Chapter 86 - 8: The Works in Tug of War — The Wall Broken and Rebuilt

Chapter 86: Chapter 8: The Works in Tug of War — The Wall Broken and Rebuilt

The wall at the southeast corner fell at the second watch of the night.

The battering ram had been cut by the rebels during the day.

In the willow grove five li south of the city, two rows of old willows had stood until a few days ago, their branches hanging over the water. The rebels’ soldiers felled the trees with axes — the blows ringing through the grove from first light — stripped the bark on the spot, the white wood gleaming, and sawed them into round logs two fathoms long, the saws working in pairs. The timber was green and heavy — forty men carried each log, and they had to chant to lift it, the chant rising and falling with their steps. When the trees came down, a flock of crows burst out of the grove, black and noisy, their wings beating the air, and circled three times above the city wall.

"Crows bring mourning." A sentry on the wall spat. "Who are they mourning for?"

No one answered. That night, the two logs were carried to the foot of the southeast corner.

This time the rebels had learned. They did not use fire arrows — fire arrows burned the crenellations; they could not bring down a wall. They brought the ram. Two logs of arm’s-span thickness, their heads wrapped in water-soaked oxhide, carried by forty men who chanted as they swung it — once, again — against the base of the southeast corner wall.

The arrows poured down from the wall; the rebels raised their shields of wet cloth over their heads, and the arrows struck the shields like arrows into mud. Every blow of the ram made the whole stretch of wall tremble, and the earth from the wall-head sifted down in a fine rain.

At the second watch, the wall’s footing gave first.

Not the whole stretch — the footing beneath had been jarred loose, the old stone and the older earth separating along the lines of their tiredness, and the wall’s body leaned outward, a three-foot crack opening in the leaning face. Through the crack, broken mud-brick poured out in a stream, rattling down the slope, the sound of it loud in the night.

"Get down!" Kamon roared from the wall-head. "Get away from the wall’s foot! The wall is going!"

The defenders had barely pulled back when that half-stretch of wall came down. Dust rose half a bowshot into the air and put out three torches on the wall-head at once.

"It’s open!" The rebels outside erupted. "The breach is open!" ℯℯ𝑙.

The war cries poured toward the breach like a tide, the torches of the front ranks bobbing as they ran. On the wall-head, the adjutant’s voice had gone ragged: "Archers — hold the gap! Sword-and-shield men, down the wall!" The defenders’ feet drummed on the stones, and the arrows began to fall on the running men, but the tide kept coming.

And just as the rebels reached the mouth of the breach, a wall of fire suddenly rose inside it.

It was Kamon. He had brought thirty craftsmen, each carrying a bundle of oil-soaked dry firewood, waiting behind the breach — they had been waiting since the first blow of the ram, crouched in the dark, their bundles in their arms, listening to the wall groan. The wood had been prepared by day: he had had the roof beams of two abandoned houses north of the city torn down, split into firewood, soaked in oil, and stacked along the inner foot of the wall. At the time, some had not understood; they asked why tear down roof beams. Kamon had said only one sentence: "Tear down the beams, and the house still stands; open the wall, and the city is gone."

The wood was pushed into the breach, the fire was set, and with a roar a wall of flame rose out of the gap — forcing the rebels at the front of the charge back, hard. One rebel had come too fast; his hair and eyebrows caught, and he rolled down the earth mound screaming. The men behind him were blinded by the light, pushing and shoving, retreating a dozen paces.

"As long as the wood burns, the wall will not open!" Kamon shouted from behind the wall of fire. "What are you all staring at? Those at the back — bring materials!"

That night, the southeast corner burned through three-tenths of the whole city’s dry firewood — the wood going up in great roaring sheets of flame, the heat pressing the rebels back and back again. The firelight lit the breach — and lit every tired face above and below the wall, the faces of men who had been roused from their sleep by the war cries and had come running with their tools still in their hands.

At dawn, the fire died. The rebels withdrew. The breach remained, black and gaping, like a tooth knocked out of the city’s mouth.

"Fill it." Kamon said. His voice had gone to a whisper; only air came out, and the men leaned in to hear him. "Before dark, it must be filled. The rebels will be back at it tomorrow night — they always come back, and they always will, until we make them stop."

The craftsmen gathered around him. Kamon squatted before the breach, knocked on the broken face with his knuckles, and looked up at the sky, measuring the light left in the day.

"Before the sun is up again," he said, "this opening has to be harder than it was before."

The repair began from both ends.

The broken walls on either side of the breach were cleaned first — the loosened mud-bricks pulled out one by one, the craftsmen’s fingers working in the dark mouths of the cracks, down to the solid core. The bricks that came out whole were stacked to one side, counted as they were stacked; the broken ones filled the other, going into the rubble. Then the carpenter gang raised the scaffolding, the pine poles lashed with hemp rope, and the wall-building began from both broken faces at once, working toward the middle.

"Bite the joints." Kamon stood in the middle of the breach and drew a few slanting lines on the broken face with his charcoal. "The new wall and the old wall cannot meet straight. Join them straight, and there’s one seam from top to bottom — the ram comes once more, and it falls again. They must meet staggered — new brick pressing old brick, layer over layer, the way reed mats are woven. When the joints bite into each other, the ram’s force breaks against the bites, and the force scatters."

It was a method Lu Zhu had taught him. The new capital’s walls and the West Bank’s low walls had both used it. Kamon could draw it with his eyes shut.

"There’s a principle in it." Lu Zhu had explained it to the craftsmen on the work site once, drawing in the dust with a twig as he spoke. "A wall does not fear pressure; it fears shearing. When the ram strikes, the wall falls by cracking first, then toppling. The crack begins from a straight seam. A straight seam is a road — the force travels along it to the end. A staggered seam is broken — the force dies halfway, spent against the offsets, the way a wave dies on a stepped shore. So the old saying goes: a wall tears like cloth, and cloth tears from the edge — if the edges’ seams are bitten fast, the cloth cannot be torn."

"We’ve built walls for half our lives," Old Montu had said, "and this is the first time anyone has spoken of ’seams’ to this depth."

"The seam is the wall’s life-gate." Lu Zhu had said. "From now on, guard every wall’s seams the way you guard a city gate."

By noon, the breach was half filled, the new wall rising level on both sides. The bricklayers changed shifts, the fresh men taking the trowels; Kamon did not change. He squatted at the foot of the wall and looked at every mud-brick the craftsmen handed him, one by one, his hands moving over each brick as it passed. Any brick with a crack, he took, weighed it in his hand, and threw it back on the pile.

"No cracked bricks." He said. "This wall is being built for the ram. One bad brick is one seam. One seam is one opening — and an opening is where the city dies. Every brick I pass is a promise I make to the wall."

When the sun was low, the breach closed.

The last mud-brick was pressed in, the edges tapped home with the heel of the hand, and Kamon smeared the mortar with his own fingers, working it into the joints, the motion slow and final. When it was done, he stepped back two paces and looked at the stretch from east to west, his head moving slowly along the line of it. The new wall and the old wall were bitten together, as if they had grown that way — the seams invisible, the face continuous.

"Done." He said. The word was barely out before he leaned back against the wall’s foot and slid down to a sitting position, his back against the new wall, his legs straight out in front of him. Two young craftsmen moved to help him; he waved them off: "Let me sit a while. Just a while." He sat with his eyes half closed, his hands resting on his knees, and the wall stood over him, whole.

He did not sit long.

The next night, at the second watch, the middle of the north wall fell.

The rebels had changed their ground. They had seen that the southeast corner’s new wall was hard — so they looked for the soft places. The middle of the north wall was an old stretch, its surface peeling, its rammed layers still carrying the cracks of early years. Before the ram had struck ten blows, that stretch of wall split open.

When Kamon’s men arrived, the rebels’ front line had already climbed into the breach. Above and below the wall, firelight and war cries churned together. This time the craftsmen did not wait to be told — they snatched up their tools and charged. They had no blades; they had rammers, trowels, and carrying poles. One craftsman swung a carrying pole and knocked a rebel who had climbed over the breach back down — and took a spear in the arm himself from the man behind.

"Get down!" Kamon dragged him back. "You’re a wall-builder, not a fighter! If the wall falls and you die, who repairs it?"

"Then what do we do?" The craftsman shouted, clutching his arm. "Just watch them come in?"

"Watch." Kamon said. "Watch how they come in — and you’ll know how to fill it!"

On the breach, the scaling ladders went up one after another. The ladders were newly made, the bark still on the rungs. The defenders shoved at the ladders with spears; for every ladder toppled, another rose. An old soldier poured a cauldron of boiling lime-water down a ladder — the water he had been brewing for the craftsmen’s mortar. The men on the ladder screamed and fell; the ladder emptied, and the old soldier went for a second cauldron.

"Lime-water can hold a wall!" A young craftsman stared, stunned, the steam still rising from the cauldron.

"To hold a wall, anything can be used." The old soldier said, his face blackened with soot and lime. "A mud-brick on the wall is also a blade. When your life is on the line, the first thing in your hand is a weapon."

He pulled the young man to the inner side of the wall and went back himself. At the breach, the clash of blades and spears rang in a long, continuous sound, and the old soldier’s cauldron went up the wall a third time.

That night, the north wall’s breach was not sealed until near dawn.

The way it was sealed was a trick Kamon thought of on the spot: the breach could not be built up in time, so two door panels taken off a city gate were propped slantwise against the breach from outside, and earth bags stacked behind the panels. The bags pressed the panels; the panels held the wall’s outside. They held until dawn; when the rebels withdrew, they tore it down and rebuilt properly.

"This is patched." Kamon looked at the two door panels — the old gate wood, the iron straps still on them — and said to Lu Zhu. "Patched to hold a day at a time. The panels are the city’s own gate, and now they hold the city’s wall."

"Patched right." Lu Zhu said. "First patch up the life; then repair the wall. A wall that stands one more day is a wall that can be made to stand a year."

But such "patching" was not a way.

On the third night, the southwest corner came under attack. This time the rebels did not bring the ram — they sent a hundred-odd men to hug the wall’s foot and dig at it with short spades. By the time the wall noticed, a half-man-high hole had been tunneled under the footing.

The men digging the wall had actually been at it for two watches. They had crawled out of the camp south of the city, bellies to the ground. Each man carried a short spade at his belt; every spade of earth was passed back along the line, and the earth at the end was dumped in a shallow trench dug in advance, then covered with turf. The men on the wall took it for the wind stirring the grass; no one heard the sound under the earth.

"They’re digging out the footing." Kamon lay flat at a crenellation, looking down, his face iron-gray. "Dig out the footing, and the whole stretch of wall comes down."

The wall’s answer was a row of stones. The defenders threw the river cobbles they had stored — the stones gathered from the beach in the first days of the siege, piled at intervals along the wall, each pile the size of a man’s load — one by one, down at the wall’s foot. It was black as pitch; they could not see the men — they listened, their heads tilted, the way a man listens for a sound in the dark. A stone landed: a dull thud, or a scream, the scream cut short. They threw for half a stick of incense, and the sounds at the wall’s foot stopped. At dawn, they looked down: the tunnel mouth had collapsed half its length, and two short spades and a straw sandal lay where the diggers had been.

"Tonight," Kamon said to the defenders, "pour lime-water down the wall’s foot. When the lime-water dries, the ground goes white. If a man crawls over it tonight, there’ll be black prints on the white."

Lu Zhu came too. The two men squatted on the wall-head and looked at the firelight below the city — the rebels’ campfires scattered like red coals, the watch fires moving along the lines. After a while, Lu Zhu said:

"Three days, three openings. Southeast, north-middle, southwest." He drew his charcoal and connected the three positions on the defense map, the line running in a broken arc. "What do you see?"

"All old wall." Kamon said. "All stretches rammed in the early years. The new patches — they don’t touch."

"Not just ’don’t touch.’" Lu Zhu said. "They aim at the joins between old and new. The southeast corner — new wall against old wall, and the join is the weak tooth. The north wall — an old stretch that cracked years ago, the crack sealed but never healed, the scar still in the memory of the stone. The southwest corner — a footing the river hollowed out, the water’s work under the stone. They are testing — testing which stretch of the wall is soft. A wall is only as strong as its oldest memory."

"And when they find it?"

"When they find it," Lu Zhu said, "they will strike only there."

Kamon was silent for a long time. He rubbed the edge of his stone chisel with his thumb, once, twice. After a long while, he said:

"Then we turn all the soft places hard. Stretch by stretch, all the way around. The whole city wall — pass every hand over it."

"To pass every hand over it — how many men, how much material?"

"Men: all the city’s craftsmen go up." Kamon said. "Materials: the lime Meru brings in, given to the wall first — the wall eats before anything else eats. I don’t believe this city will let them find a second opening. They can test every stretch they like — by the time they’ve tested them all, they’ll all be hard."

From that day, the wall carried a new account.

The account was Kamon’s. Every stretch of wall: how many fathoms, which year it was rammed, whether it carried old wounds, at what hour who inspected it — entry by entry, written on wooden boards in charcoal, the characters small and even. The boards were nailed at the wall’s foot, one board per stretch, at the height of a man’s eyes, so that a man passing could read them without stopping. The writing on the boards was sparse, but every stroke had been bought with a life.

"The old wall’s seams all get a run of lime slurry." Kamon said to the craftsmen. "Slurry the seams, and they bite fast. When the ram comes again, it strikes the whole stretch — not one seam."

At the same time, Lu Zhu was starting another work on the inner side of the wall.

"The fighting beyond the wall, we can’t control." Lu Zhu said. "The lives inside the wall — those we must protect first." He meant the repair crews. In three days, seven craftsmen had been hurt — three grazed by arrows, two buried by collapsing earth, and two crushed by falling wall while they were repairing, with nowhere to run.

"When they repair, the men work against the wall. When the wall falls, the men have nowhere to run." Lu Zhu drew on the defense map. "So, on the inner side of the wall, every thirty paces, dig a shelter pit. The pit is not deep — half a man’s height — with planks over the top. When the wall gives any sign, a man drops into the pit, and the falling earth is held by the planks."

"This is a ’little wall’ for the wall-builders." Kamon said.

"Right." Lu Zhu said. "The great wall keeps out what’s beyond the city; the little wall keeps the men of the city safe. If the wall-builders live, the wall can be built — and a wall that can be built can be held."

The shelter pits took two days to dig. One every thirty paces, around the whole city — more than a hundred of them, the pits spaced so that a man working anywhere on the wall’s inner face was never more than a few strides from shelter. At the mouth of each pit, a whitewashed wooden board was planted, bearing a single character:

Shelter.

The character was written large, in white on white, so that it showed in the dark. The craftsmen came to know the boards the way they knew the wall itself — the boards were the wall’s other face, the face that looked after its own.

When the first pit was finished, Kamon had the three strongest craftsmen stand on the roof planks and jump. The three jumped a dozen times; the planks creaked, but did not break.

"Put a stone on it." Kamon said.

A river cobble of a hundred-odd pounds was set on top. The planks bent a little — and held.

"Good." Kamon said. "The roof holds; a man can shelter."

The digger asked: "Master, who is this pit for?"

"For you." Kamon said. "For me. For every man who works at the wall’s foot, night or day. The lives beyond the wall are kept by the wall; the lives within it, by this pit. Remember — when you hear the wall groan, jump into the pit first. A man who dies under the wall is a man who cannot rebuild it. If the men live, the wall can stand again."

From that day, the whitewashed boards every thirty paces on the inner wall became the most solid thing in the craftsmen’s hearts. Someone said privately: that one character, "shelter," was worth more than all the crenellations on the wall.

Young Nubu was the first to try a pit. He jumped in, crouched, jumped out again, and said: "When the wall truly falls, this pit is our life." He had dry straw stacked beside every pit — to cushion the head when a man crouched down, the straw laid in neat bundles, one at each pit’s edge, so that no man would have to crouch on bare earth in the dark.

The materials were checked on the seventh night.

Mery spread the wall’s materials account in the granary’s back courtyard: dry firewood, down three-tenths and a half; lime, at the bottom of the bin; well ropes, four snapped; rammer handles, nine broken. Arrows — in the wall-head’s armory, just over two thousand left.

"Firewood," Kamon said, "from now on, burns only in the breaches, not along the wall-head. There are seven more empty houses north of the city; their beams can be split."

"Lime," Lu Zhu said, "burn river-shell. The landing’s boatmen eat shellfish every day; the shells are piled on the beach. Burn them to ash, mix with chopped straw, and it makes an earth-lime mortar. Not as good as lime — but good enough for sealing seams."

"Well ropes," Mery said, "splice the broken ones — three pieces joined into two. Post one more man at each well; slower, but it works."

"Arrows," the adjutant said, "spend sparingly. Don’t shoot what you can’t see; don’t shoot before fifty paces. One arrow, one blood."

Lu Zhu listened, and wrote the rules on a wooden board — the charcoal strokes large and even, so that a man could read them at a glance — and nailed it at the granary’s door, where every man who came for supplies would pass it.

"From today," he said, "everything in this city has two lives. The first is spent in use; the second is what you save. A city that learns to save its second lives is a city that cannot be emptied."

That night, he went up on the wall alone again.

The rebels’ camp beyond the city was strangely quiet. At this hour there were usually sounds — the watchman’s rattle, a horse’s whinny, the stir of the night change of guard. Tonight, only the wind. The wind came from the north, cool, carrying the smell of the river — the river that was both the city’s enemy line and its lifeline. Lu Zhu stood a long moment in the quiet, watching the dark, and the sentry beside him waited without speaking.

"Master Builder," the young sentry said at last, low, "why do you think they’ve stopped fighting?"

"I don’t know." Lu Zhu said. "But I know they haven’t gone."

"Then what are they waiting for?"

Lu Zhu did not answer. He looked into the city. The city’s lamps were sparse — but every one of them was lit. The granary, the hospital, the transfer depot, the wall — the lamps that should be burning, not one was missing.

"For them to make their move." Lu Zhu said. "Our lamps are burning. Whatever move they make, the light will show it."

He came down off the wall. In the dark at the wall’s foot, an old soldier holding a spear nodded to him. Lu Zhu nodded back. Neither spoke — these days, the men of the wall spoke in nods.

The tug of war truly began on the fifth day.

The rebels’ night raids changed to once every two days, sometimes twice in three — the rhythm of a man tapping a wall to find where it sounds hollow. The positions were never fixed; the hours were never fixed — sometimes the second watch, sometimes the fourth, sometimes just before dawn, when the men came out of the fog, their shapes gray against the gray. The ram, the digging, the ladders — they came in turns, each attack wearing a different face, each night a different hour. On the wall’s side, repaired, broken, repaired again — like a race with no end in sight, a race that neither side could stop running.

The fourth time, they brought ladders. Thirty ladders, all of new wood — the rungs still pale where the bark had been trimmed, the wood fresh and smelling of the forest — all raised against the south wall in the small hours, the ladders thudding against the stone in quick succession, one after another along the wall’s face. The stones from the wall broke seven, the ladders falling sideways with the men on them; the boiling water overturned five, the men on them screaming as they fell; the rest climbed halfway and were picked off by the archers, one by one, the arrows finding them in the torchlight. Only one thin rebel soldier made it over a crenellation — and was kicked off the wall by the adjutant before he had found his footing, the man falling with a cry that the night swallowed. After that, they never raised ladders again; the lesson had been written where all of them could read it.

The fifth time, they came back to dig the footing. This time they had learned: first they burned wet grass upwind, and the smoke drifted onto the wall, gray and choking, blinding the defenders’ eyes and filling their throats, the smoke lying over the wall-head in a blanket. When the smoke cleared, there were two more holes under the footing, dark and waiting. Kamon led the men in filling them; halfway through the filling, a man rolled down out of one hole — a rebel who had hidden in the tunnel by day, and been buried alive by his own hiding, the earth of his own tunnel coming down on him in the night. The craftsmen dragged him out; he was still warm, the warmth of a man only moments gone. No one spoke; they went on filling, the spades moving in the old rhythm.

"A hole that buried a man," Kamon said, "gets rammed three extra rounds when it’s filled."

The filled holes were harder than the rest of the wall — the earth packed down, the seams sealed, the whole mass of it one solid block. The rebels never dared come under the southeast corner again; the wall there had become a thing they did not like the look of.

The people of the city were all red-eyed.

The craftsmen’s shifts went from three to two — one shift on the wall, one preparing materials, the shifts overlapping at the change hour so that no work stopped. Two shifts in name; in truth, no one slept sound, and the boundary between the shifts blurred until men simply worked until they fell, and rose when they were kicked awake. The work chants went on all day; the rammers’ thud rang from morning to night, a sound that had become the city’s heartbeat — the heartbeat of a city that refused to stop. A man fell asleep standing, his trowel dropping from his hand, the clatter startling him awake — and he picked it up and went on, because there was nothing else to do and no one else to do it.

The women brought food, walking unsteadily themselves, the bowls swaying on the trays. Sister Wei of the south once set her porridge bucket at the foot of the wall and leaned against it — and fell asleep on the spot, her head dropping onto her arms. When she woke, the bucket was empty, and the bowls were washed clean and stacked at the bucket’s rim, the stack as neat as if laid by a careful hand. She stared for a long moment — then laughed, the laugh coming out surprised: "This city, exhausted as it is, still doesn’t forget to wash people’s bowls." She stood there a moment longer, looking at the clean bowls stacked at the bucket’s rim, and then she picked up the bucket and went home, and the bowls went with her, to be filled again at the next meal.

The children had changed too. Before, when the drums on the wall rang, the children ran home, their games scattering; now, when the drums rang, they went on with what they were doing, their hands steady. One child said to his playmate: "Two short and one long — that’s movement south of the city. Three quick beats — the southeast corner. I know them by heart." He said it more fluently than the adults, and the adults, overhearing, felt the strangeness of it — the children of the siege had learned the drums the way other children learned songs.

Only the lamp in the granary’s back courtyard and the lamp in the hospital burned as they always had, through to dawn. Mery counted grain; Shafi counted medicine. The two of them, half a city apart, each keeping his own lamp, each staying up with his own eyes, each holding the city’s life in a column of figures — and neither lamp ever went out.

The swarthy man’s voice gave out on the third day. He had called work chants for a dozen years — his voice had carried the ramming gangs through the building of the western line and the new capital, and men said the rhythm of his chant could be heard a li away — and for the first time, no sound would come. He clutched his throat, his face working, gesturing for his apprentice to take up the chant, the gestures growing more urgent as the rhythm wavered. The apprentice called two rounds — the pitch was wrong, and the ramming rhythm broke, the hammers falling out of time. The swarthy man grew frantic; he snatched up two mud-bricks from the ground and knocked them together — "clack, clack, clack" — in the rhythm, the bricks ringing in the air. The rammers followed the clacking, stroke by stroke, falling back into line, and the chant of the bricks carried the work where the voice could not.

"Look at that." A passing soldier stared, amazed, the torch in his hand forgotten. "Voiceless, and he still leads the ramming."

The swarthy man pointed at his heart, then at the wall, and grinned — the grin of a man whose work would not be stopped by so small a thing as a voice. The bricks clacked on, and the ramming went on, and the wall grew under the sound of the bricks.

Kamon’s voice held — but his feet failed him. For seven days running, he walked the wall three times a day, from the south gate to the north, and back from the north to the south, the full circuit of the city in his old shoes. The blisters on his feet rose and broke, broke and rose; his shoes were dark with blood, the blood drying to a dark crust. The way he walked had changed — limping, his weight coming down carefully, as if stepping on a floor of broken stone.

One night, Lu Zhu pressed him down in the granary’s back courtyard and made him take off his shoes. Kamon resisted a moment — the resistance of a man who does not like to be seen weak — and then sat, and unlaced them himself. The smell of blood came out with them — old blood and new, the smell of a long march, the smell of a man who had walked his feet through the soles of his shoes. Seven or eight blisters on his feet, two of them burst, the sock stuck to the flesh, the cloth peeling away from the wound.

"These feet of yours," Lu Zhu said, "three more days of walking, and they’re done."

"They won’t be done." Kamon said. "When I was young, in the quarry, I walked thirty li of mountain road a day, barefoot over the sharp stone. This is nothing."

"You were thirty then." Lu Zhu said. "And now?"

Kamon was silent. Lu Zhu did not press him; he only had Mery bring two clean strips of old cloth, dipped in well water, washed Kamon’s feet — the water going dark with the blood and the dirt — applied the herbs, and bound them fresh, the cloth wound carefully around each foot. While it was being done, Kamon bared his teeth — but did not make a sound, the silence of a man who had learned that noise changed nothing.

"From tomorrow," Lu Zhu said, "the wall rounds go to someone else. Nubu runs fast; Old Montu has sharp eyes. You sit below the crenellations, and stand up only when something happens."

"A man sitting can’t inspect a wall." Kamon said.

"A man lying down can’t either." Lu Zhu said. "Your feet are here, so the wall is here. The wall is here, so the whole city has feet."

The next day, Kamon did not sit — but his wall rounds changed from "three walks" to "one ride." Mery led an old donkey out of the granary — a patient beast with long ears and a slow step, the same donkey that had carried grain sacks in the first days of the siege; Kamon rode the donkey on his rounds, and wherever the donkey’s hooves went, "clop, clop," the craftsmen heard and knew the master was coming. The donkey carried him along the wall’s foot, stopping at each stretch while Kamon looked, and the sight of the old foreman on the old donkey became part of the wall’s furniture.

"The master rides a donkey!" Someone teased, the joke running along the wall. "That donkey is blessed — it carries half a city."

"Less joking." Kamon said from the donkey’s back. "Mind your seams. The donkey and I are both watching them."

"Master," Young Nubu said, unable to hold back, "rest half a day. We’re watching the wall."

"Rest?" Kamon said. "Then who watches the southeast corner’s joints? Who watches the southwest corner’s footing? This wall — I know where it aches with my eyes shut, the way I know my own knees. You all..." He stopped, and did not go on.

Nubu did not argue again. He took Kamon’s stone chisel, whetted its edge for him on the grindstone — the blade coming up bright under his hands — and handed it back.

"Then ride slowly, Master." Nubu said. "The wall’s business — I’ll run the extra rounds for you."

On the fourth night, the southeast corner sounded again.

This time the rebels had wrapped the ram’s head in iron — the iron plates bolted over the oxhide, the seams riveted, the plates gleaming dully in the torchlight. The iron head struck the wall — "bong, bong" — like someone beating an enormous bell outside the city, the sound rolling over the wall and into the lanes, waking sleepers who had learned to sleep through arrows. The sound was heavier than the old blows; each strike sent a shudder through the stone that a man could feel through the soles of his feet. The newly patched stretch cracked on the thirty-seventh blow — the crack running up the face like a dark vein, the mortar powdering at its edges.

On the wall-head, a young craftsman’s legs went weak. He hugged a mud-brick, crouching behind a crenellation, shaking like a leaf in the wind, his teeth chattering.

"I can’t do it..." He said, his voice thick with tears. "Master, I can’t do it — this wall won’t hold... the iron head... it’s too much..."

Before he finished, he saw Kamon step out of the firelight.

Kamon’s left arm was bound with a cloth strip — grazed by flying stone the night before, the strip dark at the elbow. Without a word, he walked to the cracked wall, snatched up a mud-brick, and pressed it into the crack. Press one in, smear the mortar in with his trowel, press in the next — the motions of forty years, unhurried, precise. The wall, under his hands, closed up a little at a time, the crack narrowing as the bricks went in.

"What are you looking at?" Kamon did not turn around. "Bring material!"

The young craftsman was still for a moment — the moment in which a man either stands or does not stand. Then he set his teeth, and stood up. Hugging a mud-brick, he moved to the wall, step by step, and pressed the brick into the crack the way Kamon had — the first brick of his life pressed in the way the master pressed his.

Below the wall-head, several hundred pairs of eyes watched the scene. No one knew who shouted first: "The hammers never rest!"

"The hammers never rest!" The cry rolled over the wall-head and under it, one wave after another, the sound of it running along the wall like the fire that had run along it the week before.

That night, the southeast corner held. At dawn, the rebels withdrew, the iron head of the ram dragging behind them, the men pulling it wearily across the open ground, the ropes slack over their shoulders. On the wall-head, dozens of craftsmen and soldiers leaned against the wall, crosswise, asleep in a tangle — the mud-bricks still in their hands, the trowels still in their belts, the sleep of the exhausted, deep and without dreams.

The sentry moved to wake them — and Kamon stopped him.

"Let them sleep." Kamon said. "This wall is their pillow."

In the days when soldiers and craftsmen worked side by side, many stories were born.

In the south wall’s guard company there was an old soldier surnamed Gu who had learned carpentry in his youth before he became a soldier — the adze and the plane had been his first tools, and he had never forgotten the feel of them. These days, when he came off sentry duty, he came to help the carpenter gang nail arrow boards. The carpenters said: Old Gu’s nails went in straighter than anyone’s — the nails standing in rows as even as soldiers.

"You’re taking the rice out of our bowls." A carpenter teased him.

"Rice bowls?" Old Gu curled his lip, the old soldier’s scorn coming out before he could stop it. "Years ago, soldiers looked down on working men — ’mud-legged, cheap crafts.’ Now I know: this city was built by you, and its lives were patched back by you. Mud-legged? The walls the mud-legged stand on are harder than anyone’s life." He said it slowly, as if the words had been forming in him for years and had only now found the shape to come out in.

"And now, you—"

"Now I want to study as an apprentice." Old Gu said. "Learn to ram walls. When this war is over, I can build houses too. The brothers who died can’t be carried away, but the living — they need a roof. A man who has learned to tear a wall down should also learn to raise one."

"An apprenticeship needs a kowtow." The carpenter grinned.

"Then kowtow I will." Old Gu said, and actually started to kneel, his knee bending, his hands coming together — the carpenter caught him by the arm before the knee touched the ground, hauling him up.

"Don’t!" The carpenter said. "We’re brothers of one life now — a kowtow between brothers is a wall between them. If you want to learn, I’ll teach. No wage — just feed me."

"Feed you, feed you." Old Gu said. "My grain ration — I’ll split it with you. A man who learns a trade at forty is richer than a man who learns nothing at twenty."

Such conversations happened on the wall every day. Soldiers taught craftsmen to shoot; craftsmen taught soldiers to read a wall — to knock on it, to listen, to know where it was sound and where it was hollow, the way a man knows a melon. Teaching and learning, no one could tell any more which was soldier and which was craftsman. The men of the wall-head had all become the same kind of man — men guarding the same wall, eating the same grain, sleeping against the same stone, waking to the same drums.

One craftsman learned archery too: A-Ka. His shoulder was seven or eight parts healed; he could not yet carry heavy brick, so he pestered the old soldiers of the guard to teach him to shoot, following them around the wall until they gave in.

"You’re a stonemason — what do you want with this?" An old soldier asked, squinting at him.

"A man who repairs walls must know where arrows come from." A-Ka said. "Know that, and you know how high to leave the crenellations, how deep to dig the shelter pits. The wall is built for the arrow as much as for the ram — a man who doesn’t know the arrow builds a wall that helps the archer. The wall and the arrow are two halves of one lesson."

The old soldier was startled — then nodded: "That’s sound reasoning. Come, I’ll teach you. Hold the bow level; don’t shake. When you aim, your eyes look at the target — and your mind thinks about the wall."

A-Ka practiced for two days; his arrows still missed the target, the shafts sticking in the earth at odd angles. The old soldier was not angry; he only said: "You’ve held a chisel for a dozen years; your hand has a stonemason’s precision, and stone doesn’t move when you strike it. A bow is another trade — the arrow leaves you; it can’t be hurried."

On the third day, A-Ka hit the straw man at fifty paces — the arrow driving into the straw with a solid thud. He lowered the bow and said to the old soldier: "Now I know why the crenellations are lower outside and higher within. The low side — that’s the side left for the bow."

"You’ve graduated." The old soldier said. "Now, when you build a wall, you’ll build it for the men behind the bows — and the men behind the bows will hold it for you."

On the wall-head, a new saying had appeared: "By day a craftsman; by night a soldier." The man who coined it was the adjutant. He issued each craftsman a sharpened wooden stake — the points pared smooth, the wood dried and hard — saying: "When it comes to hand-to-hand, this stake is handier than a trowel. You wall-builders carry stone in your blood — when the stone leaves your hand, it has aim."

"We’re not hoping to use them." Old Montu tucked the stake into his belt. "This stake — best it stays idle forever."

"Right." The adjutant said. "If it stays idle, it means the wall didn’t break."

"The wall didn’t break," Old Montu said, "and it’s never needed. Then it’s not a stake — it’s a charm."

At the wall’s foot, rows of wooden stakes stood in neat ranks, planted in the earth, their points catching the light, the wood smooth from the whittling. The wind moved them; they made no sound. They stood quietly, like a company of spears that had not yet grown up — waiting, as the city was waiting, for a use they hoped would never come.

Beyond the city, Horenheb was not idle either.

On the works south of the city, every two days, he sent his cavalry out to hunt the rebels’ archers and grain convoys — the riders going out at dusk, coming back at dawn, their horses lathered. The first time, the riders slipped up to the rebels’ east camp and burned two stacks of fodder, the flames leaping high, driving back a dozen-odd pack donkeys that had stood tethered beside the stacks. The second time, they set an ambush on the small road the rebels used to move grain south, seized eight cartloads, killed no one — the drivers allowed to run — and drove the carts back toward the city, the grain going where the city could reach it.

"This is called ’besieging the besiegers.’" Horenheb stood on the watchtower and said to Seb. "They surround the city; I surround them. If they split their forces to chase me, the pressure on the wall lightens by a measure. If they don’t split, I take a bite out of them every day — bite until they fall apart on their own. A besieger who must watch his own rear is only half a besieger."

Seb looked up at the smoke rising from the city wall. The smoke was a single column, straight — the smoke of peace, standing in the still air.

"The city’s wall," Seb said, "is repaired by day. The wall beyond the city moves by night. Both walls standing — they’ll be trapped between."

"That’s the principle." Horenheb said. "So by day I press them; by night I keep them from sleeping. Men who can’t sleep make mistakes. Men who make mistakes are easy to beat."

"The city’s letter came again last night." Seb drew a waxed wooden board from his breast, the oilcloth wrapping still on it, damp from the river crossing. "A-Tu’s boat brought it. The city’s dry firewood — burned three-tenths and a half; lime at the bottom of the bin; two more well ropes snapped. And—" he paused, "the arrows on the wall-head are running low. The night raids have eaten them."

Horenheb took the board and read it. On it were Lu Zhu’s words, written small and close — line by line, everything that needed replenishing, the writing of a man who counted every thing the city owned. He read it once, and read it again.

"Answer him." Horenheb said. "Dry firewood — the West Bank has plenty; Meru’s boats carry it next trip. Arrows — my armory south of the city holds three thousand; tomorrow night, wrapped in oilcloth, passed in through the city’s west water gate, and the gate will be watched for them. Well ropes — let the women of the West Bank spin them fresh, hemp from the village stores; delivered within ten days." He paused. "Tell Lu Zhu: the brothers outside the city share one life with him. The city stands, and we all stand."

Seb acknowledged, and wrote the words on the board, the charcoal moving in the small even marks of his trade. When he finished, he looked up at the smoke over the wall-head — still a single column, straight.

"This smoke," Seb said, "is the account between the two sides. The city reports peace; the camp reports supplies. While the smoke holds, the hearts of both sides hold — a column of smoke is a thin thing, but it is the thinnest thing that two armies can agree on."

"The smoke must not break." Horenheb said. "From tomorrow, the watchtowers’ smoke reports twice a day — morning for the city, evening for the camp. Two reports, so that neither side ever has to wonder."

He looked toward the city wall for a while, his eyes moving along the line of it, and said: "When this tug of war reaches into their bones, they will think of something else themselves. And when they think of something else — it will be easier for us."

In the commander’s tent beyond the city, Panhesy’s face grew worse day by day — the face of a general watching his plan die slowly, by inches, in front of him.

He called in the officers of the attack and cursed them for half a double-hour, his voice carrying over the camp. When the cursing was done, he himself was deflated; he squatted before the sand table, staring at the besieged city like a man staring at a bone he could not gnaw — the sand model of the wall standing smooth and unbroken under his eyes.

"An opening every three days," he said, low, "and they fill it in one. The filled wall is harder than the original. This city... this city is alive. Wound it, and it grows back; wound it again, and it grows again. Our ram is striking a tree that heals itself."

What worried him more was the camp’s soldiers.

Eleven days of attack: more than four hundred dead, and more wounded — the wounded crowding the tents, their groans a low constant sound that rose and fell with the night. There was no decent healer among them; the camp had one old man with a box of herbs, his hands too few for the rows of wounded, and for the rest, only salt water and plant ash. Some men’s wounds rotted, and they howled all night, the howling carrying over the camp wall into the other tents, and the men in those tents slept even less, staring at the canvas above them, counting the howls.

"If we keep attacking," an old squad leader said, privately, to the men of his tent, in the dark of the night watch, "the men will die outside the city before they get inside it. I’ve seen this before — a wall that keeps growing back is a wall that eats armies."

The camp’s rations also grew thinner by the day. The grain road of Upper Egypt was held by the royal army south of the city — the road cut, the convoys ambushed; what grain came around by the detour, half of it rotted on the road, the sacks sweating in the barges. The soldiers held their bowls and looked at the thin porridge in them — the porridge so thin it showed the bottom of the bowl — and no one spoke.

Panhesy knew all of this. But there was nothing he could do. He could only stare at the city on the sand table and trace the line of its wall with his finger, again and again, the finger wearing a groove in the sand.

"Report." A voice came from beyond the tent. "The High Priest summons you."

Nekhem sat in his tent, a bowl of cold water before him, the water still and clear. His white robe had been changed for a fresh one — but it was still without a single crease, falling from his shoulders as if ironed by an invisible hand, the cloth of it spotless, and the spotlessness was its own kind of discipline. The lamp burned at his side; his hands lay still on the table, the fingers at rest.

"How many days have we battered?" He asked.

"Eleven." Panhesy said. "The wall has fallen five times — and been filled five times. The fills get faster every time; the first took a day, the last took a night."

"How many dead?"

"Ours: more than four hundred. The city’s: unknown. All we know is that the lamps on their wall have not gone out for a single night — and the hammering on their wall never stops, day or night, like a heart that will not slow."

Nekhem took up the bowl of cold water and sipped it — one sip, unhurried, the water touching his lips and no more. He set it down, the bowl settling on the table with a small sound, and said:

"The wall cannot be broken through."

The tent was still — the stillness of a decision settling, the stillness of a man closing a door he had been holding open. The lamp flame stood straight, and the shadows on the tent wall held their shapes, and Panhesy’s breath was the only sound. After a long time, Nekhem went on, his voice level:

"But however hard the wall is, the people inside it are soft. Eleven days — their craftsmen have not slept a full night; their grain grows less by the day; their wall is paid for in lives. And lives, worn and worn, begin to ask themselves — can this city still be held? A wall does not ask that question. Men do."

"The High Priest means—"

"The war on the wall stops." Nekhem said. "We fight a different thing instead. We fight their hearts — and hearts are fought with words, not with iron."

He reached out and pulled the small flags of the attack from the sand table, one by one — the flags of the ram, the ladders, the digging — and set them back at the camp’s edge, where they had stood before the attack began. Then, with his fingertip, he slowly drew a circle at Thebes’s position, the sand gathering under his finger, the circle closing where it had begun.

"Let the people of the city open the gates themselves," he said. "That is faster than the ram. A gate opened from inside is a gate that stays open — and a city that opens its own gate is a city that has already surrendered."

That night, the man in white was summoned into the tent.

"The ones inside the city," Nekhem said, "can you still reach them?"

"We can." The man in white said. "One south of the city, two north. Selling needles and thread as their cover, walking the lane mouths every day, their baskets of wares over their arms, their faces known to half the lanes as harmless. Which households fret, which are afraid, who has stopped sleeping — they know it all; the lanes tell them everything."

"Good." Nekhem said. "From tomorrow, have them say something new. Not grain, not water — three things, and each one aimed at a different seam in the city’s heart. First: the relief army outside has withdrawn; Horenheb’s men will fall back to the western line before winter, and the city will be left alone, and the siege will be endless. Second: the new ways have angered the old gods; this war has no end, and only those who return to Amun will have a road to live. Third—" he paused, "the city’s grain will only last to next month. The granary’s bulletin is a lie."

The man in white raised his head, shot one quick look at Nekhem — a look that asked a question his mouth did not dare — and lowered it again: "High Priest, these words..."

"Not one of them is true." Nekhem said. "But half of them cannot be disproved — and the half that cannot be disproved is the half that does the work. A man who has sat too long in a dark room fears not the dark itself — but the silence, the not-knowing, the emptiness where a sound should be. What we must do is throw a few stones that ring, into their dark — stones they cannot see, but cannot ignore." His fingertip rubbed the emblem, slowly, the old worn circle of it. "The ram beyond the wall has stopped. Now the sounds inside the wall can be heard clearly."

"Yes." The man in white withdrew, his robe rustling at the tent’s mouth.

Beyond the tent, the night had deepened. On the fire line south of the city, the royal army’s lamps still burned, like a row of eyes refusing to close, and the watchtowers’ lights stood in their line. And in the city — quiet, so quiet that even the dogs had stopped barking, the quiet of a held breath, the quiet of a city waiting to see what the silence meant.

Imset did not sleep that night either. In the days of the tug of war, the hospital’s wounded had grown by twenty-seven — the beds full, the mats crowded, the groans a constant undertone, the smell of wounds and boiled cloth lying over the yard. He finished his rounds of the wards, his hand checking each forehead as he passed, and stood in the middle of the open yard, listening to the wind beyond the city. The wind carried no war cries — a quiet that made a man’s heart uneasy, the quiet that comes before a storm changes direction.

"The war beyond the wall," he said to Shafi, who stood the night watch, "is about to move somewhere else."

"Where?" Shafi asked.

"Into the hearts of men." Imset said. "That is the hardest place to hold — harder than any wall, because it has no stone in it, and no mortar that can be mixed." He paused. "In the next few days, when you walk the streets, keep your ears open. The sickness of the heart cannot be seen by day — but it can be heard at night, in the quiet of the lanes."

Shafi nodded, and wrote the words in the margin of her register, under the day’s figures.

The chief officiant’s night patrol also took on more men. The chief officiant said: the quieter it grows, the more the patrol must walk — the silence was not peace, it was a space something might fill, and a space left unwatched is a space that gets filled. Lamp after lamp, from lane head to lane end, the patrols turning every lane into the tail of daylight, so that no lane was ever wholly dark.

"The city sleeps," the chief officiant said to the patrolmen. "We stay awake in its place."

When the sky was turning gray, the work on the wall stopped again for a while.

Before the filled southeast corner, the craftsmen leaned against the wall, asleep in a tangle. Some pillowed their heads on mud-bricks, the bricks rough against their cheeks; some hugged their trowels like children; one was still in the posture of passing material, his hand stretched out in mid-air, asleep in the middle of the motion.

Kamon was the only one still sitting. He leaned below a crenellation, eyes open, watching the sky brighten a little at a time. He was too tired to sleep — the tiredness that had passed the point of sleep and come out the other side, into a wakefulness with no weight in it.

In the distance, on the official road, a column of dust was slowly settling — the rebels of the night before, withdrawing, their dust lying over the road. But Kamon saw that their camp was strangely quiet today — no movement at the gates, no smoke of cookfires beyond the usual, no sound of the ram being moved.

"Not attacking the wall?" He murmured. "If not the wall — then what?"

He lowered his head and looked at his hands. On the back of one hand, a new wound lay over a layer of old callus — the wound of the night’s work, the callus of forty years, the two of them lying together like the old wall and the new.

The wind came from beyond the city, cool, carrying a smell that could not be named — a smell that was not smoke, not river, not dust, but something new entering the air.

(End of Chapter 8)