"Wilbur Smith - Egyptian 01 - Warlock" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Wilbur)

The blue war crown on Tamose's head gleamed with mica dust, and his eyes were bloodshot with tiny
lumps of tear-wet mud in the corners as he glanced down at Nefer. This is where I will leave you to go
on with Taita.'



Although he knew that it was futile to protest, Nefer opened his mouth to do so. The squadron was
going in against the enemy. Pharaoh Tamose's battle plan was to circle south through the Great Dunes
and weave a way between the bitter natron lakes to take the enemy in his rear and rip an opening in his
centre through which the Egyptian legions, massed and waiting on the Nile bank before Abnub, could
pour. Tamose would combine the two forces and before the enemy could rally, drive on past Tell
el-Daba and seize the enemy citadel of Avaris.



It was a bold and brilliant plan which, if it succeeded, would bring to a close, at one stroke, the war with
the Hyksos that had already raged through two lifetimes. Nefer had been taught that battle and glory
were the reasons for his existence on this earth. But, even at the advanced age of fourteen years, they
had so far eluded him. He longed with all his soul to ride to victory and immortality at his father's side.



Before his protest could pass his lips, Pharaoh forestalled him. 'What is the first duty of a warrior?' he
demanded of the boy.



Nefer dropped his eyes. 'It is obedience, Majesty,' he replied softly, reluctantly.



'Never forget it.' Pharaoh nodded and turned away.



Nefer felt himself spurned and discarded. His eyes smarted and his upper lip quivered, but Taita's gaze
stiffened him. He blinked to clear his vision of tears, and took a pull from the waterskin that hung on the
side rail of the chariot before turning to the old Magus with a jaunty toss of his thick dust-caked curls.
'Show me the monument, Tata,' he commanded.



The ill-assorted pair made their way through the concourse of chariots, men and horses that choked the
narrow street of the ruined city. Stripped naked in the heat, twenty troopers had climbed down the deep
shafts to the ancient wells, and formed a bucket chain to bring the sparse, bitter water to the surface.
Once those wells had been bountiful enough to support a rich and populous city that sat full upon the
trade route between the Nile and the Red Sea. Then, centuries ago, an earthquake had shattered the
water-bearing stratum and blocked the subterranean flow. The city of Gallala had died of thirst. Now
there was scarcely sufficient water to slake the thirst of two hundred horses and top up the waterskins
before the wells were dry.