The Hippopotamus Marsh (2 page)

1

SEQENENRA CAME OUT
onto the roof at last, panting a little from his exertion, and lowered himself so that his back was resting against the sagging remains of the windcatcher. He drew up his knees with an inward sigh of satisfaction. This was his sanctuary, this rubble-littered corner above what had once been the women’s quarters of the old palace. He could sit here and think or brood or simply rest his eyes on river and fields, his estate or the straggling town of Weset that hugged the bank and encircled the two temples. Often, in the somnolent afternoons when his wife slept or gossiped with her women and the children had taken their bodyguards and gone to swim in the river, he would slip away, walk through the vast, silent courtyard of this derelict god’s home, and enter the shrouded, empty rooms. Few physical reminders of his ancestors remained. Here the swift glint of yellow paint on a pillar, there the black-and-white shock of a wadjet-eye and an indecipherable cartouche still cast a lingering spell over the untenanted shadows, but the halls and passages, the intimate bedchambers and mighty reception areas with their gloomy pillars, were scoured by wind and echoed when he walked through.

The structure was swiftly becoming dangerous. The mud bricks from which it had been built were decaying. Whole
walls were nothing but piles of dust. Ceilings had collapsed, letting in shafts of light whose very brilliance often seemed to him sacrilegious. Sometimes he went and stood in the principal audience chamber where the Horus Throne used to rest on its dais, listening to the silence, watching the squares of light that came through the high windows move imperceptibly across the sand-sullied floor, but he could not long endure the atmosphere of solemn sadness.

Today he had not retreated here to gnaw at some administrative problem or even to pursue a line of uninterrupted thought in peace. As Prince of Weset and Governor of the Five Nomes he was a busy man, his duties predictable but regular, and he had come to cherish the few hours he was able to spend alone, high up where the irritations and responsibilities of his position and his family shrank to their proper proportions under the spell of the panorama laid out below him. It was spring. The Nile was flowing with a ponderous, powerful slowness, its banks a tangle of hectic green reeds and feathery papyrus fronds nodding in the sweet breeze. Beyond it the western cliffs shivered, dun and arid, against a pure blue sky. A few small craft bobbed aimlessly, masts bare, disturbing the ducks and an occasional heron that rose white and languid from the marshes.

Seqenenra’s gaze wandered north. The river swept around a bend and was lost to view, but on the east side, his side, the black fields criss-crossed with palm-lined irrigation canals lay wet and fallow, still too soft to be trodden by the peasants who would soon scatter them with grain.

Closer in, just beyond the broken wall that had once completely surrounded the palace, his servants squatted planting vegetables, their naked brown backs gleaming. He
could hear their voices, a spasmodic but pleasant murmur, as they worked. The roof of his house could be clearly seen, lower than he was. Cushions and scattered linen made a bright, intermittent splash between the branches of the sheltering sycamores and acacia that gave shade to his garden. Farther out he watched the flags fronting the pylons on Amun’s temple ripple, and past the holy precinct, a corner of Montu’s shrine thrust like a brown knife edge into the near horizon.

Seqenenra felt himself begin to relax. The Inundation had been generous, flooding the land with both its necessities, water and silt, and if the crops sprang up healthy and strong the harvest would be equally bountiful. It was too early yet to have received word from the overseer of his vineyard in the western Delta, but he presumed that his grapes would hang heavy and bursting on their vines this year. The fruit from the trellis that shaded a portion of the path running from his watersteps to the house were always used for juice, not wine. My cattle have no disease and my people’s bellies will be full, he thought gratefully. Of course, a great deal of my wealth will go north in taxes but I will not complain. Not as long as I am left to my own devices.

He stirred, all at once aware of a piece of chipped brick lodged between the sole of one foot and his sandal, and as he reached down to pick it free, his mood became tinged with a brief anxiety. I delude myself if I believe that I am forgotten here in the
south, that the only time I occupy Apepa’s mind is when he sends out his overseers to collect the taxes, his thoughts ran on. The miles between us are no guarantee of my safety. I wish it were so, but to him I am like this little shard, pricking him uncomfortably in the moments when there is nothing else to distract him from the knowledge that I exist. I cannot change my lineage, melt into the anonymity of minor nobility. I am a reminder to him of his own foreign roots, and what are they compared to the mighty gods who sired me? Well, I will not consider these things today. I did not clamber up here to ponder either Apepa’s past or my own. How glorious is my corner of this beautiful Egypt! Leaning back he half-closed his eyes.

For perhaps an hour he drifted on a tide of somnolence, enjoying a gentle but steady breeze that mitigated the afternoon heat of the sun, and he had just decided that he had lingered long enough and ought to be leaving the roof when a shout brought him reluctantly to his feet. He walked to the edge and peered down. Si-Amun was standing in a gap of the decaying enclosure wall, his twin, Kamose, behind him. Both young men were naked but for their loincloths.

“I thought you might be up there, Father!” Si-Amun called, pointing north. “We’ve been swimming and we saw a royal boat beat round the bend. By the way the sail is coming down, I believe it will head for our watersteps. What do you think?”

Seqenenra glanced in the direction of his son’s arm. A slim craft was labouring towards him, triangular sail even now being furled. Blue-and-white pennants fluttered fore and aft. Several men stood on the deck, liveried in the same colours. It was indeed a royal craft. It will go by, Seqenenra thought. Most of them go by on their way to Kush, eager for gold from the mines, for slaves, for ostrich feathers and other exotic trinkets. Si-Amun is probably hoping that it will indeed put in here. He would like nothing better than
a visit from one of the King’s representatives and would wring from him every last detail of life in Het-Uart, though his loyalty to me would forbid him to express too much joy in such an opportunity. But I will breathe more freely when I see it glide past and dwindle out of sight. “I think that they are merely negotiating a change in the wind’s direction,” he called back. Si-Amun gave a resigned shrug.

“You are probably right,” he said loudly, “and I am bored today.” He waved and turned towards the house. Seqenenra watched him for a moment, but then his attention returned to the river. He had expected to see the bow of the vessel with its sail being hoisted again, but to his dismay the oars had been run out and the craft was already veering towards his watersteps. Alarmed, he hurried down the stairs.

He emerged into the courtyard, and when he reached the gap in the wall he found Kamose waiting for him. “Si-Amun was right. They are not going on,” he said tersely. “They are coming here.” Kamose stood back as he pushed his way through and both of them looked towards the river.

“What can they possibly want?” Kamose asked worriedly. “New Year’s Day was five months ago. The tribute was paid, the gifts sent and acknowledged, and it is too early for our tax assessment.”

Seqenenra shook his head, glancing at his son’s handsome face as they started for the house together. “I cannot guess,” he replied heavily, “but it will be nothing to our advantage, you may be sure.”

“Let us pray that they only want a flagon of wine, a good meal and a night under your roof before sailing on into Kush,” Kamose observed. “I think they see us as the last bastion of civilized comfort before they brave the rigours of
the south. How they fear and despise the desert! Ahmose! Where are you going?” Seqenenra’s youngest son ran past barefooted, his kilt rumpled and dusty.

“I am meeting Turi on the practice ground for a wrestling match!” Ahmose yelled over his shoulder. “We have a small wager between us!”

“Be present at dinner, Ahmose!” Seqenenra shouted after him. “We have guests!” The boy waved his acknowledgement.

“Guests,” Kamose repeated bitterly. “They were not invited and we have no choice but to receive them.” Seqenenra answered the salute of the soldier on duty at the main entrance. As he and Kamose entered the house, Uni left the shadows and came swiftly towards him. Kamose disappeared in the direction of his own apartments in the men’s quarters.

“A royal craft is about to dock at the watersteps,” Seqenenra told the steward. “Send an escort to meet whoever is on board. Tell Isis to warn the Lady Tetisheri and my wife, and have fruit and wine ready in the garden. I want to pray and change my kilt.” Without waiting for Uni’s nod he strode towards his rooms. “Water, quickly!” he ordered the body servant who had appeared in answer to his call and was bowing. “And I will need fresh linen. We have company from the Delta.” Do not look for trouble where there is none, he told himself sternly as he unloosed his sandals and reached for the water jug. Stay calm. Do not antagonize Apepa’s messenger. Do not upset the balance of today’s Ma’at, O Prince of Weset!

Opening his shrine, he took up the incense holder lying beside it, lit the charcoal from the candle kept burning for
that purpose, and sprinkled a few grains of incense on it. Bowing to the image of Amun the Great Cackler, lord and protector of Weset, he made his obeisance and then prostrated himself on the cool floor. Help me to keep my temper, he prayed. Give me the gift of wisdom to hear whatever it is that has brought the King’s herald this far, without betraying either impatience or contempt. Guard my tongue, that I may not offend him to my detriment and the peril of my family. Veil my thoughts from him so that he sees only politeness behind my eyes. There was nothing more to say. Rising, he took a moment to inhale the sweet smoke from the burner before snuffing it out, closing the shrine, and submitting to the ministrations of his servant who had returned with a basin of warm water and linen cloths.

An hour later, freshly clad, he walked into the sunlit fragrance of his garden. His eyes were kohled. On his brow he wore a plain silver circlet and around his neck went ankhs and silver wadjet-eyes. Rings glittered against the almost black skin of his hands. Beside his pool, under the shade of the trees, mats had been spread and the royal visitor and his two companions sat cross-legged, listening to his wife Aahotep’s soft, measured tones. Kamose sat a little apart, also formally painted, his hands folded on the clean white pleats of his kilt.

At Seqenenra’s approach all rose and bowed. A servant moved to offer him a bowl of fruit but he shook his head, accepting the wine Uni held out. He motioned, sinking to the grass, and all went down with him. “Greetings,” he said amiably. “We are honoured to give hospitality to the servants of the One. To whom am I speaking?”

“I am Khian, Herald of the King,” one of the men replied. He was slender and fair-skinned, his eyes thickly kohled against the southern sun. His kilt was gossamer-fine, his leather belt studded with carnelian, and the two gold chains lying on his chest sparkled with his breath. “These are my guards. I thank you for your greeting, Prince. It is my pleasure to bring the good wishes of the Lord of the Two Lands to your whole household and particularly to the Lady Tetisheri, your mother, to whom he fervently conveys life, health and prosperity.”

Seqenenra nodded. “We are grateful. Are you on your way to Kush, Khian?”

The herald took a delicate sip of his wine. “No, Prince,” he explained. “I came especially to extend to you the salutations of the One and to bring you a letter.” Seqenenra’s glance met Kamose’s and passed on to his wife. Aahotep was studiously watching the antics of the sparrows among the newly opened leaves of the trees.

A small, awkward silence fell. The herald drank again. Kamose brushed an invisible speck of dust from the date in his hand and bit into it cautiously. Seqenenra was about to make an innocuous comment that good manners demanded, when a shadow fell across him and he turned to see Si-Amun and Aahmes-nefertari standing hand in hand at his back. He breathed a quiet sigh of relief. The pair bent smiling, kissed Aahotep, greeted Khian gracefully, and settled onto a mat beside Kamose.

A general conversation began, full of the prospects for this year’s sowing, the new life stirring in the precious vines and the number of calves born in the Delta. Khian was an enthusiastic husbandman who took a personal interest in
the running of his own small estate outside Het-Uart and the slight hiatus that had followed the mention of a letter was forgotten. The sun westered slowly, filling the garden with an orange light, and the fish in Seqenenra’s pool rose to the surface as the mosquitoes began to gather in clouds. Uni distributed fly whisks and the talk was punctuated with their gentle swishing.

Tani came at last, running over the lawn with the dogs panting and grinning behind her. One of them, Behek, loped to Seqenenra and laid his sleek head in his master’s lap. Seqenenra stroked it gently. “I am sorry to be so late,” Tani remarked as she reached for some fruit and settled next to her mother. “But the dogs needed a good run. I took them out to the edge of the desert and then through the town to the river so that they could cool off. What a beautiful day it has been!”