The Hippopotamus Marsh

by Pauline Gedge

  “Come,” he ordered, leading her out into the passage. “I will take you to your quarters, Tani.” He did not like the look of her. Her eyes were all black pupils and her skin sallow but for the purple smudges under her eyes. Her fingers in his were very cold.

  “Kamose,” she said hesitantly, glancing back at Mersu’s still-open door with a shudder. “Could I please sleep in your room tonight? I do not want to be alone.”

  “Wouldn’t you prefer to be with Mother?” Tani shook her head.

  “No,” she said emphatically. “You make me feel safe. I want to be with you.”

  He had his steward set up a cot beside his couch, and while Heket was dressing it he forced a cup of wine between Tani’s chattering teeth. “I am so cold,” she complained.

  “It is the shock,” he told her. “Here. Get into bed. Heket has brought extra blankets and she will sleep by the door. There is nothing to fear.”

  “Yes there is,” she whispered as he bent over and kissed her. “There is the future to fear, Kamose. See what life has done to Si-Amun.”

  He wanted to reassure her, to tell her that Si-Amun’s choices had brought their inevitable consequences, but he did not have the heart. Already her eyelids were drooping. He extinguished the lamp and fell onto his couch, knowing that he had lived a lifetime in the few hours since Tani had shaken him awake and he was now a very old man. Apepa will pay, he thought as he plunged into sleep. Justice will eventually be done for you, Seqenenra, and for you, my brother. I shall see to it.

  11

  HE WOKE just before dawn, fully conscious, and lay with his hands behind his head listening to Tani’s even breathing and watching the first colourless light diffuse through the room. He knew that the kitchen and household servants must be about, for they usually began their chores well before the family rose, but there were no sounds of cheerful industry, no snatches of song sung in the passage or slap-slap of busy sandalled feet. I must gather my energies and get up, he thought. The tragedy must be faced. Mother, Tetisheri, all of them will want to talk today, and cry, and they will turn to me because I am now the head of the family. They will expect me to be strong, to make decisions when there are none to make in order to reassure them. When will word of Si-Amun’s suicide reach Het-Uart? How will Apepa react?

  With a sinking heart he hauled himself off the couch and padded to the door. Outside, his steward was waiting patiently on his stool. “Akhtoy,” Kamose said, “send someone to the temple. Tell Amunmose to perform the rites on my behalf this morning, and have Ipi ready in Father’s office after I have bathed and dressed.” When he went back into the room he saw that Tani was awake. He smiled at her. “Are you feeling better this morning?”

  “Yes,” she replied without answering his smile. “But my dreams were bad, Kamose. What is to become of us?” A discreet knock was heard. Kamose dropped a kiss on the tip of her nose.

  “My body servant is ready to wash me,” he replied. “You are not to worry about the future, Tani. It is hidden in the will of the gods and it is also in my hands. Don’t you have confidence in your big brother?”

  “Of course I do,” she retorted, sitting up and yawning. “It is just …” He held up a warning finger.

  “No more. I will send Heket to you, and I want you to go and comfort Mother today. You are stronger than you think, little Tani. Remember how you used to chatter away to Father when he was recovering from his wound? No one could make him smile the way you could!”

  “I am not little Tani any more!” she flashed at him, annoyed. “I shall soon be sixteen. Is twenty-one so old, Kamose? Anyway it was different when Father was only wounded and getting better. I shan’t know what to say to Mother.” Her voice faltered. He sat on the edge of her cot and took both hands in his own.

  “No tears,” he rebuked her sternly. “Be strong for me, please, Tani. I need your help today. Try to see Aahmesnefertari also. Her loss yesterday was the greatest.” She rallied under his words.

  “That is true,” she said with a trace of defiance. “But you will marry Aahmes-nefertari because you are now Prince and she the elder sister. She will have you to protect her and comfort her.” Kamose heard what she said with a sense of surprise. He had not considered this duty.

  “I will do my best to protect and comfort all of you,” he replied. “Come on, Tani. Get up. Neither Father nor Si-Amun would forgive us if we allowed our grief to make us weak.” As he went out to find a servant to fetch Heket, he heard her leave the cot.

  Once bathed and clad in a kilt, he made his way to the office. He was not hungry, though the aroma of freshly baked bread wafted through the house. The thought of food knotted his stomach and made him feel sick. He needed to get away, to take a chariot out onto the desert where in the heat and silence he could accomplish his own healing as he always did when he needed to be alone, but such self-indulgence would have to wait.

  As he entered the office, Ipi rose to bow to him. Beyond the bobbing man early sunlight slipped between the pillars and slanted across the tiled floor and the voices of servants could be heard in the garden. Kamose hesitated on the threshold, his courage momentarily deserting him as he saw his father’s plain cedar chair drawn up behind the desk and a pile of scrolls left on the lid of the storage chest by Si-Amun such a short while ago. Then he crossed to the desk and turned to lean against it. Ipi had settled to the floor, his palette across his knees, his face uptilted expectantly.

  How to begin? Kamose thought dismally. What do I say? He sighed. “Let us try,” he said. The scribe’s head bent and Kamose heard him murmur the prayer to Thoth as he picked up his brush. “‘To Ramose, my brother, greetings. You know the misfortunes that have befallen us here in Weset and if this letter is answered by your silence I shall understand, but I beg you before you turn away from us to remember the years of closeness and reciprocation there has been between your family and mine. I also beg you to remember the bond that links you and my sister Tani. If you truly love her, do not desert her now. Whether or not you still intend to take her for your wife, come and visit her. She has lost her father, and lately a brother.’”

  He paused. Should he tell Ramose everything? No. Undoubtedly Teti would read the scroll. Word of Si-Amun’s death was inevitably already spreading north and there was no point in giving that rat the satisfaction of reading about it directly so that he could smack his lips over their troubles. “‘She needs you now,’” he went on. “‘Set what conditions upon such a visit that you like. I will not object to anything you demand. Only come.’” He considered, then nodded. “That is all. Put the date and I will sign it myself when you have a fair copy.”

  “Who will carry it, Highness?” Ipi enquired.

  “Give it to Uni. I will instruct him. We can do without him for a week or two.” He dismissed the man and was tempted to go into the garden, but he resisted. Today grief reigned in Weset and he must enter into it, share it, however much he wanted to go away and howl by himself. Reluctantly he took the passage to the women’s quarters.

  The weeks of mourning seemed to ooze by slowly, one undifferentiated day sliding into another, so that Kamose began to believe that they had always been grieving, that Seqenenra and Si-Amun had died hentis ago and at their passing time itself had ceased to flow. He went to Amun’s modest temple each morning to make his obeisances before the god, to pray and listen to Amunmose chant the Admonitions. He dealt with matters of administration brought to him. He gathered with the other members of the family before the shrine to Anubis, god of beautification and burial, to pray for a correct embalming for Seqenenra and a favourable weighing, and secretly included Si-Amun in his petitions, as he knew the others were doing. Day after day they spoke of their dead with tears, and gradually the tears ceased and the memories became lighter. The Inundation was late. The scorching summer blazed on and in their distress Seqenenra’s family could not believe that the Nile would ever rise to fertilize the land again. It was as though Egypt had died with her most loyal son.

/>   But Ra rose and set in spite of the introversion into which the family had sunk, and one day a herald arrived from the Delta. He did not deign to set foot on the watersteps. Thrusting his scroll at Uni, who had returned from Khemennu and was passing on his way into Weset, he called a haughty greeting and walked back on board his barge. Uni ran to find Kamose. He and Ahmose had been inspecting the stables together with Hor-Aha. Several mares were due to foal shortly and Kamose was anxious about them. The three men had crossed the practice ground and had let themselves through the gate into the garden when Uni rushed up and bowed. “A message from the north,” he said, holding it out. The men glanced at one another and Kamose for a moment could not take the proffered papyrus. All at once the spell of mourning was over. The sorrowing oasis of the house had been invaded. The world was flowing into the gap.

  “Thank you, Uni,” he managed at last, grasping the scroll. “You can go.” The steward bowed and left.

  “There was no tax demand this year,” Ahmose said tightly, his homely face solemn. “I had forgotten about it. Do you think …” Kamose glanced thoughtfully at his brother. Ahmose had dust clinging to his brown hair and his mouth was parted, giving Kamose a glimpse of his white, slightly protruding teeth.

  “I had not forgotten,” Kamose replied. “I just did not think about it. It did not seem in the least important.”

  “Dismiss me, Highness,” Hor-Aha said, but Kamose restrained him.

  “No,” he said. “Stay, General. We have no secrets from you.” He fingered the raised red weal on his cheek where his wound had healed. “I pray that it may be our assessment but I doubt that it is.” Swiftly he broke the seal and unrolled the papyrus, scanning it carefully. “No,” he said at last, looking up, eyes narrowed against the sun. “It is not. Apepa is coming to Weset. He is bringing the Horus Throne so that he may sit in judgement on this family. He says ‘Out of respect for the grief of the great lady Tetisheri, we will postpone our journey until her son has been entombed, but we expect to be received with all pomp and obedience shortly thereafter. If Isis has begun to cry, we will travel the desert roads.’” Ahmose grimaced.

  “So we will not even have the Inundation to buy us time,” he breathed. “Well, at least Father did not live to see the day of our humiliation!” Hor-Aha was watching Kamose carefully. Kamose felt his black, steady eyes on him in speculation.

  “What greeting will you prepare for the King, O Prince?” he asked softly. But Kamose shook his head.

  “I would like nothing better than to greet our god with a special Weset welcome,” he said, his jaw tight, “but how could we? Our army has scattered, the conscripts are back on their farms, the Medjay are squatting round their fires many nights away. Besides,” he gave Ahmose a humourless smile, “there is no heart for fighting left in the family. Not now. It is too soon.” Ahmose nodded in agreement.

  “We must take our punishment,” he said. “Surely even Apepa will see the foolishness of executing blood Princes of Egypt! I wonder what he has in store for us?”

  “I will not think about it,” Kamose retorted. “What is the point? Hor-Aha, I want you to take all our officers and go into Wawat. Do not return until I send for you. Apepa will not take our lives, but he will want to see you dead.”

  “Is he clever enough for that?” Hor-Aha snorted.

  “I do not know,” Kamose answered thoughtfully. “He has always been an invisible presence to us here, sometimes threatening, always disliked, something of a mystery. Father knew him. He came once when I was young. You would not remember, Ahmose. Neither do I, very well. I want to believe that he is lazy and stupid.”

  “Even that is not important,” Hor-Aha said pointedly. “It is the character of his generals and advisers that matters.”

  “We must persuade him that we have learned our lesson,” Ahmose put in anxiously. “Have we, Kamose?”

  Have we? Kamose looked from one to the other. Have we? I am not sure. All I know is that Apepa had better crush us so low that we cannot rise again.

  The news of the King’s impending arrival caused a stir of resentment and apprehension in the house. It blunted the sadness of their loss, and the prospect of Apepa here at Weset in the flesh further served to propel them all out of their wanderings in the past. Tetisheri, in spite of her hatred for the King, had no intention of receiving him with anything less than the full pomp of which Weset was capable. Her pride would not allow it, and she and Aahotep took charge of the necessary arrangements.

  Tani spent a great deal of time with Kamose and Kamose grew used to her pert, pretty face at his shoulder. He had not really expected a reply from Ramose, and as time went on he ceased to look for one. He was angry at the man’s fickleness even while he understood that Teti’s word was law in his own house, and his heart ached for Tani who seldom lapsed into self-pity and who was gamely trying to remain his helper.

  He himself became more tense and withdrawn as the day of Seqenenra’s funeral drew closer, for that day would be the last one of peace. Apepa would come, and as Weset’s chief administrator, Kamose knew that the brunt of the King’s attention would fall on him. All final decisions would be his. Every word would be weighed, every gesture noted. He felt alone, increasingly apart from the life of the house that was slowly returning to normal.

  On the day that he heard Aahmes-nefertari laughing with Tani as they played with the baby, he knew that the pain they had all endured was over. Only the poignancy remained. Nothing Apepa could do to them would be as harrowing as the anguish they had lived through. Only he felt permanently changed, set apart from them all. So this is authority, he often thought. This is the potential for power. How did Father handle it with such grace?

  By the time of Seqenenra’s funeral the flood was in full spate and there was relief under the solemnity of those who gathered to escort the coffin to its final resting place. Kamose, waiting with his brother on the watersteps while Uni strode up and down assigning seats on the barges that would take them all to the western shore, stared moodily into the river’s muddy depths. Though he knew that the day was Seqenenra’s and he ought to be keeping his mind on the years of care and wisdom his father had given him, his thoughts kept straying north. Had the King set out yet? How many days were left before the herald announcing Apepa’s arrival disembarked on these same steps, now gleaming pristine and innocent in the hot sun?

  Ahmose shifted beside him. “The sleds are ready,” he said, pointing, and Kamose’s gaze followed his finger. Across the swollen river four red oxen stood, massively patient beside their handlers, and behind them two red sleds could just be made out. At that moment Tetisheri approached.

  “There are two sleds,” she said without preamble. “What are you doing, Kamose?” He smiled wryly into the alert, kohl-lined eyes.

  “The sem-priests told me that Si-Amun’s body is also ready to be buried,” he replied. “It seemed wasteful to free servants tomorrow to carry him over and seal him in his tomb when today the sleds, servants and barges are available. He might as well journey with Father.” She began to blink rapidly.

  “I am trying not to cry,” she said vehemently. “Tears will ruin my face paint. You are a wily man, Prince, and a compassionate one. See that you do not endanger the fate of your own soul by acknowledging aloud what is happening today.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed him before moving away, Isis behind her.

  “Here come the barges,” Ahmose observed, his voice unsteady. “And see! One has just left the watersteps by the House of the Dead. It is Father.”

  Kamose watched the flat vessel move slowly towards the western watersteps, poled by one of the servants of the dead. On it rested two coffins, one large and brightly decorated. Kamose could make out the black Eye of Horus on the side and the lines of hieroglyphs interspersed with gilt ankhs and the symbol for eternity. The other was smaller, a plain wooden box lying in the shadow cast by the bigger one. He had no time to consider his decision to allow Si-Amun to share Seqenenra’s rites for Uni was bowing
at his elbow. “Please embark, Prince,” the steward was saying. “I do not wish to keep the Princesses standing in this heat.”

  With a curt nod Kamose tore his attention back to the moment and had already begun to descend the watersteps when there was a stir behind him. Ahmose continued onto the barge, but Kamose felt a light touch on his arm even as he was turning back. He found himself face to face with Ramose. He stared at the young man stupidly, bereft of speech. Ramose bowed.

  “I came as soon as I could,” he said. “My father forbade it and we have had several bitter quarrels, but I do not care much any more for my father’s authority.” He glanced around him apologetically. “Forgive me for arriving on this day,” he begged. “I did not know.” Kamose felt relief loosen his muscles.

  “Nevertheless, you are welcome,” he said. “Go into the house and refresh yourself until we return. Do you know about Si-Amun?” Ramose’s face clouded.

  “Yes,” he replied. “Word spread through the markets in the villages along the river. I cannot tell you how sorry I am.” Kamose wanted to ask him how Teti had reacted to the news, but now was not the time.

  “We will talk later,” he promised. Ramose nodded, and shouldering his way through the crowd waiting to embark, was gone. He made no attempt to speak to Tani, only smiling at her as he passed, but Kamose saw the unbelief on her face blossom into joy before she lowered her head and drew the blue mourning garments around her. That is the one ray of hope in the darkness of our situation, Kamose thought, as he ran down the steps and onto the rocking barge. The seed of rebirth buried in the ashes of death all around us. He lowered himself beside a silent and withdrawn Aahmes-nefertari and waited for the others to come on board.

  The trip to the west bank was not long. As the last of the house servants was clambering onto the last barge, the family was already walking to where the sleds, now loaded, lay. Kamose, hearing wailing begin, looked back. The east bank was lined with townspeople from Weset who had begun to keen for Seqenenra. Uni was once more fussing over the formation of the procession behind the two coffins. Aahmes-nefertari, ushered to the front to stand beside Aahotep, suddenly saw why and began to weep. Kamose and Ahmose escorted Tetisheri, with Tani immediately behind. Priests and servants brought up the rear, the women among them already tearing their blue linen and stooping to trickle sand over their heads.