The Hippopotamus Marsh (17 page)

“None at all, but the physician said that if he survives another day, he has a good chance of living. I did not dare ask what permanent damage such a wound could cause. I sent Amunmose back to his cell in the temple. He needed rest. The physician has a pallet on the floor in Seqenenra’s room and, of course, Uni is hovering. There is nothing more I can do.” Kamose knew how frustrating it was for her to admit that no word or action of hers could alter what was to be.

“And what of my sister?”

Tetisheri made an effort to smile.

“She is strong. She will give birth with no more trouble than a cow dropping a calf. I pray that the birth will not suck life from Seqenenra.” Her freckled arm fell on the desk. “You must begin to question the servants and the members of the bodyguard, Kamose,” she said harshly. “What were they all doing last night? Early this morning? What of the soldiers? Did any of them have bronze axes? Is this the work of a stranger, an assassin from the Delta sent by the One to deal quickly and quietly with a rebellious subject?” She smiled coldly. “An assassination would be much cheaper and cause less turmoil in Egypt than the need to dispatch a division from Het-Uart to defeat us.”

“I have been thinking about it,” Kamose answered. “If an assassin smote him, then the man will be long gone. Was he watching Father? Is that how he knew where Father was? And if not, then we have a spy in our midst who is full of hatred for us. Did an order come from the King to someone we know, someone under our very noses?” He moved restlessly on the stool and sighed. “I will have the staff questioned and I will tell Hor-Aha to suborn one of his trusted men to move among the soldiers, picking up any gossip there may be. Soldiers love gossip and often know things we could never surmise. Otherwise …” He ran limp fingers through his dusty hair. “We have very little hope of running a suspect to ground. Just as well for him. I would love to dash out his brains, and I would sleep the sleep of the justified afterwards.”

“It is the helplessness I cannot bear,” Tetisheri said. “That, and the humiliation of our failure to protect one of our own or to find his attacker. Our pride as well as the one
we love has suffered a crippling blow.” She stopped speaking as soon as her voice began to betray her, paused, poured a little wine that she did not even sip, then she resumed. “Will you take the army north in your father’s stead, Prince?” Kamose turned a level gaze upon her.

“No,” he replied firmly. “It would be stupid to do so until we know whether or not the King ordered Father’s death. If not, our chances remain as they were.” He grinned sardonically. “Almost nothing. If so, then this is a warning not to proceed any further. I will continue to support the soldiers and I will wait. I will also question most closely all members of our staff with Setiu ancestors, Uni and Mersu among them.”

“Mersu has been with us for many years, as has Uni. You will insult them both very deeply.”

“What do I care for their feelings? Someone dared to lay violent hands on a god, and someone will pay.” His words, spoken with a firm steadiness, were striking.

“If he dies,” Tetisheri said smoothly, “Si-Amun will be a god.” He did not answer. He merely rose and trimmed the wick of the lamp as it began to flicker. “We must buy time,” she went on after a while. “I suggest that you dictate a letter to Apepa. Tell him that your father was struck by falling rocks as he hunted near the cliffs in the desert. Tell him that Seqenenra was engaged in carrying out the directives of Apepa’s scroll and was thus too busy to answer. Perhaps add that he wanted to surprise and please the King by not answering until the work was well underway.” Kamose was staring into the lamp’s flame.

“Very good, Grandmother,” he said. “I will add that Father found it necessary to increase the numbers of the
bodyguard because of desert marauders temporarily harassing the villages of the nomes. It happens every few years, as Apepa knows. I will also tell him that many men have been conscripted to begin work on the temple to Set and the One should be pleased at his faithful governor’s eagerness to honour the god.”

Tetisheri nodded. “That will throw him into doubt if we do have a spy here in the house. He will wonder at the accuracy of the man’s reports and thus we may breathe freely for a little while.”

“Or a woman’s reports,” Kamose cut in. “The spy may be a woman. Gods! It could be anyone. I will dictate the letter tomorrow.” Neither commented on the growing certainty they shared, based on nothing but their instincts, that Seqenenra’s attacker had been a spy in the household.

As they remained in silence together, Tetisheri slumped in the chair and Kamose moodily staring into the lamp, they were aware that the amicability they had always shared was growing into a warm complicity. Kamose was musing on the knowledge, accepted until now without question, that under her imperiousness and his retiring, sometimes cool, aloofness, they were very alike. He had always enjoyed her company. She made no demands on him. If he did not choose to see her for days, she was not offended. Her frankness refreshed him, mirroring the uncompromising authority of mind he seldom showed outwardly, and she was not in the least discomfited by his long silences. With a jolt he realized that although Si-Amun was the head of the household now, and temporarily the governor of Weset, he, Kamose, would have to shoulder the practicalities of the job. At least, he thought fervently, I hope the task
will be only temporary. Si-Amun seems to be sunk in some dark world of his own these days. Ahmose will be of no help to me. He will cheerfully agree with everything I propose and then go back to his archery, his chariot and his dogs. Mother is popular and a careful thinker, but concern for Father will render her useless and colour all her advice. Tani is, well, Tani. But you … He went to Tetisheri and helped her to her feet. “You are definitely not beautiful Little-Teti tonight,” he said gently. “Go to bed, Grandmother.” He kissed the soft, loose parchment of her face and ushered her out the door.

He was about to follow her, his vision blurred and his limbs leaden with weariness, when a servant appeared out of the darkness of the passage, flushed and excited. He bowed. “Your pardon, Prince, I know it is late,” he said when Kamose had demanded his business. “But I thought you would want to know. The Nile markers have registered a small rise in the level of the river. Isis is crying. The Inundation has begun.”

The following evening at sunset Aahmes-nefertari gave birth to a boy, squatting flushed and exhausted by the couch. Murmurs of congratulations and approval ran through the equally tired women, and a servant was dispatched to summon her husband and spread the good news. Raa helped the girl onto the couch where she relaxed, drank thirstily, and submitted meekly to a washing. The baby, now clean and wrapped in new linen, was placed carefully beside her, and she propped herself on one elbow and gazed down on it with foreboding. It had not cried much when the midwife had slapped it gently. It had uttered a weak, mewling sound like a kitten and then fallen
silent. Aahmes-nefertari noted the greyness of its skin and the way its tiny limbs remained limp. When Si-Amun shouldered his way to her side, she began to cry tears of fatigue. “I am sorry, dearest brother,” she choked. “I can take no joy in this son, for Father cannot see him or hold him. Forgive me.” Si-Amun soothed her, his eyes on his child, his heart sinking. The boy did not look as a newborn should look, red and angry. His wife had been right. The omens for this birth were all bad.

“Sleep now,” he advised, stroking the damp hair from her forehead and kissing her. “I am proud of you and my son. Tomorrow I will consult the astrologers about a suitable name for him, but for now you must rest and grow strong again.”

“Father?” she asked drowsily. He took her hands and put them under the sheet, drawing it to her chin.

“There is no change,” he told her. “The river is rising, Aahmes-nefertari. Soon the heat will abate. Do not worry.” By the time he had reached the door she was asleep.

News of the birth stirred Weset into traditional rejoicing, but it was hollow and soon over. Under ordinary circumstances their response would have been genuine, but now anxiety over their Prince and fears for themselves because of their commitment to his revolt pushed away any happiness for Si-Amun and his sister-wife. The mayor came with small gifts and prepared speeches and that was all. Si-Amun could not blame them.

The astrologers had advised that the boy be called Si-Amun. He had been born on a day with unlucky auspices, therefore their choice was conservative and reflected caution. Aahmes-nefertari, already bouncing back to vigour,
approved. But little Si-Amun did not seem much interested in life. He lay in whatever position he was placed, cried with great effort, and could not keep down his milk. Si-Amun knew his son was going to die. Somehow the evil that he had helped to conjure infected the house and had penetrated Aahmes-nefertari’s womb to destroy his firstborn. It had destroyed something within himself also, something too fragile to survive the blows. If his wife had given birth before the attack on Seqenenra, he would have treated the matter with cheerful pride and gone back to his military exercises, wrestling and boating. But now he spent many hours sitting with Aahmes-nefertari as she healed, holding the baby in silence.

On the day that Seqenenra opened his eyes for the first time since the attack, little Si-Amun died. It was shortly after noon. Si-Amun, bending over the reed cot, saw that the baby lay on his back with one loosely clenched fist above the sheet as the wet nurse had put him down. His eyes were open but dull, his lips slack. Si-Amun did not cry out. He put one hesitant finger against his son’s temple. There was no pulse and the skin was cold. “Why are you taking so long?” Aahmes-nefertari called from the other room. “Is there something wrong?” Si-Amun came to her and at the sight of his face she knew. Dropping the red linen belt she had been sewing tassels onto, she rose, both hands going to her mouth. Then she gripped the neck of her sheath and tore it to the waist, her first gesture of mourning. “One sem-priest will be able to carry him in one hand,” she said tonelessly. “In one hand. Send for him at once.”

One hour later Aahotep sat beside her husband, watching the physician and his assistant bathe the inert body. Two
weeks had gone by since he had been laid on his couch. His heart still beat. His breathing had settled to an even rise and fall of the chest. He had lost much weight. His stomach was sunken, his legs were losing their definition, and his cheekbones protruded as though they would break through the skin of his face. Uni had fed him milk and bull’s blood mixed with honey, forcing open the jaws every day and placing the liquid at the back of the throat as though he were tending a motherless calf. Seqenenra had swallowed. Once or twice he had groaned. He took water. He had even moved his head sometimes and Aahotep, heart in mouth, had believed several times that he would wake.

But on this day, as the wet cloth moved over his body, he opened his eyes. Aahotep sprang to her feet with a cry. Immediately the physician bent. He straightened again, watching intently. At first Seqenenra’s gaze was fixed vacantly on the ceiling but presently it began to wander dazedly. Aahotep saw that his left eyelid had not opened properly, and drooped as though he were squinting. She leaned forward. The eyes slowly focused on her. “Aah … Aah …” he rasped, deep in his throat. She lifted his hand from the sheet and kissed it, tears welling.

“Yes!” she said. “Oh, Seqenenra, Amun has answered my prayers! Please do not close your eyes again, do not go to sleep!” His mouth worked. Puzzled, then grief-stricken, she noted that the left corner of his mouth dragged downwards while his lips moved, and she shot a glance of terror at the physician.

“Wa … Wa wa wa,” Seqenenra said.

“Water? Water!” Clicking her fingers she summoned the assistant. The physician took the cup, placed a reed in it,
and Seqenenra swallowed a little water with difficulty. The small effort had exhausted him. His eyes closed and he said no more. Aahotep looked at the physician.

“In a few hours we must try to wake him again,” the man said. “He will live, I think. But, Princess, he is grievously damaged.”

Aahotep nodded, ashen. “His eye, his mouth … But he knew me, I’m sure.”

The physician did not commit himself. He bowed and did not answer.

“I must tell the others,” Aahotep said, almost running to the door. Wrenching it open, she sent Uni hurrying to find Kamose and Tetisheri, but he had scarcely gone when Raa ran down the passage towards her. Aahotep noticed for the first time the shrieks and cries coming from the women’s quarters, the sounds of ritual mourning. Raa was crying.

“The baby is dead!” she said. “The sem-priest has just taken him away. The Prince Si-Amun held him for a moment. Tani is screaming …” Aahotep raised a hand and the woman fell silent. Poor Aahmes-nefertari, Aahotep thought. Oh my poor daughter. And you, Seqenenra, your grandson was born and has died while you wandered in the places of darkness. Was there a link? She shuddered.

“I will go to Tani and we will both come to Aahmesnefertari,” she said. “Keep the women away from here, Raa. I don’t want the Prince disturbed.” She will have more children, Aahotep thought as she walked to Tani’s apartments, but none will have the place in her heart that little Si-Amun had. It will not be the same.

The full seventy days of mourning were held for the baby, and by the time he was carried to the west bank and
laid in the tomb Si-Amun was preparing for himself there, Seqenenra was sitting up, taking nourishment, and trying to communicate with those around him. The wound in his head still gaped and Aahotep had ordered that a white linen scarf be tied to hide it. To her dismay the Prince could not use his left arm or move his left leg, but she concealed her horror as best she could from him. If he had a need he would grunt and try to describe it with his right hand, and Aahotep, relying more on the expressions in his dark eyes than on the wavering fingers, became his interpreter. He was not yet strong enough to hold a scribe’s brush. It was often agony for her to look into those eyes, to see helplessness, pleading, anger and the constant frustration of not being understood.