The Hippopotamus Marsh

by Pauline Gedge

  “I ask nothing more from you than this,” Kamose went on deliberately. “That you will swear to remain here in Pi-Hathor and go about the business of the city, neither conjuring war on Weset while I am away nor impeding any of my messengers that might pass by on their way farther south.”

  “Ridiculous!” Het-uy almost shouted. “My duty is to send at once to my King and then sit back and watch you die! Highness, we all grieve at the eclipse of your House,” he went on more soberly. “For years beyond years your lineage has been rooted in the soil of Egypt. Yet your father committed treason, and now you threaten to do the same. For the sake of your ancestors, of your unborn descendants, do not allow such illustrious blood to dribble away forever into the sands of ignominy!”

  “My ancestors were gods in Egypt,” Kamose broke in softly. “They were Kings. Why am I not King, Het-uy? Answer me that.” He uncrossed his legs and, placing his elbows on his knees, leaned forward so that his face was level with the mayor’s. “You cannot, because the only words you could form would be words of that very treason of which you accuse my father. You would have to say that I am not King because base foreigners have overrun this land and their chiefs have made themselves Kings. Deny it if you are able!” But Het-uy only stared at him mutely and Kamose sighed and sat back. “I have one hundred ships already launched on the Nile at Weset,” he said flatly. “I have a division of soldiers waiting to board them. If you refuse me this agreement, I will be forced to bring my army here and raze Pi-Hathor to the ground before I go north. I have not wasted the time Apepa so kindly and naïvely gave me, Het-uy, and I do not intend to squander much more of it here. Yes or no?” The mayor whitened, his eyes going to Me-sehti on Kamose’s left, and Kamose pressed him. “These Princes have already sworn their loyalty to me and put their own hosts at my disposal,” he said brutally. “Ask them, if you doubt me. Ask them!” But the mayor shook his head.

  “Prince, you are brave but stupid,” he managed. “And these great men with you, they will pay a terrible price for their so-called loyalty. Apepa will crush you all. You do not seem to understand that, if I comply with any agreement you thrust on me, I am inviting my own portion of the One’s righteous anger.” I have him, Kamose thought in a wave of exultation. But he was careful not to let the relief show on his face.

  “Not so,” he said. “I am not asking you or your town for any active support. All I want is your assurance that you will not move against Weset. That would be difficult for you in any case, for there are no soldiers here, only quarrymen and shipwrights. If Apepa defeats me, why you are absolved from any liability because of it. But if I win through to Het-Uart and snatch up the Double Crown, I will show my gratitude to the man and the city that did not impede my victory. Either way, Pi-Hathor is guiltless.”

  Another silence fell. Het-uy blinked, sighed, looked to the ceiling, then down at his lap. Ipi’s pen was stilled. The shadows ceased gyrating on the walls of the room. Then the mayor let out a gust of breath. “Very well, Prince,” he said crossly. “You can have your agreement. Two copies, one for you and one for me to hide away. But I do not do this willingly!”

  “Of course not,” Kamose smiled. “Thank you, Het-uy. In anticipation of your co-operation I have already dictated the document and Ipi has made a copy.” He gestured at his scribe who reached into the leather bag beside him and passed two thin scrolls to Kamose. One was placed in the mayor’s outstretched hand. “As you can see,” Kamose reiterated smoothly, “it contains nothing we have not discussed. The wording is very simple.” Het-uy unrolled his scroll and scanned it briefly, then he looked up.

  “You have no guarantee that I will not immediately break this arrangement and send it to the King with a warning,” he remarked. “You have, after all, threatened and coerced me into conniving at treason and my conscience would not awaken should I choose to betray you.” Kamose met his gaze.

  “But you will not break it,” he said quietly. “Unwillingly or not you have given your word, and you are an honourable man. You will keep it so long as you may do so without repercussions, and that is all I have asked of you, Het-uy. However, all messengers and heralds coming up from the south will be stopped and questioned at Weset. In these dark days I think I may be forgiven for not putting my trust in spoken or written assurances alone. Ipi, give the mayor a pen.” Het-uy’s mouth set in a thin line. Without further comment he took the brush Ipi held up to him, and now his hand did shake, so that a drop of black ink sprinkled the desk. Kamose took the scroll he signed, passed it to Ipi, and gave him the other, watching while he inscribed his name again. “That one you must keep,” he ordered, coming to his feet. “We will not insult you now by accepting your hospitality. Long life, Het-uy.” The others had also risen. Het-uy bowed stiffly but did not return the greeting, and with a few steps Kamose was outside.

  Sending one of the guards to search the taverns for his fellows, Kamose set off down the street. Full night had fallen. Lamplight from the open doorways he passed pooled yellow into the dust, seeming to carry with it the gusts of laughter and quick conversation that swelled out, only to be sucked up by the darkness. Faint chanting came from the holy precinct of Hathor’s temple, but the sweet, high female voices only reminded Kamose that he must warn his mother to keep a careful watch on the river traffic and pay close attention to the reports of the spy he would send here to Hathor’s city. “Will he make trouble, do you think?” Iasen was voicing Kamose’s own thoughts, but it was Ahmose who answered.

  “No,” he said. “Het-uy will regard his dilemma as a moral one, not a matter of expediency, and as such he will be torn between his obligation to Apepa and the commitment he made when he set brush to papyrus. He will lose sleep over it but will do nothing. Such is the way of a man who can decide swiftly when the issue is between what is right and what is forbidden, but who becomes impotent when the scales are balanced.”

  “He is a good man,” Intef remarked as they came to the torchlit expanse of the watersteps and swung left. Kamose looked past the torches to the indistinct hump of the island and the dim line of the east bank beyond it. A good man, he thought. So many of them, good men. How many good men will I have to kill before a greater good can be established? A wave of depression swept over him, a feeling of futility he was too tired to fight. Answering his captain’s challenge, he walked up the ramp. “Take us home,” he ordered. “There is no profit in spending the night here unless it is too dark for the helmsman to steer.” The captain glanced up at the sky.

  “The moon is three-quarters to the full,” he said, “and we will be moving with the current, not against it. I think we may cast off, Prince.” Kamose nodded. The others had already settled on their cushions under the lamp that hung in the stern and were quaffing the wine being offered to them with obvious relief, while a polite distance from them the cook crouched over his brazier. The tempting aroma of grilling fish wafted to Kamose’s nostrils. One of the sailors had begun to sing, his voice coming and going under the sharp commands to cast off and man the helm and the thud of the ramp being drawn up. The barge trembled under Kamose’s feet.

  Making his way to the cabin, he entered, letting the curtain fall behind him and standing for a moment in the close darkness. He did not like what he had been forced to do to the mayor of Pi-Hathor but that, he thought grimly, is the least of what I will be called upon to do in the name of freedom over the coming months. Amun, give me the resolve to be ruthless without courting the destruction of my ka, the wisdom to discern friend from foe when both speak to me in the accents of my beloved country! Sinking to the floor, he drew up his knees, laid his head against the wall, and closed his eyes. The lively voices of his friends, his allies, came to him, weaving with the clink of wine jugs against cups, the slow, rhythmic slap of the oars as they bit the water, the intermittent snatches of song the sailor was still crooning, all part of the sweet reality of an Egyptian night that pierced his ka with a longing for all that had gone. He had never felt so alone.

 
; Just after midnight the captain ordered their craft into a small bay so that the sailors could rest. They did not move on again until dawn and the barge nudged the watersteps at Weset late in the afternoon of the same day, its low, sleek lines dwarfed by the vast reed ships that rocked on either side. At once Kamose ordered Hor-Aha, Ahmose and the Princes across the river. “I want your assessment of the troops,” he told them. “Hor-Aha is my second-in-command and he and Ahmose have been training the men, but I would like an opinion on their readiness from the rest of you. Hor-Aha, find Baba Abana. He is an accomplished sailor and will give us his views on how the men should be distributed on the ships. He must take charge of everything to do with our efficiency on the river. Time is now our enemy. Come what may, we must begin our offensive the day after tomorrow.” He left them then, walking towards the house in the company of his guards, and before he reached the entrance his steward met him, bowing. “Send to my mother and Tetisheri,” he said. “I will come to their quarters before dining. I want to see the Scribe of Assemblage at once in my office. And bring beer, Akhtoy. I am very thirsty.”

  The office was cool and silent. Kamose sank into the chair that had so often held his father’s form and for a moment inhaled the atmosphere of calm and good order that had been so much a part of Seqenenra’s character, but he refused the temptation to close his eyes and succumb to its peace. Do I send the Princes on ahead to their nomes to have their conscripts waiting for me or do I keep them beside me? he wondered wearily. Can I trust them absolutely or only until my campaign encounters a difficulty? Will they take orders humbly from Hor-Aha or will their pride result in arguments and hostility towards a mere Medjay? The five thousand Medjay tribesmen Hor-Aha brought with him are fierce warriors but unruly, unused to military discipline. Hor-Aha knows how to speak to them, but will he be able to rule Egyptian soldiers? I must remind him not to appoint any Medjay to officer positions over native Egyptians no matter how capable they prove themselves to be. Or am I wrong? Is it more important to promote men who can forge the conscripts into an efficient fighting force than to worry about resentments within the ranks?

  His head was beginning to ache, and when Akhtoy appeared with a jug of beer, he drank gratefully. The Scribe of Assemblage had arrived on the steward’s heels. Kamose acknowledged his bow, bade him sit, and pushed the cup and jug towards him. “I presume that by now you have been able to obtain an accurate assessment of what provisions we can load onto the boats and how long they will last,” he said. “Give me your estimates.” The man finished pouring his beer and took a judicious sip.

  “In obedience to your command, Highness, I have had the granaries emptied and the stores of dried fruits and preserved vegetables packed. I have calculated their attrition on a figure of five thousand Medjay and twenty-five senior officers who will, of course, be entitled to better fare than the ranks. The desert men can exist on less food than Egyptians, but I did not think it wise to presume that you would indeed expect them to do so.” Here he smiled, and Kamose smiled back.

  “You are right,” he agreed. “Nor do I want myself or my officers feasting while the men squat over their meagre bread and onions.”

  “But surely, Highness, a little wine, a simple platter of shat cakes …” Kamose held up a hand.

  “A little wine perhaps. But we are on no punitive march into Kush, remember. Old rules do not apply.” The Scribe sighed.

  “It is a detail, Highness. By my reckoning we may feed the army bread, goat cheese and a few dried figs each morning and in the evening, bread, radishes, garlic, an onion, a handful of chick peas and a little honey. The rowers can fish at sunset and whatever they catch can augment this diet. There is plenty of oil and enough beer, I think. Nothing but the fish needs to be cooked, so the army will not be slowed down.” Kamose nodded his approval.

  “How long will the supplies last?”

  The Scribe shrugged eloquently. “I have taken the most pessimistic view,” he replied, “and assumed the worst. With no replenishment from the nomes of your Princes, the supplies garnered will last you two weeks. I told my men to take only the reserves of grain and fruits from your peasants, so that the women and children can survive for the next two months until the harvest.”

  “Two weeks.” Kamose repeated. “And two days out of Weset we will be tying up at Qebt and then Kift, both in the Herui nome and both governed by Intef. Make sure that you bring enough of your underlings with you to swiftly organize and load supplies from these towns. This is good. Very good. Find Paheri, the mayor of Nekheb. He is with the army on the west bank. Tell him in your capacity as Scribe of Assemblage to send to Nekheb for as much natron as the town can spare. It is produced there, so he should be able to provide us with plenty. It can follow us. We will need it for washing.” He met the other’s eye and he knew that the Scribe was echoing his own unspoken thought. We will need it for burying also. “That is all,” he said at last. “You may begin to load the boats. You have one more day in which to complete the task. Thank you.” The man rose at once, bowed, and left the office, and Kamose also stood, stretching until his spine cracked.

  The light in the room had acquired a reddish tinge. Ra was falling slowly into the waiting mouth of Nut and it was time to confront the women and send across the river for the Princes. Kamose would have liked to bathe and change his linen but such amenities would have to wait. He drained the last of the Scribe’s cup of beer before closing the door of the room behind him.

  Three heads turned to him expectantly as he was admitted to his grandmother’s suite. She was sitting stiffly on the chair beside her couch, her knees together, her be-ringed hands folded. Aahotep occupied the stool before Tetisheri’s cosmetic table. She was clad in a loose white wrap. Isis stood behind her, with a mouth full of pins, as she smoothly wound her mistress’s thick hair into a coil. Aahmes-nefertari had pulled cushions onto the floor and was reclining on them. As her brother approached she scrambled up and took a step towards him, her clear glance full of worry. Kamose surveyed them gravely. “I love you very much,” he said. “And I know that you love me. No, Isis.” He turned to the servant who was about to bow herself out. “You may stay.” His attention returned to his women. “You know what I have planned,” he went on. “The day after tomorrow I leave Weset with my army. We must not look back, any of us. This is Apepa’s birth month and also the Anniversary of his Appearing. Celebrations will be going on all over Egypt, but especially in the Delta. There is no better time to begin a war of recovery. I do not know how long I will be gone.” He spread his hands. “It is all in the wisdom of Amun and we must trust him. Weset and this nome are in your hands. I am asking you to undertake a crushing responsibility. First, you must organize the peasant women to harvest the fields and the vineyards. Second, you must set a constant watch on the traffic coming up from the south. Every craft must be intercepted, every scroll opened and read, without exception. Remember that Pi-Hathor supports the Setiu, and in spite of our treaty the mayor may try to get messages through to Het-Uart. He may even try to overrun you here. I have spared a hundred soldiers to remain with you. I am sorry it is so few, but if they are deployed sensibly you should be able to hold off a rabble of shipwrights and quarrymen.” He saw panic flare in his sister’s eyes, but his mother was frowning in speculation and Tetisheri continued to regard him with cool immobility.

  “The High Priest and his inferiors will fight if they have to,” she said, “and gardeners have strong muscles. It is not such a large step, from hoes to swords. Do not fret over us, Kamose. We are entirely capable of running this nome in your absence and repelling a few malcontents if necessary.”

  “You must send me regular reports,” Kamose told them. “Include everything from the progress of the harvest to how the wind smells. Sacrifice before Amun every day on my behalf.” Aahmes-nefertari stirred.

  “And what of Tani?” she whispered. “Have you forgotten her so soon, Kamose?” He strode to her and grasped her shoulders.

  “N
o!” he said harshly. “But Tani knew what I would do and she accepted any consequence my actions might bring down on her. She is a Tao, even as you are, Aahmes-nefertari.” He let her go and ran gentle fingers down her glossy head. “If it will comfort you, I do not think that Apepa will revenge himself on her. Such an action would prejudice many Egyptians against him who might otherwise fight on his side. It is one thing to punish a Prince. It is quite another to execute a young Princess.”

  Tetisheri grunted her agreement. “He is a mongrel, with a mongrel’s vulgar sense of morality,” she declared, “but in the matter of self-preservation he is a greyhound. He will not harm our Tani.”

  Aahotep had not spoken, but, as Isis was settling the braided wig over her hair, she said, “You wear lapis now, Kamose. You go north as a King. The succession must be assured against your possible death.” It had cost her a great deal to force out the words and the full mouth trembled as she raised her gaze to his. “Will you sign a marriage contract with your sister and consummate it before you go?” He shook his head.

  “I have already arranged this with Ahmose,” he answered. “You love him, Aahmes-nefertari, and he will be a good father to Ahmose-onkh, if he comes home. There is no time for the proper feasting that should accompany a royal wedding and I am sorry for that, but tomorrow you and he will stand in the temple and receive the blessing of the god, and tomorrow night you must bed together. Do you accept this?” The girl inclined her head.

  “But you, Kamose,” she interjected. “What of you? Will you never marry then?”

  “I do not think so,” he said, wondering what they would say if they knew that he was in love with a phantom who haunted his dreams. “My disposition has always been a solitary one, and I am grateful that Ahmose can so willingly fulfil my duty on my behalf.” She smiled at that and he walked to the door.

  “Tonight we fete the Princes for the last time,” he said as he opened the door. “Let us drown ourselves in fine wine and have music in our ears and cones of precious oil on our heads. We will celebrate life.”