At Het-Uart word of his coming had preceded him and Mesehti was waiting with his chariot. After a few hours consulting with Khety and Sebek-khu regarding the continued demolition of the city walls and its reclamation, he set out along the Horus Road, his baggage and his entourage strung out cheerfully behind him. Abana had not been in the Delta. He was on his way to Rethennu on one of the water ships and Ahmose looked forward to greeting him later. This late in the summer the flood plains were dry and hard and even the Sea of Reeds had shrunk. Ahmose made good time. At the Wall of Princes he spent a pleasant night with Generals Iymery and Neferseshemptah in one of the forts, hearing over beer and coarse bread how the restoration and re-manning of the Wall was proceeding steadily. It was good to be back among soldiers, he thought to himself contentedly, but not as good as sitting with Aahmes-nefertari and their son in the garden at home, sharing gossip after a long, hot day. He missed them already.
Eight days later he was met by Standard Bearer Idu and an escort from his Division of Amun, and surrounded by the Followers he entered the perimeter of the camp. He might have left it only yesterday. There were the same neat rows of tents, the same aroma of roasting meat, the same toing and froing of soldiers sauntering in noisy groups or hurrying on errands, the same flash of chariot wheels as officers came and went. A cloud of dust far to his right where the bivouacs ended and the gravelled desert began told him that a contingent of troops was drilling, although the distance was too great for him to hear the shouted commands of the captain.
While Akhtoy oversaw the erection of his tent and Khabekhnet went to summon the generals, Ahmose had himself driven closer to Sharuhen. The camp has remained true in my memory, he thought, but for some reason I imagined Sharuhen itself to be smaller as the months passed. Perhaps because I so desperately desired to conquer it. But it is larger than I remembered. Its walls are higher and sturdier, its impression of inviolability stronger. I am doing the right thing in accepting a limit to the extent of my retribution. I wonder if my commanders will agree?
They gathered outside his tent in the long shadow it cast. The late afternoon was hot and they gladly accepted the water and beer Akhtoy poured for them. Ahmose, scanning them carefully as one by one they arrived, reverenced him, and took their places around the table, thought that they seemed subdued. Although happy to see him return, there was no laughter or idle talk among them. He brought them to order with a greeting and asked for their reports. Kagemni was the first to speak. Under his crumpled red linen helmet his brow was furrowed and shining with sweat, and dust had settled in the creases around his long nose. “There has been no word from the city, Majesty,” he said. “We are watched occasionally, almost casually, from the top of the walls but otherwise we are ignored. We need more water. The summer heat here is intense and the wind has veered from the west, off the ocean, and now blows from the north, stirring up the desert and making the soldiers irritable. They cannot bathe to relieve their distress.”
“We have begun to send them to the ocean in shifts,” Akhethotep added. “There they can disport themselves in the Great Green and wash, but many of them fear the size and force of the sea. Food is not a problem, however. General Hor-Aha has turned the Medjay into hunters. They range the mountains and regularly bring in much game.”
“There has been an increase of eye sickness, Majesty,” Baqet interposed. “The physicians sent to the Delta for more unguents. The constant glare of light off the sand is responsible, of course, and the dust. There is no shelter here, nothing green.”
“The Medjay do not care for such shelter,” Hor-Aha said. “They are content. But the rest of your troops complain to their officers every day. Also it must be the season of locusts. My tribesmen have encountered large swarms of them in the thin strip of fertile land at the foot of the mountains. They do not fear them, but their black clouds can be seen from the camp and the sight of them stirs a superstitious dread in the other soldiers. They are seen as an omen of disaster.”
Ahmose studied his friend. He alone of all the generals appeared to have benefited from his stay in this dry, forsaken place. His black skin had a sheen of health to it and his dark eyes were clear. His hair had grown again to its former length and lay gleaming on his broad shoulders. Unlike the others, he was not sweating. Ahmose rapped the table. “I had already decided to give up the siege,” he said, “and everything I hear from you reinforces that decision. It is time to admit a bloodless defeat, my Generals, and retire behind the Wall of Princes. I will lose face but my soldiers will doubtless bless me. No Egyptian likes being away from his land for too long.” No one objected and in their silence he read relief. “I see that you agree,” he continued dryly. “Then you may inform your officers that we will march one week from today. I will give you the redistribution of the divisions later. Now I invite you to eat with me and we will talk of other matters. I am pleased to be in your presence again.”
After they had gone, he was reluctant to enter his tent. The light was fading and with it the heat, although the wind still gusted, flattening his kilt against his thighs and tugging at the lappets of his helmet. Taking Ankhmahor, he strolled in the direction of the fort. He was drawn to the rugged adamant of its stone, its aura of complete indifference. He tried to imagine its gates open, its citizens coming and going along the road to the ocean, the ox carts of traders rattling as they drew near, the cries of its children and the chatter of its women, but he could not. Sharuhen was too solid, too real to be a mirage, yet there was a dreamlike quality about it that troubled him. I shall never see what is inside it, he thought. Somewhere within its mute defences Apepa and Tani eat and sleep, walk and talk, but my mind sees them standing stiffly motionless while the sun rises and sets, a pair of statues who neither breathe nor blink. I suppose the rock walls muffle all sound, particularly with the gates closed, but I cannot rid myself of the fancy that Sharuhen is crowded with lifeless figures.
For three days he rose early, had himself driven as close to the city as was safe, and spent the morning hours sitting under a canopy with his gaze on the southern gate. He had no duties to perform. A wave of excitement had rippled through the camp with the news that the siege was to be lifted, but Ahmose remembered the sneering arrogance of the man who had spoken from the wall and would not give his name and a part of him regretted this retreat. I would have liked to see him humbled, he thought. For what is he but the petty ruler of a single city? Yet I, King of Egypt, must slink away from his haughty disregard like a whipped dog.
But on the fourth day, as he was slumped in his chair with the thin protection of the canopy flapping above him, he saw a man suddenly appear on the top of the wall. Ankhmahor uttered an exclamation that was echoed by the Followers clustered around. Ahmose came to his feet, his mind all at once filling with his grandmother’s dream and his promise to tarry outside Sharuhen for seven days. Excitement flooded him. The man lifted a horn to his mouth and blew. “Egyptians!” he shouted. “The Queen Tautha desires audience with her brother! Let her approach him unharmed!”
A hundred ideas flashed through Ahmose’s head, but one was uppermost. They will open the gate to let her out, we could rush them then, but no, it would take too much time to muster an assault, can I and the Followers make the attempt? The man had not waited for a reply. He had disappeared as quickly as he had come. Already the gate was inching open and a small figure was emerging. It was Tani, unescorted, a lone woman crossing the hot waste towards him, the tassels of her robe flicked by the wind, stray strands escaping from her bound hair and being flung against her neck.
“Mesehti, the chariot!” Ahmose called. The Followers were also watching Tani come nearer, their hands on the hilts of their swords. Do they expect her to lunge at me with a dagger? Ahmose thought idiotically. Then she was before him, eyes narrowed against the sunlight, holding her hands wide.
“I bring no weapon,” she said to Ankhmahor, a hint of sarcasm in her voice. “Greetings, Ahmose. I must speak to you immediately and privatel
y. Am I permitted?” For answer he indicated the chariot. She stepped up onto its floor and he followed. Mesehti clucked at the horses and they set off towards Ahmose’s tent. He had not said a word.
Once inside he dismissed Akhtoy and turned to face her. “Have you brought me the surrender of Sharuhen?” he demanded, without much hope. She laughed once in shock.
“No, of course not!” she said sharply, then she softened. “It is wonderful to see you again, Ahmose.” He would not respond to the tenderness of her tone.
“What do you want?” he asked roughly. “Have you had enough of the Setiu? Have you come to beg me to send you home? I will do it gladly, Tani.” She bit her lip and looked away.
“I need your help,” she said in a low voice. “My husband is very ill. He needs poppy to ease his pain but there is none in the city. Sharuhen’s supply has always come from Keftiu, but the siege has put a stop to it. May I sit down?” He nodded and she collapsed into a chair. “I know how you hate him,” she went on urgently, “but I pray that you will take pity on a fellow man in great distress.”
“He is ill?” Ahmose repeated in astonishment. “Apepa? What is the matter with him?”
“There is a steep stone stairway leading from the house where we live, down to the street entrance,” she said. “He was descending it when he tripped on something, a pebble perhaps, I don’t know. He fell. The guards caught him at the bottom but it was too late. He had broken his leg.”
“A broken leg? But surely …”
“He broke it in three places,” she blurted. “Not cleanly. Shards of bone were sticking out of his skin. He was screaming. Oh, Ahmose, it was terrible. He went on screaming while he was carried back into the house and laid on his bed. His physician tried to push the bones back into place and he fainted. It was useless. That was three days ago. Then the ukhedu started to spread. Washing his leg and putting salve on it did no good. It swelled and oozed. He can hardly be touched without his shrieking with the pain. This morning I left him drowned in sweat and shaking as though it was winter.” Her face worked and she burst into tears. “His physician is a fool!” she cried out. “He is dying, and in such agony you cannot imagine! Please, Ahmose, give me poppy!” Grabbing up a piece of linen from the table, she held it to her eyes. Her shoulders were heaving with her sobs.
Ahmose stood watching her. He was not untouched by her distress, but a tide of sheer malicious joy was filling him, making him smile. A part of him saw it grow with righteous horror but he could not control it. Apepa was dying. Not the quick and easy death of an arrow through the chest or a sword thrust through the neck but slowly, in exquisite torment. It was a vengeance better than any he could have conjured up himself. Amun had seen the impregnability of Sharuhen. He had reached inside the city and struck Apepa down. He had honoured the trust and perseverance of his servants. He had answered their petitions and had sent Tetisheri the dream to tell them so. By this act of divine retribution the god had set his mighty seal on Egypt forever and Ma’at was finally made whole. Let him suffer, Ahmose thought savagely. Let Amun’s hand squeeze ever tighter about him until he has drunk the bitter wine of anguish to the lees and life has fled.
But then another notion insinuated itself beneath the turmoil of hostility and dark pleasure and he took one step towards his sister. “No,” he said firmly. “I will not give you poppy to take into Sharuhen. I do not care whether Apepa dies in torment or happily unconscious under the spell of the drug as long as he makes an end. However, if you will bring him here to me together with the Horus Throne and the Royal Regalia, he can have all the poppy he needs.” Her head jerked up. He saw the colour drain out of her cheeks until she was ashen under the delicate brown of her skin. The fingers clutching the linen convulsed.
“Ahmose!” she choked. “Have you no pity?”
“None.” He dragged the stool over and sat so that their knees were almost together. “This is the man in whose name our father was crippled, for whom Kamose was murdered,” he said harshly. “This is the man who would have had Aahmes-nefertari married to a commoner, Grandmother sent to a harem for old women, and Kamose posted forever to the border fort at Sile. He condemned me to live out my days in Kush under Teti-En, fighting the tribes who would not submit to him. If Kamose had not taken hold of his courage and begun his revolt, the family would have been not only divided but utterly humiliated.” He sat back and folded his arms. “And this is the man for whom you plead. No. My compassion does not extend that far. I have given you a choice. Go back empty-handed or bring him out with the sacred things he stole. How much compassion have you?” She flung the sopping linen away and came to her feet. Sobs spasmodically racked her but she had regained control of herself.
“I did not come to bargain!” she flared. “I came believing in the mercy of a brother. But he has eaten his heart and there is nothing left but a demon!”
“Believe what you will,” Ahmose retorted coldly. “I care nothing for Apepa and very little for you.”
“You will kill him as soon as he appears!”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Unless you lie, he is dying already. You have my word that my physician will assume his care if my throne and my crown come with him. Now what will you do?” She stumbled to the tent flap and he swivelled on the stool to watch her.
“You have become more cruel than I could ever have imagined, Mighty Bull of Ma’at,” she said in a strangled whisper. “You have gored me to the marrow. Of course, I will bring him out. Only the most hardened criminal could bear to sit beside him and watch his suffering and I love him. His family will curse you, and I curse you too.” She fumbled with the flap.
“Bring him at once,” Ahmose called as she pushed her way out. Jumping up, he ran after her. She was fleeing towards the city, her hair coming loose, her robe dragging on the ground. “Send Mesehti to pick her up with the chariot and drive her the rest of the way,” he ordered Ankhmahor. “Then find Turi. He is to assemble fifty men and wait outside the southern gate. She will reappear with Apepa. Turi will escort them back here.” Ankhmahor’s eyes lit up.
“Majesty, how did you make this happen?” he asked. Ahmose blew out his lips.
“You will see how very soon,” he said. He felt ill himself. A sudden pang of guilt shot through him, but he straightened his shoulders and it faded. I am sorry, Tani, he said to her silently. It is not true that I no longer care for you, but I could not see this opportunity go by. You are less important than the symbols of Egypt’s stability. Akhtoy was hovering nearby and Ahmose crooked a finger at him. “Have another tent erected next to mine and summon my physician,” he ordered. “And tell Hekayib to bring a jug of wine. This day promises to be very long.”
He lay on his couch with the wine cup balanced on his naked chest, listening to the servants raising the other tent and carrying cot, table and chairs inside. He had opened his shrine, lit incense, and prostrated himself in thanksgiving to his god. He had also prayed that Tani would not be prevented from bringing him his prize. What if Apepa’s sons objected or his Chief Wife Uazet threw herself on her husband and refused to let him go? But surely if the man was in such agony they would all be glad of a chance to see his pain relieved. What this might mean regarding the fate of Sharuhen itself he did not know. Nor did he care. Heart pounding erratically, he felt the culmination of his destiny come swiftly to a climax. The god had moved. The chain of events resulting from his action were up to the King.
It was evening before he heard the sounds for which he had been waiting. A swell of excited voices, the rattle of chariot wheels and the tramp of many feet brought him hurrying outside. Two curtained litters were being set down and Turi was dismissing his curious men. Tani was dismounting, and with a shake of the reins Mesehti turned the horses back towards their stalls. Tani did not look at Ahmose. Beckoning to several of the Followers, she drew back the first litter’s drapery. At once the air was filled with the stench of rotting flesh. Several of the Followers flinched as they bent and lifted the pallet an
d its groaning burden within but Tani did not. Neither did Ahmose.
The physician and his assistant were waiting by the cot. Gently the Followers laid Apepa down and withdrew. Tani collapsed into one of the chairs. The physician drew back the stained sheet, and in spite of himself Ahmose gave a cry. Apepa was naked but for a loincloth already soiled with his excrement. One leg was shaking and trembling uncontrollably. The other was an almost unrecognizable mess of weeping pus. Maggots were wriggling and crawling over the pieces of streaked bone protruding from the suppurating perforations and the odour in that enclosed space was now overpowering. Only the physician seemed unmoved. “Bring a bowl,” he snapped at his assistant. “First we must pick off all these parasites. While I am doing that, you can get hot water to wash him.” He already had the poppy ready. “You realize, Majesty, that he will die in a matter of hours,” he said to Tani. “Nothing can be done for a fracture of this kind. Not even Egyptian physicians would have been able to save him. All I can offer him is the blessing of unconsciousness.” She swallowed and nodded, her features twisted with grief.
Ahmose stepped closer, trying to find a point of affinity between his memory of Apepa’s face and the contorted image on the pillow. The man whose likeness had been seared into his mind had been taller than most, with long, shapely legs and broad shoulders. His neck had been long also, almost too precarious to support a most un-Egyptian head of high cheekbones, a pointed chin, brown eyes set too close together and a mouth whose corners turned down to give him a sullen look. Laugh lines had fanned out across the temples. Ahmose remembered them vividly. But the face shiny with fever sweat, the mouth drawn back in a rictus of pain, the sunken eyes, bore no resemblance to the King draped in gold-shot linen and hung with jewels who had mounted the Throne he had brought with him to Weset from Het-Uart and had sat in judgement over the family. This was a human being reduced to the condition of a wounded animal.
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