“Eager is not the word I would have chosen to describe their state of mind, Majesty,” Baqet said. “Resigned might better describe how they feel. The gains we made last year put heart into them and they looked for a corresponding end to the siege. But it did not happen.” He leaned back while a servant filled his wine cup. “I am not saying that there are mutinous grumblings among the troops. They have drilled and exercised and practised with their weapons with an admirable willingness. But the talk around the cooking fires is no longer idle soldiers’ talk. It is all of the height of the walls, their probable thickness, the strength of the gates, and so on. One mad scheme for breaching the city follows another. We now have the most highly trained army in the world but we are no closer to our goal than Kamose was.” There was a murmur of assent around the table.
“My men inside the northern mound talk of standing on its walls and shooting fire over into Het-Uart,” Khety put in. “But fire inside the city will not open the gates.” Ahmose held up a hand.
“I know,” he said firmly. “However, you are wrong, General Baqet, when you say that we have made no progress since the days of my brother. Scrolls were waiting for me from the divisions in the eastern Delta. The whole of that region has been returned to Egypt, the Horus Road is ours, and the forts comprising the Wall of Princes have all been evacuated by the enemy and subsequently occupied by our men. Nothing, nothing remains of the Setiu but that.” He pointed towards Het-Uart, bulking vast and high in the gathering gloom. “All we need now is patience and we will have won.”
“Patience is one virtue we Egyptians have in abundance,” Kagemni said sardonically. Everyone laughed. Ahmose rapped the table.
“Tomorrow the Medjay, the Division of Amun and Division of Ra, and Paheri and Prince Abana with their ships should arrive,” he said crisply. “I believe that this will be our last siege season. But I do not want to spend the evening in fruitless speculation or wild schemes. I want to know about my soldiers. Khety, you begin. How has the Division of Horus fared?”
They ate in silence, waited on by the quiet servants, while each stood up in turn and told Ahmose how the months of his absence had been spent. Ipi was busy at his feet noting down any complaints. There were few. A temporary shortage of new kilts for the Osiris Division under General Meryrenefer, a shipment of beer intended for Sebek-khu and his Montu Division that had somehow gone astray. “Food is being rationed at the moment,” Sebek-khu had finished. “The flood was ample and the sowing will begin very soon, but as Your Majesty knows, the responsibility for feeding all your thousands of troops is a very heavy one for the Scribes of Distribution. Last summer’s crops were good, but you cannot continue to direct most of Egypt’s harvest to the north. The Delta has been scoured as you say, but many of the villages are in disarray. It will take time for the peasants to feel safe enough to prepare their fields and orchards. We can look for nothing from them until next year. And please the gods,” he said with a shudder, “let us not be here next year.”
Once the reports had been delivered and the platters emptied, the men settled down to drink and talk and there was much loud laughter. Ahmose listened contentedly to the hum of the conversations going on all around him, but he did not join in. He felt detached, his mind lazily circling the problem of maintaining a steady supply of food while behind it flowed a river of half-formed thoughts mixed with the sensations the night was bringing to him. The moist Delta air was cool, almost cold, the stars misted by fine streamers of barely visible grey cloud. Behind him Ankhmahor was keeping his watch, so close to Ahmose that he was sure he could feel the heat of the man’s body on his upper back. By turning a little on his stool, he could see a lamp shining through the bellied folds of his tent, casting a diffused light on the trunk of the sycamore beneath which it was pitched and being dissipated in the denser blackness of the shrubs beyond. In spite of my frustration I am at peace, he thought. I shall miss the weeks I have spent here keeping vigil beside this obstinate city, this wide tributary. He left the stool and at once a hush fell. “I am going to my couch,” he said. “Leave when you will. Ankhmahor, order my sentries.” The men did not stay. Bowing their good nights, they slipped away into the dimness. The servants began to clear the debris they had left and Akhtoy accompanied Ahmose into the tent.
“The city will fall,” Akhtoy said suddenly. Startled, Ahmose swung to him. He was pouring scented oil into a basin of water and Hekayib stood by, waiting to wash Ahmose.
“Why did you say that?” Ahmose wanted to know. Akhtoy replaced the stopper on the vial and snapped his fingers at Hekayib who moved at once to remove Ahmose’s belt and kilt.
“I dreamed last night on the boat that you were killing a goose, Majesty,” he explained. “It is a very favourable omen.”
“It is indeed,” Ahmose agreed. “So I will kill my enemies. Was the dream vivid, Akhtoy?”
“To the last detail and in the brightest of colours,” the steward assured him. “Hekayib, wring out that linen. You are dripping water all over the carpet.”
Before noon the next day Paheri and Abana arrived and, after a few words of welcome, Ahmose ordered them to concentrate their ships all along the western edge of the city, covering the Civilians’ Gate, the Royal Entrance Gate on the northern tip, and the Traders’ Gate. “Will Your Majesty require your flagship?” Abana asked hopefully. Ahmose shook his head.
“Keep the Kha-em-Mennofer moored here to the south where I can board her quickly if need be,” he replied. “But I want you to take up a position from which you can direct all our vessels.” Paheri shot him a keen glance.
“Does Your Majesty expect a new confrontation with the Setiu?” Ahmose sighed.
“I don’t know what I am expecting,” he admitted. “Everyone is restless, having dreams and intuitions, swearing that everything has changed when the eye reveals no change at all. But something tells me to be prepared. However, let your sailors sleep on land at night, Paheri. I doubt if we are facing any cataclysm so soon!”
That evening the Amun and Ra divisions with the Medjay straggled into camp. Ahmose gave Hor-Aha instructions through Khabekhnet that in the morning the Medjay were to take five ships and patrol the lesser tributary to the east of the city, concentrating their attention on the one gate in the wall on that side, the Horus Road Gate. The river and consequently the tributaries had regained its banks but would not begin to shrink farther for another month. All Het-Uart’s gates led out onto the short plain between wall and water. In the previous year the docks had been destroyed. No one leaving the city would be able to escape without bridge or boat, but still Ahmose was taking no chances.
He had his generals position their troops much as he had done during the last confrontation. Amun and Ra took the western edge, spreading out behind the navy. Thoth, under General Baqet, curved around the southern end, overlapping with the Medjay outside the eastern Civilians’ Gate. Sebek-khu’s division, Montu, he sent to guard the area in the north-west where the lesser tributary ran between the city and the northern mound, which Egypt had taken and now firmly held. Twenty thousand men, not including the navy and the Medjay, were set to ring Het-Uart on the following day. Each division had makeshift bridges that could be flung across the brimming ditches if the gates should open. Ahmose held the Division of Osiris in reserve.
He knew that his mood of expectancy was probably a delusion, a foolish wish that had somehow been transformed into a magical certainty by his yearning mind, but the soldiers seemed to feel it also. Optimism swept the vast encampment, begun by Ahmose’s return with his two divisions but kept alive by rumours that His Majesty had found a secret way into the city, that he intended to bring down the walls at once, or among the more superstitious, that he had been given a spell by Amun’s Seer that would ignite the whole of Het-Uart and make it disappear in one enormous ball of flame. The Greatest of Fifty reported these things to the Commanders of a Hundred, who in turn approached the Standard Bearers, and at last Ahmose was brought the news that his wh
ole army was waiting breathlessly for him to perform a miracle.
He laughed, knowing that peasants, even peasants who had become excellent soldiers, were a credulous horde and this spate of wild theories would vanish on the heels of the next wave of intriguing gossip, but he shared their agitation. That night he slept only fitfully, waking often after dreams that he could not remember to lie gazing briefly into the darkness of his tent before drifting into unconsciousness once more.
The following day was no better. Tired and nervous, he managed to dictate a letter to Aahmes-nefertari and one to Ahmose-onkh and make a brief inspection of the chariot horses before retiring to the bank of the tributary where he paced, swam, ate without appetite, and finally decided to while the afternoon away in target practice with his bow. Ankhmahor and Harkhuf joined him, accepting his wager of a gold bracelet and losing.
He was glad when the sky began to fade into evening. He sat in his tent talking to Akhtoy, while outside Khabekhnet and his heralds huddled around a fire and gambled with knucklebones. He had gathered them together in case he needed to send a flurry of orders to the generals, feeling ridiculous as he did so, but determined that he would not be caught unprepared. Both he and Akhtoy were tense. There was a heaviness in the air as though more rain was about to fall. His head was aching mildly but persistently and the scar behind his ear itched.
Shortly after sunset Akhtoy lit the lamps and got out the sennet board. Ahmose did not really want to play but neither did he want to drink or walk outside, so for a further two hours he and his steward tried to concentrate on the game. It had a cosmic significance, even when used to while away a lazy afternoon. Depending on what house a player’s cone or spool landed, it could reinforce the luck of the day or attract a negative fate and Ahmose, feeling that his destiny trembled in the balance, was almost afraid to toss the sticks that decided his moves. Beyond the tent the Followers on guard duty paced to and fro, their footfalls muted. Within, the small brazier Akhtoy had lit against the night chill crackled. The rhythmic clatter of the sennet sticks was the only other sound breaking the profound quiet.
Ahmose had just thrown a score that would remove his last piece from the board and give him victory when someone came thudding up to the tent, answering the Follower’s challenge breathlessly and pushing his way into the lamplight. He stood panting, his hands on his knees and his head hanging. “Forgive me, Majesty,” he gasped. “There were no chariots hitched and I had to run all the way.” Ahmose recognized Amun’s plumes on the bronze armlet the man wore.
“What does General Turi say?” he rapped out. He was clutching a golden cone so tightly that it was biting into his palm and he let it go.
“Something is happening on the city walls,” the officer explained. He was recovering his breath and straightening. “There are men emerging along it, not many, but the night is dark and we cannot see them well. They carry no torches.” Akhtoy was already lifting Ahmose’s sword belt, bow and quiver of arrows from their chest. Ahmose thrust his feet into his sandals and bent swiftly to tie them.
“Go to the stables and tell Prince Makhu to hitch every chariot,” he commanded. “Take one yourself and drive back to General Turi. I am coming at once.” The man saluted and rushed out and Ahmose reached for the belt, buckling it on with shaking fingers. “Perhaps your dream spoke true, Akhtoy,” he said. The steward held out the quiver and Ahmose ducked his head, drawing the leather strap down onto his chest. “Open the shrine and pray to Amun that it may be so. Het-Uart is finished.”
Outside he glanced up at the sky. The Followers were already picking up their spears and Ankhmahor appeared out of the dimness. “The moon is new,” Ahmose said to him anxiously. “How can we fight, if we must, in this darkness?”
“If we cannot fight, then neither can the Setiu,” Ankhmahor reminded him. “I do not think we face battle, Majesty. Even Apepa is not that stupid.”
“He may be, now that he no longer has Pezedkhu to make his decisions for him,” Ahmose retorted. “You are the Commander of the Shock Troops of Amun, Ankhmahor. Get about your business. Send me Harkhuf in your place.”
He waited in a fever of impatience for Makhu and his chariot, quelling the urge to flee along the riverbank towards Het-Uart. Shouts echoed in the blackness, followed by the rumble of his awakening troops. A few strides away, through a tangle of bushes, the tributary was little more than a few sullen glints of weak starlight on the fluid obsidian of its surface. The heralds were clustered close by and quickly he dispersed them with orders to bring him whatever information each General had. When his chariot arrived at last, looming suddenly out of the gloom, he signalled to Khabekhnet to get up behind him. “Keep the reins!” he yelled to Makhu. “Take me as close to the city as you can!”
It was not far to the south-western corner of Apepa’s mound, but to Ahmose it seemed to take an eternity to get there. At last Makhu brought the horses to a halt and Ahmose jumped to the ground, Khabekhnet following. Before them the lesser tributary, the wide man-made ditch that left the main flow of water and snaked around the eastern side of the city, lay darkly peaceful. To their left the main branch of the Nile ran away into the night.
Ahmose peered up at the wall, cursing the lack of light. There was nothing to see. No shapes moved against the blurred ceiling of stars. The city seemed sunk in sleep. But all along the bank of the canal to Ahmose’s right, Baqet’s soldiers were hurrying to form ranks and Tchanny, the division’s Commander of Shock Troops, came up to Ahmose and bowed. “Majesty, do you want the bridges laid down?” he wanted to know. It was a sensible question. The shock troops of each division were always the first to go into battle and Tchanny needed to be prepared. But after a moment’s reflection Ahmose shook his head.
“No, not yet,” he said. “I must have word from General Turi before I decide what to do. He is stationed opposite the western gate where the figures were seen. I will send you a runner, Tchanny.” The man bowed again and went away just as the Followers, who had been on foot, arrived. Harkhuf’s face materialized, pale and tense, at Ahmose’s elbow. His sword was drawn.
Minutes passed. Ahmose felt each second with the slow pounding of his heart as he and his bodyguard waited. His eyes were becoming adjusted to the darkness but there was little to see. The night was windless and calm. One of the horses whickered softly and his bronze harness tinkled.
Suddenly a great roar went up, subsiding to a rumble of thousands of voices sharp with excitement. Harkhuf cried out. Ahmose did not move, though his heart gave a jolt that made him feel momentarily nauseous. His face was turned to the west, straining to discern something, anything, but it was from the east that word finally came. One of his heralds was shouting the news even before his form became clear. “The south gate is opening!” he screamed. “Majesty, the south gate!” This is not a fantasy, Ahmose thought in the second before he unfroze. I have won. I know it to the very marrow of my bones. Het-Uart is mine at last.
“Send to Baqet,” he said calmly. “The bridges must go down and Tchanny must get his men across the ditch at once.” The man had scarcely spun away when a chariot came hurtling across the ground and another herald flung himself from it.
“Majesty, the city has surrendered,” he said, his voice broken with exhilaration. “Men on the wall above the western gate have called it and the gate is opening. Generals Turi and Kagemni have ordered the bridges positioned.”
“Good. Then they must get their shock troops over the water as soon as they can.”
“General Sebek-khu sent a runner to General Turi with the same message,” the herald went on. “The Royal Entrance Gate to the north is also wide.”
“Then I may presume that the Horus Road Gate and the Traders’ Gate are opening too,” Ahmose said. He wanted to turn to Harkhuf and embrace him wildly, lift him off his feet, kiss him vigorously. “Go to the northern mound,” he instructed the herald. “Tell General Khety that on no account is he to leave it. The Horus Division must stay where it is, with the gates
firmly closed. I want no surprise attack on Apepa’s part to regain it. I will send to Khety if his men are needed.” The man and his chariot sped away. Harkhuf touched Ahmose’s arm reverentially.
“Congratulations, Great Horus,” he said. “You have triumphed.” There was such wonder in the young man’s tone that Ahmose laughed.
“It is a marvel after so long, is it not, Prince Harkhuf? But we are not yet inside those damnable walls. It is too soon to be offering me any praise.” He walked to his chariot and mounted behind Makhu. “Come,” he called. “We will join General Baqet. I want to see our soldiers stream into the south-eastern gate.”
Makhu skirted the edge of the canal and soon had to slow for the press of Thoth’s soldiers. Five thousand men were waiting to cross the water. They parted at Khabekhnet’s warning shouts and Ahmose’s chariot rolled through their ranks, but some time before Makhu brought it to a stop by the brink of the ditch where the bridge now lay, its length a span of sturdy planks lashed together but appearing tenuous in the uncertain light, Ahmose knew that something was wrong. Tchanny and his Shock Troops had not moved. Baqet was with them. He bowed as Ahmose alighted and walked up to him, pointing across the water. “What are we to do, Majesty?” he murmured.
The Horus Road Page 34
