Suddenly they were riding the breast of the main tributary and Ahmose could feel the silent sigh of relief that went through the crew. It was short-lived, however. Looking up, Ahmose saw archers ranged along the top of the wall, each with an arrow already fitted to his bow. Their line ran from the Royal Entrance Gate, also closed, and out of sight around the bend in the island. “Shields up,” Harkhuf barked to his men and at once Ahmose found himself under a ceiling of wood. “The foreigners are performing a completely unnecessary duty,” the young man said derisively. “We cannot assault the gate and I do not see Apepa wandering up there for us to shoot at.” Ahmose peered skyward through a chink in the raised shields, searching illogically for a sight of Tani among the Setiu soldiers. Heartsick, he merely grunted in reply.
Once past the palace, the archers disappeared and the shields were lowered, but Ahmose hardly heard Harkhuf’s command for the tumult that had begun to batter at his ears. The western side of Het-Uart ran straight, affording a long view down the tributary to the black skeleton of the ruined docks outside the Civilian Gate and beyond, and it was turbulent with chaos. The water was choked with naval and Medjay vessels. Living men and dead clogged the bank in a congested sea of violent struggle so that for a long time Ahmose could not separate Egyptian from foe. But gradually he was able to identify Baqet’s standard far down past the gate. Pezedkhu’s red banner of Sutekh was waving on the very edge of the bank and around it Ahmose could see a solid mass of Setiu that boiled back almost to the gate itself and extended in two ragged arms along the water.
The din was colossal. Men slashed at each other waistdeep in water, or were locked clumsily together over the bodies that lay everywhere. Many of Paheri’s ships were empty, their ramps resting on the bank, their marines lost somewhere in the fray. The Medjay boats were circling and manœuvring, the Medjay themselves screaming, weapons raised in black fists. Ahmose scanned the turmoil for Paheri’s vessel and saw it side by side with Hor-Aha’s, both fully manned. He could make out the familiar face of his chief captain and Hor-Aha’s tall figure as he strode up and down, gesticulating. “The Setiu have managed to establish a position on the bank and they are holding it,” Harkhuf shouted above the pandemonium. “Where is their General?”
Ahmose signalled to Qar to steer between the other heaving, jockeying vessels, his gaze travelling the bank. He was beginning to make sense of the battle, but he was puzzled. Watching the Setiu carefully, it seemed to him that they were less concerned with widening the circle of victory around them than with strengthening their situation along the water. On the city side they were merely defending themselves, but on the tributary side they were fighting fiercely to sweep away anything standing between them and the water. Why? Ahmose asked himself with growing anxiety. It is not a reasonable strategy. Surely Pezedkhu ought to be trying to wipe out the divisions. After all, he is trapped between wall and water. He cannot get back to the gate without cutting a swathe through Baqet’s men and what advantage can there be for him in falling into the tributary? Surely it would be more sensible of him to turn his fronts north and south instead of concentrating westward?
All at once he saw the man himself. Pezedkhu had stepped up onto the remains of the docks and was balanced there coolly, his swarthy chest gleaming with sweat, his bloodied sword held high. Ahmose fought the desire to shrink behind his Followers, to make himself invisible. Pezedkhu leaned down and the face of a Setiu officer standing nearby was turned upward to him. There was something so calm, so controlled about the General’s movement in the midst of such hysterical mayhem that Ahmose was momentarily absorbed by it to the exclusion of anything else. He saw the officer nod once. Pezedkhu pointed forward, then back. His broad gesture embraced the whole of the waterfront and Ahmose, following the direction of his muscular arm, stiffened. There were Egyptian boats all along the bank, some with ramps out, some not, most of them empty of men or barely crewed. Pezedkhu, surrounded by his men, stood regarding them with what Ahmose recognized, even at a distance, as speculation. One fist was on his hip and his sword now lay resting on his shoulder. Gods no! Ahmose thought in disbelief even as he turned and was running to the stern, the Followers tumbling after him. He cannot! Such arrogance! Such assurance! But he can, another voice whispered over the sudden panic. He is about to try, and if you do not hurry to thwart him, this battle will almost certainly be lost.
Desperately Ahmose surveyed the rear. Paheri had been joined by the elder Abana. They were consulting over something. Living in Ptah was already easing towards their ship as Qar had interpreted the King’s need, threading its way through other vessels whose sailors and soldiers, recognizing Ahmose, began to cheer. Ahmose hardly heard them. Gripping the rail in a fever of impatience, he saw the space between himself and his Chief Captain grow narrower. Paheri looked up and saw him. Qar called and the oars were raised. Living in Ptah glided forward. “Majesty, I have just sent out a herald to find you,” Paheri called. “We do not know what has been happening at the northern mound and we wondered if we should send more ships there.” Ahmose waved his words away.
“The mound is taken,” he called back urgently. “Look to your boats, Paheri! They are lined up against the bank, empty of soldiers, begging to be fired or taken!” Paheri blanched at Ahmose’s tone.
“But, Majesty, the divisions were screaming for our support so I gave the order for the marines to disembark and fight on land,” he protested. “More will be despatched if necessary.”
“The sailors should have drawn up the ramps and pulled away once the soldiers had left,” Ahmose cut in loudly. “Pezedkhu is not fighting to thin our ranks, he is fighting to either gain our ships or burn them. If he is as astute as I believe him to be, he will burn them. If he gains them, he will still have an advantage. He will not be limited to one place. He can carry his men to any point in the conflict, he can engage the rest of the navy. Send a message to your captains if you can. Get the sailors back on board and the ships out into the water. Do it now.” He flung around to Qar. “Take me to where the Setiu General is,” he ordered. “I want to be as close to him as possible.” Paheri had not acknowledged him, but a skiff was pulling quickly away from Paheri’s vessel and Ahmose knew that the heralds in it would shout his command through the accompanying din. Qar’s oarsmen were bending to their task and already the Living in Ptah was drawing near the blackened ribs of the docks. Ahmose reflected briefly what a good thing it was that both sides had expended their arrows long ago.
His precious ships, Kamose’s precious ships, built at great cost, lay against the muddy bank, their shadows long and thin over the confusion as the sun sank lower. I will not blame Paheri, Ahmose thought as he anxiously scanned the ships for signs that already his men were retreating to their ramps. No amount of drilling and mock water battles can take the place of real confrontation when nothing is truly predictable and the tables of war can turn on a single unique notion. Pezedkhu is capable of outsmarting us all. I wish that his genius could be put to my use instead of Apepa’s. Surely Pezedkhu wearies of serving a King with little personal courage and no judgement!
He raised a hand and the Living in Ptah slowly hove to. Behind him were the ships that had not yet been engaged. Before him the struggle beneath the walls went on, a seething tangle of friend and foe, but he no longer had eyes for anything but Pezedkhu and the untidy string of defenceless vessels. The Setiu were responding to some command their General had given. Their rearguard had drawn together, backs to the water, fending off the Egyptian assault, but the rest were spreading out. They had begun to run, and with mingled relief and dismay Ahmose saw them begin to gain the ramps. So Pezedkhu had blundered after all. Either it had not occurred to him to burn the ships or he had weighed both options and chosen to take the riskier one. Arrogance or a slip in the heat of the moment? Ahmose wondered. But perhaps he simply had no time to make a fire.
Paheri’s orders had been heard, however, for after the speeding Setiu came the marines, pulling themselves free
of the conflict and pounding towards their ships. Some reached their goal and turned to repel the enemy but many, too many Ahmose thought in a paroxysm of alarm, came late and watched the ramps being hurriedly flung into the water so that they could not board. Nevertheless they dashed into the water, clinging to the sides of the ships and attempting to climb. The Setiu were reaching down to lop off hands and arms as their sailors snatched up the oars and their helmsmen scrambled into position.
The Egyptian ships that had been behind Ahmose were now around him, beating towards the foreign crews who were rapidly reversing their prizes away from the bank. But we have no arrows, Ahmose thought feverishly, no means to kill them, and the Medjay are afraid of water. They will not leave their boats to take the leap required to board. He heard Paheri shouting a flurry of commands, his voice clear, calling his captains by name, directing them one by one to block the Setiu’s passage. We must board first, Ahmose’s thoughts ran on. We must take the initiative. Our men must feel themselves taking back what is theirs. If Pezedkhu’s troops jump first, it will seem like an invasion to our soldiers and they will be defending not attacking.
The same threat had obviously occurred to Paheri. He was roaring a string of careful instructions to the ranks of grim-faced men crowding the rails of the Egyptian ships drawing ever closer to the Setiu who had begun to shout insults. Hor-Aha’s deep bellow also echoed over the burdened water. “You are warriors of Wawat, not fleas clinging to the hide of a dog!” he was cursing his tribesmen. “Do not let the Egyptians shame you! Jump, you cowards! Jump!” Ahmose glanced over his shoulder. The Medjay were milling about on their decks under the furious lashing of their captains and Hor-Aha himself was beating his contingent to the rails with a cudgel. Even as Ahmose looked, he picked up one of his men and tossed him bodily over the side. Then to Ahmose’s shock he shouted something unintelligible to his captain, placed one bare foot on the rail, and launched himself forward, landing gracefully on the deck of a ship Ahmose suddenly recognized as the North.
Kay Abana was running to Hor-Aha who had picked himself up, drawn his sword, and was shaking it at his reluctant men across the gulf he had just spanned. To Ahmose’s relief he saw that the North was still fully manned with Egyptians ringing its perimeter in precise ranks, waiting quietly for their instructions. All at once Ahmose saw a familiar figure a little shorter than the rest, lips pursed, gloved fingers curled tight about his sword, a frown of determination on his face. It was Kay’s cousin, Zaa pen Nekheb. Ahmose found himself breathing a quick prayer for his youngest soldier’s safety.
All about him now the Egyptian craft were jockeying to come alongside the stolen vessels. The crunch of splintering oars mingled with the screamed imprecations being exchanged as each side prepared for the encounter. Kay and Hor-Aha were conferring, heads together. They broke apart and Kay pointed. Ahmose’s eyes followed the line of his finger. Pezedkhu stood in the prow of a ship that had been steadily and silently easing its way towards the Living in Ptah through a narrow channel of water that seemed to have opened just for him. He was close enough for Ahmose to make out the man’s coarse, almost repugnant yet compelling features set above a body as thickly compact as mud brick. His stance was composed, stocky legs apart, gaze level, watching as he drew nearer to the Living in Ptah. With a kind of resigned fatalism Ahmose realized that the Setiu General had not only seen him, standing as he was in full view, but he intended to board Qar’s ship and kill him. It was in his eyes, meeting Ahmose’s own over the closing distance between them. For the moment the cacophony around him meant nothing, did not exist. Ahmose was his prey.
Yet Ahmose, searching himself as time ceased to move, found that Pezedkhu, the fantasy wreathed in the poison of dread, was gone. Only the Pezedkhu of destiny remained, a man whose fate had been bound up with the House of Tao since the stain of Seqenenra’s defeat and death and whose nebulous presence had infused the very atmosphere both Kamose and Ahmose had breathed ever since. Seeing him come was like preparing to greet an old friend.
Harkhuf and the Followers hurried to surround him but Ahmose waved them back. He heard them fitting arrows to their bows and remembered that a King’s bodyguard were forbidden to waste arrows unless in direct defence of their charge. In the next second they would fire and Pezedkhu would fall. Ahmose felt a twinge of regret.
Pezedkhu flicked a finger. It was a tiny gesture, almost unnoticed, but to Ahmose’s horror the General was suddenly ringed with archers rising from their knees where they had been hidden, bows straining, arrows already tight to the string, arrows leaving the string, and before Ahmose could flinch, someone staggered against him, someone else grunted, someone gave a strangled cough, and he turned on feet gone numb to see his men littering the deck like so many skewered swine. Harkhuf was on all fours, a black shaft protruding from his shoulder, and Ahmose’s first dazed thought was: How can I tell Ankhmahor? Qar was running towards him, sailors at his back. Harkhuf began to sway and gasp spasmodically.
“You are a clever man, Ahmose Tao, but not clever enough,” Pezedkhu called. “You are no match for me. Did I not kill your father? Did I not haunt your brother to the end of his days? Where are the vaunted Followers now? You are naked before me and I am going to kill you too.”
His voice sent shivers down Ahmose’s spine. He was no match for this brilliant, brutal man and neither were any of his generals. His mouth had gone dry. He licked his lips, tasting the salt of terror on them, wanting to cower down and close his eyes, but he did not. He felt Harkhuf scrabbling blindly at his ankles in an extremity of pain and he sensed rather than saw Qar lift the man away. Your mother killed to save your life and Kamose died for you, he told himself. So has every other Egyptian fallen this day. This is the moment when you may truly become a King. He stepped forward until the rail was pressing against his waist.
“Your foreign master is not worthy of you, General,” he said, surprised at the clarity and evenness of his own voice. “Surely you see that whether you kill me or not, Het-Uart is doomed. It is the last tiny island in a sea of Egyptian power and the waves are about to swamp it forever.” Pezedkhu smiled. There was nothing sardonic or patronizing in the wide movement of his mouth. It was warm and affable.
“I have many masters,” he replied. “Apepa is but one of them. When his war with you is over, I shall go home to Rethennu, to my wife and my forests and my ocean, until I am needed elsewhere. I like you, Ahmose, and I admired your brother, but what can you offer me compared to all that?” He shook his head and began to unsling his bow. “Besides, your blandishments are hollow. Where are the archers you ought to have held in reserve? You are now dead, and once you are dead your armies will collapse. Apepa will triumph.” Pezedkhu selected an arrow and fitted it to his string.
Ahmose waited in frozen impotence. I am taking my last breaths, he thought, but could not accept. How is that possible? The late sun is glinting off the tip of Pezedkhu’s arrow as he raises it and takes aim, the tip that will be buried deep within my chest. It is beautiful. Sunlight is life, touching the water and turning it into crystal fragments, warming the curving cedar sides of the boat in which he stands to a polished glow. I should ask him for news of Tani. He will know how she fares. I should fall to the deck and so perhaps deflect his shot and save my life. But he did nothing. He waited, his gaze travelling the length of the arrow, past the gloved hand and rigid, muscled arm forcing tension on the bow to the narrowed brown eyes fixed below his collarbone and the confusion of shapes beyond. Sun sparking briefly on some indistinguishable thing of metal in the shapes beyond …
Something came whistling through the hot air from behind Pezedkhu, gleaming as it revolved, and came to rest with a thud somewhere behind Ahmose. Simultaneously an arrow whipped past him, close enough to stir up a wind, and was lost. Full awareness returned to him in a burst of sound and a blur of motion. The noise of battle buffeted him once more. The smell of freshly spilled blood from the deck filled his nostrils. Dazed, he turned. His bodyguard lay dead
around him but for Harkhuf who was sitting slumped at the foot of the mast. Qar squatted beside him, the shaft of a broken arrow in his fist. An axe had buried itself in the wood above Harkhuf’s bent head, its long haft still quivering. Ahmose turned back.
Pezedkhu had been thrown off balance. His shot had gone wide. Stumbling to one side he was already recovering, his shoulders hunched, his body swinging around to see from whence the axe had come. The North loomed wide and threatening behind him. Its men were launching themselves onto the deck of Pezedkhu’s craft and they and Pezedkhu’s soldiers were already locked together. Hor-Aha’s arm was still raised from the action of throwing. As Ahmose watched, he ran across the deck of the North and sprang over the water, landing neatly in the midst of the furore. Zaa pen Nekheb was already across. So was Kay, and he was advancing on Pezedkhu. Ahmose saw him drop his sword and draw a dagger.
Pezedkhu’s bodyguard had closed around him, but the soldiers and crew of the North were still pouring across. A group of them under Hor-Aha’s shouted directions were making straight for the thin cordon of men standing between Pezedkhu and Kay who was circling warily, seeking his chance. At the onslaught the line broke, and heart in mouth Ahmose saw an avenue of vulnerability suddenly appear.
Kay did not hesitate. He rushed forward. Pezedkhu was already recovering from the shock of Hor-Aha’s unsuccessful attack but he was encumbered by the tall bow still in his grip. Dropping it and kicking it away, he reached for his sword but he had lost valuable seconds, and before the weapon was half out of its scabbard Kay was on him, elbow tight to his side, dagger poised to thrust into the larger’s man’s belly. Pezedkhu’s arm came up in an instinctive movement of self-defence and Ahmose saw a red gash appear as the knife struck bone and slid down to sever the muscles of the General’s forearm. Kay was thrown off balance by the sheer speed of his charge but he did not drop his dagger. He fell forward. Pressing his wounded limb to his chest, Pezedkhu swung his other fist, connecting with Kay’s temple. Kay slumped to one knee, waving his weapon wildly to and fro as he fought the dizziness of the blow.
The Horus Road Page 17
