The Hippopotamus Marsh (10 page)

He woke suddenly, drenched in sweat and struggling for breath, and sitting up gasping he looked around the room. The shadows were immobile and tenantless. The house was
deep in slumber. He lay down again and this time fell into a healing unconsciousness.

The following day when he returned from his duties in the temple he sent one of his bodyguard to find Hor-Aha. He met with the commander of his Medjay soldiers once a week as a matter of course to make sure that the men’s needs were being met, his sons’ military training was progressing well and to discuss any changes in routine. Hor-Aha was not a voluble man. He discharged his responsibilities efficiently, was deferent but not obsequious to his master, and like all the desert fighters was not at all forthcoming about any life he had outside the confines of the practice ground. Seqenenra liked and respected him but did not feel he knew him well. He received him in his office, alone.

Hor-Aha came smoothly across the floor, enveloped in the thick woollen garment he wore in winter and summer alike. Beads of sweat stood out on his black forehead. He kept his hair long as most soldiers did, braided in two plaits that hung stiffly on his naked chest. Under the voluminous folds of the cloak he wore a kilt and a stained leather belt in which a short dagger was stuck. Silver bracelets tinkled on his wrists. Seqenenra greeted him politely. Hor-Aha returned the greeting, then stood expectantly, his ebony eyes questioning. Seqenenra’s heart began to race. Today I commit myself, he thought tensely. If Hor-Aha cannot be trusted, then today I also fail.

“Hor-Aha, how many Medjay do I order?” Hor-Aha’s eyebrows rose.

“You have five hundred, Prince. I rotate their duties a hundred at a time and divide the rest between exercise, training and leave.”

“Chariots?”

“Ten only, and twenty-two horses.”

Seqenenra swallowed a laugh. What a mighty army indeed, he thought. “How many of the men are armed with the new bows the Setiu use?”

Hor-Aha considered a moment before replying. “Very few of them. The bows are expensive, commanding much barter, and as you know, Highness, they require a different technique of use to our Egyptian weapons. They are taller and more unwieldy to handle, and men must be retrained to use them, for they require much strength to draw. But they are very powerful and more accurate than our bows.”

“Do you have one?”

Hor-Aha smiled. His white teeth flashed at Seqenenra. “I do.”

“Would they be difficult to make?” He watched his commander’s eyes narrow in swift speculation. The man shifted his weight from one wide, bare foot to the other, and folded his brawny arms.

“It could be done, but the principal material is birch wood from Rethennu and if you wish to make bows in any great number, you will need permission from the One to trade with the country from which his ancestors came into Egypt and where the chieftains call him brother.”

“There must be a substitute for birch,” Seqenenra pressed. “What else is needed?”

“Sinews and tendons from bulls, preferably wild ones. Horns from goats. Again, wild goats have more durable and stronger horns than domestic ones. But it is the splicing and fashioning that require a military craftsman’s hand.”

“Could you do it?”

“Perhaps. If you obtain the wood.” Seqenenra waved him down. Hor-Aha sank to the floor, tucking his legs under his robe. Seqenenra poured beer for them both, handed a cup to the commander, and collapsed onto a chair. The moment had come.

“I want to greatly increase the number of troops at my command,” he said, “and I want to arm them with the new bows. I need chariots, too, many more of them. I wish to strengthen the security of my nomes.” He drank, glancing at Hor-Aha over the rim of the cup. Hor-Aha’s gaze became expressionless and fell to the brown liquid still moving between his hands.

“As you wish, Prince,” he said at last. “I think that another hundred infantry, with twenty stationed in the head town of each nome, would be sufficient. We are, after all, at peace in Egypt.” His head was down but Seqenenra had the distinct impression that the man was smiling. When Hor-Aha looked up, however, the thick, even features were bland.

Seqenenra cast a quick glance towards the portico where sunlight flooded between the pillars and blazed in the deserted garden. The door at the other end of the room was firmly shut. He swallowed convulsively twice and then leaped over the wall of safety.

“You are my Fighting Hawk,” he said huskily. “You came to me from the desert when I was in my twenties, and you took over my military training. You gave me a steady eye and a strong arm. I am about to place myself in your hands yet again.” Hor-Aha regarded him steadily. “I am going to assemble an army,” he went on unevenly. “I am going to march it north and do battle with the One. I intend to commit
sacrilege, Hor-Aha, because I can no longer bear the insults done to me, and if I do not take this desperate course now, the One will take away everything I have. I do not think that I can win. Perhaps I can do no more than sacrifice myself to Ma’at. But I would rather die for Ma’at than live in the agony I now endure. Will you help me?”

Hor-Aha drank reflectively, pursed his lips, and put down the beer. His hands suddenly disappeared into the sleeves of his garment. “A Prince in defeat may be punished but is not often killed,” he observed, “but his officers are put to the knife. If I side with you, Highness, I will probably lose my life.” Seqenenra waited. Then the dark head came up. “I know nothing of the King,” Hor-Aha said. “I have never been farther north than Aabtu. You are my King. Your commands are well judged. I will continue to serve you.” Seqenenra felt his bowels loosen.

“I can promise you nothing at present but an empty title, General. I cannot even give you more bread and beer.” Hor-Aha shrugged.

“I have sufficient for my needs, and General is a title that will do very well. For now. Later, if Amun smiles on your Highness, you may care to make me Commander of the Braves of the King.” Seqenenra grinned at him weakly and he smiled back.

“I would like nothing better,” Seqenenra agreed. “Now may we discuss practical things? I want as many new Medjay recruited as possible. Can you trust your men?”

“They are content to follow my orders.”

“Good. Send them to their tribes in the desert. I need many young men. But they cannot be quartered here. I must build a barracks out on the desert or perhaps on the
western bank behind the dead where people seldom go, so that they may be trained without attracting too much notice.” Hor-Aha’s hands reappeared, lifted the beer, and the cup was drained. He licked his lips carefully.

“Perhaps you might ask Prince Si-Amun to visit the nomes and conscript peasants,” he suggested. “They will do what they are told.” He forestalled Seqenenra’s next question. “I will approach your craftsmen. We will unlock the secrets of the bow. But, Highness, although you can order more chariots, you cannot obtain horses. We must just steal them as we move north.”

They talked for a while of fundamental things, including the possibility of obtaining axes and knives made of the new metal, bronze, that the Setiu used with such success, but neither voiced Seqenenra’s greatest worry. How was he to pay for this explosion of activity? By the time Uni requested admittance to tell him that the noon meal was ready, he felt completely separated from himself, unreal, as though his ka had discussed treason and rebellion with Hor-Aha while in the real world he himself was swimming or checking the accounts with his scribe or sitting with Aahotep by the pool. He dismissed his Commander and followed Uni on unsteady feet.

Before the end of the week Hor-Aha and the majority of the soldiers had vanished unobtrusively from Weset, leaving a token bodyguard for the family. Summer was a time of lethargy and only Kamose noticed the same faces day after day by the main gate to the estate and in the passages. Puzzled, he found Si-Amun. Together they went to their father with an idle query, and Seqenenra, his dice thrown, told his sons everything.

“Si-Amun, as my heir I want you to travel the nomes and conscript men,” he ordered. “Hor-Aha is even now deep in the south, trying to persuade the Wawat wildmen that joining my army will secure them freedom from Teti-the-Handsome, Prince of Kush, and much booty. You and he will command together under me.” Si-Amun had lost colour as his father was speaking. Now he was grey, his nostrils pinched, his eyes huge with shock. He put out a hand, then let it drop.

“Father,” he said urgently. “You cannot do this thing. Please! As you love me, as you love us, do not do this! It is blasphemy. It is death for us, surely you see that?” His voice had risen and then cracked. He was trembling. Abruptly he sank into a chair.

“We have been over this ground enough,” Seqenenra put in harshly. “I know how you feel, but the time has come to put your personal opinions aside and stand with me. You are my son. Your loyalty must go first to Amun and to me.”

“I can’t!” Si-Amun bit his lip. His hands were clenched into fists in his lap. “As an Egyptian my first loyalty is to the King. So is yours. It’s treason, Father! Forgive me, but I can’t!” Seqenenra went and stood over him.

“Are you saying that you will not fight for me?” Si-Amun’s long-lashed black eyes rose and met his. He was on the verge of tears.

“If you give me a direct order, I will of course fight for you, Prince,” he choked, “but I will not go to the nomes and help you to hasten the moment of our destruction. I abase myself before you. I humble myself. But I will not go.” Seqenenra struggled with his anger, sympathy and an overwhelming sense of betrayal. Sympathy won. He pulled Si-Amun to his feet.

“Very well,” he said curtly. “I honour your decision because I know that my son does not speak from cowardice. Leave this room.” Unhappily Si-Amun drew himself up, and stalking past a silent Kamose, went out. For a moment Seqenenra and Kamose could not look at each other. Then Kamose straightened his shoulders.

“He has great courage,” he reminded his father. “He is a good warrior. You must not blame him.” Seqenenra, hurt and aching, did not respond.

“I will go to the nomes and conscript men,” Kamose went on grimly, “but I think your reason is impaired, Father. How long will it be before your rashness reaches the ears of the One? He has spies in the house, that is certain. I wish with all my heart that you could build the temple instead of an army. I do not want to die.”

“I am terrified for all of us,” Seqenenra replied, “but you have an inner strength that will never betray you. It is for Ahmose and Aahmes-nefertari and Tani that I grieve.” Kamose’s lips had thinned. He was livid under his deep tan.

“How will you pay for it all?”

“I must take Uni into my confidence. And Amunmose. He must beg Amun for the greatest favour he has ever shown this family.”

“Why not climb onto the roof of the sanctuary with a horn and announce your intentions to the whole of Weset?” Kamose shot back caustically. “It will come to that anyway, Father, and you know it. You must move very fast if you want to strike even the feeblest blow before Apepa sends a fraction of his horde south and demolishes us all.”

“Will you help me?”

Kamose clenched his fists. “Of course. The blood of the god is in my veins, too.”

Seqenenra looked at him curiously. It was the first time Kamose had ever referred so directly to his lineage. I hardly know you, Seqenenra thought. I hardly know you at all.

With an effort of self-control Si-Amun forced himself to walk to his quarters, answering the greetings of servants affably as he went. His head was whirling. Why are you so surprised? he asked himself sternly. You knew it would come to this, or you would never have made the agreement you did with Teti. Then why this feeling of stunned disbelief? Did you think that Father would wake from his fantasy?

Si-Amun had not communicated with Teti since his return home. Life had seemed to settle into normality and his father had been his usual taciturn self. Si-Amun, with a curious sense of relief, had allowed himself to smooth away the memory of the lunch with Teti under the fig tree, but now as he reached his own door and entered his bedchamber with weak legs and a pounding heart, it came back to him in horrifying detail. Why horrifying? he thought as his steward came forward and bowed. “Bring me a piece of papyrus parchment and a palette,” he ordered, and the man went away.

Si-Amun pulled off his kilt, then tore the sheet from his couch and began to rub down his sweat-streaked body. Horrifying, because you doubt Teti’s good intentions, he said to himself. There. I have formed the words. I am not a wide-eyed innocent. Teti may wish me to spy on my father for his own ends. Yet he may be sincere. We share blood through Mother. He has always been a good friend to this family and I cannot rely on my own misgivings, caused
surely by nothing but guilt at going behind Father’s back. Father must be stopped and Teti is the only one to whom I can turn. Grandmother would tear out Apepa’s eyes if she could. Mother does whatever Father wants. Kamose also. Ahmose cares for nothing but his freedom. It is up to me to save us all.

The steward returned with the scribe’s palette and parchment. “Find Mersu and ask him to come,” Si-Amun said, taking the things. “And then tell my wife that I would like to walk with her for a little by the river. You can go.”

He sank cross-legged onto the floor, settled the palette across his bare knees, and selecting a thin brush he began to write carefully on the papyrus, willing his hand not to tremble. ‘Father has received another letter,’ he printed. ‘He is raising an army. Please come before he goes too far. I do not know what to do.’ He did not sign it. Rolling it, he tied it with a piece of string, sealed the knot with hot wax, and painstakingly drew a crude hippopotamus in the wax.

By the time he had finished, Mersu was bowing himself into the room. Si-Amun, still naked, held out the scroll. Mersu looked at him enquiringly but took it. “I believe you are a friend of Teti’s Chief Steward,” Si-Amun said. Mersu nodded.

“He and I were raised in the same village, next door to one another, Prince,” he replied guardedly. “We attended the local scribes’ school at the same time.”