“Pezedkhu? The man himself has left the safety of the city?”
“Yes, Majesty. His troops are an island of discipline in a sea of mayhem. General Baqet believes that his aim is to distract the Medjay and if possible begin to harry our troops from behind so that they are caught between two hostile forces.” And he may very well succeed, seeing that I cannot afford to help General Baqet, Ahmose thought furiously. I want word from the Royal Entrance Gate, but most of all from Khety. What is happening to the north?
“If Baqet begins to lose ground, bring me word at once,” Ahmose said and dismissed him.
Now he began to pace, fingers gripping each other behind his back, head down, oblivious to the noon heat. Pezedkhu is out. Confront your fear, Ahmose, you coward. Remember that he cannot win more than a battle. The war is yours. Your impulse is to hurry to the western gate and watch him, fill your eyes with him, let the memories render you impotent. But it is Khety and only Khety who will give you victory or see this day end in the ache of an all-toofamiliar impasse. Yet he was unable to shed the sudden mantle of dread that had fallen over him. He knew the feel of it well. Pezedkhu.
When it came, the report from the Royal Entrance Gate was brief. “The gate did not open at all,” the herald told Ahmose, “and the wall is empty of archers. Generals Kagemni and Turi urgently desire a decision from you, Majesty, regarding the disposition of the Divisions of Ra and Amun. They took it upon themselves to move their troops from the Royal Entrance Gate to the eastern gate. The flood ditches there are much shallower than on the west and they are no more than knee deep in water. They do not know if that gate opened as there are no Setiu archers or soldiers on that side of the main mound.”
“Wait with me,” Ahmose ordered him. “I will decide when I have heard from the Division of Horus.”
The herald from Khety came at last. He was splashed with mud and limping. There was a bloody gash in his calf. He saluted wearily. “The two gates on the northern mound have remained open, Majesty,” he said without preamble. “Foreigners are still pouring out of them and the walls are thick with archers. The fighting is relentless and vicious. General Khety is barely maintaining his position, even with help from General Sebek-khu. He needs more men and he needs the Medjay.” Ahmose spoke directly to the herald from the Division of Ra.
“Generals Kagemni and Turi are to take their whole divisions to the relief of General Khety,” he snapped. “Go at once.” He turned. As Chief Herald it was Khabekhnet’s duty to remain beside Ahmose once he had apportioned obligations to those under him and it was to him that Ahmose spoke, thinking aloud as he did so. “I have five thousand Medjay in forty boats,” he said slowly. “Two of them, that is two hundred and fifty men, have gone to support Sebek-khu. I cannot leave Baqet entirely at the mercy of the Setiu archers. I will leave him eight boats. Tell General Hor-Aha to take the remaining thirty boats immediately, surround the northern mound, and shoot the men on the walls. He is to command them personally. If the water level in the ditch to the east by the Horus Road Gate has become too shallow for draught, the Medjay are to disembark and fire from the banks. When you have delivered that message, find Kay Abana. If the North is anywhere close by, I want to board it.”
So now the gaming pieces are in place, he thought, as he watched Khabekhnet’s chariot roll away towards the glittering ribbon of water. I can do nothing more at present but pray. Suddenly he was aware that he was very thirsty, and walking back under the shade of the sycamore he beckoned to Harkhuf. “Send someone to Akhtoy for food and drink for all of us,” he ordered. “The Followers can stand down for a while. Let them rest.” He lowered himself onto a patch of grass beside the patient horses still yoked to his chariot and his bodyguard did the same, laying their weapons on the ground and talking quietly among themselves.
“Majesty, if you will be boarding a vessel, I would like to unhitch the chariot and feed and water the horses,” Makhu said. He had been standing in the vehicle ever since he had brought it to a halt with the reins ready in his hands. Ahmose looked up at him with a start.
“I had forgotten you, Prince,” he said apologetically. “Take the horses away but send Mesehti back with fresh ones. I may need the chariot again very quickly.” A curious peace had enveloped him. He knew that it would not last, but he watched Makhu undo the chariot traces with a calm laziness. The man was talking to his charges softly, his hands sure on their noses and necks, and they were responding with little whickers of appreciation.
I have not misjudged Makhu or Mesehti either, he thought, but neither must I forget that they are indeed Princes with a high lineage. They are accepting the wounding of their pride with a graciousness that pleases me. Perhaps soon I may relent and spread some kind of salve on their dignity. Yet he could not prevent himself from testing Makhu. “Wait and eat with me before you leave,” he offered. Makhu shook his head.
“Thank you, Majesty, but no,” he replied. “These animals would not understand the delay.” He set off through the early afternoon’s glare, walking between the horses whose heads kept turning towards him. Ahmose wondered if he treated his wife with the same tenderness.
Akhtoy and a throng of servants arrived, spreading cloths and cushions and laying a cold feast before Ahmose and the Followers. There was pomegranate wine and barley beer, but Ahmose drank copious amounts of water and the bodyguards followed his example.
Towards the end of the meal the heralds began to return and once more Ahmose became aware of the noise of battle that had been so constant and unvarying that his ears had become attuned to it and had shut it out. The sun had begun its downward slip and the afternoon shadows were lengthening. There was no fresh news. Both the Egyptian and the Setiu soldiers were tiring. The Medjay archers had run out of arrows. Khety was achieving a growing advantage thanks to the influx of men with Kagemni and Turi, but the reports from the western side of the city were confusing. Not until Khabekhnet drove up, left his chariot, and saluted did Ahmose hear anything intelligible.
“The North is engaged in fierce fighting outside the western gate,” Khabekhnet said. “I was unable to approach it. But the Living in Ptah is not far away and its captain will be honoured to have you aboard, Majesty.” Ahmose thrust a pitcher of water at him and he drained it in several convulsive swallows.
“What of Pezedkhu?” Ahmose asked thickly. Khabekhnet placed the empty ewer at his feet.
“The Setiu General has widened his hold on the area between the gates and the tributary,” he said. “His men face north and south and now divide General Baqet’s forces. The Medjay are no help, Majesty. Their arrows are gone and since they have been firing at the walls they cannot retrieve any. There is much carnage on the land between tributary and wall. It is almost impossible to tell whether Sebek-khu or Pezedkhu’s men are gaining the upper hand.”
“Prince Mesehti is coming with your horses, Majesty,” Harkhuf broke in quietly. Ahmose nodded.
“He can hitch them and then drive me to the water,” he said. “It is time to see for myself what is happening and to let our soldiers see me. Harkhuf, assemble the Followers. Khabekhnet, be ready to intercept your heralds as they look for me. I will be on the Living in Ptah.”
The ride to where the ship waited, its ramp run out for him, was not far, but once Ahmose began to cross open ground the noise of battle increased. Screams and curses rose sharply above the almost deafening undertone of thousands of men panting, shuffling, and exchanging blows with axes and swords like some clamorous melody. Dust clouds obscured portions of the conflict, and in the fitful tugging of the wind Ahmose caught the acrid scents of sweat and hot, spilled blood.
The Followers ran ahead while he left the chariot and hurried up the ramp to be greeted by the captain. “I am your servant Qar, Majesty,” he said with a bow. “What is your desire?” Ahmose looked about him as the Followers formed a half-circle at his back and the ramp was hauled in. The sailors sat stolidly at their oars but the armed marines crowding the deck bent to him in re
verence as his gaze travelled over them.
“Take the eastern ditch and row me past General Sebekkhu, up the eastern side of the city, and then around to the north,” Ahmose replied. “I want to survey every arena of battle.” Qar nodded doubtfully.
“Then Your Majesty will be returning down the western side,” he pointed out. “The fighting is very bad there. I may not be able to get you through.”
“All the more reason to let the soldiers see that I am willing to share their danger,” Ahmose objected. “And I am, Captain. I have endured greater peril under my brother’s command. Let us go.” Qar bowed again and left him, shouting instructions to the helmsman. The oarsmen grasped the oars and the Living in Ptah slid back into the turgid waters of the tributary.
As they beat around to the east the noise seemed to swell and with it, Ahmose fancied, the heat. Harkhuf spoke quietly and the Followers unslung their bows, drawing closer to Ahmose. He himself had stepped to the railing where he could be easily seen. His eyes found Sebek-khu’s standard, the tall pole with its painted symbol of Montu the bull-headed war god waving above the heads of the struggling soldiers. He spotted the General himself, arm raised and mouth wide as he yelled some order to the officer beside him. The man turned away and saw Ahmose. His own arm shot out and even above the cacophony Ahmose heard him cry “The King! It is the King!” The fighting seemed to slow for a moment, the Egyptians taking up the call, then the Living in Ptah glided behind one of the two Medjay ships and the scene was lost to view.
“The dead were being rolled into the canal, Majesty,” Harkhuf said. “Did you notice? The bodies will rot there and the water will be unfit to drink.”
“In another few weeks the canal will be dry and then it will not matter,” Ahmose answered him. “The tributary will carry all poison north and empty it into the Great Green.” He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted across to the second Medjay boat, rocking not far ahead. “Captain, what are you doing?” The black braids swung and a black face was turned to him. The Medjay captain bowed.
“No more arrows, Majesty,” he shouted back. “Nothing to do but watch.” Ahmose slapped the railing in sudden anger.
“Berth your ship on the southern bank, get your men into the water, and carry the wounded across and onto your deck,” he bellowed. “How dare you say you have nothing to do!” Qar was calling another command and the Living in Ptah began to veer to the left. Sebek-khu and the Medjay were slowly lost to sight. Ahmose found that he was trembling with rage.
“They are simple and biddable, Majesty,” Harkhuf reminded him. “They follow their orders but are not good at making decisions for themselves.”
“I know,” Ahmose replied, biting back a longer tirade. Did Hor-Aha not think past the spending of their arrows? he asked himself. Any Egyptian would have seen the possibility of turning useless archers into almost anything else to aid in the success of the battle. I will have something to say to him when this day is over. The prospect filled him with self-righteous pleasure, but recognizing it as a petty indulgence fed by his deepening dislike of Hor-Aha, he had the grace to feel ashamed. Hor-Aha, like every General, would have his mind and his energies fixed on anticipating the ebb and flow of the bloodshed going on around him. It was the responsibility of senior officers to make such lesser judgements. All the same, Ahmose thought grimly, Hor-Aha must know what sheep his people are. What other duty did he have but to deploy them on my command and see that they did as they were told?
The eastern side of Het-Uart was strangely peaceful, the long shadow of its vaunting wall embracing Ahmose as Qar’s ship slid into it. The din from the northern mound and the western edge of the city came to him diminished by a flurry of birdsong in the trees to the right of the canal. The water heaved and sparkled in the sun. It was very shallow, its level sinking, and the Living in Ptah was creeping carefully in the centre between its muddy banks. It inched past the eastern gate. All on board were silent and tense, eyes fixed on the top of the wall, but it remained empty, curving away out of their vision.
Ahmose had expected to see great throngs of Egyptian and Setiu soldiers locked together around the northern mound, but at first he was unable to interpret what he saw when its wall towered above him. The Horus Road Gate stood wide open and men were streaming through it into, not out of, the stronghold. Between wall and canal the bodies lay in untidy heaps. The wall itself was splashed with blood. Beyond it Ahmose could hear the continued clash of weapons and a tumult of yelling. Suddenly he realized what was happening and he gave a triumphant shout. “We are inside the mound!” he cried. “Khety has won it! Qar, put in here for a moment!”
“Majesty, there is still fighting, desperate by the sound of it,” Harkhuf warned him. “As the Commander of your Followers it is my duty to request that you do not disembark.” Ahmose wanted to hug him. He smiled into the serious young face.
“Draw your sword, Harkhuf,“ he said. “A King is not of much use on a day like this. There are few things he can do, but perhaps he can sway the final outcome of a battle by his mere presence. Do not worry. Amun is with us!” Living in Ptah gave a petulant jerk. The ramp slid into the squelching mud. Harkhuf, shaking his head, ran onto the bank with Ahmose and the Followers behind and they joined the flow of soldiers stumbling wearily through the gate.
All Ahmose’s attention was fixed on what he would see ahead so that he was through the high, heavy gates before he was aware of it. Looking back, he could see Qar’s ship partially hidden by the throng plodding up the sloping road from the wide cut in the wall and then it struck him. I am inside Apepa’s military stronghold, he thought almost giddily. Father, Kamose, I am here or I am dreaming, but no dream could possibly be so real. There is the gate, open, fangless, useless, and I am on the right side of it at last.
He was not given much time to savour the moment, for the troops had recognized him and at once an area of reverence appeared around him and his escort. Faces sagging with exhaustion lit up. Hands numb from their terrible work curled more tightly around the hilts of weapons blunted and soiled with Setiu blood. “Majesty, Majesty,” the muttering grew, and became an excited furore.
Harkhuf spotted a junior officer and beckoned him over. His kilt was shredded, he had lost his leather helmet, and one foot was bare. He was holding a short dagger. His scabbard was empty. “Give me a report,” Ahmose said. The man looked bewildered.
“Me, Majesty?” he stammered. “Should I not find my superior?”
“No.” Ahmose waited. The officer swallowed, stared at the knife clutched in one encrusted hand, then visibly pulled himself together.
“The Setiu forces have retreated back inside the mound,” he said. “What is left of them. They tried to close the gate behind them but General Khety was too quick. He rallied the Division of Horus and managed to keep it open. I am of the Division of Amun. My General Turi rushed to support him.” He hesitated. “Majesty, I have heard that the other gate, the Port Gate, has also been held open by General Kagemni. He assaulted the enemy in that quarter as soon as you sent him. The slaughter will be great, for where can the Setiu go? Their own walls will hem them in.”
“Where is your weapon?” Ahmose enquired. The officer grimaced.
“Forgive me, Majesty. It is still stuck in the body of a soldier I slew. He toppled into the water and his weight forced me to let go the hilt.” At once one of the Followers undid his belt and passed it to him, together with his sword. The man glanced at Ahmose apologetically as he reached out for it. Ahmose nodded.
“You need it more than he does,” he said. “Now take a message to my generals, beginning with your own. Tell them that all Setiu soldiers are to be killed. I regret the necessity but rumours of this day will inevitably find their way to Rethennu. The Princes of that land must doubt the wisdom of sending any more Setiu armies to die on Egyptian ground. Tell them also that all ordinary citizens must be spared. There are Egyptians living in the northwest quarter of the mound. I have spoken.” He smiled and ge
stured. “Go now. You have done well.” The officer smiled back, bowed, and turning he began to run. He was soon lost in the crowd. “We will go back to the ship,” Ahmose said to Harkhuf. “I can do nothing here but impede the progress of the victory.” Harkhuf’s relief showed in the squaring of his shoulders.
“If Your Majesty chose to go forward, the risk of dying would be very great,” he commented. “Listen to the uproar! Then who would lead us?”
Who indeed, Ahmose thought as he retraced his steps through the troops still hurrying up a road that was slippery with blood. Ahmose-onkh is too young to rule. Could Aahmes-nefertari subdue the greedy nobles, dominate the generals, and secure the throne for her son? The possibility that she could was not entirely reassuring. Ahmose hurried up the ramp, his sandals heavy with mud, and Living in Ptah prepared to continue its journey around Het-Uart. No, it was not reassuring at all, and Ahmose was not certain why.
7
CAREFULLY THE LIVING IN PTAH negotiated the canal between the northern edge of the main mound and the southern wall of the smaller military mound. The former bank was deserted, but bodies lay thinly strewn below the wall that now enclosed the last resistance of Apepa’s Delta army. To Ahmose the scene held a quality of unreality, perhaps because, although the battle could be heard beyond, its noise was muted and the wind rippling the ship’s flag and tugging at men’s kilts as they stood on the deck did not reach to the corpses lying sheltered by the wall. They sprawled mutilated and motionless in the soft late afternoon sunlight like so much discarded detritus.
Qar shouted an order and the boat slowly tacked left, but before the northern mound slid out of sight, Ahmose saw that indeed its other gate, the Port Gate, was wide open and guarded by several ranks of Egyptian soldiers who saluted him as he went by. There was no mistaking their grins of trumph. “All General Kagemni’s and General Turi’s troops must now be inside,” Harkhuf remarked, and Ahmose nodded without turning, for the Living in Ptah was passing the northern-most gate of Het-Uart, the Trade Gate, firmly closed, and beyond it he could see the towers of Apepa’s citadel palace, blunt and solid, rearing above the city wall.
The Horus Road Page 16
