The Oasis

by Pauline Gedge

  “That is no message,” he said contemptuously. “It is a boastful, insulting tirade containing not one word of conciliation or any practical suggestion to end the ridiculous situation that endures in Egypt. My Majesty is mortally offended by it. I ask you again. Why did you come to Het-Uart? Why was my messenger returned to me?” Ramose knew that he must not be seen to hesitate with his reply. The eyes were watching him almost without blinking.

  “My Lord Kamose thought at first to send the herald back alone with his message,” Ramose responded. “But he wanted to make sure that the man did indeed return to you and did not continue into Kush, to Teti-En, before retracing his steps to the Delta.” He had the satisfaction of seeing Apepa’s attention falter for a second. “Therefore an escort was needed.”

  “I see.” Apepa breathed in slowly, reflectively. “But why did Kamose select you, a man sorely abused at his hands, a man whose loyalty might be suspect?”

  “Because we have been friends since our first youth,” Ramose told him. “Because in spite of the necessity that caused him to execute my father and disenfranchise me, he knows that I am loyal to him and to his cause. He trusts me.” He had put a slight emphasis on the word “trust.” Apepa’s eyes narrowed and the young man draped over the back of the chair straightened up and folded his arms.

  “And why did you accept the charge?” Ramose stared at him in silence. It was an unexpected question, revealing a sophistication of thought he had not anticipated. He answered carefully, with the simplicity of honesty.

  “My dearest treasure is here,” he said. “The Princess Tani. I hoped that in fulfilling my Lord’s command I might also glut my ka with a sight of her.” The young man laughed once, harshly. The vizier smiled superciliously. But Apepa continued to fix his solemn, sharp gaze on Ramose’s face.

  “Did you indeed?” he said softly. “So you still love her, do you? After all this time, Ramose?” Sarcasm threaded his tone. At last Ramose bent his head, his eyes finding the royal foot, still stained with traces of the day’s orange henna.

  “Yes, I do,” he confessed. “In this matter I am no more than a foolish boy and I am not ashamed to admit it.”

  “And what if I were to tell you that she is dead?” Apepa pressed. “That when the first word of Kamose’s insane rebellion came to me I had her beheaded as a hostage in retribution for her brother’s perfidy?” In a sudden rush of sheer dread Ramose fought to remain expressionless. Keep your mind on what you are really here for, he told himself firmly. Do not allow him to unbalance you.

  “I would say that such an act is beneath the dignity and mercy of a King of Egypt,” he replied. “Besides, the murder of a noblewoman would do little to strengthen the loyalty of your Princes, Majesty. I think you are toying with me.”

  “Perhaps.” There was a small silence during which the rustle of the scribe’s papyrus could be heard.

  Then Apepa uncrossed his legs, pursed his lips, and said gently, “How is it that my herald was captured at all, Ramose son of Teti?” Ramose waited for him to continue, to say that the man had been ordered to take the desert tracks far from any possibility of discovery, that it was almost beyond the bounds of possibility that he should have been apprehended out there where there was nothing but heat and desolation. But he realized all at once that the Setiu had not yet been questioned, that Apepa was probing him not only for information but also to test his determination to guard his tongue and his wits. Ramose raised his eyebrows.

  “I cannot say, Majesty.”

  “But of course you know.” Apepa snapped his fingers and a servant glided out of the shadows, filled his cup, and retreated soundlessly. Apepa took one judicious sip of the wine. “You are a friend of the Tao brothers, as you pointed out, therefore I may presume that you are in their counsels. Did my herald blunder into an encampment of nomads loyal to them? Or are there soldiers wandering in the desert?” He took another sip, lifting a square of linen afterwards to pat his mouth. “They are either very stupid or very clever, those two young men,” he went on reflectively. “An ordinary officer escorting my man to Het-Uart would not have aroused my suspicions. I would have received that ludicrous scroll and killed the officer or had him thrown out of the city before he was able to absorb any but the most superficial impressions. But they sent you, their valuable companion, with a letter so crude and frivolous that it is not even worth copying for the archives. You do not try to hide in the city and gather information as a spy. You ask to come here to the palace. Why?” He began to tap the floor with one naked foot. “There is a wealth of knowledge regarding Kamose and his little revolt in that handsome head of yours. Am I supposed to torture you to get at it, Ramose? Or will you, after a few coy hesitations, feed me erroneous facts?”

  “Torture has never been the Egyptian way, Majesty,” Ramose broke in earnestly, shocked at Apepa’s acumen. You have underestimated him, Kamose, he thought desperately. You have judged him weak because so far he has done nothing to protect his hold on Egypt, but what if he sees farther than you? What if he cares nothing for a reputation of boldness and bravery, preferring to win by patience and cunning? Yet perhaps you do know him and that is why you are so anxious to draw him out of his shell. “I have told you,” he continued, deliberately raising his voice and clenching his fists ostentatiously. “I begged my Lord to give me this assignment. I pleaded for it, and when he reluctantly gave it to me, I fell on my knees and importuned the gods that they might take pity on me and give me a sight of the woman dearer to me than my life!”

  The young man who had been lounging behind Apepa now unfolded his arms, and walking to a chair he sat, adjusting his linen skirt and shaking his head. “There is something pathetic about a grown man being led about on the leash of passion,” he commented. “Don’t you think so, Father? And in this case led blindly into the dangerous maw of your royal teeth. I should perhaps have looked more closely at the Princess Tani when she first arrived, but as it is now …”

  “Peace, Kypenpen,” Apepa rebuked him sharply. “Led blindly? We do not yet know. You do appear a little ridiculous, Ramose,” he said, a hint of humour in his voice. “But whether you are genuinely besotted with Tani or you are giving us a good performance, I am not able at the moment to decide.” He came to his feet in one sudden movement, striking the gong on the table by his hand. At once the doors opened and Nehmen entered, bowing. “Find quarters for this man,” he ordered. “Tell Kethuna that he is to be closely watched. He is not to leave his room until I send for him tomorrow.” He extended a stiff arm, palm outward. “Ramose, I dismiss you.” Ramose bowed and turned, following the Chief Steward into the passage beyond. He felt as though he had indeed been released from between a lion’s teeth, but it was not until he was alone that he began to tremble.

  The room to which he had been led held little more than a couch, a table and a stool. One clay lamp gave off an uncertain light that scarcely reached the dull plainness of the mustard-coloured walls and there were no coverings on the floor, but the chamber was far from being a prison cell. There were no windows, only three narrow slits close to the ceiling to let in daylight and air. Removing his belt, kilt and sandals with shaking fingers, Ramose collapsed onto the couch, drawing the coarse blanket up over him. He was past caring whether or not he was clean. I must think about tomorrow, he told himself. I must try to imagine every question Apepa might put to me, invent every plausible response. I did not much like his son Kypenpen. Something about his eyes … But it is Apepa who must believe me, not his offspring. Thoth be with me, protect me, give me your wisdom. Am I really such a figure of fun? Leaning over, he blew out the lamp. At once exhaustion claimed him in one great wave and he slept.

  He woke to a form bending over him, and as he sat up groggily, it withdrew to become a boy with an anxious expression on his face and behind him a soldier. “You are awake now?” the boy said hastily. “I have placed food for you on the table. When you have eaten, I am to take you to the bath house.” Ramose pushed the blanket a
side and swung his feet onto the floor and at that the boy backed away even farther.

  “What is the matter?” Ramose enquired, still half-asleep. “Is my odour that offensive?” The boy flushed and glanced at the guard.

  “He listens to silly rumours passing among the kitchen servants,” the man said roughly. “You are supposed to be a fierce general from Weset come to dictate terms to the One. Hurry up and eat.”

  “Perhaps the common people know more than their masters,” Ramose murmured, drawing the tray towards him. There was bread, garlic oil to dip it in, and a cup of beer. He ate and drank quickly, uncomfortable under the silent gaze of the other two, and when he had finished, he wrapped himself in the blanket and followed the boy, the soldier bringing up the rear.

  The bath house was immense, a huge room open to the sky with a sloping floor for drainage, a well, a fire pit for heating the water, and numerous bathing slabs, most of which were occupied by sleek, naked bodies. Beyond it, through an open doorway, Ramose could see more bodies, prone on benches and glistening with the oil being massaged into their scrubbed flesh. The din of voices mingled with the splashing of water was tremendous. Bath servants scurried to and fro armed with towels, boxes of natron and unguent jars. Steam rose from the cauldrons on the fire. Ramose, inhaling the damp, scented air, scanned the crowd rapidly, hoping he might see Tani’s slight, graceful form, but of course she was not there. If she lives, she will bathe in the private quarters of the royal women, he reminded himself, shedding the blanket and mounting one of the few vacant slabs. This bath house is for common courtiers. A servant came hurrying at once and the soldier stepped close. “You are to speak to no one,” he commanded. “Keep your mouth shut.” The boy had vanished. Ramose nodded, then closed his eyes as the first ewer of hot water cascaded deliciously over him.

  He returned to his room with his hair washed and trimmed and his body shaved, and with the shedding of the accumulation of filth his spirits rose. The boy had replaced his clothes with clean raiment—a spotless loincloth, a starched kilt and shirt, plain sandals of woven flax—but had left Ramose’s own belt. Dressing methodically, Ramose turned to the soldier. “I wish to pray,” he said. “Is there a shrine to Thoth in Het-Uart?”

  “There may be,” the man replied curtly. “But my orders are to keep you in this room until the One summons you.”

  “Well, must you hover at my elbow?” Ramose protested. The man’s attitude was beginning to make him angry. The guard shrugged.

  “No. I can stand outside the door.”

  “Go then.”

  When the door had slammed shut, Ramose sat on the edge of the couch with a sigh. Muted sounds came to him from the passage and drifted through the high clerestories. Footsteps, snatches of unintelligible conversation, someone singing, gave him the impression of being in an oasis of stagnant silence while life swirled on around him. He resigned himself to wait.

  The thin shafts of sunlight had crept down the wall opposite and had almost reached the floor before the door opened again and an arm beckoned him. Ramose had been pacing head down, bored and impatient, and he was glad to obey the soundless summons. It was a different soldier who led him through the labyrinth of corridors and courtyards this time. The man kept looking back over his shoulder to make sure that Ramose did not melt into the flow of people coming and going.

  Courtiers brushed by them in clouds of sweet perfume, jewels tinkling and linen afloat, their servants trotting behind them clutching listless cats with sapphire eyes, or cosmetic boxes, or scribes’ palettes. Many were draped in tightly woven tasselled cloaks of intricate pattern and hectic colours and some wore floor-length skirts of the same thick wool. Ramose, knowing this to be a Setiu mode of dress, thought scornfully that it would look better covering a bare floor. Few took any notice of him and those that did merely gave him a disinterested glance.

  At last the soldier paused before a set of double doors at the end of a wide green-tiled passage. To either side the god Seth sat, his granite eyes staring back the way Ramose had come. The horns sprouting amid his stone ringlets had been tipped in gold and many lapis necklaces hung on his narrow chest. Ramose, hating him, averted his gaze as Nehmen rose from between the statues and the soldier stepped back. The Chief Steward smiled. He seemed more rested today. The loose, haggard look had gone from his meticulously painted face. “Greetings, Ramose,” he said affably. “I trust you slept well. The One expects you.” He did not wait for an answer. Pulling open the doors, he waved Ramose inside.

  Light smote Ramose at once, a burst of dazzling brightness that had him blinking and confused. But after a moment he realized that he was standing at one end of a vast hall whose ceiling soared up into high dimness and whose gleaming floor ran away to meet a dais at the farther end that swept from wall to wall. Behind the dais a row of pillars marched and between them the sun poured in, flooding the immense space with its glory. Ramose could see trees out there, trembling on a breeze, and hear the muted cacophony of birds. He could also see the row of soldiers lined up like statues themselves, each facing outward towards the glare of early afternoon.

  But it was not these things that caused him to pause, a lump coming to his throat. A chair sat in the centre of the dais, a throne, it was the Horus Throne, alone in its power and beauty beneath its tall canopy of cloth of gold. The Staff of Eternity and the Stool of Wealth on its curved back were festooned with ankhs, the symbols of life, and the snarling lions’ muzzles at the end of each arm roared a warning. The delicate turquoise and lapis wings of Isis and Neith rose like fans from the armrests and below them on each side a King strode, Crook and Flail in his hands, Hapi behind him and Ra before. Ramose could picture the great Eye of Horus that filled the rear, the Wadjet Eye set there to protect the King from any attack from behind. Oh, Kamose, Ramose cried out soundlessly. Dear friend. Glorious Majesty. Will those holy ankhs ever feed life into your skin? Will the goddesses ever enjoy the delight of holding their protecting wings around you? Do they suffer the same humiliation you endure every time Apepa settles his foreign carcase onto that cool gold and puts his feet upon the royal footstool?

  Someone coughed politely at his elbow and he swung around clumsily. A man was waiting, clad all in white, holding a white, silver-tipped staff. “I am Chief Herald Yku-didi,” he said. “Follow me.” He paced the hall to the right of the dais, and seeing him come, the soldiers on the doors he was approaching opened them. “The noble Ramose,” he intoned, the first time Ramose had heard his title called in Het-Uart, and Ramose walked in.

  It seemed to him that the room was full of people. Apepa himself, resplendent in yellow linen shot with gold thread and a yellow helmet, was standing before a wide table. To his right sat a younger man Ramose did not recognize, but presumed from his resemblance to the King that he was yet another son. To his left sat someone Ramose was sure he ought to know. Swarthy, with coarse features and a nose that dominated his face, he sent a trickle of familiar apprehension down Ramose’s spine. He wore no paint or jewels apart from a thick gold band on his muscular upper arm. One ring adorned his blunt fingers, a silver oval with some design on it that Ramose could not make out. A plain black-and-white striped helmet covered his head, its rim cutting across a broad forehead above sharp black eyes. Beside him another man watched Ramose cross the floor with considerable interest. He wore a red ribbon around his ringleted dark hair and his beard glistened with oil. Behind Apepa stood the same vizier Ramose had seen yesterday and at his feet his scribe had already laid his palette across his knees.

  Ramose did not at first see the Setiu he had come to think of as his own. He, like the Chief Herald, was dressed all in white. His beard had gone and his hair was very short. If it had not been for the supreme indifference of his stare, Ramose might not have known him. So he was in fact also a Royal Herald. Would Kamose have released him so readily if he had known that he was more than a common soldier? Ramose mused, coming to a halt at the end of the table. He eyed its contents while he mentally
calmed himself. Scrolls, Kamose’s letter among them, plates of honey cakes and figs, a cluster of wine cups and two flagons, and a map of the western desert spread out under Apepa’s slim, manicured, bejewelled fingers. Ramose repressed a shudder. The time of testing had come. Bowing deeply from the waist he straightened, put his hands behind his back, and lifted his eyes to Apepa’s face.

  “I see that you have recovered from your arduous journey, Ramose son of Teti,” Apepa said, his hennaed mouth curving in a slight smile. “Washed and rested. Good. It is my wish that you should know into whose presence you have been summoned.” Why must he persist in linking me with my father’s name? Ramose wondered with a spurt of annoyance. He did it last night also. Does he think that in doing so he will force to remembrance my father’s loyalty to him and the fate he endured as a result of it? As though I need such reminding! “To my right is my eldest son, the Hawk-in-the-Nest Apepa,” the King was saying. “To my left the General Pezedkhu and beside him the General Kethuna, Commander of my personal bodyguard.” Of course, Pezedkhu, Ramose reiterated to himself. The ablest tactician Apepa has. Seqenenra’s doom and the spur Kamose puts to his need for revenge. No wonder my ka quivered when I saw him. “Behind me is my Vizier and the Keeper of the Royal Seal, Peremuah. You already know my herald Yamusa. And before me …” his long fingers smoothed the map, “… is a subject of concern to us all. Yamusa has acquainted us with some surprising facts. We wish you to corroborate them. We understand now how he was captured.” The smile vanished. The royal lips set in a hard line. “How long has Kamose quartered troops at the oasis of Uah-ta-Meh?” Ramose kept his face still.