Seqenenra’s body servant gently removed his sweat-stained helmet and rumpled kilt and began to wash him. Seqenenra lay with eyes closed against the blinding headache that knifed every time he moved, feeling his bruised, tired muscles relax under the trickles of the blessed cool water. He heard his bodyguard take up their station outside with a cough and a low word or two. Beyond them the soldiers were still arriving and breaking step, scattering to their assigned eating fires with much shouting and laughter. The body servant covered Seqenenra with a sheet, and lighting the one lamp that hung from the central tent pole, he went away to fetch the evening meal. Seqenenra dozed. He was woken by the man setting a tray containing smoked fish, bread and dried fruit beside him and he struggled to sit up and eat. He was suddenly ravenous.
He was nursing a cup of wine when Kamose, Si-Amun and Hor-Aha pushed into the tent. Dismissing the servant he told the men to sit and they folded onto the carpeted floor. Si-Amun was enveloped in a white tunic and his feet were bare. His face was red and his nose blistering from the long hours under the sun. Kamose had also changed, but into a fresh kilt and helmet. Hor-Aha wore his customary woollen cloak under which his weapons could be glimpsed. Seqenenra poured them wine and they drank greedily. “Kamose, dictate a message to the family,” he said. “Tell them we are well. Has there been any activity on the river?” Hor-Aha shook his head.
“No royal skiffs or barges,” he answered. “I have scouts well ahead of us. Things must be quiet in Kush, and of course now that Apepa has decided to build the temple at Weset he need send no more letters until the architects and masons arrive.”
“If any heralds are intercepted, they must be killed,” Seqenenra warned. “We cannot risk detection yet. We are still passing through my nomes, so we are safe for a while.”
“What do you intend to do once Qes is past?” Si-Amun asked. “Do we push on to Het-Uart with all speed or conquer as we go?”
“We must conquer as we go,” Seqenenra said slowly, his words more unintelligible than usual because of his fatigue. Speaking was an effort. “We cannot become an island in a sea of enemies. I wish to absorb any mayors or governors who can be persuaded to join us and who have warriors at their disposal.”
“That is not likely after Qes,” Kamose cut in. “From there north, all the men with power are Setiu.”
“But their subjects are not, nor their minor officials. The villages are isolated along the river. We will take the men as we go. At the seats of government we will meet with the ministers and try to persuade them, and if that is not possible we will kill them and then sweep up their underlings.” Seqenenra paused to summon his strength. His eyelid was pricking. “Did we lose any donkeys?”
“No, Prince,” Hor-Aha assured him. “The supplies have now caught up with us. The men are being fed and guards have been set. We may look to a quiet night.” The words were balm to Seqenenra’s throbbing ears.
“Then you are dismissed. Si-Amun, find my physician. I need something to still my head.” Seeing his distress they murmured their good nights and left.
Presently the physician came, examined him, and saying little, poured a draught of poppy. Seqenenra drank eagerly. For a while he thought of Aahotep, of Ahmose and Tetisheri probably still closeted together with mountains of administrative scrolls, of Tani perhaps sleepless and alone, but his thoughts ran together and dissolved into dreams and he slept.
At Iunet and Quena he was received by the towns’ administrators, nervous and worried men who had already provided peasants for Kamose’s conscription. They had no news for Seqenenra. As far as they knew, all was quiet in the few miles north where their jurisdiction extended. A summer lassitude lay on the countryside.
Seqenenra thanked them and resumed his march. He felt weaker every day, knowing that this journey taxed even hardened soldiers accustomed to Hor-Aha’s strenuous training. His own small programme of exercise saved him from complete collapse, but he began to suffer fevers that rose in the evening and kept him alternately shivering and sweating until the dawn. His physician begged him to turn back, to deliver the army into the hands of his sons, but Seqenenra knew that, maimed and useless as he was, the common soldiers still regarded him as their talisman and the heart would go out of them if he crawled back to Weset with his tail between his legs. He did not know how he was to reach Het-Uart, weeks away. He tried not to think of it. He concentrated on Qes.
At Aabtu the whole army went into the temple where the head of Osiris was buried and did homage to Egypt’s most venerated deity. The Prince of Aabtu, Ankhmahor, had sent many soldiers to Kamose and he had brought together a further two hundred men for Seqenenra. “But these are good farmers, Highness,” he reminded Seqenenra. “They are needed in this nome once the Inundation recedes. Please send them home as soon as you have taken Het-Uart.” Seqenenra, overcome with gratitude and giddy with fever, agreed. They were five days out of Weset.
The following time passed like the sullen, muddy flow of the river itself. During the day Seqenenra grimly endured the heat and dust, the ever-present flies, the jolting of the chariot. At night there were the fires, the tents, a brief conference, then the blessed release of drugged sleep.
He had sailed by these towns—Thinis where the first Kings of Egypt had built their palaces, Akhmin where he had personal acres under cultivation, Badari of the doum palms—innumerable times, gliding past on his barge, beer in his hand as he lounged under the shade of canopies with Aahotep on their way to Khemennu. But to roll through them in a chariot, mile following weary mile of dead fields, dry canals, barren shrubs and knotted bare trees, was to experience a different Egypt, a merciless country of ugliness and waste. He knew it was only summer, only the discomfort and misery of a land lying parched and waiting for its miraculous rebirth, but more than once he asked himself if this was what he was risking his titles, his estate and his very life for, this sun-beaten strip of aridity beside a stinking, thin dribble of water. Only pride kept his head high behind the sweating back of his son as the hours crawled by.
They reached Qes without incident on the eleventh day. No fort or physical boundary marked the limit of Seqenenra’s contro; indeed, there was not even a sizeable town. The cultivated land on the west bank gave way to a large patch of desert that was interrupted by cliffs through which a narrow defile snaked. The desert continued untrammelled on the other side. Beyond the cliffs was a small village.
Here also was a temple to Hathor. With her gold-sheathed cow’s horns and her bovine, enigmatic smile she presided over a silence broken only by the few villagers who came to lay bread and flowers at her feet. With the coming of the Setiu her support had waned. Her priests had been forced to look elsewhere for their livelihood, and Hathor dreamed on alone. Seqenenra had promised Aahotep that he would visit the temple and make prayers to the goddess on her behalf. On a windswept, golden evening, while the army spread out on the plain before the cliffs and gathered in groups to polish weapons, wolf down their rations or sleep, he had himself carried through the short cut in the cliffs and into Hathor’s forecourt.
Everywhere there was evidence of decay. Weeds, now brittle and dead, had pushed between the paving stones. Desert dogs had left their litter of dried offal and bones strewn over the floor of the inner court. One wall and part of the sanctuary roof were sagging. But Hathor herself was still within, gazing past Seqenenra as he stood, hands full of wine and food, her comely body painted in a white sheath, her neck decorated with lapis lazuli and gold.
Si-Amun had accompanied him, and together, Seqenenra awkwardly standing and his son prostrate on the cracked and broken floor, they prayed for the health and long life of the women in their family. There were no priests to receive the offerings. They laid the goods at the feet of the statue, backed out of the sanctuary, and Si-Amun with difficulty forced the doors of the tiny room closed. Before long the inner roof would collapse, enabling visitors to scramble into the presence of the goddess, but it was not right that she should be exposed day after da
y to the curiosity and perhaps even blasphemy of anyone who might wander into the holy precincts.
Seqenenra’s heart was heavy as he regained his litter in the outer court and was carried back to the camp in the now-violet splash of late evening. No forcible destruction could equal the sadness of this slow disintegration, he thought, noting Si-Amun’s silent preoccupation. The same aura of pathos enveloped them both. The Setiu conquered us without spear or bow, did not burn the temples and kill the priests, yet slowly, slowly, the face of Egypt is changing. Neglect accomplishes in time what swords and arrows cannot.
By the time they got off their litters it was fully dark. Seqenenra had his cot brought outside and lay propped up, eating his sparse meal and listening to the orderly confusion around him. He was just finishing when Hor-Aha came, squatting in the dirt beside him. “I have decided to double the watch tonight,” Hor-Aha said. “Word of our progress might have reached the King by now. His scouts might be on the move, though of course it is too soon for them to have reached Qes. The nearest large town is Khemennu and there is a small force of troops stationed there. In any case, it is as well to be prepared.” Gloom seized Seqenenra. Tomorrow the work would begin in earnest.
“So many ‘mights,’ Hor-Aha!” he acknowledged. “At dawn tomorrow gather the officers. We will set the Amun shrine out in the open and make a sacrifice before we leave. How many days do you think before Apepa’s forces try to stop us?” Hor-Aha frowned, considering.
“Three days to organize his troops. No more than that, given the fact that the standing army in Het-Uart is very great. Two weeks to march to Khemennu, and we will be moving north to meet his army.” He looked up and smiled coldly. “It is very difficult to say, Highness, but we should be ready to give battle in five days and every day from then on.”
“What do the scouts say?”
“Up until yesterday all was quiet. But they have not returned today.” He shrugged his cloak to cover his hands, his usual gesture of anxiety. “They should have been back before sunset.” Seqenenra became alert.
“Have you sent others out after them?” The General nodded.
“We may hear nothing from them until the morning. Prince, I do not advise that we move on until they have returned.” Seqenenra disagreed.
“You said yourself that Apepa’s army cannot possibly be close yet,” he said. “We cannot afford to keep four thousand men sitting about eating.” Hor-Aha gave him a startled glance, then both men burst out laughing.
“All the same,” Hor-Aha cautioned, his mirth gone as quickly as it appeared, “it is foolish to destroy ourselves needlessly.”
When Hor-Aha had gone, Seqenenra dictated his nightly letter to Ahmose and the family and gave his instructions for tomorrow to Kamose, Si-Amun and the officers. They would be on the move early, on full alert, with the chariots and the Braves of the King in the forefront, ready to take the brunt of whatever hostility they might encounter. There was little to add, no intricate strategy to plan. My campaign, Seqenenra reflected later as his body servant pulled the sheet over him and he drank the remedy the physician had sent, is crudeness itself.
At sometime in the night he was woken by urgent voices outside the tent. Fighting to clear the drug fumes from his head he sat up. His body servant was already struggling from his pallet on the floor and reaching to replenish the oil in the lamp. “I cannot disturb the Prince’s rest,” Seqenenra heard one of his bodyguard say. “If you wish, I can have you escorted to the General Hor-Aha.”
“No!” someone retorted sharply. “I must see Seqenenra now!”
“That is Ramose’s voice,” Seqenenra said aloud, and to the servant, “Have him admitted.”
He licked his lips, dry from the poppy. His tongue felt twice its normal size. Manoeuvring himself carefully, he poured water and drank thirstily, replacing the cup just as Ramose was ushered into the tent. The bodyguard with him stood uncertainly, one hand on the knife at his belt. Seqenenra nodded at him. “Thank you for your vigilance,” he said. “I am quite safe with this man. You can go.”
Ramose came forward. He looked drawn and dishevelled. Wordlessly he bowed and at Seqenenra’s invitation, folded onto the mat beside the couch. Seqenenra was astonished to see him here, in the tent, unpainted and looking ill. “Ramose, where have you come from?” he finally asked. “Where are you going? Are you on your way south and stumbled onto my army?” Ramose shook his head.
“Your pardon, Prince, but I would like some wine. I am somewhat unnerved.” He was indeed trembling. “I should not be here. I left my tent nearly two hours ago with orders to my servant to tell any enquirer that I could not be disturbed until morning. The poor man is terrified but loyal. If I am discovered, I shall be executed.” Seqenenra’s servant did not need to be told. He had slipped out and returned a moment later with a jug of wine and a cup. Ramose thanked him, poured, and drank. He was calmer by the time he had wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.
“What are you doing at Qes?” Seqenenra asked bewildered, but a horrible suspicion began to form in his mind. “Are you hunting out on the desert?” Ramose shook his head. He passed his palms slowly back and forth over his knees.
“Prince, you have been betrayed,” he said huskily. “The King’s General Pezedkhu is camped just beyond Qes. He has a division and a half with him. Apepa did not know how many soldiers would be marching north with you, you see, so he ordered out a number large enough to overrun any army you might have assembled. If you march over the boundary of your jurisdiction, you will be routed. If you strike camp and go back to Weset immediately, you can avoid a bloody conflict.” Seqenenra stared at him, the blood turning sluggish and cold in his veins.
“But that is not possible!” he exclaimed, the force of his emotion rendering him almost inarticulate. He slammed a finger against his sagging mouth. “Not unless …”
“Not unless someone sent word to Apepa long ago, before you even began to gather your forces,” Ramose finished for him. “I am sorry, Prince, but that is what happened. Word reached my father at Khemennu more than a month ago as to your intention and he forwarded it to Apepa. I knew nothing of it, I swear, until the day my father unsealed a scroll from the King telling him that an army was on the way to wipe you out as far south as possible.” Ramose looked down. “I was appalled. I could not believe that my father would inform on you, his relative by marriage, his friend. But our family has suffered in the past.” He looked up pleadingly. “If Teti had not sold you to Apepa, then his motives in keeping quiet would have been suspect. Apepa would have believed that Teti was aiding you, even though my father would, of course, have denied it. Seqenenra, I am ashamed.”
“I understand your father’s perfidy,” Seqenenra responded sadly. “So many divided loyalties, Ramose, so many private agonies! But how did Teti know what was discussed in the privacy of my home? I have a traitor still at Weset?” Ramose nodded miserably.
“The same man who attacked you. The scrolls have been coming from Mersu.” Seqenenra cried out in shock.
“Mersu? Impossible! My mother trusts him completely, for years he has served diligently, he is … he is … Are you sure?”
“Yes.” Ramose cleared his throat. “My father told me so. No deceit is impossible in the Egypt of today, Prince.” He rose. “Forgive me but I must go. Please do not tell me what you will do. I do not want to know. I must fight beside my father tomorrow, but I swear I will not take arms against you or your sons. You are my friend.” He stood there, anguished. “How could I harm Tani’s family?” Seqenenra looked up at him.
“I know what it has cost you to come to me tonight,” he said. “I thank you, Ramose. I do not yet know what I shall do but I am forever grateful for your loyalty.” With his hand on the tent flap, Ramose hesitated.
“One thing more, Highness. Your scouts were captured by Pezedkhu yesterday morning. They were all executed, but not before one of them had told him the strength of your forces and the fact that you and two of your sons will be in
the field.”
“This Pezedkhu,” Seqenenra said. “What is he like?”
“Young, athletic, a fine tactician. He laughs a great deal but his laughter is nothing, an affectation. Under it he is a cold man. Good night, Prince, and may Amun guide your decision.” Ramose bowed and was gone.
For a long time Seqenenra was incapable of movement. He sat on the edge of the cot, his healthy arm clutching his lifeless one, rocking slightly, breathing hard. Mersu. Mersu. With a supreme effort he forced himself to see the tall, dignified, quietly smiling man as a traitor, as his enemy, as the one who had crept up behind him in the darkness and raised a Setiu axe, but behind the attempt was Mersu the defender and supporter of his mother, the smoother of her affairs, the tactful adviser, the steward who asked for nothing.
With a sick shudder Seqenenra knew that Mersu’s defection had not been the action of a man terrified by the consequences of rebellion. Mersu had cool nerves. Nor did he think it had been a matter of divided loyalties with his allegiance to Apepa winning. No. Mersu the silently efficient was Setiu, from his crisp brown hair to his neatly cut toenails, and probably held the house of Tao in disdain if not in outright hatred. Am I being too harsh? Seqenenra asked himself, inwardly groaning. Can any but the gods see into the heart of a man in these terrible days? I must summon Hor-Aha and my sons. I must decide what to do. The inevitable conflict has simply been moved ahead, that is all. Upon us now instead of a week, two weeks, hence. We would be no better prepared then …
Stiffly, with great difficulty, he found his crutch and limped to the tent flap. The guard outside turned at his coming. “Bring the Princes Kamose and Si-Amun and General Hor-Aha to me at once,” he commanded. “Find out how many hours there are until Ra is reborn.” His body servant, squatting just outside, stood inquiringly, but Seqenenra waved him down and went back into the tent. A fatalism was on him now and he was not afraid.
The Hippopotamus Marsh Page 18
