Chapter 125 - 4: Military Service Made Law — Border Defense and Construction as One

Chapter 125: Chapter 4: Military Service Made Law — Border Defense and Construction as One

That memorial, Horenheb wrote over three nights.

The first battle done, others rested, and he did not. By day he patrolled the wall; by night he wrote under the lamp. He wrote and tore up, tore up and wrote. The northern centurion brought him hot water and saw seven or eight crumpled balls of paper on the ground. "General," he said, "what is it you are writing? Harder work than fighting a war."

"Something more vital than fighting one." Horenheb said.

"What?"

"Thinking through what the north’s wall must lean on, to keep standing."

He thought deep. The first battle had been won on the works, on the towers, on the nets and stakes. But works are dead, and men walk away. The craftsmen leave, and who patches the wall? A batch of soldiers finishes and rotates out, and will the next batch still know every seam of this wall? A wall can stand a hundred years, but the craft of raising it must not walk off with the men.

The third night, he suddenly set the brush down.

"The people of the north," he said to himself, "are themselves the wall."

The memorial was written out of that.

Horenheb’s memorial entered the palace on the seventh day after the first battle.

The memorial was not long, the wax seal pressed with the north’s military stamp. The war ministry’s steward opened it, read it once, read it again, and at last carried it, half-running, into the inner hall.

"What has Horenheb sent up?" the pharaoh asked.

"Answering the pharaoh," the steward said, "first, he asks no grain. Second, no money. He asks for men — but the way he asks, this servant has never seen before."

The memorial read:

"Though the northern border has won its first battle, the Hittite main host has not moved. A wall is a holding of the moment; men are a holding for the long run. This servant begs to carry out the law of border defense and construction made one: the border soldiers, besides drilling in arms, will also learn the arts of ramming earth and laying brick; the border folk who will join the border-guard construction teams shall have their taxes cut by three tenths, their wages paid at guild rates; the border wall’s works shall have one great repair every five years, one small repair every year, one inspection every ten days, responsibility down to the man. So, the wall grows thicker the longer it is held, and the people grow stronger the longer they hold it. Soldiers are not fed for nothing, and labor is not levied for nothing."

The pharaoh read it and did not speak for a long while.

"This is asking for men?" He suddenly laughed. "This is raising soldiers into craftsmen, and craftsmen into soldiers." He paused. "Summon Asaf and Tia. What is on this memorial — make it law."

The war ministry’s three old generals arrived first.

The eldest read the memorial twice. "That Horenheb," he said, "fights his wars thinking of the wall. Now even his soldier-raising thinks of the wall." He sighed. "Forty years I have fought wars, and this is the first time I have seen soldiers raised the way walls are."

"Old general," another said, "do you say this method can work?"

"Work or not," the eldest said, "depends on the people." He pointed at that line on the memorial. "’Soldiers are not fed for nothing, and labor is not levied for nothing.’ These eight characters were bought with the first battle’s lives. Whether they were bought dear, the north’s soldiers know in their own hearts."

Asaf and Tia came to the hall that afternoon.

The pharaoh passed the memorial down. Asaf took it and gave it to Tia first. Tia read fast, her charcoal already working in the little book.

"Read it through?" the pharaoh asked.

"Through." Tia said. "What General Horen wants is three things, bound together."

"Which three?"

"Soldiers, work, taxes." Tia said. "Soldiers learn the craft, the craft follows the soldiers, the taxes are lightened." She turned the book over. "The three lock ring upon ring. Locked right, and the north’s wall will never again need the court to send men batch after batch."

"Then in your view," the pharaoh said, "can it stand as law?"

"It can." Tia said. "But the accounts must be reckoned first. Soldiers learning the craft need masters, need a material yard, need work time. Cutting taxes means reckoning how much to cut, down to which county, which household. The works inspections mean setting the length inspected, the days, the hands. These three accounts — not one may be left vague."

The pharaoh nodded. "Five days I give you. Reckon the accounts clear, and raise the law."

"This servant receives the decree."

Coming out of the hall, the old noble was waiting on the palace road.

"Lady Tia." He cupped his hands in salute, smiling kindly. "The north legislates again. The laws grow more and more."

"More?" Tia said. "My lord’s own estate lives by the country’s laws too."

"The more laws," the old noble said, "the heavier the common people’s load."

"My lord speaks truly." Tia stopped. "So this law lightens loads, and nothing else. Border folk who enlist — taxes cut by three tenths." She paused. "Rest easy, my lord. The cut will not reach as far as my lord’s estate."

The old noble’s smile stiffened for a moment. Tia had already walked far off.

Asaf caught up and said in a low voice: "Why waste your breath on him?"

"Not wasted breath." Tia said. "I was putting the word out for him to spread. Let the two words ’taxes cut’ travel first. Once they travel, the north’s people will know who this law was raised for."

From that day, the Civil Affairs Bureau’s lamps burned into the small hours every night.

Tia had the northern border’s three prefectures’ tax books, soldier registers, and labor books all brought in. Three long desks were joined into one, spread full. She reckoned item by item: in the northern border’s three prefectures, the registered border folk number seventy-two thousand households. The border-holding rotation runs one batch a year, twelve hundred men to a batch. With the enlistees’ taxes cut by three tenths, the court’s lost tax revenue comes to eight thousand dan of grain in a year.

"Eight thousand dan." Asaf said. "No small amount."

"But what is saved is more." Tia said. "These past three years, every mending of the north’s wall meant the court levying laborers, shifting craftsmen, and sending material. One round of it — the grain, the money, the missed farming time — came to thirty thousand lots of eight thousand dan." She paused. "And that is without reckoning the lives saved by the wall being mended in time."

Asaf said nothing. He walked two circles of the room, then suddenly said: "Soldiers learning the craft — where do the masters come from? How many craftsmen does the north’s guild Chapter have in all?"

"That is a real question." Tia said. "The war ministry says two master craftsmen to each battalion. The masters rotate from the guild, changed once a year." She turned to another page. "Kamon’s guild has answered — however many masters the north needs, the guild sends that many. The wages, the court pays."

The master list was set by Lu Zhu and Kamon at the Chief Construction Bureau.

The guild had more sign-ups than expected. Kamon spread the list in the courtyard and went over it name by name. One old master’s hand had been injured in a fall the year before; Kamon struck his name out. The old master would not have it: "This hand can still grip a trowel!"

"Grip it, it can." Kamon said. "But the north’s wind bores straight into old wounds." He paused. "Stay at the guild, and pass your craft to the young. The north’s work is for the young. When they come back, they will kowtow to you."

The old master said nothing more. In the end, he pressed the trowel he had used his whole life into a young craftsman’s hands. "Take it. The north’s stone is hard. This trowel has wrestled stone for forty years and never lost."

Lu Zhu watched beside them and did not break in. When the list was set, he drew out a sheet of paper, wrote a few lines on it, and handed it to Kamon: "Send this north too."

Kamon took it and read. It was a few words for the masters: "Teaching soldiers, first teach them to protect their own hands. A wound on the hand is harder to mend than a crack in the wall."

"Still the fine one." Kamon said.

The next day, Asaf went to the west quarter.

He was looking for an old soldier. At the North Gate street corner, the west-line veteran missing half an arm was still there. When Asaf found him, he was telling a circle of children about the west line. The children ringed him, their eyes shining as they listened.

"Old brother," Asaf said, "spare me a moment. I have come to ask about something."

"Speak." The veteran stood up.

"The west line’s joint defense — how has it held to this day?" Asaf asked. "The government has posted barely anyone there. Yet sixteen towers, one smoke, peace."

The veteran thought it over. "You have asked the right man." He pointed at his own chest. "The west line’s wall was not built by government soldiers. The village folk built it. Whoever builds a wall cannot bear to see it fall. The night watchers, the wall patrollers, the wall patchers — all village folk. Their own wall, they hold it themselves." He paused. "The government did one thing right — it stayed out of it."

"Stayed out?"

"Stayed out of it senselessly meddling." The veteran said. "We built the wall, and the government sent material. We reported the smoke, and the government sent soldiers. Each did his own, and no one got in anyone’s way." He smiled. "What is it called? It is called a wall of people — surer than a wall of brick."

Asaf stood a long while. In the end he said: "I understand." He cupped his hands toward the veteran. "My thanks."

On the road back to the Civil Affairs Bureau, he turned the veteran’s words over and over in his mind. That night, he said to Tia: "One clause must be added to the law."

"Which?"

"’The wall to the wall, the people to the people — each with its own duty.’" Asaf said. "The court gives material, money, and law, and does not reach in blindly. The north’s people take the wall as their own."

Tia wrote that clause at the head of the book.

"When did the guild answer?"

"Last night." Tia said. "Kamon wrote no extra words, just one line: ’The north’s wall was built by guild people. Guild people will go on teaching.’"

Asaf listened, and after a while he said: "This law can stand."

On the fifth day, the pharaoh heard the whole draft in the hall.

The hall’s civil and military ranks stood in two files. Tia read it out clause by clause: border defense and construction made one — soldiers learning the craft, the craft following the soldiers, the taxes lightened; a Construction Corps established, two hundred men to each battalion, mending the wall in wartime, mending roads, channels, and storehouses in peacetime; works inspections every ten days, responsibility down to the stretch, the section chief signing and sealing; border folk enlisting — taxes cut by three tenths, wages at guild rates, half paid in advance.

At "half paid in advance," the old noble stepped out.

"Pharaoh," he said, "this servant has one question."

"Speak."

"Taxes cut by three tenths, wages half paid in advance." The old noble said. "This servant has reckoned it — the northern border’s three prefectures, one year, at the very least . . ." He paused on purpose. "Can the state treasury still bear it?"

The hall went quiet.

Tia was about to open her mouth when the pharaoh waved his hand.

"I will answer for her." the pharaoh said. "What the state treasury cannot bear is the north fighting another battle like the first." He swept his eyes over the hall. "That battle was won on the wall. The wall won on the works. The works won on men. And the men — what were they bought with?" He paused. "The hired men’s wages were spent, it is true. But twenty thousand horse fell back. The Hittites left three thousand men on that shoal." He raised his voice. "Reckon it, all of you. Does this account pay?"

"It pays!" someone in the military ranks shouted.

"It pays, does it?" the pharaoh said. "Then this law — I approve it."

"The pharaoh is sage!"

The war ministry’s three old generals received the decree on the spot. The eldest stepped out: "Pharaoh, this Construction Corps’ establishment, the war ministry takes it. But one word this servant must say first — soldiers learning the craft, the craft must not cost them their arms. The north’s soldiers, first of all, must still be able to fight."

"Neither costs the other." the pharaoh said. "Craft by day, arms at dawn and dusk. When the craft rests, the arms do not."

"This servant receives the decree."

The pharaoh turned to Asaf: "The Civil Affairs Bureau?"

"The tax-cut registers are checked once every three months." Asaf said. "An enlistee who slacks off is struck from the rolls and pays back the cut. A man who truly puts in his strength is reviewed once a year; one named a Border-Guard Expert gets one tenth more off."

"Good." the pharaoh said. "This law shall be called The Border Defense Construction Service Act." He swept his eyes over the hall. "Before, the wall-builders and the wall-holders were two lots of men. From now on, they are one lot. The wall is built by them — and the border is held by them too."

The edict went out by fast horse, through the north gate that same day.

A copy of the act reached the Chief Construction Bureau that night.

Lu Zhu read the copy through under the lamp, end to end. When he had read it, he read it again. Hapy came in with water and saw him lost in it. "Teacher," he asked, "how is this law written?"

"Written right." Lu Zhu said. "It has written the wall alive."

"Alive?"

"The old laws governed material, labor, and money." Lu Zhu said. "This law governs people. Soldiers learning the craft, the craft following the soldiers, the taxes lightened." His fingertip tapped lightly on the line "one great repair every five years, one small repair every year, one inspection every ten days." "Do you see it? The wall now has its daily life and its medical rounds. From now on, the wall is kept by people. The people change, generation after generation, and the wall thickens, generation after generation."

He set the copy down and walked to the window. Outside, the new capital’s lamps were few and scattered.

"Hapy," he said suddenly, "do you not feel this method should have been thought of long ago?"

"Then . . ." Hapy said, "why did no one think of it?"

"Because before, the wall-builders and the wall-holders were two lots of people." Lu Zhu said. "Two lots of people, two sets of accounts, neither thinking for the other. Now, they are one lot." He looked north. "Once this law stands, the north’s wall will no longer need me."

"Teacher . . ."

"It is no bad thing." Lu Zhu said. "Half a life of building — for what? For the day when the wall, apart from the men who build it, can still grow on its own." He paused, and his voice sank low. "Now, it is about to grow on its own."

In the upper room of the deep mansion, the old noble had a copy too.

"Twenty-seven thousand households." He read the number Tia had verified. "Cut by three tenths. Eight thousand dan a year." He shut his eyes and reckoned half the day. Opening them, he said: "They truly dare."

"My lord," the thin tall man said, "this account . . ."

"The account rolls on." the old noble said. "Taxes cut, men hired, and one more great battle to fight. You watch — this time, whatever the north asks, it will get." He set the copy down. "Wait for the snow. Before the snow, the Hittite main host will settle that account for us."

The north received the edict five days later.

Seb came down from the wall, washed his hands, and only then took the edict. When he had read it, he said nothing for a long while. The northern centurion came over: "Officer, what is it?"

"Nothing." Seb said. "Only the feeling that this war was worth fighting."

He put the edict away, and that same day called the wall’s centurions together.

"The court has raised a new law." he said. "From today, the wall’s soldiers set aside four hours a day for learning the craft."

"Learning the craft?" one centurion said. "Officer, what does a soldier want with ramming earth and laying brick?"

"What does he want with it?" Seb said. "In the first battle, who patched the east section’s breach? The craftsmen. But there are only two hundred craftsmen. Next battle, with the Hittite main host here, the whole wall will open up at once — and even if the craftsmen grew eight hands each, they could not keep up." He paused. "So the soldiers must be able to patch too. Your stretch of wall springs a leak, and you patch it yourself. No waiting for craftsmen, no losing the moment."

The centurions said nothing more.

"One thing more." Seb said. "The craft-learning soldiers keep their wages, and one ration is added. When the wall falls, the soldiers who can patch it go up first. This is the court’s new law, and it is the north’s way to live."

"We will learn!" the centurions said.

The next day, a row of tables went up on the open ground behind the wall.

On the tables lay rammers, spades, trowels, plumb bobs, and levels. The old carpenter stood behind the tables, stroking his beard, looking at the ground black with soldiers sitting in ranks.

"All of you, listen." he said. "From today, you are my apprentices. First lesson: rammed earth."

"Rammed earth?" One soldier raised a hand. "Old master, who cannot ram earth? Pick up the rammer and strike, that is all."

"Strike, that is all?" the old carpenter said. "Come up here. Strike it for me to see."

The soldier came up, snatched the rammer, and struck with a full swing. Three blows, and the old carpenter called a stop.

"The earth is scattered." The old carpenter pointed at the ground. "One blow heavy, one blow light, and the earth jumps out. Ramming like that, a hundred blows, and the ground is still loose." He took the rammer and demonstrated — raised high, brought down steady, each blow pressing over the last. "Do you see? Each blow must cover three tenths of the last. Even strength, dense landing. Earth rammed that way, water poured on it will not even seep through."

The soldier was convinced. He scratched his head and went back down.

"And this." The old carpenter picked up the level. "Laying brick, the sharpest eye loses to the instrument." He set the level against the wall. "When the bubble in the tube sits centered, the wall is true. Off by one part, and the wall is out of plumb. The north’s wall out by one part lets in one part more wind, and as the years go deep, the wall turns crumbly."

"Old master," another soldier asked, "if we learn this, can we truly mend the wall?"

"You can." the old carpenter said. "In the first battle, the three feet of wall skin that came off the east section — that was patched back in one night by craftsmen teaching soldiers as they worked." He paused. "That night, some of you were there. Feel your own hands. That mud, you passed it too."

The soldiers below looked down at their own hands. On them were still the first battle’s calluses.

At the open ground’s edge, Old Da came too with the North Stockade’s old company.

Fifty-eight men, sitting in perfect order. Old Da said: "Master, for us men, the stockade is gone. From now on, we live by this wall and by this craft. You teach, and we learn. What we cannot learn, teach twice more."

"Twice more it is." the old carpenter said. "I have seen the North Stockade’s smoke. Men like you learn anything fast."

Under the sun, the sound of rammers, spades, and trowels mixed into one. One soldier’s ramming rang loud, and the old carpenter scolded: "All your strength is going into the noise." One soldier mixed his mud too thin, and it would not stick to the wall; he rubbed his hands together in frustration. One soldier mocked himself: "If my pa knew I joined the army only to turn bricklayer, his coffin lid could not hold him down." The man beside him picked it up: "If your pa knew you would one day mend walls to shield the home, he would be happier than you." On the open ground, a burst of laughter, a burst of work, and the sun walked from east to west while the wall’s head rose one inch.

Second lesson: laying brick.

The old carpenter carried over a stack of mud bricks and, in the middle of the open ground, laid a wall three feet long. When it was done, he clapped the dust off his hands: "All of you, come and look. This wall, and the ground you rammed yesterday — what is different?"

"One stands, one lies flat." a soldier said.

"Not only standing and lying." the old carpenter said. "Look at the joints." He pointed at the wall. "Between two bricks, the joints must not line up. This course’s joints must press over the next course’s hearts. Laid with staggered joints, a wall is one body. Laid joint on joint, a wall is a stack of bricks." He paused. "The north’s wall, thirty li of it, is all bitten together this way. What is it called? It is called the interlock."

"The interlock . . ." The soldiers murmured it over.

"Right, the interlock." the old carpenter said. "Guildmaster Kamon built walls in Thebes on this one skill. When a wall breaks, the patch and the old bite together. The Hittite ram strikes one whole wall, not one lone brick." He pulled two bricks out and set them before the soldiers. "Whoever does not interlock, his own stretch of wall will bury him first."

The soldiers crowded up and laid brick after brick. Laid crooked — torn down. Joints lined up — torn down. Mortar uneven — torn down. The sun beat down, and the sweat drops smashed into the mud, and no one cried tired. One soldier laid his wall seven times over, and on the eighth, the old carpenter clapped his shoulder: "Done. This stretch of wall of yours can stand a hundred years."

The soldier grinned, and grinning, his eyes suddenly went a little wet: "Old master, my family had a wall once too. Two years ago it fell, and it crushed my pa. If only someone had taught me this back then . . ."

The old carpenter said nothing. He picked up the soldier’s hand and looked at the mud and calluses on it. "Now you have learned it." he said. "The walls you lay from now on will not be knocked down. Your pa, down below, is watching."

The open ground went quiet an instant. The ramming rose again, three parts heavier than before.

Seb came around on his rounds, crouched to look at one soldier’s brickwork a while, and said: "The mortar is too thick."

"Then . . ." The soldier tensed up.

"Too thick, then scrape one layer off and do it again." Seb said. "The first time, everyone comes through it this way. When I was learning on the west line, I was clumsier than you."

The soldier let out his breath and re-laid it. On the third smoothing, Seb nodded: "That will do. When the Hittites ram this stretch of wall one day, it will hold out half a quarter-hour longer."

"Half a quarter-hour," the soldier laughed, "worth it."

The North Stockade’s old company learned fastest.

"We men," Old Da said, "grew up hauling bricks, mixing mud, and mending roofs. This work we already had — it just had no order to it. Now that we have learned the order, our hands move slicker."

A-Song learned faster still. The old carpenter taught once, and he had it in his hands. Where others got ten blows of ramming, he got twelve blows’ worth. The old carpenter watched him and nodded: "This boy, when he goes back to the North Stockade one day, will be a fine hand at raising walls."

"Old master," A-Song said, "one day, I will raise the North Stockade’s wall again. Raise it by Officer Seb’s method. Raise it half a foot higher than before."

"Fine ambition." the old carpenter said. "For that word of yours, I will teach you two extra skills. Go, bring the level over."

The border folk signed up the very day the edict was posted.

The town’s village headman copied the edict onto a wooden board and hung it on the date tree at the town’s mouth. Within an hour, the ground under the board was packed with people.

"Cut by three tenths?" A fellow read the edict over and over. "Truly cut?"

"Truly cut." the headman said. "Enlist, and the taxes are cut. Wages at guild rates, half paid in advance."

"Half in advance . . ." Someone in the crowd drew a sharp breath. "This time, the court is truly bleeding."

"Bleeding what." the headman said. "This was begged up by General Horen’s memorial. From now on, the north’s wall leans on ourselves. Our own wall, built by ourselves, held by ourselves. The court gives money and tax cuts. In this trade, who loses?"

"Nobody loses!" someone shouted. "I sign!"

"I sign too!"

"Count me in!"

The headman ground ink in a flurry and wrote down the names. At a lame fellow, the headman stopped his brush: "That leg of yours . . ."

"The Hittites broke this leg." the fellow said. "I cannot fight, but I can still read the lines. Old Uncle Nine-Fingers can read them, and so can I." He paused. "This life of mine was picked back up at the wall’s foot. Now, I give it back to the wall."

The headman said nothing and wrote the name down.

The women came too.

"Headman, what about us?" The leader was none other than the woman who had cut up her dowry clothes into cloth strips. "Building the wall, we cannot carry bricks. But cooking, carrying water, binding cloth strips — that we can do. Enlisting — does it count?"

"It counts!" the headman said. "A Women’s Team, charged with the army supplies. The tax cut applies the same."

"Then that is fine." the woman said. "I will bring my mother-in-law too."

The Women’s Team set its rules on its very first day. The tall woman led a few dozen sisters in arranging, item by item, the water routes, the meal hours, and the cloth-strip work. "We do not build the wall," she said, "but the men on it would not last three days without us. This team matters the same as the wall."

"Captain," someone asked, "do we deliver at night too?"

"We do." the tall woman said. "The night watch on the wall has it hardest. Hot water must be there in the small hours too." She paused. "From tomorrow, the night water deliveries take turns. When my turn comes, I go first."

The sign-ups ran from morning to night. In three days, the northern border’s three prefectures had twenty-seven thousand names in the enlistment registers. The registers went south by fast horse, and Tia verified them one whole day. "General Horen asked for men," she said at the end. "The men were standing behind the wall all along."

The Construction Corps’ first peacetime job was mending the post road.

Not just any road. The north line’s grain road — from the north bank at River-Bend Mouth to the town behind the wall, seventeen li. In the first battle, the grain had been carried in on men’s backs. Carts could not pass; the road’s surface was one stretch of great pits. Seb led the newly formed construction soldiers in mending it, stretch by stretch, from the town’s mouth.

"The road," Seb said, "is the wall’s life. The grain carts move fast, and the wall eats full." He directed the men in filling the great pits and ramming them solid; where the slope ran too steep, straightening it; in the hollows, bedding stone. The soldiers worked up a heat, and the nearby farmers, seeing it, came with spades on their shoulders to help.

"Soldier sir," one old fellow said, "we have long wanted to mend this road. There was just no one to lead it."

"From now on," Seb said, "this road belongs to you. The law writes it — the construction soldiers mend the roads, and the road watchers are the local folk." He clapped the old fellow’s shoulder. "A road goes bad, find the section chief. The section chief cannot manage it, find me."

"There is even this good?" The old fellow blinked.

"Good it is." Seb said. "The court has raised the law. From now on, the north’s roads, channels, and storehouses all have their keepers."

On the third day of mending, the River-Bend Mouth grain carts took to the road by daylight for the first time. Seventeen li, and in two hours they were there. The escort centurion jumped down from the cart and stamped the road’s surface: "A fine road! This road saves lives!"

"The construction soldiers built it." Seb said.

"Construction soldiers . . ." The centurion looked back at those mud-covered soldiers. "From now on, we fight the war and they mend the road. This war is settled."

On the towers, the changing of men began too.

A-Yan now had two new soldiers under him. The first night, he led them up the tower and pointed out everything on it: where the brazier was, where the smoke was, where the grass paper was, where the charcoal was. Last, he pointed north and said:

"Look. That stretch of the northern sky, black with red in it — that is the Hittite camp. From now on, on your night watches, your eyes stay nailed to that sky."

"Brother A-Yan," one new soldier asked quietly, "what if . . . what if the smoke is lit, but the wall does not hold?"

"There is no what if." A-Yan said. "The men on the tower keep their eyes open, and that is all. The wall’s business is for the men on the wall. Each keeps his own post, and the north cannot fall."

His voice was very steady as he said it. The wind on the tower snapped the hem of his coat. The old soldier below heard it and grinned: "This boy has finished his apprenticeship."

Coming down from the tower, A-Yan handed the night’s drawings to Seb as always. The drawings held the north’s campfires, the fog on the river, the wind’s direction. Seb turned them over page by page. At the last page, he suddenly laughed.

"What is it?" A-Yan tensed.

"Nothing." Seb said. "Only I remembered — three years ago, on the west line, I drew drawings just like these. It took me three years to draw them into any shape. You have been at it how long, and already drawing them decently."

"Still far off." A-Yan said. "The things in the fog, I cannot draw them true."

"The things in the fog, no one draws true." Seb said. "Cannot draw them true, then memorize more. A tower’s eyes are half on paper and half in the heart." He handed the drawings back. "Go on drawing. When this war is done, your drawings and mine go into the State Construction Archive together."

"Into the archive?" A-Yan’s eyes went wide.

"Right." Seb said. "It is the rule the teacher set. The northern border’s plans — not one may scatter. Lose one sheet, and the wall leaks one part."

The water gate’s inspection was set up too.

Old River now had charge of three people. Two were old soldiers fallen back from the River Fort, and one was Little River. Every ten days, he led them in checking the four barrier chains, from the north bank to the south. Which cable hung slack, which net was torn, which stake leaned — he crouched in the water and felt each out, one by one.

"The cables," he taught, "you read by the water line. The water-stained mark on a cable stays within those few inches all year round. The mark changes, and the water has changed. The water changes, and the cable must be adjusted."

"The stakes," he taught again, "you read by the slant. Slanted north, they stop a prow; a stake gone straight, and a boat slides past. So the moment a stake leans, it must be re-driven."

The two old soldiers listened and nodded. Little River listened and wrote, in a notebook — a notebook Seb had given him, hard-covered, damp-proof.

"Little River," Seb came around on his rounds, "learned it?"

"Seven tenths learned." Little River said. "The other three tenths, I will only know once I have been down in the water."

"No hurry." Seb said. "Your grandpa has slipped through this river forty years. Follow him, and pick up the last three tenths, little by little." He paused. "The day your grandpa can no longer go down to the river, this water gate will be yours."

"My grandpa can still go down to the river!" Little River flared up.

"He can, he can." Seb laughed. "I am only saying the craft must have someone to carry it. The north’s water gate cannot know only one Old River."

The medical point took new apprentices too.

The old army physician picked six steady-handed lads out of the construction soldiers and taught them to bind wounds. Craft by day, and two hours at the medical point by night. First lesson, he taught nothing but washing hands.

"Of war wounds," the old army physician said, "half the men die on the blade and half on dirty hands. Hands unclean, and the finest bandaging still lets the wound rot." He brought over a basin of hot water, and the six lads washed, one by one. When they had washed, he looked each over — not one mud sliver allowed in a fingernail seam.

"Old master," one lad said, "does learning this make us construction soldiers too?"

"It does." the old army physician said. "The law writes it — the supplies teams are teams as well. The wall must be patched, and people must be saved. Wall and people are both the north’s foundation." He paused. "Next battle, when the wounded come down, you will be the first to catch them. The wall standing and the men gone — the battle is lost all the same."

The six lads straightened their backs bolt upright.

Shafi’s new medicines, come with the boats, arrived too. The chests were tagged "North," and were stacked, chest by chest, into the new half-cellar dug at the medical point. The old army physician looked at the chests. "The medicine has come," he said, "and the men who know how to use it must come too. You six are the medical point’s next crop in the north."

Deep in the night, Seb wrote his teacher a letter.

The letter was not long:

"Teacher: The new law has touched ground. The north’s soldiers are now half blade and half trowel. Thirty li of wall, thirty section chiefs — stretch by stretch, each one has been claimed. The men on the towers have learned to draw. The men at the water gate have learned to read the cables. ’The wall raised by men,’ as you said — now the law is raised, and the men are raised too. Seb."

When he had written, he folded the letter and gave it to the boats going south the next day. The lamp flame popped once. He trimmed the wick brighter and spread the plans open again. On the plans, the sixth tower still lacked its last stretch.

Horenheb came one evening to watch the soldiers at their craft on the open ground.

He stood at the field’s edge and watched a long time. The soldiers had not seen him; they were ramming a foundation in high heat. Midway, one soldier straightened up, wiped his sweat, and suddenly caught sight of the man at the field’s edge. He froze.

"G-General!"

The whole field of soldiers looked over at once, hands not knowing where to put themselves.

"Go on ramming." Horenheb said. "I have only come to look."

He walked in, crouched, and felt the just-rammed ground. It was level, solid, still holding the rammer’s marks.

"Which lesson is this?" he asked the old carpenter.

"The fifth." the old carpenter said. "This crew is learning from the beginning. One more month, and they can go up the wall as helpers."

"One month." Horenheb said. "Enough. The Hittites will not give us more."

He stood up, walked to that soldier, and clapped his shoulder: "Holding the works you built yourself, the heart sits steady."

"Steady!" the soldier said. The whole field of soldiers took it up: "Steady!"

The sound rolled out and startled up a flock of birds from the woods behind the wall.

That night, Horenheb called Seb into the tent.

"The law is raised." he said. "The men are in. Now it is up to you — where you set these men."

"First task," Seb said, "patching the wall. The east section’s re-ramming has opened. The new soldiers split into three shifts, learning and working in turns." He spread the plans open. "Second task, the towers. Six towers, four standing. The last two are finished before winter sets in. The tower night watches are held by the new soldiers from now on. The old soldiers come down and teach the new."

"Third task?"

"Third task," Seb said, "inspection. Once every ten days, down to the man by stretch. The section chiefs sign and seal." He paused. "I have reckoned it — thirty li of wall, split into thirty stretches. One section chief to a stretch, thirty section chiefs, and I teach them one by one. Teach them until, eyes shut, each can draw every seam of his own stretch of wall."

"Good." Horenheb said. "You teach the section chiefs, and the section chiefs teach the soldiers. This wall will grow, generation by generation, in its own people’s hands."

He looked out at the tent’s night, and suddenly said: "Seb."

"General."

"This law — only a man like your teacher could have thought it out." Horenheb said. "Soldiers learning the craft, the craft following the soldiers. Back on the west line, your teacher taught me — a wall raised by men is harder than anything. Now, this wall is truly to be grown by men themselves."

Seb nodded. He said nothing. The wind outside the tent came from the north and rattled the tent curtain.

The section chiefs’ first lesson was given on the wall.

Thirty section chiefs followed Seb from the east end to the west. Wherever they walked, he taught. Where the bricks were loose, where the mortar seams were cracked, where the drain holes were blocked. Each spot Seb taught, he had them feel.

"A wall," he said, "is like a man. A small sickness untended drags into a great one. One loose brick unmended, and one rain loosens a whole patch. One crack unfilled, and one winter splits it to the bottom." He paused. "The inspections look for exactly these small sicknesses. Look, feel, knock. A sound knocked out solid, and there is no sickness. Hollow, and it must be reported."

"Officer," one section chief said, "on my stretch there is a brick that knocks hollow. Do I report it?"

"Report it." Seb said. "It gets changed today." He looked at the brick’s position. "Leave a hollow brick, and when the Hittite ram comes, it will be the first to crack."

The section chiefs nodded, and one by one, their small hammers gripped tighter.

That night, Horenheb led men on a surprise patrol of the wall.

He did not use the main gate, but walked the dark corners below the wall. At the middle section, a watch soldier on the wall swept his spear across with a clatter: "Password!"

"Wall." Horenheb said.

"Answer!"

"Tower."

The spear was drawn back. The soldier saw who had come, and startled: "G-General . . ."

"Very good." Horenheb said. "Without asking clear, do not let a single man past. The wall at night leans on that one word." He looked at the soldier. "What is your name?"

"Answering the general: Mu-A, construction soldier."

"Mu-A." Horenheb said. "Remembered. The first man to stop me — that is you."

Mu-A’s face flushed deep red. When Horenheb was far off, the old soldier beside him clapped him: "Good lad, stopping the general — you have nerve."

"I-I only went by the rules . . ." Mu-A said.

"Right." the old soldier said. "The rules were set by the general himself. You kept the rules — you did him credit."

Horenheb finished his patrol, returned to the tent, and called Seb in. He said only two words: "Not bad."

The news from the north changed at that month’s end.

First the tower men reported: the northern campfires had grown by three tenths in one night. Then the scouts came back: the Hittite great camp had moved. Not the movement of twenty thousand horse. A great camp of sixty thousand men, pressing south as one. The campfires, joined from north to east, grew ten times denser in a single night. On the farther post road, the grain train’s carts strung out in a long dragon, moving day and night without stop. The crack of the drivers’ whips could be heard ten li away.

"They have learned sense." the northern centurion said. "This time, the grain train travels under heavy escort. At night, they light no campfires."

"Learning sense is good." Horenheb said. "Only once they have learned sense does it show they take us for a true opponent."

The scouts reported again: twenty li beyond the wall, the Hittites were clearing the shoal. Clearing the horse traps, clearing the sharp stakes. Clearing slow, clearing careful — where they had eaten a loss, they felt over it inch by inch.

"Let them feel." Seb said. "The pits cleared out, we dig again. The stakes pulled up, we bury them again. This shoal ground — they clear a day, we bury a day. We will see who tires first."

"The main host has come." Horenheb said.

He called the northern centurion, Seb, and Old Da into the tent. The oil lamp in the tent swayed in the wind.

"Before the snow," Horenheb said, "they will surely mount one general assault. This time, what comes is not half-fed horses. It is sixty thousand men, fed full, rested up, holding one bellyful of spite."

"The wall," he paused, "stands for wherever we have built it to."

"The east section is re-rammed." Seb said. "Both platforms are up. The pits on the shoal are one foot deeper. Two li of sharp stakes are buried. At River-Bend Mouth, four chains, and the stakes three tenths denser." He paused. "Of the six towers, five stand. The last needs seven days more."

"Seven days." Horenheb said. "They will not give us seven days. That tower — work it through the nights."

"Through the nights." Seb said.

He walked out of the tent and stood in the night, looking north. The northern sky was red all over, as if on fire. The wind from that side came hot, carrying the smell of horse sweat.

"Teacher," he said in a low voice, "half-fed horses cannot last three battles. This time, the horses come fed. But the wall is no longer the wall of three days ago."

He turned and walked toward the worksite. Behind him, the ramming still rang. One blow, another, like the whole northern border’s heartbeat, steady, hammering into the night that came nearer and nearer.

The northern sky had turned red. Sixty thousand men’s campfires, from north to east, spread into a horizon burned red. On the post road, the grain carts crept south day and night like a black snake. Behind the wall, the craft-learning soldiers’ ramming hands had not stopped; on the five towers, five pairs of eyes were open, and the sixth tower was still growing, brick by brick, up into the night. The wind came from the north, carrying the smell of horse sweat, the stink of iron, and the smell of snow. Everyone knew what was coming this time. Yet everyone was waiting — waiting for the wall’s last brick to be rammed home, for the tower’s last watch opening to be set in, for that snow to come down. Before the snow, or after it, one great battle would have to be decided on these thirty li of wall.

(End of Chapter 4)