped through for forty years." Old River said. "This gap — I leave it to you."

Seb tossed the pebble away and stood up. "It is left to me. At dawn, the work begins."

Before dawn, the work began at River-Bend Mouth.

Seb split the two hundred craftsmen into three groups. One group went into the river to feel out the stake positions; one group prepared material on the shoal; one group went up the wall to repair the crenels on both sides of the water gate first. He himself stood into the water, up to his waist, steadying the first stake. The autumn-night water was cold enough to pierce bone.

"Drive them at a slant!" he shouted. "Slant them north! When a boat’s prow strikes, it takes the stake’s point first!"

The stakes were water-soaked hardwood, sharpened at one end, hemp rope bound to the other. Four men carried each stake, calling the work chant as they drove it down. With each ramming blow, the spray flew up and struck men’s faces like chips of ice.

"Stake positions — one every two feet!" Seb shouted again. "Two rows, staggered front and back! The first row takes the prow; the second takes the keel!"

"Officer," an old craftsman came over, "come up, do. Even the young ones cannot bear soaking in this water."

"What cannot be borne must be borne." Seb said. "Drive a stake one inch crooked, and a boat slips through by night. If I am not watching, I cannot sleep."

When he had spoken, he crouched a little deeper into the water, narrowed his eyes, and studied the slant of the stakes. Moonlight lay on the water’s face, white and glinting, and stretched his shadow out thin and long.

On the shoal, the nets were hung as well. Two nets stretched across the water, one end bound to a stone pier at the wall’s foot, the other to an old willow on the bank. The mesh was left only fist-sized — a man could not swim through, and an oar could not reach in. Old River stood in the water, pressing the nets’ lower edge into the mud, a stretch at a time, stamping it down with his foot as he went.

"Officer," he called, "the nets must be pressed half a foot into the mud. Press them shallow, and the current scours a gap beneath. The Hittites can swim — they will go straight for the nets’ bottom."

"Press them deep!" Seb answered. "Uncle, you have it right. The nets’ bottom edge matters more than their face."

A-Yan and his five came too. Each carried a small stake, running across the shoal. Every run, they fell twice, scrambled up, and ran on. Little River followed beside them, copying as he went. Too small to carry a stake, he carried the nets — two nets taller than himself, dragging on the ground with a rustling sound.

"Little River," A-Yan called to him, "nets are not carried like that. Roll them up and sling them over your arm!"

"I cannot roll them!" Little River shouted back. "They are heavier than me!"

"Then drag them!" A-Yan said. "Drag them to the foot of the wall — the masters will take them there!"

Little River dragged. Halfway, he sat down hard on his backside. He did not cry. He got up, brushed off the sand, and dragged on. Under the moonlight, a line of men, a line of nets, a line of stakes, came and went across the shoal, like a swarm of ants moving house — and their coming and going warmed the night itself.

In the small hours, Seb came up out of the water, wrapped himself in a blanket, and sat by the fire.

He beckoned A-Yan and his five over.

"Come, all of you. Look north."

The five youths sat down in a row and looked north. The northern sky was heavy black; only the firelight beyond the wall leapt in the distance.

"What do you see?" Seb asked.

"Fires." A-Yan said. "So many fires."

"Count them." Seb said. "Count the fire piles. One pile is one squad of ten. Ten piles are one hundred-man company."

The five youths counted. Counting, they lost the count. The campfires were too many; halfway through, the ones in front went out and the ones behind were lit anew.

"They cannot be counted . . ." A-Yan said, sheepish.

"That you cannot count them is right." Seb said. "Once war truly starts, no army’s campfires will let themselves be counted clear." He drew a line in the earth. "But what cannot be counted still has its way of being counted — watch how tall the fires are, how straight or slanted the smoke, how close the fires sit to one another. A low fire means men not fed full. Slanted smoke means the wind has turned. Fires pressed thick together mean they are about to strike."

When he had finished drawing, he looked up at them. "From today, the five of you watch the fires in turns. Two hours to a man. What you see, draw it on grass paper. Draw wrong, and I will scold. Draw right, and I will teach."

"Yes." the five youths answered together.

"One thing more." Seb said. "Do not be afraid. Every fire-watcher is afraid his first night. Watch long enough, and it becomes no more than watching the stars."

Little River had come over at some point without anyone noticing, crouched to one side, nodding hard as he listened. Seb looked at him. "You watch too. Once you have learned it, someone will be keeping the River-Bend Mouth’s wind direction for me."

"I will watch!" Little River said. "My grandpa says the eyes that read water can read fire the same way."

"Your grandpa has it right." Seb said.

The villages within thirty li of the wall all stirred in a single night.

Not fleeing. Moving.

The border folk pushed wheelbarrows, drove donkeys, carried hens, and led sheep, walking south along the post road. Their goods were not many, but every household had its hope: the grain must go, the livestock must go, and the seed must go above all — that was next year’s land.

The old hunter’s household moved slowest of all.

He packed item by item: bow, arrows, hides, dried meat. At the last, he took down three fox skins that had been drying half a year from the beam, rubbed them for a long while, and tucked them into his bundle.

"Pa," his son said, "fox skins are not worth much. Leave them."

"They come." the old hunter said. "The north is cold. Once we are south, trade them for a padded coat for your mother."

"Once we are south," his son laughed, "it will be time for planting. What need of a padded coat?"

"Planting or not, winter must be got through." The old hunter tied the bundle tight and hoisted it onto his shoulder. "Come. Lock the door. Lock it or not — once the wall holds, we will be coming back."

In the lane, a woman was tying grain sacks onto a donkey’s back, scolding as she tied: "I told you to harvest early, and you said it could sun two more days. Sun! Now look what the sunning has brought!"

Her man squatted to one side, sheepish. "The sunning was — well, I feared damp."

"Damp, damp — the wall is about to fight a war, and you fear damp grain?" the woman said. "If the grain falls into Hittite hands, that is worse than damp!"

At the village entrance, the mill had stopped. The miller swept the grain off the millstone clean, not one grain left, and stuffed a cloth into the mill’s eye. "The mill is empty and the people are gone. This mill will wait for us to come back and turn again."

In the smithy, the forge was sealed. The blacksmith struck the last piece of iron into the water — sss — and a plume of white smoke rose. He wrapped his tools one by one and buried them in the dry-grass pile in the corner. "No harm if the forge cools. While the tools are here and the craft is here, there will be work when we come back."

At the foot of the wall, a few children were driving their sheep together. The sheep bleated, and the children ran back and forth. The smallest one held fast to his sheep’s neck and would not let go. "My sheep — wherever I go, it comes with me!"

"Bring it, bring it." The northern centurion, riding past at the rear, smiled at the child. "In the south, the sheep will have grass to eat, and you will have milk to drink."

"And the wall?" the child asked.

"The wall?" the centurion said. "The wall is left to us. When you come back, it will still be standing."

"Do you mean it?"

"I mean it." the centurion said. "Folk like us are the wall’s nails. While the nails hold, the wall holds."

On the post road, the column stretched out far. No one wept, no one made a fuss. The older folk looked back as they walked, for one last sight of their own roofs; the young walked fast and still remembered to lend a hand to a wheelbarrow by the road. One household had gone one li when the old woman suddenly stopped. "The pot." she said. "We did not bring the pot."

"There is no grain in the pot." her son said.

"The pot is the home." the old woman said. "Wherever we go — set the pot on, and there is hearth smoke."

The son said nothing. He turned the donkey around, went home for the pot, and lashed it onto the donkey’s back. The black pot swung on the donkey’s back, clang, clang, as if the family’s heart swung with it, step by step, walking south.

That night, from top to bottom of the border wall, the firelight lasted all night.

All three thousand garrison soldiers went up the wall. Behind the arrow crenels, one row of men; on the wall walk, one row; and at the wall’s foot, one more row, working with the craftsmen — mixing mud, hauling bricks, passing material.

"Craftsmen build by day and stand watch by night." Seb stood below the wall, straining his voice. "The wages — doubled!"

"Doubled!" the craftsmen answered. When they had answered, one old master muttered: "Doubled or not . . . if the wall falls, what is there to draw wages with."

"With you saying that," Seb said, "the wall will not fall."

The night watches on the wall changed their order as well. Before, two watches a night; now, four. One watch on the wall, one resting below, one patrolling the wall, one boiling and carrying water. The centurions held the registers and called the roll, section by section. When the roll reached the North Stockade’s old company, Old Da stepped out, his voice hoarse: "North Stockade’s old company, fifty-nine men. Fifty-nine answered for."

"Good." the centurion said. "The general says your section is the North Stockade’s smoke — keep it burning."

"We will burn it." Old Da said.

The medical tent was pitched one li behind the wall, in a sheltered spot. The medicine boy who had escorted the carts led the men in unloading the medicine chests tagged "North", one by one. The old army physician of the town behind the wall came hurrying on his staff. Looking at the chests, he said: "Good, good. The frostbite formulas have arrived — worth more than any grain."

"The medicine must be spent sparingly." the medicine boy said. "Sister Shafi said the north line’s medicine is allotted by the rules of war. The heavy cases first, the light ones after."

"I know it." the old army physician said. "Heavy first, light after. Half my life I have lived, and this rule I learned in the north’s wind."

The three medical points also lit their lamps that night. One near the wall, one near the town, one near the post road. The lamp oil was the medical points’ own; the lamps were screened with straw matting so that only a thread of light showed. The old army physician walked to all three on his staff. "Do not let the lamps go out." he said. "When the north starts fighting, in the pitch dark a wounded soldier who cannot find the door is worse than his wound."

The grain storehouse in the town behind the wall had its lamps lit too. The wounded storehouse clerk stood at the storehouse door on his crutch, counting the grain carts. One of his legs he had lost to a Hittite arrow; the other stood straight.

"Grain, forty days." he called the count. "Two carts came in today. Tomorrow, the merchant house’s boats reach the north bank at River-Bend Mouth. From boat to storehouse is seventeen li, carried on men’s backs. How much gets carried in depends on whether anyone sleeps tonight."

"Sleep, nothing." the grain-escort centurion said. "Guard against the word ’hunger’ as you would an enemy. The grain counts only once it is in the storehouse."

"Right you are." the wounded storehouse clerk said. "This storehouse — I go on keeping it."

Toward evening on the fourth day, beyond the wall, a stretch of black rose over the shoal ground.

Not the night.

The camp.

The Hittite vanguard had pitched camp ten li beyond the wall. The campfires were lit patch after patch, joining from north to east, like a horizon burned red. Behind the firelight, horsemen could still be seen dimly, moving back and forth between the camp circles.

The soldiers on the wall said nothing. They lined their quivers up one by one under the crenels.

Horenheb went up the wall.

He walked from east to west, looking point by point. Coming to River-Bend Mouth, he stopped. Under the water gate, a good part of the stakes were already driven. Seb stood in the water, up to his waist, steadying stakes alongside the craftsmen.

"Officer," Horenheb said, "come up."

"General," Seb did not turn his head, "these stakes must be driven into the small hours."

"Stakes driven into the small hours, and a man holding out into the small hours." Horenheb said. "If you go down, who draws the plans for what comes after?"

Seb came up out of the water. His two legs were numb with cold. He stood at the wall’s foot and looked north. The firelight to the north lit his face half red, half blue-gray.

"General," he said, "they will come tomorrow morning."

"Let them." Horenheb said. "The wall counts for whatever point it is built to. When the fighting starts, what they must pass first is the stakes, the nets, the chains. They are fast — the wall is not slow either."

"The watch crews . . ."

"Made up." Horenheb said. "The North Stockade’s men, the Mountain-Pass Fort’s, the River Fort’s — all brought in. These men are used to watching smoke. Their eyes are brighter than torches."

Seb nodded.

On the shoal ground beyond the wall, a stir suddenly rose. The firelight rippled into disorder for a moment, then settled again. A few Hittite horsemen burst out of the camp and rode straight to within three li of the wall, wheeled a circle, and turned back.

"They are counting the torches on the wall." the northern centurion said.

"Let them count." Horenheb said. "Torches can be counted clear. Hearts cannot."

He stood on the wall’s head, his hand on his sword hilt. The north wind blew in from beyond the wall, carrying the smell of smoke, of grass, and of horse sweat. He cast his gaze far, past that stretch of campfires, toward the farther northern skyline.

The farther northern skyline was heavy black. Nothing could be seen.

But he knew that in that blackness there was something more. More horses, more fires, more iron-shod hooves wrapped in hemp, pressing south, inch by inch.

"Pass the word." he said. "Tonight, four watches in turn. Bows strung. Armor not to be taken off."

"Yes."

He looked north one last time, turned, and went down from the wall. A few steps on, he stopped and turned back to speak to the soldiers on the wall: "All of you, listen—"

Under the wall’s full spread of torches, face after face turned toward him, all at once.

"While the wall stands, I stand." Horenheb said. "While I stand, the northern sky will not come down."

In the wind, that one sentence passed along the thirty li of wall, section by section. It reached River-Bend Mouth, it reached the section held by the North Stockade’s old company, and at last it settled into the ears of every man on the wall.

Just past midnight, in the reed bed below the wall, a sound rose.

First came the flutter of water birds’ wings; then, a few strings of the lightest footsteps, hugging the water, feeling their way toward the wall’s foot.

The soldiers on the wall had long been waiting. They did not shout, did not move. When those strings of footsteps came within thirty paces, the centurion hurled the torch in his hand down the wall—

The firelight flared — sss — and there, crouching in the reed bed, were seven or eight dark shapes.

"Shoot!"

The arrows went down, and a whole patch fell. The rest turned and ran, faster than hares. One man only, an arrow in his leg, was dragged back.

He was a Hittite scout. Not old, his lips purple with cold, his whole body soaked.

"Put questions to him." the northern centurion said.

An old soldier who knew the Hittite tongue crouched down and spoke a few words with him. At first the scout clenched his teeth; later, his leg likely hurting him badly, he spilled his words out brokenly.

"He says," the veteran interpreter turned back, "the vanguard is twenty thousand horse. His squad came to probe the water road. The shoal by the river mouth is shallow. Horsemen can wade across."

"Twenty thousand." The northern centurion’s face darkened.

"And behind them?" Horenheb had come up the wall at some point, no one knew when. He stood under the torch, his shadow thrown out long.

"He says," the interpreter asked a few more questions, "the main camp is still in the north. The commander-in-chief has not moved. The grain train is still on the road."

"The grain train has not arrived, and the vanguard dares to cross the river." Horenheb said. "This vanguard general is a man who counts his soldiers cheaper than grain."

He walked up to the scout and looked down at him. The boy was curled into a ball, shaking all over.

"Treat his wound." Horenheb said. "When he is treated, send him behind the wall. His one mouth is traded for his one life."

"General," the northern centurion said in a low voice, "we do not kill him?"

"Kill one scout," Horenheb said, "and do we get one more mouthful of meat?" He turned and walked down the wall. "Keep him. When the war is over, send him back to tell how Egypt’s wall held twenty thousand horse out on the shoal."

At the wall’s foot, an old soldier who had kept the night watch half his life was telling the new recruits old tales.

"The Hittites have three loves." The old soldier sat cross-legged, his voice low. "They love the night, love the fog, love the snow. At night, men tire; in fog, eyes go blind; in snow, hands go stiff. On all three, they have always gotten the better of us."

"Then what do we do?" a recruit asked.

"What do we do?" the old soldier said. "They love the night — we burn the night into daylight. They love the fog — we listen. Listen for hooves, for oars, for breathing." He pointed at his own ear. "An old soldier’s ears are worth more than his eyes."

"And the snow?"

"Snow," the old soldier laughed, "snow is good. The moment snow falls, their horses founder. With horses foundered, the men are living targets." He looked toward the firelight in the north. "The earlier heaven’s snow comes, the steadier the wall."

The recruits listened, spellbound; not one of them drowsed now. The wind came from the north and blew the old soldier’s words, one word at a time, into thirty li of night.

The soldiers on the wall hardly slept that night.

Some crouched behind the crenels, sharpening arrowheads over and over. The whetstone went sch, sch, sch in the night wind, like silkworms chewing mulberry leaves. Some filled their water skins full and set them at hand. Some took from their coats a wooden tablet with their family’s names carved on it, and rubbed it with their fingers, again and again. No one spoke. Yet on the thirty li of wall there was something that, in the silence, grew more and more solid, more and more heavy.

"General," below the wall, a watch soldier came up beside Horenheb, "rest a while yourself. You were up on the wall before dawn."

"I have rested." Horenheb said.

"You call that resting?" the soldier said. "On horseback, your eyes shut for a quarter of an hour."

"A quarter of an hour," Horenheb said, "on the border pass, is a whole night."

In the small hours, Horenheb called Seb into the command tent below the wall.

No great lamp was lit inside; a single small oil lamp stood on the map of the northern border.

"The first line," Horenheb said, "is nailed down like this. But a war cannot be fought only at the wall’s foot." His knuckles rapped on the map. "The second line and the third line must move."

"They will move." Seb said. "Six towers on the second line — the first one goes up tomorrow. I circled the tower sites by day." He took the map out of his coat, spread it open, and pointed to three newly drawn circles on it. "The towers stand thirty li behind the wall, one every five li. Each tower thirty feet high — stone base, mud-brick body, a wooden watch-room on top. Up a tower, and everything within ten li to the north can be seen clear."

"Seen clear — and then?" Horenheb asked.

"Then," Seb said, "the towers pass smoke between them. One smoke, peace. Two smokes, alarm. Three smokes, call for aid. The moment the battle opens on the wall, the towers thirty li away know within the time of one stick of incense. The towers know, and the towns behind them know."

"And farther back?"

"Farther back," Seb said, "are the Mountain-Pass forts. Two of them, sealing the mountain passes. That work is slowest — it will take a year." He paused. "But when the Mountain-Pass forts rise a year from now, the northern border’s depth will at last have its bones."

Horenheb said nothing. He looked at the map a while. "The towers must hold men, keep watch, and store grain." he said. "In the days of war, the towers are the wall’s eyes."

"Storing grain." Seb added a stroke to the map. "Under each tower, dig a cellar. Grain stored above ground, water stored below. The men in the tower will never go a meal short."

"And medicine." Horenheb said. "Behind the towers, in the sheltered spots, leave ground for medical points. The wounded come down from the wall to the medical points first, and only then to the towers."

"Taken down." Seb said. "Towers, cellars, medical points — three things. Tomorrow, they all move together."

The lamp flame popped — pa. The two men bent close under the lamp, one pointing, one drawing. The wind outside the tent crept in through the seams of the door curtain and set the flame swaying back and forth, like a small flag signaling in secret to the night beyond the wall.

Beyond the wall, the fog rose.

Milky-white fog drifted over from the river’s face and wrapped up the shoal ground and the campfires alike. In the fog, there were hoofbeats — not a charge, but the patrol of a camp. One after another they came from the north, like a great beast on the far side of the fog, slowly sharpening its claws.

A-Song stood behind a crenel, staring into the fog. The hand that gripped his spear was white with strain.

"Do not be afraid." Beside him, Old Da’s voice rose. "The fog will not last. The wind will blow it open."

"Squad leader," A-Song said, "I am not afraid. It is just . . ."

"Just what?"

"That I miss the North Stockade." A-Song said. "From the North Stockade’s wall, you could see this same fog."

Old Da said nothing. After a long while, he reached out and patted the back of A-Song’s head. "Then keep missing it. The North Stockade’s smoke — we go on lighting it. While its smoke burns, we and the North Stockade are still under the one sky."

The fog thickened and thickened.

In the fog, the torches on the wall glowed one by one, red as hearts hung in midair.

To the north, behind that stretch of campfires, in the Hittite vanguard’s war tent, someone spread a sheepskin map on the table. At the map’s south end a line was drawn — those thirty li of wall. His finger moved slowly from north to south, and came to rest on the line.

"Three days." He spoke to the commanders under his tent. "Three days I give you, to gnaw a breach open in this wall."

"The grass has not yellowed through," one commander said, "the horses . . ."

"Grass," the vanguard general cut him off, "once it yellows through, the Egyptians’ wall will have been built through as well." He raised his head. "Pass the order down. Tomorrow, cross the river."

Outside the tent, the wind snapped the war banners, pa, pa. In the shadows of the flags, the vanguard’s horsemen were wrapping their horses’ hooves afresh — a layer of hemp, then a layer of grass. The hoofbeats, in the night, were light as nothing at all.

Yet every man on the thirty li of wall heard them.

The fog drifted up from the river’s face onto the wall’s head, and folded in the torches along its whole length. To the north, the horizon of joined campfires had drawn ten li nearer in a single night. On the thirty li of wall, three thousand arrows were on the string, and three thousand pairs of eyes were fixed on the north. They knew that after dawn, this wall that had stood three years was about to meet the fiercest blow since the day it rose. And behind the wall, the second line’s towers were still gray lines drawn one by one on paper; the third line’s Mountain-Pass forts were still buried under the northern border’s earth. Beyond the wall, the hemp-wrapped hooves had already begun to move. The day was about to break.

(End of Chapter 1)