The Hippopotamus Marsh

by Pauline Gedge

  “What will Apepa do now?” he mused softly.

  “Apepa can take his time and then do anything with us that he chooses,” Kamose said. “If I were him, I would slay all of us as an example to any other would-be agitators, but that might mean antagonizing the hereditary nobles of Egypt. The Setiu have seldom worked that way. Apepa is no different. I expect us to keep our skins but lose everything else.” He twisted to glance up at the servant standing a few paces away and the man came quickly, offering him water which he drank thirstily. He lay back on the litter. “I would give anything to get my hands on Teti!” he growled. “I would administer the five wounds myself before digging my knife into his well-fed paunch!” Si-Amun cringed mentally at his brother’s bitter tone. If only you knew, dear Kamose, he thought.

  “Yet I can understand his actions,” he put in. “True Ma’at is hard for many to discern in these days. I feel pity for Teti.” Kamose did not deign to answer, and after a pause he changed the subject.

  “What will you call your son?” he asked.

  “The astrologers have not completed their deliberations,” Si-Amun replied. “I will abide by their decision.” As long as it is not Seqenenra, he thought to himself. That has become a name clouded by suffering and death. Oh, my father, so pure, so implacable! He rose. “Apepa will observe the period of mourning,” he said, “but we can expect our punishment immediately afterwards. Until then we must relish each day.” Kamose’s eyes were closed. He was falling into the sudden sleep of the convalescent.

  “Yes,” he murmured. “Yes …”

  That evening the family gathered in the hall to eat together, a subdued throng with swollen eyes and little appetite. Si-Amun had sent an invitation to Amunmose and to the mayor of Weset, and when the food had been picked over silently and the serving staff had withdrawn, Si-Amun prepared to address them. He was acutely conscious of Mersu’s tall, shrouded form as he rose. The steward was in his usual place behind Tetisheri, alert in his stillness for any need she might express. Uni, Kares, Isis and the other senior servants remained also, ready to listen to Si-Amun seemingly without involvement, but Si-Amun knew that only their training kept their faces bland and their bodies controlled.

  Aahmes-nefertari was absent, still recuperating from the birth of their son. Kamose was propped on a camp cot, Hor-Aha beside him. Aahotep had washed and put on clean linen, but she sat behind her low table unadorned by any of her jewels. Ahmose chewed his roast goose thoughtfully, his calm demeanour belied by the ravages of grief on his face. Only Tetisheri had come to the meal in formal attire, fully painted.

  She is like the queens of old, Si-Amun thought, catching sight of her as he rose to speak. The arrogance of her station strengthens every bone in her body. She loved her son fiercely and longed to see him on the Holy Throne. Her suffering is great, yet only those of lower station will see her cry. What did you think today, Mersu, when you waited upon a broken and distraught woman? Did you regret what you have done as I bitterly regret it? He saw Tani, sitting on Kamose’s other side, her hand in her brother’s. He smiled at her and won a weak grimace in return.

  The company turned its eyes on him expectantly. A deep quiet fell so that Si-Amun could hear the soft soughing of the dry night wind through the pillars. He caught Hor-Aha’s eye and saw the General tense in anticipation. Taking a deep breath, he began to speak.

  He told them of Seqenenra’s march, of the arrival at Qes, of the coming of Ramose in the middle of the night with his message of betrayal. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Tani jerk upright, but Mersu did not stir. Si-Amun marvelled at the coolness of the man. With an increasingly dry throat he described his father’s attempt to outflank Pezedkhu, his failure and his cruel death. No one moved. Only the lamps showed a semblance of life, their flames rising and sinking in the alabaster containers while shadows gyrated slowly on the walls.

  At last Si-Amun signalled and Hor-Aha came to his feet. “The man who viciously attacked Seqenenra, who kept Teti and thus Apepa informed, is here among us tonight,” Si-Amun finished huskily. “Mersu, you are under arrest. Your fate will be decided when we have buried my father.” He wanted to say more, to speak of the heinous nature of Mersu’s crime, to denounce him in loud tones, but his own involvement stilled his tongue.

  Hor-Aha strode to the steward, and bowing to Tetisheri he waited. Mersu stepped to his side, still encased in his self-possession. Without a glance to anyone he left the hall, walking with dignity behind Hor-Aha. The watchers suddenly loosened.

  “He is not truly Egyptian,” the mayor said with obvious relief. “He is Setiu.”

  “Ramose told you this?” Tani cried out. “He risked his life to warn you?” Si-Amun nodded, glad to see an emotion other than deep grief suffuse her face. Ahmose dabbled his fingers in the water bowl his servant was holding out for him.

  “Who else heard Ramose speak?” he asked sharply. “There must be witnesses, Si-Amun. This is too great an accusation to consider without corroboration.” Si-Amun stared at his brother in surprise. Ahmose’s customary sleepy self-absorption had been replaced by intelligent eyes bright with his query.

  “Only our father heard Ramose’s words,” he admitted. “But we, Kamose, Hor-Aha and myself, were summoned to him that night, moments after Ramose had slipped back to the enemy’s campsite. We can all testify.”

  “It is still not enough.” Ahmose dried his fingers on the proffered cloth and stood up. “Mersu will have to confess.”

  “Are you calling our father a liar?” Si-Amun, at the end of his tether, was shouting.

  Ahmose raised his eyebrows.

  “No, of course not. Father was an honest man and besides, what possible reason could he have had for lying? It is simply that we have a man’s life in jeopardy here. We must be careful. Am I dismissed, Prince?” Si-Amun let him go. Tani left Kamose and came close to Si-Amun.

  “By any chance,” she said in a low voice so that only he could hear, “did Ramose leave any message for me?” At a moment like that? Si-Amun wanted to retort scornfully. Don’t be ridiculous! But he bit his tongue and forced himself to be kind.

  “No, Tani, he did not,” he replied. “He was very anxious to speak with Father and then run. If he had been caught crossing into our lines he would have been killed, you know.”

  “Oh, of course.” She put a hand to her cheek. “How stupid of me. It is just …” Si-Amun took her shoulders.

  “You know that he loves you,” he insisted. “He would have warned us in any case because he is an honourable man, but surely you were in his thoughts as he made his way towards Father’s tent that night. Be brave, Tani.”

  “I am tired of being brave,” she said. “I want to be other things. I want to be happy.” She spun away and ran from the hall. Aahotep, who had not said a word, got up and followed her.

  Si-Amun went to his grandmother. I feel like a nursemaid, he thought with a flash of desperation. Like a mother with five crying children. Why do they all look to me for comfort, for decisions? The answer came as he squatted before Tetisheri, immobile and resplendent in her glittering jewels. Because you are now Prince and governor. You are the head of the family. “Grandmother?” he said. She put out a shaking hand. Grasping it, Si-Amun felt it as cold as a snake’s skin.

  “I trusted him,” she rasped. “Gods, I even loved him! His shame covers me. I cannot hold its weight.” She turned her mask-like face to Si-Amun. “Must we wait for the mourning to be over?” Her superhuman control was more terrible and more pathetic than Aahotep’s outburst in the garden or Tani’s free tears. Si-Amun knew then what he had to do. Seventy days of mourning, a funeral and a trial that would inevitably become public would strain the members of the family more than they could bear and corrode their unity and strength, already fragile and desperately maintained. Looming over all this was the certain prospect of the King’s judgement. It was too much. Scarred they would be, but not disfigured. Si-Amun made up his mind to see to that.

  “Perhaps not,” he
said softly. “Go to your quarters, Grandmother. Uni!” The steward came quickly. “Escort the Princess to her rooms and for the time being assume the duties of her servant.” Tetisheri rose with difficulty, supported on Uni’s arm. Suddenly she showed all of her sixty-two years. Si-Amun glanced at the mayor but he and Kamose were talking urgently.

  Si-Amun beckoned to the High Priest. Amunmose hurried over. Si-Amun drew him towards the night heavy garden. Outside, beyond the reach of the yellow lamplight, the empty flower beds and shrivelled lawn lay enveloped in a close darkness. A thin, pale moon hung netted in the tired stars, its light too faint to cast any reflection in the murky surface of the pond. The bare shrubs were hardly discernable black smudges against the wall of the old palace.

  Si-Amun led the High Priest down the warm stone steps between the pillars and stopped where the night rushed to meet them. “Amunmose,” he began quietly, “we do not know each other very well, you and I. We speak at Amun’s festivals, at the feasts, but the business of the god belonged to you and my father, not to me.” He hesitated, searching for words.

  Amunmose, misinterpreting the train of his thought, put in anxiously, “You need have no fear that I will not do my utmost to perform my duties to you as I did to your father, Prince. You are now governor. The welfare of Amun’s servants and the privilege of directly communing with the god are now in your hands.” Si-Amun forced a smile. Amunmose’s face was a pale, worried oval in the dimness.

  “I am not doubting your honesty in carrying out your duties,” he reassured the man. “The god we serve with the most sincere devotion here in Weset may be almost unknown in the centres of power in Egypt, but no other god has a more loyal priesthood than you and your assistants. No. I have a favour to ask you.”

  He stopped speaking. A voice within him had woken and was whispering to him, “This is your last chance to turn aside. Ask something innocuous. You are so young, Prince. You have so much to lose. What of your wife, your son?” The night breeze made him shiver suddenly. Amunmose was watching expectantly. Si-Amun took a deep breath.

  “I need you to prepare a poison,” he said carefully. “I know that the priests of Set are more adept at such things than any other, but I do not want word of my intention to leak north.”

  “Lord,” Amunmose cut in huskily, “before I do this thing I would need to know the purpose. I am Amun’s priest. I will not break a law of Ma’at nor endanger my chance of a favourable weighing under Anubis’s eye in the Hall of Judgement.” The lines of his face had deepened and become strained. He looked cadaverous under the colourless moonlight.

  “You know that Mersu will be tried for his betrayal,” Si-Amun said. “You also know that he cannot be executed until my father is buried. I wish to carry out my own sentence on him for two reasons.” He held up a hand as he saw Amunmose open his mouth to protest. “Hear me before you refuse, High Priest. Father will not be buried for more than two months. In that time Mersu must be guarded on the estate, a constant source of grief and rage to the members of my family, already aching with more than they can bear. My other reason is this. I do not intend to give the King time to command me to release Mersu. I think he will try, if he believes that Mersu has been exposed. Any excuse will do. A post in the north, a summons to consult with his own steward, anything. And I would have to obey. Mersu is not to escape judgement. I will kill him myself.”

  Amunmose was silent. His head had dropped. Si-Amun could no longer see his face, only the slight gleam of his shaven skull and the bulk of his body. He waited with a fatalistic patience. You will be my judge also, he thought. If you refuse me, I shall seek ways to go on living, but if you agree I shall consider your words as a message from the gods that I, too, must die. He felt perfectly calm. The cold shudder that had gripped him had gone.

  Finally Amunmose raised worried eyes to Si-Amun. “This thing stalks the borders of Ma’at,” he pointed out, “and its rightness or wrongness depends entirely on the character and virtue of those involved. Yet you are asking for more than a cup of poison, Prince. You require a decision on my wider loyalty.” I suppose I do, Si-Amun thought with surprise. I am glad I did not offer him gold for the poison. He nodded.

  “I had not considered that before,” he admitted. “Your loyalty to this family has never been in question as far as I am concerned. May I have an answer, Amunmose?” The High Priest sighed.

  “I trust you, Prince, to do what is right, as your father did. I will make poison for you. Mersu deserves to die.”

  “Thank you.” Amunmose took the words as a dismissal, bowed, and retreated. Si-Amun watched him for a moment, gliding in the direction of the watersteps where his litter bearers drowsed as they waited to carry him back to his quarters in the temple. Then the shadows swallowed him. Si-Amun turned away, finding his legs weak.

  Before collapsing in the sanctuary of his rooms he forced himself to go to Mersu’s cell. The steward was being held in his own small room and as Si-Amun approached. Hor-Aha rose stiffly from the floor beside the closed door. Two guards saluted. “You do not need to be here,” Si-Amun said to Hor-Aha, noting the General’s pallor. “Get your shoulder dressed again and then sleep. You are exhausted.” Hor-Aha bowed.

  “I know,” he replied. “I sat down to wait for reinforcements after I had locked the door and somehow could not find the desire to stand again. It has been a sobering day.”

  “Has Mersu spoken?” Hor-Aha shook his head.

  “He is remarkably composed. So much so that I am suspicious, even though I know there is no other way out of his cell.” Si-Amun approached.

  “I want to see him. You are dismissed, General. Sleep well, and in the morning bring me a report on what has been salvaged from my father’s disastrous campaign. But not too early!” Hor-Aha bowed again and left, pulling his cloak tight around his swollen shoulder and walking away under the torchlight. Si-Amun beckoned to a guard. “Open the door.”

  After a moment it swung wide and Si-Amun walked in, kicking it closed behind him. Mersu rose and bowed profoundly. He had been sitting on his cot, rolling a pair of knucklebones in his fingers. As Si-Amun stepped into the dimly lit room, he placed them on the lid of his chest and Si-Amun, momentarily at a loss under the steward’s calm demeanour, noticed how high a gloss the bones had, how much they had been handled. Everyone liked to play the game, but he had not imagined Mersu a devotee of something so frivolous. The thought unmanned him and thus made him angry for a second. He controlled himself with a conscious effort.

  “You are remarkably unflustered, Mersu,” he said. The man shrugged lightly.

  “Why waste energy and suffer the loss of my dignity by railing against fate?” he answered. “I have done my duty to my King. My conscience is clear. I shall sleep the sleep of the just, Prince.” Si-Amun searched for impudence in the smooth face but the only insolence lay in Mersu’s confident words.

  “You believe that the King will have you released before Seqenenra is buried,” he said slowly. “That is why your arrest has not troubled you.” Mersu smiled.

  “Perhaps,” he acknowledged. “But Prince, I also have confidence in your clemency.”

  “What?” Si-Amun started forward furiously but Mersu stood his ground.

  “If you do not find me innocent, or at least dismiss my case for lack of direct evidence, I shall tell your brothers and anyone else who cares to listen the part you yourself played in Seqenenra’s downfall. Are you brave enough to stand beside me before the judges, O Prince of Weset?” Now his tone was mocking, the smile still fixed on his mouth. “In two months’ time I expect to be on my way to Het-Uart. I do not mind being imprisoned in the meantime. I have worked long and hard for your grandmother. I need a rest.”

  Si-Amun was speechless. His blood cried out against not only the steward’s callousness but also his rudeness, the complete disregard for Si-Amun’s rank and station inherent in the coarse words. We are provincial upstart lordlings to him, Si-Amun thought in angry dismay. He is ashamed to have serve
d us. He thinks himself worthy only to serve a King, and our claim to that Kingship is a source of embarrassment to him. Well, we shall see who is the power in this part of Egypt, you Setiu worm!

  Stepping forward he struck Mersu briskly on the mouth. “How dare you speak to me in that fashion!” he snapped. “Peasant! While you await your trial you can busy yourself with the weaving of reed mats for the cells of your fellow servants to remind you of your correct position. Tetisheri spoiled you. You have a less noble spirit than the commonest peasant farmer sweating over the shaduf.”

  “And what of you?” Mersu whispered. He made no move to rub his cheek where the marks of Si-Amun’s hand showed white. “What of you, proud Tao?” Si-Amun held his gaze, at the same time painfully aware of the odorous stream of thin black smoke from the untrimmed lamp, the uneven, cool dirt floor under his feet, the rumpled coarse linen sheet on the cot behind Mersu’s rigid figure.

  “So be it,” he forced through stiff lips and, turning on his heel, he left.

  10

  THAT NIGHT he lay alone and sleepless on his couch, listening to the grief of the people of Weset. The women were keening in the streets for Seqenenra, their high-pitched, ululating wails carrying far over the river and echoing against the walls of the old palace. The seventy days of mourning for the Prince had begun. In the House of the Dead his body lay disembowelled and packed in natron, guarded by sem-priests who recited the obligatory prayers over him at intervals before returning to their strange meditations.

  Two days later Amunmose returned. Si-Amun, leaning against one of the pillars that gave out from his father’s office to the portico steps and listening to Hor-Aha’s dry voice accounting the disposition of the remaining soldiers, watched the High Priest make his way through the garden. He was dressed in an ankle-length white kilt, stiffly starched, its pleats rustling. His sandals were red leather, the pectoral lying against his brown chest was gold and jasper, and his eyes were ringed in black kohl. The leopard skin lay over one shoulder, the beast’s snout almost brushing the ground. Two acolytes flanked him, one carrying his white staff with the gold plumes of Amun and one bearing a small wooden box.