Chapter 123 - 2: Defense in Depth — The Chain of Defense Moves North

Chapter 123: Chapter 2: Defense in Depth — The Chain of Defense Moves North

Before the day had fully lightened, on the shoal ground beyond the wall, the sound of water rose.

Not the sound of the river. The sound of hooves treading water.

"They are crossing!" the lookout soldier shouted. "The Hittites — crossing the river!"

The fog had not yet cleared. On the shoal ground, company after company of horsemen was going down into the water from the north bank and wading toward the south. The water was not deep, up to the horses’ bellies. The men on horseback carried their bows slung across their backs, their long spears laid across the saddles before them. They did not shout, did not sound their horns — just pressed south, quietly, one company after another.

The soldiers on the wall all stood up.

"Do not move." Horenheb’s voice came down from the wall’s head. "Let them cross."

"General . . ." A centurion gripped his bow.

"Ten li of shoal ground, open, no cover." Horenheb said. "Our arrows from the wall cannot reach. Let them come close, and then it is ours." He paused. "Pass the word. Every section — arrows on the string, men flat to the crenels. When they come within three hundred paces, wait for the drum."

The drum stood behind the wall. The drummer was a one-armed old soldier, and the drumstick in his hand was squeezed wet with sweat.

On the river’s face, the water sounded shh, shh, like a great rain falling. The watch soldiers lay behind the crenels, counting the shadows in the water sound. One, ten, a hundred . . . and counting, they lost the count. Those horsemen in the fog rose up as if out of the ground, layer after layer, with no end.

"Stop counting." the old soldier beside him said in a low voice. "Counting shadows wears out the eyes. Listen to the water. When the water sound thins, they have come onto the shoal. Once they are on the shoal, it is our turn."

The Hittites waded to the middle of the shoal, and suddenly stopped.

The foremost reined in their horses and looked up at the wall. They looked for a while. One flag-bearer shook his flag three times. The whole host began to spread out where it stood, scattering across the ground like water poured over the shoal. Their formation broken, they moved forward again, extremely slow, a few steps at a time, as if testing the wall’s temper.

"They are waiting for us to strike first." the northern centurion said in a low voice.

"Let them wait." Horenheb said. "The first to strike is the first to show his hand."

When the sun rose over the river, the Hittites pulled back.

They pulled back slowly too, unhurried, the rear ranks withdrawing in reverse, like a tide going off the shoal, leaving the ground full of hoofprints. The soldiers on the wall lowered their bows, little by little. One young soldier’s hand was still locked on the bowstring, and would not loosen for a long while.

"The first bout," Horenheb said, "we did not move. The next, they will mean business." He turned and looked toward the ground behind the wall. "The craftsmen?"

"They went to work before dawn." the northern centurion said.

"Good." Horenheb said. "The work behind the wall matters more than the work on it."

Thirty li behind the wall, on the high knoll, Seb was already measuring the tower site.

The first tower was sited on an earth knoll. The knoll was not high, but standing on it, the river shoal ten li to the north could be seen clear. Seb led the men in running lines over the knoll’s top, squaring it off. The lines were drawn extremely fine, and the wind set them humming.

"Here." he said. "The tower goes up on this knoll. The knoll is a ready-made foundation — three tenths less earth to dig."

"Officer," an old ramming hand said, "this knoll is Rabbit Hill. The rabbits of the north all dig their holes here. A tower set on top would stand on hollow ground. It would not hold."

"It will hold." Seb crouched, caught up a handful of earth, and rolled it between his fingers. "The rabbits’ holes are shallow. We dig the foundation down three feet first, dig every hole out, then ram it dead, layer by layer." He let the earth fall. "When we ram, mix in lime. The north’s earth freezes once and thaws once, and it turns crumbly. With lime in it, it crumbles slower."

"How many tenths of lime?"

"One and a half." Seb said. "More, and the earth is too dry to ram firm. Less, and it does no good."

The old ramming hand said no more. He crouched down beside Seb, caught up a handful of earth, and rolled it between his fingers. After a while he nodded: "That is the truth of it. The west line’s wall was rammed the same way."

"The west line’s way, in the north, must be changed." Seb said. "The north’s frozen earth is harsher than the west line’s. The west line’s wall foot gets a foot of grass ash bedding; the north’s gets a foot and a half." He noted a stroke on the map. "Under the tower base, lay the grass ash first, then ram. The ash drinks the damp. When the frozen earth thaws in the spring, the water cannot seep in, and the tower base does not sink."

"Grass ash," the old ramming hand said, "within thirty li around, every household’s stove holds it ready-made."

"Take it in." Seb said. "By the basket. One basket of grass ash counts against half a day’s wages."

The word went out, and the town behind the wall’s cooking smoke rose one hour earlier than usual. Household after household scraped its stove out clean, and the grass ash went into baskets, basket after basket carried up to the knoll. One old woman scraped out even the last pinch of ash from her stove’s firebox. "Half a lifetime of stoking the stove," she said, "and only now I learn that stove ash can lay a tower’s footing."

"It can." the ash-receiving soldier said. "This ash of yours will shield the tower base through three springs."

"Three springs," the old woman said, "then it is worth it."

Before the ash-receiving table, a line formed. The baskets were big and small, the ash much and little. The weighing lad took them one by one, and what he weighed was not weight but baskets. One half-grown child came with a small basketful of ash, and just as the lad was about to count it half a basket, the child would not have it: "I sifted mine! Fine ash works better than coarse!"

"Sifted?" The lad caught up a pinch of ash and rolled it. "So it is. All right — count it one full basket."

The child grinned, took the work token, and ran off flying. Two steps out, he turned back and shouted: "Tomorrow I will sift two more basketfuls!"

The tower base was dug open. The rabbit holes ran one after another, sure enough. Seb led the men in filling them, one by one. Fill one, ram a layer; fill another, ram again. Rammed down to three feet, he began to lay the stone base upward. The stones were gathered from the river shoal, big and small, the joints pointed with lime mortar. Each course laid, the plumb line was checked once. The one checking the lines was the nine-fingered veteran.

The veteran crouched by the stone base, one eye narrowed, watching the line. When he had watched, he said: "The east end is out by less than half a finger."

"Take it down." Seb said.

"Half a finger . . ." the stone-carrying lad said. "Officer Seb, half a finger — no one can see it."

"You cannot see it today, and you cannot see it tomorrow." Seb said. "But the tower is thirty feet high — half a finger crooked at the bottom, and the top leans out half a foot." He did it himself, pried the stone up, and re-bedded it in mortar. "A leaning wall can be patched. A leaning tower is ruined whole. A tower is lived in — a man at the top watching north, his eye off by half a hair, and the enemy’s bearing is wrong by ten li."

"Wrong by ten li . . ." the lad clicked his tongue. "Then take it down it is."

When the stone base stood waist-high, the tower’s body began to grow upward. The mud bricks had been cast the day before, mixed with grass fiber, one pressed on another with staggered joints. The brick-carriers lined up in two rows, passing from below the knoll to the top — men unceasing, bricks unceasing. The soldiers hauled the water up, dan by dan, poured into the mud-mixing pit. The four rammers worked two men to a rammer, calling the work chant, striking blow after blow. The sound of ramming carried far; the wild rabbits below the knoll fled south in flocks.

When it rose a man’s height, Seb had them stop and lay a course of reeds into the wall’s heart.

A-Yan and his five put their hands in too. Each carried a bundle of reeds up from below the knoll. One lad, hurrying, fell, and the reeds scattered down the slope. He scrambled up and, never minding the dirt on him, picked them up one by one first.

"Pick them all up." Seb said. "A reed broken is a reed useless. The reeds in this tower must hold back the wind for a hundred years."

"A hundred years . . ." the lad gaped. "Then am I not working for people a hundred years from now?"

"You are." Seb said. "The wall at Date-Grove Village on the west line — I raised it. Now the village’s children run at its foot. The tower you raise will have children running under it a hundred years from now too."

The lad said nothing. He bound the reeds up neat and carried them up the tower. This time, he walked with particular care.

"Laying the reeds." Seb explained to the watching soldiers. "The north wind can blow through a man. However thick the mud bricks, the wind finds the seams. With a course of reeds laid in, the wind enters and loses its force."

"And when the reeds rot?" a soldier asked.

"The north is dry." Seb said. "Reeds sealed in a wall will not rot through in a hundred years. The west line’s wall has had its reeds six years — opened and looked at, they are still new."

"The west line’s wall . . ." the soldier said. "The one General Horen held?"

"It is." Seb said. "Now, we raise another line in the north."

As the day neared dark, the tower’s body had already passed twenty feet.

The carpenters hauled the wooden watch-room at the top up in sections. The watch-room had been assembled below the knoll by day, with watch openings left on all four sides, its roof covered with reed matting and pressed over with a layer of grass-ash mud. Hoisted to the tower’s top, the carpenters climbed up and nailed away, ding, dang. Halfway through the nailing, the moon rose and threw the tower’s shadow long down the knoll’s slope.

"One more day," Seb said, "and the first tower can take men."

"Take men?" The northern centurion happened to be making his rounds. "Who goes up?"

"Four to start. Two old soldiers, two young lads." Seb said. "The old soldiers read the enemy; the young learn to read the smoke." He shouted down the knoll. "A-Yan!"

"Here!" A-Yan ran up.

"For the first tower, two of your five go up." Seb said. "One for the day watch, one for the night watch. Watch the smoke, watch the fires, watch the hooves. What you see, draw it down. In three days, I examine you."

"I will go!" A-Yan said. "Give me the night watch."

"The nights are cold." Seb said.

"Cold, then wear more." A-Yan said. "Someone must be first up the north’s tower. I go up first and plant my feet firm on the ladder — then the ones after me will not be afraid."

Seb looked at him. "Done." he said. "Before you go up, run your hand over the tower base’s grass ash from bottom to top. Once your hands know it, the tower is yours."

The cellar below the tower was being dug through the night as well.

The cellar was dug on the tower base’s north side, in the shade, deeper than a man’s height, timber beams laid across the top, reed matting spread over them, earth pressed on top of that. Half the cellar held grain, half held water. The water was carried up from the little river below the knoll, bucket by bucket, lowered down on ropes. The keeper of the cellar was a mute veteran. He gestured, directing the men to stack the grain sacks on the timber frames, half a foot off the ground; the water jars stood at the cellar’s mouth, first taken, first drunk.

"This cellar," Seb said, "is worth nearly half a storehouse. The men on the tower, out of grain, out of water, come and take from the cellar. If the enemy besieges the tower, the men inside can hold seven days on this cellar."

"Seven days." The mute veteran gestured, nodded, and pointed again at the cellar’s roof.

"Right." Seb said. "The cellar roof must take a man’s weight and not cave. Tomorrow, lead a donkey over it and around twice. If donkey hooves do not cave it, men will not."

The mute veteran grinned. He stacked one more layer of grain inside, neat and tidy, as if stacking the rice jar in his own house.

The medical point went up in those two days as well.

It stood against a sheltered slope behind the tower — mud-brick walls on three sides, one side open, timber beams over the top, straw matting spread across. Inside were two straw pallets, one medicine rack, and one pot for boiling water. The old army physician walked the place through inside and out on his staff. "The open side faces south." he said. "The north wind cannot reach it, and the sun shines in. Good."

"Old sir," Seb asked, "what is still short?"

"A lamp." the old army physician said. "Wounded come by night, and in the pitch dark you cannot even see the wounds. I will go ask the town for lamp oil. Once it comes, this medical point can save lives by day and by night."

"The lamp oil, I approve it." Seb said. "It should have been on the north line’s list to begin with. I missed it."

"You who draw plans — how could you think of everything." The old army physician waved a hand. "A medical point short one lamp is not your fault. But in wartime, one mistake in one place is one life. So — whatever there is, hide nothing. Speak."

"I hide nothing." Seb said. "From today, on the north’s worksites, whoever has a word speaks it. If it is spoken wrong, I set it right."

"Then let me speak one word about you first." the old army physician said. "Your tower is set too true. The north wind is strong, and the wooden watch-room on top will cry at night. It cries like ghosts wailing — the lads holding the tower will surely wet their pants the first night."

Seb blinked, then laughed. "Then I will have the watch-room’s seams plastered shut with grass-ash mud. Shut tight, and it will not cry."

"That is the way." The old army physician laughed too. "A wall is dead; men are alive. Living men holding a dead wall — first settle the living comfortably."

The medical point’s first pot of water came to the boil. The old army physician had the apprentice ladle it out and set it to cool. "Hot water is not only for drinking." he said. "When a wounded man comes, give him a hot mouthful first, and his spirit comes back. It is the north’s medical points’ old rule."

The words had not landed when a wounded soldier truly came. He had fallen back from the North Stockade, and the old wound on his arm, after these two days of walking, had opened again. The old army physician had him sit, took off the binding, washed the wound, and changed the dressing. The soldier drew in sharp breaths of pain, but made no sound.

"Hurt, then cry out." the old army physician said.

"I will not." the soldier said. "When the North Stockade’s wall fell, I did not cry out. This little pain is nothing."

"A wall fallen can be raised again." the old army physician said. "A wound gone rotten, and the arm is gone." His hands did not stop. "This arm of yours must be kept, to go back up the North Stockade’s wall."

"The North Stockade . . ." The soldier’s eyes lit up, and went dark again. "The stockade is gone."

"The stockade is gone, but the ground remains." the old army physician said. "While the ground remains, the stockade can be raised again. Do not hurry. First nurse this arm back."

The medical point’s door curtain lifted, and another man came in. It was a watch soldier from the wall; both his hands were split all over, the blood seeping out and staining the spear shaft a patch of red.

"The north wind," he said, sheepish, "bites the hands."

"It is not the wind biting your hands." the old army physician said. "It is wet hands gripping iron. On night watch, the dew gets on your hands, and then holding the spear, the skin splits." He had the apprentice bring warm water and pressed the watch soldier’s hands into it. Once they were soaked soft, he put on the medicine. "The frostbite formulas — Master Imset copied out thirty, sent north with the boats. This is the first one, used on your hands."

"Master Imset?" the watch soldier said. "The priest of Thebes who heals?"

"He is." the old army physician said. "Now, his formulas work on the north’s soldiers’ hands at the foot of the north’s wall."

The watch soldier looked at the cloth bound around his hands and flexed his fingers twice. "This formula is kinder than heaven."

"It is not the formula that is kind." the old army physician said. "It is people who are kind. With kind people, the formula works." He wrapped another layer of cloth for the soldier. "Go back now. Before your watch, keep your hands out of water. If they touch water, rub on this." He pressed over a small jar of ointment. "Spread it on, and the wind cannot bite through."

The watch soldier pocketed the ointment and left. The door curtain fell, and in the medical point there was only the sound of the pot again, glug, glug, steaming.

Towers, cellars, medical points — three things moving together. On the worksite, by day and by night, the people never stopped.

That night, Seb raised a torch and called his four apprentices of the north before him. Four youths, brought up by him one by one in these three years in the north. Now one had charge of the east end’s material yard, one of the west end’s hauling road, one of the middle section’s tamping crew, one of the south’s accounts. The four stood in a row, hands tucked into their sleeves, stamping their feet against the cold.

"All of you, listen." Seb said. "The towers — the first one takes men tomorrow. The five behind it must all stand within half a month. The four of you hold one corner each. On whose corner a tower falls, a cellar leaks, or a medical point goes unlit, I will be asking him."

"Yes." the four youths answered.

"One thing more." Seb said. "The north’s wind is harsher than the south’s. Your accounts, your material, your lines — tuck them all away. What the wind carries off is not paper. It is the wall."

The four youths left. Seb crouched by the fire and spread the second line’s map over his knees again. On the map, the six towers, like six eyes, stood in a line from east to west. He looked at it a long time and said in a low voice: "Once the towers stand, these thirty li of wall will at last have a spine."

Early the next morning, Seb took two of his apprentices and walked the six tower sites through, end to end.

They walked a straight line. From the west end to the east end, a whole day of walking. At every tower site, he climbed a high knoll and looked both ways, ahead and behind — if he could see the tower site before and the tower site behind, only then was the site chosen right.

"Between tower and tower," he taught as he walked, "the one thing that matters most is that each can see the next. Seen, the smoke can pass. The west line’s towers stand one every three li. The north’s ground is flat, so one every five li is just right."

"Master," the eldest apprentice said, "the fourth tower site from the east — that place is a hollow. Standing on it, you cannot see the fifth."

"Cannot see it?" Seb said. "That will not do. A tower’s eyes cut off in a hollow, and the smoke is cut off. A tower with its smoke cut is a lone post."

He led the men in moving the fourth site half a li north. Moved onto a gentle slope, he climbed up and looked again — the one before and the one behind were both in sight.

"Move it half a li," Seb said, "half a li more walking, one more smoke road saved. That half li is worth it."

By dark they had re-set five of the six sites. The last one was not moved, standing on the high cliff at the far west end. Seb stood at the cliff’s edge and looked north. The northern river, in the dusk, had become a gray-white line. On the far bank, points of firelight floated, one here, one there.

On the way back, a sheep-herding border man caught up with them. "Officer," he said, "you hunting tower sites — I know a spring, right in the hollow under the fourth tower from the east. That water is sweet."

"A spring in the hollow?" Seb asked.

"There is." the herder said. "Three years of drought, and that spring never ran dry. My sheep live on it."

"Good." Seb said. "The tower moves to the slope, and the spring stays in the hollow. The men on the tower will walk half a li more for water, but the spring is sweet. Sweet water nourishes better than dead water." He paused. "This spring must be fenced in. In the days of war, water is life."

"Fence it!" the herder said. "I will help you fence it. The stones — I know the way."

"Done." Seb said. "Work starts tomorrow. Come. The wages go down under your name."

The herder was pleased. He cracked his whip and drove his flock off in a burst of speed. The bleating scattered through the dusk in a string, like a string of little bells rolling down the slope.

"Master," the youngest apprentice said, "how is it the north’s people know everything?"

"People who have lived a whole life on their own ground," Seb said, "with their eyes shut, are better than outsiders with their eyes open. Building the wall, we must first learn to ask them." He clapped the youngest on the shoulder. "Plans are dead. The people on the ground are alive."

At noon on the third day, Horenheb came below the tower.

He came alone, with no guards. First he stood below the tower base a while, looking up. The tower’s body had nearly topped out; the craftsmen were hoisting the wooden watch-room up. When he had seen the tower, he went to see the cellar. At the cellar’s mouth, the mute veteran was carrying grain in. Seeing him, the veteran gestured a few signs.

"He says," the man beside translated, "the grain in the cellar, by the count of men — eight men on the tower — will feed them forty days."

"Good." Horenheb said. "Enough."

Last he walked to the medical point’s door, did not go in, and looked inside through the curtain. The old army physician came out to meet him: "General, come in for a drink of water?"

"I will not." Horenheb said. "I came only to look. The tower, the cellar, the medical point — all three moving. That is well."

"Rest easy, General." the old army physician said. "The north’s wind is hard. Our people are harder than the wind."

Horenheb nodded. He turned to leave, then suddenly stopped. "Old sir," he said, "in the days of war, this medical point of yours must have someone in it by day and by night. Short of hands, speak to Seb. The wall’s soldiers can come lend a hand in turn too."

"With that word from the general," the old army physician said, "I will go ask for men this very moment."

Horenheb left. When he was far off, the people in the medical point were still looking out after him. One apprentice said quietly: "General Horen — so he can speak this many words after all."

"That was not talk." the old army physician said. "That was lighting fires. He lit a fire in our hearts. Keeping watch from now on — who will cry of cold?"

On the third day, the work opened on the shoal ground too.

Not work on the wall. Work beyond the wall — the shallow trench, the horse-stopping stakes, the horse traps.

Seb explained the scheme to the centurion leading the crew: "The trench is dug crosswise, three hundred paces beyond the wall — ten feet wide, three feet deep, lime scattered inside. By night, the lime throws back the moonlight, and the trench’s edge shows clear. A charging horse puts its forelegs into empty air first."

"And behind the trench," the centurion asked, "the stakes?"

"Stakes." Seb said. "Twenty paces behind the trench, horse-stopping stakes. The north’s horses are tall, so the stakes are lengthened to four feet, set slanting, two feet into the earth. One row is not enough — two rows, staggered front and back." He drew in the ground. "A horse jumps the trench and strikes the stakes. If it misses the stakes, it treads into a horse trap. The trap’s mouth is small and its bottom deep — once a hoof goes in, it cannot be pulled out."

"This work," the centurion said, "done by night?"

"By night." Seb said. "By day the Hittite scouts have their eyes on us. Work at night, finish before dawn. One stretch a day — one stretch of shoal every three days."

That night, hidden fires were lit on the shoal. The torches were wrapped in black cloth, letting through only a thread of light. The diggers were all able-bodied men of the north — the very ones who had seen their families south and then hurried back to hold the wall. They called no work chant, only dug with their heads down. The spades went in — sch — and the earth flew up and fell back on the shoal, soft, with no echo.

One lad, digging, suddenly laughed.

"What are you laughing at?" the man beside him asked.

"I was remembering my grandpa’s saying," the lad said, "that the north’s land grows no good crops. But this trench, dug down, is more useful than crops." He swung his spade. "Crops feed men. The trench shields men."

"If your grandpa were still alive," the man beside him said, "he would surely praise you."

"Praise or not," the lad said, "once the wall holds, I will add a handful of earth to his grave."

Before dawn, one stretch of the shoal’s defenses was finished. The men came back caked in mud, their shoes full of sand. Yet every face carried a little smile. The mess brought hot soup to the wall’s foot, one bowl to a man. When they had drunk, someone said in a low voice: "This soup puts more strength into a man than wine."

"Strength in you, then keep working." the centurion said. "Rest four hours. At midday, up the wall."

On the fourth day, beyond the wall, there was new movement.

In the Hittite camp, some great implements had appeared. The men on the watchtowers reported down: scaling ladders, over twenty; rams, six; and heap after heap of earth bags, stacked like small hills. The horsemen began to drill, one company east to west, one company west to east, riding back and forth across the shoal, the dust they raised hanging for half the day.

"They mean to attack." the northern centurion said.

"The day is about right." Horenheb said. "The grain train has not come, but the earth bags have. This vanguard general means to fill our trench with earth bags and climb our wall with ladders."

"Then we . . ."

"Wait." Horenheb said. "By showing their household goods, they are telling us which day they will strike." He stood on the wall’s head, his hand on his sword hilt. "Pass the word down. The wall goes on being mended. The work goes on being done. He sets his formation; we ram our earth. Whoever loses his nerve first, loses first."

That night, Horenheb called all the wall’s centurions to the middle section.

"How the first battle is fought, I will make it clear tonight." His knuckles rapped on the crenel. "In the first battle, they will surely strike River-Bend Mouth. The water gate there is the softest soft spot in their eyes."

The centurions listened, each more intently than the last.

"The fighting has three layers." Horenheb said. "First layer, the pits on the shoal — they fill the pits, we shoot. Second layer, stakes and nets — they clear the stakes, we fling fire oil. Third layer, only then the wall. They climb the wall, and we fight hand to hand." He paused. "Wear them down layer by layer. Wear them until their men pile up on the shoal — and half the first battle is won."

"And the other half?" someone asked.

"The other half," Horenheb said, "is behind the wall." He nodded to the northern centurion.

The northern centurion stepped out: "Horsemen, two hundred. Not to hold the wall — to strike the grain road alone. Their grain train comes from the north, and there is only one post road. We ride around them and burn them once, and they must draw in once." He paused. "In the first battle, I lead the ride."

"And the towers." Horenheb said. "The men on the towers report whatever they see. One smoke, two smokes, three smokes — not one word may be wrong." He swept his eyes over them all. "All understood?"

"Understood!"

"Dismissed." Horenheb said. "Tonight, sleep well. From tomorrow, there will be no sleep."

The centurions dispersed. Horenheb stood on the wall a while, then suddenly asked Seb beside him: "The smoke signals — tested?"

"Tested." Seb said. "By day, the tower lit two piles of smoke. The wall saw them within the time of one stick of incense." He paused. "One smoke, peace. Two smokes, alarm. Three smokes, call for aid. The west line’s old way works just the same in the north."

"The west line’s way," Horenheb said, "once saved the west line. Now it is the north’s turn."

The river boats came on the night of the fourth day.

Old Camel’s fleet, five boats, groping through the dark, made land on the north bank at River-Bend Mouth. The landing place was a stretch of water from the wall, and on the shallows of the bend, people had long been waiting — Seb’s arrangement, a few dozen able-bodied young men, leading donkeys, holding torches.

"Unload!" Old Camel stood at the prow, holding his voice down. "Grain into the storehouse first, material next, medicine last — lift light, set down light!"

Sack after sack of grain came down from the boats and went up onto the donkeys’ backs. Under the torches, the shadows bustled, and no one had time to talk. Seventeen li of road, men driving donkeys and donkeys carrying grain, step by step toward the storehouse in the town behind the wall.

"Uncle Old Camel." Seb came up from the bank. "How many boats this trip?"

"Five." Old Camel said. "Three more coming behind, arriving tomorrow night. The north line — eight trips, not one short."

"On the way, did you meet any Hittites?"

"We did." Old Camel said. "Their scouts followed us along the far bank for ten li." He spat toward the north. "We take the water road and they the dry, and across the river they can only glare. Coming to these shallows, they did not dare cross — the shoal is full of your men."

"Even if they dared, no fear." Seb said. "The pits on the shoal are all dug."

"And this." Old Camel took a letter out of his coat, wrapped in oilcloth. "The Chief Builder sent it along. He said — once you reach the north, put it into his hands yourself."

Seb took the letter and opened it by the torchlight. The letter held 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."

Seb read the letter twice, folded it, and tucked it into his coat.

"The teacher also said," Old Camel went on, "’whatever the north lacks, write it in the letter, and the boats bring it.’"

"I know." Seb said. He raised his head and looked south once. The southern sky was heavy black, yet he could not shake the feeling that his teacher’s eyes were in that blackness, watching every line he drew.

"Answer the teacher for me." Seb said. "Say this — the wall, I have it standing."

He took a roll from his coat and gave it to Old Camel. "And this. The first tower’s plan. Ask the teacher to look it over. Wherever it is wrong, let him scold."

"Scold?" Old Camel laughed. "He will not have time to scold, for praising you."

"The teacher never praises." Seb said. "When he does not scold, that is the praise."

Old Camel stowed the plan away, tucking it into the lining of the oilcloth packet against his chest. As the boats were about to cast off, he stood at the stern and waved once toward the shore. Seb did not move. He stood on the shoal and watched until the boats’ shadows sank into the night. The wind came over the river, carrying the raw smell of water, and one more smell, very faint, from the south — like the lamp oil of the new capital, and like the lamp on his teacher’s desk.

On the fourth night, at River-Bend Mouth, there was a small stir.

Just past midnight, on the river’s face outside the water gate, a few strings of ripples came feeling toward the wall’s foot. Not boats. Men. Swimmers, short knives clenched in their teeth.

The men on the wall heard them.

"Here they come." the centurion on watch said, holding his voice down. "No lights. Listen."

The water sound was very light, but the north’s soldiers were used to the river. Ripples striking the stakes made one sound — not right; striking the nets, another sound — not right. The swimmers felt their way to the first net and stopped — the mesh was too small to get through. Some tried the net’s bottom; the moment a head went under, it struck the stake points driven into the mud. In the water, glug, a string of bubbles rose.

"Caught." a soldier on the wall said in a low voice.

"Do we shoot?" someone asked.

"No." the centurion said. "Let them retreat on their own. In the pitch dark, arrows are arrows wasted. If they come tomorrow, there are still stakes under the nets."

Those strings of ripples thrashed in the water a while, then retreated. They retreated more hurriedly than they had come. On the river’s face, only the moonlight was left again, broken into pieces.

"Good stuff." a soldier on the wall said. "These nets truly work. And those stakes were not driven for nothing."

"What works lies behind." the centurion said. "The general says the nets and stakes are the water gate’s bolt. While the bolt is in, the gate holds. This gate — the Hittites cannot slip it tonight, and cannot slip it tomorrow night."

In the villages behind the wall, the able-bodied young men coming back grew more and more.

The border folk withdrawn to the town behind the wall, their families settled, came back in company. "Home is in the south," they said, "but the land at the wall’s foot still needs hands. The wall to mend, the fields to watch, the livestock to feed."

"No more farming?" someone asked.

"We farm." the returning fellow said. "By day we labor up on the wall; at night we come back and put in two rows. When folk are diligent, the land does not lie waste."

The women came back too. They did not mend the wall; their business was carrying water and food. At midday, a file of women carried their poles from the town to the worksite. The front of the poles held hot water, the back barley cakes. At the tower’s foot, they broke the cakes apart, one piece to a man, steaming hot.

"Sister," a tamping youth said, "these cakes smell better than government grain."

"Smell better, nothing." the woman said. "It is that you are hungry. Hungry, even stones can be chewed into flavor."

"Will you come again tomorrow?"

"I will." the woman said. "You build a day, I bring a day." She paused. "Once the wall stands firm, I will keep the stove roaring at home. Whichever of you comes by, I feed him full."

The laughter on the worksite rose in waves. The wind blew over from the north and carried the laughter off, but the warmth of it stayed in every man’s hands.

Among the returning men, one fellow carried the household’s last jar of lamp oil to the medical point. The old army physician offered money; he would not take it.

"When my wife left," the fellow said, "she pressed this jar of oil on me. She said the north’s nights are long, and pitch darkness will not do." He paused. "Oil given to the medical point burns brighter than a lamp kept at home."

"But your household’s nights . . ."

"Our household," the fellow said, "borrows the moon when there is one, and goes to bed early when there is not. The medical point’s lamp lights the road for the wounded. When the wounded men’s road is lit, our days are lit."

The old army physician pushed no more. He put the lamp oil away in the wooden chest. "For this lamp oil," he said, "I will enter a name. The day peace comes and the medical point is torn down, this jar of oil, burned to its last drop, will still count as yours."

"Whose it counts for, either way." the fellow said. "Lit, is all."

And one household sent the good spade passed down from the grandfathers into the hands of a lad digging trenches on the shoal. The old man who brought it said: "This spade — my grandpa broke new ground with it. Now it digs trenches. The trench shields the wall, the wall shields the people — one truth with the ground-breaking: both dig a way to live for the young ones behind."

"Digging a way to live." The digging lad took the spade and hefted it. "Set your heart easy, old sir — I will dig deeper with it than any man."

The old man stood at the shoal’s edge a while and looked north once. "The fires in the north, I have seen them." he said. "But I am not afraid. The north has the wall; behind the wall, you. And behind you, crop after crop of children." He clasped his hands behind his back and walked slowly home. "Every way to live is dug out by men."

On the fifth day, the first tower took its men.

A-Yan climbed up first. The ladder was newly made by the carpenters, and it creaked under his feet. He climbed a stretch and stopped, looked back down the tower — the people below grew smaller and smaller, until they were little black dots. At the tower’s top, the wind suddenly rose and set him swaying.

"Stand firm!" Below the tower, Seb craned his neck and shouted. "Feet apart, knees a little bent. When the wind comes, lean with it. Do not fight the wind!"

A-Yan stood firm. He braced himself on the wooden frame of a watch opening and looked north.

To the north, the river shoal lay like a gray belt. On the shoal, the Hittite camp spread dense and thick, like a handful of black sesame scattered over the ground. At the farther northern skyline, there was a layer of deeper black, slowly moving south.

"What do you see?" Seb shouted.

"Fires!" A-Yan shouted down. "Fires beyond counting! And in the north, greater fires — coming south!"

Below the tower, there was an instant of stillness.

Seb climbed the tower and stood behind A-Yan. He looked north a while. "That is the main host." he said. "The Hittites’ main host has moved."

"Senior brother," A-Yan’s voice shook a little, "will we . . . make it in time?"

Seb did not answer. He took out a lump of charcoal and drew a line on the wooden frame at the tower’s top. The line pointed north.

"In time." he said. "The tower is up, so we are in time." He pressed the charcoal into A-Yan’s hand. "From today, you stand here. What you see, you draw. This tower is the northern border’s first pair of eyes."

A-Yan gripped the charcoal tight. The wind went past his ears, wailing, like the beast of the north calling once from very far away.

That night, A-Yan did not come down from the tower.

He wrapped himself in two blankets and huddled in the wooden watch-room. The wind crept in through the watch openings with a whistling sound. Below the floorboards, the old soldier snored. A-Yan could not sleep, so he spread the grass paper on his knees and, by a little moonlight, drew what he had seen by day, item by item: the river, the shoal, the camp, the fire piles. Coming to that stretch of deeper black in the north, his charcoal stopped.

"It cannot be drawn." he said in a small voice.

"What cannot be drawn is kept by memory." The old soldier below turned over and suddenly spoke. "The great host of the north has never been drawn down by anyone. What cannot be drawn is kept by memory. Kept firm, it is surer than what is drawn on paper."

"You were not asleep?" A-Yan asked.

"Watchmen sleep with one eye open." the old soldier said. "On this tower, four hours to a watch. Your watch is nearly on you."

A-Yan answered. He folded the grass paper and tucked it into his coat. Looking north again — that blackness had come one part nearer. He felt the three handfuls of dry grass in his coat. The dry grass was still dry.

"One smoke, two smokes, three smokes." he recited in a low voice. "Tomorrow, they will be needed."

At the change of the watch, the old soldier climbed up with a bowl of hot water and pressed it on A-Yan. "Drink. The wind up here is hard. With something hot in the belly, the legs will not shake."

A-Yan held the bowl and drank, mouthful by mouthful. The water was a little bitter, tasting of firewood. But going down, it warmed him from head to foot.

"Uncle," he asked, "how many nights have you kept watch on a tower like this?"

"Beyond counting." the old soldier said. "I have kept the west line’s towers. This tower in the north is the first." He jutted his chin toward the north. "But a tower is the same thing wherever it stands. When the folk below it sleep well, the folk on it stand steady."

A-Yan handed the bowl back. "I will not sleep." he said. "This first night, I keep the tower company. The tower keeps me company too."

The old soldier said nothing. He sat down beside A-Yan, and the two of them sat side by side, looking north. The wind came in gusts and set the tower humming, as if the tower were speaking with them.

"Listen." the old soldier said suddenly.

A-Yan turned an ear. In the wind there was a sound, extremely light, broken — not hooves, not water, but horns from very, very far in the north. One call, then another, as if rising up from under the earth.

"I hear it." A-Yan said. His voice was steady, unnaturally so.

"Hearing it, you report it." the old soldier said. "Tomorrow morning, report this night to the Officer."

"I will." A-Yan said.

At the sky’s edge, the morning star rose. In the blackness of the north, that stretch of deeper black stopped. It went no farther — like a great beast that had come to the door, crouching down, and beginning to sharpen its teeth.

When the morning star rose, the sound of horns on the tower came faintly from very far in the north. A-Yan counted them — three calls, and three again. He knew they were no summoning. They were a pressing on. Beyond the wall, in the Hittite camp, the torches had not gone out all night; the shadows of the scaling ladders and the shadows of the rams crossed the firelight, one lying, one standing. And this tower thirty li away had only just opened its eyes. In the cellar below it, the grain was only half stacked; in the medical point behind it, the lamp oil had only just been lit; and behind the wall, five more towers were growing out of their drawings, inch by inch, into the earth. The great beast of the north had already crouched at the door. But inside the door, men were still fitting the last bolt to that door. The sky was nearly light. The first battle was about to be fought from the foot of this very wall.

(End of Chapter 2)