Pezedkhu was struggling to pull his sword free of its scabbard with his one unscathed arm while the other trembled uncontrollably, still hugged against him. Blood was streaming down his body in two dark rivulets and soaking into his linen kilt. He was grimacing with pain. Teeth bared he tugged frantically at the sword hilt, weaving an erratic dance as he tried to avoid Kay’s lunges. But as he stepped back, one foot came down on his discarded bow. He stumbled and the bow jerked, tripping him. Pezedkhu went down. Before he could recover, Kay was on him, crawling over the deck, and the blade of the dagger was buried in his throat.
Kay collapsed onto the twitching body, lying prone for a moment in an exhaustion and relief Ahmose could almost feel, then he scrambled up and tugged the weapon free. Feverishly he began sawing at the lifeless wrist, digging and hacking until Pezedkhu’s hand came free. Then he rose and turned to Ahmose, holding it gleefully aloft. “I have taken this hand, Majesty!” he shouted. “Pezedkhu’s hand! I give thanks to my totem Nekhbet and to your Father Amun of Weset! Apepa is defenceless now! Long life and prosperity to Your Majesty!” Ahmose was forced to cling to the ship’s rail for fear his legs would no longer hold him upright. The setting sun’s rays were glancing red off the silver ring still encircling one of Pezedkhu’s thick, strong fingers. He could even see the deep lines spidering across the General’s wide palm.
He is dead, he is dead, he said to himself. So quickly, so easily. He was only human after all, Kamose, a man who fell in battle just like other men. I suppose I imagined some climactic meeting between us when we would come together in single combat with the fate of Egypt at stake but he has been defeated by the ordinary captain of one vessel among many. Regret and compassion overwhelmed him. It is the end of an era, he thought suddenly. Pezedkhu, Seqenenra, Kamose, you wove a sombre garment together, threads of doom and foreboding, of bitterness and terror and murder, and your destinies have been accomplished. Woodenly he turned to find Qar at his elbow. “Send a sailor across to bring me that hand and then take me back to the bank,” he said hoarsely. “Khabekhnet must carry it through the ranks. The Setiu must see it. By nightfall the victory will be ours.”
He sat on a coil of rope and waited, blind to the uproar around him, until presently Qar bent and placed the hand in his lap. It was no longer bleeding. The fingers curled inward as though reaching for a caress. The nail on the powerful, spatulate thumb was split and the others were rimmed in grime. Ahmose lifted it gently and turned it over. The ring’s face was engraved with symbols he did not recognize, foreign symbols, Pezedkhu’s name perhaps, or the name of his wife or son inscribed in the language of some obscure Setiu tribe. I knew nothing about him but his skill as a strategist and his great personal authority, he thought sadly. Qar cleared his throat. “Captain Abana humbly begs you to allow him to keep the ring when you have finished with the hand, Majesty,” he said. “He wishes to wear it as his rightful booty, but he understands that the Setiu General was no common enemy and you may decide to offer it as a trophy to Amun when you return to Weset.” Ahmose nodded, eyes closed. He cradled the hand reverently in both of his as the Living in Ptah slowly extricated itself from the last confused clashes still going on and beat its way towards calmer waters.
Khabekhnet and a few of his heralds had seen the vessel emerge. They had paced its progress and were waiting at the place where, hentis ago, it seemed to Ahmose, he had boarded it. The ramp was run out and he walked unsteadily down towards the cluster of mired chariots and weary horses. “This is Pezedkhu’s hand,” he said, passing it to the Chief Herald. “Impale it on a spear and carry it through the fighting. Call out his death and demand the enemy’s surrender. Then bring it back to me.” Khabekhnet took it as a flurry of excited murmurs rippled through the other heralds. Ahmose did not wait to receive their bows. Turning away, he strode towards the cluster of tents beneath the sheltering arms of the sycamore.
The noise of the battle slowly dimmed. Other sounds began to take its place, ordinary, comforting sounds, the trilling of birds in the band of growth beside the tributary, the voices of servants as they went about their evening chores, the whinny of a horse from the direction of their enclosure. The flap of Ahmose’s tent was folded back and he could see movement inside. As he approached, Akhtoy came out, and at the sight of the man Ahmose felt a great weight of exhaustion descend on him, weakening his limbs and bending his spine. “Pezedkhu is dead,” he said huskily. “It is only a matter of time before our victory is declared. My Followers are slain, all but Harkhuf who is wounded. Send my physician to his tent at once.” Akhtoy’s gaze travelled him swiftly.
“Majesty, are you also hurt?” he asked. Ahmose looked down. His palms were smeared with Pezedkhu’s dried blood and below them the blood of his bodyguard was congealing in blotches and long splashes on his kilt and down his calves. He began to strip himself in a sudden fever to be clean, tearing sword belt and linen from his waist and the helmet from his head, pulling off the pectoral, tossing everything onto the earth.
“Bring fresh natron,” he said through clenched teeth. “I must wash now, Akhtoy. I must wash.” Then he was running for the water, stumbling a little as the bank shelved down, his feet catching in hidden roots, his toes stubbing against small stones, until he felt the cool, flowing resistance of the Nile against his skin. Falling forward he submerged himself, opening his eyes and his mouth to the river’s insinuation, rubbing his hands together, forcing his body to remain beneath the surface until he felt the last stains of death soften and dissolve away. Gasping, he broke into the limpid early evening air and saw his body servant waiting with a dish of natron and a towel. Ahmose beckoned. “Come into the water,” he called. The man slung the towel around his neck and waded obediently into the gentle current. “Now scrub me hard,” Ahmose ordered, “and when that is done, do it again.” The natron in the man’s practised fingers grated almost painfully against his skin and Ahmose welcomed the sensation, feeling the horror of the day slough away and a measure of equilibrium return.
Nevertheless when he came to the threshold of his tent with the servant behind him, his body tingling and his mind more calm, he paused for a moment, unwilling to enter a place whose familiarity seemed cramped and old. Akhtoy came forward holding a cap and it was only then that Ahmose realized he had been bareheaded in a public place. “There is food and beer, Majesty,” Akhtoy said as he settled the covering on Ahmose’s shaved skull. “You have not eaten since early this morning. The physician has gone to tend Prince Harkhuf. Prince Mesehti wishes to know whether or not you will require your chariot again today.” The second of dislocation had passed. Ahmose moved forward to the chair drawn up beside his table and lowered himself into it, aware that his legs were aching as well as his head.
“I am not hungry but I suppose that I had better eat,” he replied heavily. “It is going to be a long night, Akhtoy. Send to Mesehti and tell him that I want the chariot at once.” He drew the cup brimming with dark beer towards him and reached for the bread. “As soon as I have eaten, I will see Harkhuf. Is there any word from Ankhmahor?” Akhtoy shook his head.
“No, Majesty, but he should be returning from Aabtu at any time.”
“Very well. Open the shrine and then you can go,” Ahmose said. “I want to see Amun.” A faint smile, part sympathy, part affection, flitted across the Chief Steward’s face.
“Perhaps Your Majesty would like to be dressed before I do so,” he suggested and Ahmose realized with a shock that he was still naked, one sturdy bare thigh crossed over the other and between them a nest of curly pubic hair. He rose, disconcerted, all at once filled with a ridiculous urge to burst into tears. Akhtoy nodded at the body servant who went to the rear of the tent and lifted the lid of Ahmose’s tiring chest. Akhtoy himself swung the doors to the little shrine quietly open and then backed reverently out.
Decently clad in a fresh kilt, Ahmose ate and drank without conscious appreciation, his eyes and his thoughts on the small golden figure of his god while his servant si
lently attended to the dishes on the table. He knew that the events since dawn had rendered him numb, that later he would be flooded with gratitude to Amun for the granting of both victory and his life, but for now just the sight of Amun’s enigmatic smile under the graceful plumes of his crown brought a certain peace. When he noticed to his surprise that nothing but crumbs remained on the plates the servant was lifting onto a tray, he got up, closed the doors of the shrine, and slipping on a pair of sandals he left the tent.
No Followers came to fill the space around him as he stepped outside, but Mesehti was there holding the reins of the horses harnessed to Ahmose’s chariot and he bowed as Ahmose approached. The sun had just gone down and the shadowless landscape was suffused with a soft golden light tinged with a pink flush that would soon deepen to scarlet as night crept in. Ahmose gestured. Mesehti swung himself up onto the floor of the vehicle and Ahmose followed. “Harkhuf’s tent,” he said curtly. Mesehti tightened the reins and had opened his mouth to call to the horses when there was a shout. Ahmose turned to see Ankhmahor come running up, his face drawn.
“Majesty, I have only just disembarked,” he panted. “The men on the bank are talking of a slaughter of the Followers. Is it true? Are you safe? Where is my son?”
“It is true,” Ahmose replied, privately marvelling at the sequence of the Prince’s urgent questions. “Get up behind me, Ankhmahor. Harkhuf was wounded. I am on my way to see how he fares.” Ankhmahor needed no further invitation. The chariot began to roll. Ahmose felt the man’s extreme consternation and said nothing, although he wanted to tell Ankhmahor how relieved he was to have him back. Ankhmahor himself did not speak.
Both men jumped from the chariot as it neared Harkhuf’s tent. Ahmose strode inside, Ankhmahor on his heels, and the physician who had been bending over the form on the cot straightened and bowed. “The arrow was barbed and difficult to remove,” he said in answer to Ahmose’s curt enquiry. “The Prince has suffered much pain, but he will recover in time if no ukhedu develops. I have packed the wound with ground willow and honey and have made up a large amount of poppy infusion which his servant must give him whenever he requires it. I will continue to attend the Prince if Your Majesty so desires.” Ankhmahor had moved to the other side of the cot. Ahmose nodded his thanks to the physician and looked down expecting to see Harkhuf’s eyes closed in unconsciousness but the gaze that met his was fully aware although the pupils were huge and hazed with poppy. Sweat beaded on a face grey with agony. The afflicted shoulder was swathed in linen pads. Harkhuf licked his dry lips, and at once Ahmose knelt, lifting the damp head and holding a cup of water from the table beside the cot to the young man’s mouth. Harkhuf groaned at the movement but drank briefly.
“Majesty, how goes the battle?” he whispered as Ahmose set his head carefully back on the pillow, and Ahmose realized first that he had not seen Ankhmahor and second that of course he would know nothing of any event after he was shot.
“It is all but won,” he said. “I am waiting for a final word of confirmation from my generals. Pezedkhu is dead. Harkhuf, your father is here.”
“Here?” Harkhuf’s drugged eyes slid away. He smiled as Ankhmahor leaned forward and touched his cheek. “Father, I did my duty,” he breathed.
“Of course you did,” Ankhmahor reassured him. “The physician says that your wound will heal. You must sleep now, Harkhuf, if you can. I will come back in the morning.”
“It hurts,” Harkhuf muttered, but his eyelids were drooping and even before Ankhmahor had rejoined Ahmose he had slipped into a restless unconsciousness.
“My physician is a clever man,” Ahmose told Ankhmahor as together they walked back to the chariot. “I do not think that Harkhuf is in any real danger. He has acquitted himself well during your absence, Ankhmahor. So did the other officers who died trying to defend me. You will have to recruit new Followers immediately.”
“Tell me what has happened while I have been in Aabtu, Majesty,” Ankhmahor said. “It is as though the whole world changed while I worshipped in the temple of Osiris. I feel utterly bewildered.”
They mounted the chariot and were driven back to Ahmose’s tent, but while Ahmose spoke of the opening of the gates and the ensuing battles, his mind was busy with other things. The Followers who were killed must be beautified, he was thinking. Where is the nearest House of the Dead? And what of the hundreds of others we must bury without embalming and trust to the mercy of the gods? Where is Ramose? Have I lost any of my generals? Word should come soon regarding the fighting in the eastern Delta which must be secured if we are to hold onto the great gain we have made today.
Ankhmahor left him outside the tent, for the matter of a new bodyguard was urgent. Ahmose went in to find Akhtoy lighting the lamps and two scrolls lying on the table. Ahmose picked them up. One bore his wife’s seal but he did not recognize the imprint pressed deep into the wax of the other. Frowning, he cracked it, but before he could unroll it he heard Khabekhnet’s voice requesting entrance. Behind him came Ramose. “It is all over, Majesty,” Ramose exclaimed, grinning, his white teeth gleaming out of a mud-grimed face. “The northern mound is yours and most of the Setiu soldiers are slain. When the survivors realized that the hand impaled on Khabekhnet’s spear was Pezedkhu’s, they began to lay down their weapons.” He swept an airy hand down his body. “Give me permission to clean myself,” he requested. “I stink.” Ahmose smiled back.
“It is the scent of victory,” he said. “More seductive than the perfume of Hathor herself. I am glad that you are unscathed, Ramose. Go and rest.” Ramose bowed, clapped Khabekhnet heartily on the shoulder, and vanished quickly into the shadows gathering beyond the tent. Ahmose turned to his herald. “The hand?” For answer Khabekhnet laid a leather pouch on the table.
“It is very mangled and has begun to rot, Majesty,” he said. “Our men are even now taking the hands of the enemy dead for the tally. Shall I add Pezedkhu’s to one of the piles?” Ahmose considered for a moment. There was something distasteful, even disrespectful, in the image of a part of Pezedkhu’s strong body being flung onto a heap with hundreds of other hands, all anonymous in their sameness.
“No,” he said, making up his mind. “Throw it into the river. Give it to Hapi for an offering. But first remove the ring and deliver it to Kay Abana. He killed the man. It is his trophy.”
“The hand is very swollen,” Khabekhnet remarked. “I will have to cut off the finger.” Ahmose suppressed a surge of groundless irritation. “Then do so,” he said shortly. “What of the body itself, Khabekhnet?” The herald shook his head.
“I do not know, Majesty. I have not heard. But I presume that by now it has been added to the other Setiu corpses for burning.” I should like to have given him a proper burial, Ahmose thought rather sadly, or at least had him embalmed and sent east to his family. It does not seem in the way of Ma’at to treat the remains of such a formidable enemy as though he was of little account but in the heat of the moment my attention was fixed on my own survival. You will never again see your forests and your ocean, General. I am both glad and full of regret.
“Your heralds have been calling for the city’s surrender?” he asked. Khabekhnet nodded.
“They continue to do so but it is too early for a response from the usurper I think,” he replied. “The loss of his General and of the battle must first sink below the level of mere shock.”
“Very well.” Ahmose gestured. “Detail some of your subordinates to tell the officers in every division that when the Scribe of the Army has completed his tally and the burnings begin, all Egyptian soldiers apart from the sentries are to be allowed food and plenty of beer and one day in which to sleep. Remind them also that the wounded must be given whatever the divisions’ physicians deem necessary. Try to discover if there are any Houses of the Dead nearby, although I suppose that even if there are, the sem-priests could not possibly beautify every Egyptian corpse.” Khabekhnet hesitated.
“Forgive me, Majesty, but such a task is a wast
e of time. Until now the Delta has belonged to the Setiu blasphemers who do not preserve their dead but allow them to decay under the floors of their houses. Any temples close to us will belong to foreign gods and the only sem-priests nearby reside within Het-Uart itself to serve the Egyptians living on the northern mound. Our soldiers know that if they fall in battle they will be buried without beautification. It is a risk they take for their King. To try to embalm all our dead is not logical.”
“You are right,” Ahmose said unwillingly after a pause. “It is a foolish quest. You are dismissed, Khabekhnet.” The herald bowed at once and retreated and Ahmose blew out his cheeks as he turned to the table. A foolish quest but one that would go a long way towards assuaging my guilt, he thought. Kamose took them from their homes and I have kept them away. Now many of them are dead. They may all be my possessions under the law of Ma’at but I have never regarded them as a vast herd of cattle to be milked or slaughtered according to my whim or the urgency of my need. “I will read the scrolls now,” he said to Akhtoy who had been waiting for an order. “Send for Ipi.”
Pulling his chair up to the table, he unrolled the thinner papyrus whose seal he had already broken. The penmanship was familiar. It belonged to his wife’s new scribe, Khunes, but the signature at the bottom was little more than a large and laborious scrawl. Ahmose made it out with a dawning delight. “Your loving son, the Hawk-in-the-Nest Ahmoseonkh, Prince of the Two Lands,” he read. “Akhtoy, this is the first letter I have ever received from Ahmose-onkh and he has signed it himself!” he exclaimed, looking up, but Akhtoy had gone. Eagerly Ahmose’s attention returned to the scroll.
The Horus Road Page 18
