The Hippopotamus Marsh (4 page)

“Good.” Tetisheri gathered herself up and glided to the doorway. “Do not disturb me before noon tomorrow, any of you. Come, Kamose. You can read to me as I fall asleep.” Kamose rose, bade his parents good night, and the pair of them melted into the shadows.

“Stay with me tonight, my sister,” Seqenenra spoke softly. “I am unsettled.” Aahotep left her place and went to him, putting her arms around him and laying her head against his bare chest.

“You did not need to ask,” she murmured. “How exhausting it is to entertain the representatives of the One when we know that they only bring us trouble! You have the wisdom of Thoth in that heart of yours, my husband. You will compose a good letter.”

He lifted her chin, cupping her brown, warm face in one large hand, thinking how typically Egyptian her features were with their full mouth, straight nose and dark eyes. A
year younger than he, she had kept her youthful looks and vitality in spite of the fan of tiny lines radiating across her temples. She came of sturdy stock. Her family were members of the old minor nobility who ruled in Khemennu, the city of Thoth, their roots in good Egyptian soil, their ancestors making old bones. Aahotep, too, would live long, he reflected. There was the strength of bronze, the new metal the Setiu had brought into Egypt, under her sensuous flesh. No luxury would ever taint her. The wealth of a Kingdom could be hers and she would remain inviolate.

And how splendid she would look, he thought as his mouth sought her own, with a wig of golden plaits, the vulture feathers of Mut in gold and lapis lazuli crowning her, her breasts covered in pectorals of jasper and gold! These are not wise thoughts, not sensible, he told himself. Apepa’s Chief Wife wears the Queen’s crown. Desolation swept over him and he groaned and buried his face in his wife’s tumbled hair.

He slept badly and rose a little before dawn, performing his ablutions carefully before ordering a litter to take him to the temple for the morning’s rites. He was carried along the path by the river and he left the curtains open, enjoying the smell of the morning air, briefly moist and laden with the scent of earth and the greenness of spring. The river was calm and grey, flowing noiselessly. Birds and small unseen animals made the rushes tremble. The light was pale and limpid, but as his bearers turned away from the river, passing the temple watersteps, the sun lifted above the eastern horizon, shimmering gold, and by the time he alighted and began to walk towards the pylon he could feel its warmth on his face.

The outer court was quiet. A pair of dancers wrapped in linen and talking together in low tones paused and turned to bow to him and he smiled at them, passing into the half-light of the inner court. The High Priest and an acolyte came to greet him through the shafts of new light pouring down from the clerestory windows. Seqenenra sat. The acolyte removed his sandals and washed his feet, then Prince and priest approached the door to the sanctuary beyond. Behind them there came a scuffling and whispering interspersed with the tinkle of the systra as the singers prepared to welcome the god to another day. Seqenenra knelt before the door, prostrated himself, then rose and broke the clay seal. The High Priest pulled away the cord and swung open the door. Immediately the singers burst into song. The systra in their hands beat time to the words of praise.

Seqenenra and the priest entered the sanctuary. It was dark and stuffy. The lamps left burning beside the great golden figure of Amun had almost gone out. Averting his eyes the priest replenished them, charged the tall copper censers to each side of the figure, and began to remove the wilted flowers and stale food from the night before. Out by the doors, priests were placing fresh food, wine and flowers together with new linen reverentially on the floor. The singing ceased. The music of finger cymbals and drums began and Seqenenra could hear the glide and shuffle of the dancers’ feet as they took the place of the singers, swaying and bending for Amun’s entertainment while his morning ablutions were performed.

Seqenenra began his duties, taking the gossamer-fine, starched linen from the hands of the High Priest, the food,
the scented water for the washing, his own hands moving gently over the massive golden limbs of the god, his voice carrying beyond the small sanctuary as he said the accompanying prayers. This was his god, the totem of his family, his town, the one who had once raised his ancestors to supreme power in Egypt. He deserved the utmost respect.

When Amun had been washed, clad in fresh linen, and offered the food and wine, the dancers retired. The door was shut. Seqenenra stood looking up into the benignly smiling face and tall golden plumes while the High Priest began the prayers for the day. “O power that quickened the waters of chaos, breathe life into thy son Seqenenra. O power whose eyes brought light to the earth, bring understanding to thy son Seqenenra. O Divine Goose from whose mighty Egg all things were created, spring forth in abundance over thy city of Weset …”

Seqenenra listened, anguish in his heart. What will I dictate to Apepa, Amun, my Lord? he thought dismally. To what dark end are we being herded? Do you no longer care that your divinity is shrouded, that it does not shine forth triumphant over the whole of Egypt?

The High Priest finished the official prayers and there was a pause. Seqenenra closed his eyes and inhaled the sweet, pungent smoke hanging thickly in the motionless air. It was time for the Admonitions, when the priest reminded the god of his duties to his city and nome, of the promises not yet kept and perhaps forgotten, and often the words were for the Prince himself, couched in warnings to the god. This morning Amunmose spoke of fertility for the soil, protection from diseases, and the need for better offerings to maintain the temple and its staff. Seqenenra smiled.
He would have to remind his friend that need must wait upon circumstance.

Then the High Priest chanted, “Take up your cause, Mighty Amun, against the false gods of the Setiu in Egypt. Muzzle the dogs of Sutekh, blind the dancers of Anath, strike dumb the singers of Baal …”

Seqenenra started. His heart began to pound. On impulse he knelt, and laying his cheek against Amun’s gleaming shins he began to laugh. The High Priest paused. Seqenenra stood, still laughing, and motioned for the man to continue. Of course! he thought, trying to stifle his mirth. My thanks, Great Cackler. Muzzle the dogs of Sutekh. That will do. That will do very well …

Later when the doors had closed behind them, and the acolyte had tied Seqenenra’s sandals back onto his feet, and he and Amunmose were strolling across the outer court, Amunmose said, “The offerings are no laughing matter, Lord. Certainly the temple is small and my staff not overly large and I do understand that gold is doled out to us in return for levies of labourers and other favours not specified in our agreement with the One, but to laugh at the needs of the god is almost blasphemy.”

Seqenenra took his shoulder and swung him to a halt. They stood squinting at each other in the blinding sunlight. The court was busier now. We’eb priests came and went through the tall pylons, receiving the offerings of the common people together with their requests. A few nobles were performing the purifying ritual before being allowed into the inner court, ignored by the temple women who talked or prayed or sat in the shade of the wall and gossiped. Seqenenra’s escort could be glimpsed
squatting by the litter, their spears beside them in the sand, playing knucklebones.

“Do not reprove me, my friend,” he begged. “Do I not maintain the house of my father? Do I not see that the shrine of Montu is pleasing in his eyes? Is the habitation of Mut not lovingly repaired out of my own treasury? What other governor in this sick and miserable land cares for the sacred places as I do?” He had not meant to say all those things. He had wanted to remind the High Priest that he, Seqenenra, had appointed him and therefore expected a degree of indulgence, but a cold pain had gripped him with his first words and anger had surged from his chest onto his tongue with an appalling familiarity. Amunmose had gone white. He dropped his eyes and began to murmur an apology. Seqenenra cursed himself inwardly. “Forgive me,” he begged. “I am not angry with you. I laughed in the sanctuary because my father had answered a prayer, that is all.” Amunmose touched his left hand to the leopard skin draped over his right shoulder. It was the obeisance of a subject to a King.

“Nevertheless you are right, Prince,” he said. “I was presumptuous.”

“You have worries also, I know,” Seqenenra sighed. “I have received another senseless directive from the One. I cannot divine what direction these odd missives are taking. Perhaps I should consult Amun’s oracle.”

“Perhaps.” Amunmose hesitated. “Prince, may I give you some advice?” Seqenenra looked at him blankly.

“Of course.”

“Then, be careful whose ears are open around you when you speak of the One and his divine commands. You
mentioned blasphemy to me. Sometimes your opinions might be construed by loyal Egyptians as blasphemy against the Lord of the Two Lands. You are changing, Seqenenra Tao.” He smiled faintly. “The old contentment is gone. You are no longer governor of Weset and Prince of Egypt.” Seqenenra’s throat went dry.

“What do you know that I do not?” he whispered. “My servants are the children of my father’s servants, loyal to my name and my authority.” Amunmose held up a hand and shook his head.

“I know nothing. On the august plumes of the Cackler I swear it. I simply beseech you to be cautious. Your father was an honest governor under the One and he gave his servants no cause to examine their deepest loyalties. It would be unwise to cause any of yours to panic.” Seqenenra stared at him.

“Am I so innocent, then?” he muttered half to himself. “Am I so stupid? I will ponder your counsel.” Amunmose bowed and turned away.

Seqenenra went to his litter, and, drawing the curtains, sat hunched against the cushions. You are changing, Seqenenra Tao … no longer governor of Weset and Prince of Egypt … Not so, not so, he thought vehemently. I am content with peace. The restlessness I sometimes feel is simply the blood of my fighting ancestors demanding release. It passes in time.

After breaking his fast he received his Overseer of Lands and his Treasurer in his office, dealing quickly with their questions before sending for Ipi. The man came and bowed, taking up his position at Seqenenra’s feet and settling his scribe’s palette across his knees. Trimming his brushes and
shaking his pot of paint, he waited. Silently Seqenenra weighed the words that must be couched in phrases of correct worship.

Outside, beyond the pillared loggia, he saw Ahmose run past unpainted and unshod as usual, followed more slowly by Si-Amun and Kamose who were obviously on their way to the training ground with their weapons. A servant staggered into view, laden with cushions which he spread by the pool under the thick shade of a fig tree, and presently Tetisheri appeared, picking her way delicately, Isis holding a large sunshade over her head. She folded onto the ground, clapped, and Mersu knelt beside her, dropping several scrolls. Seqenenra smiled to himself. His mother knew perfectly well what he was doing and she would wait to hear what he had dictated. “Uni,” he called into the passage. “Bring beer.” His steward went away to comply. Seqenenra nodded. “I am ready.”

“Thoth guide my hand and your thoughts,” Ipi replied dutifully.

“Good. Begin with the usual salutation, ‘to Awoserra Aqenenra Apepa Beloved of Set, Beloved of Ra, Lord of the Two Lands, from his governor and servant Seqenenra, greetings.’ Then—‘My distress was great upon hearing the words of your letter. Let it not be, I said, that my Divine Lord’s rest should be disturbed by the voices of the hippopotamuses in the marshes of his loyal city.’” He paused, for Uni had returned, setting a cup and a small flagon on the table beside him. The steward poured, tasted, then passed the cup. Seqenenra drank deeply. Uni returned to his post behind his master. “Read it back to me,” Seqenenra ordered. The scribe did so. Seqenenra
continued, a tremor of laughter in his voice. “‘I have accordingly commanded my leatherworkers to design and construct muzzles for these noisy beasts. Thus will my lord’s sleep be deep and uninterrupted. May my lord’s name live forever. Life, Health, Prosperity! Given this day, the twentieth of the month of Tybi in the season Peret, by the hand of my scribe Ipi.’” He watched the rapid, black script dry into the papyrus. “Seal it and give it to Men. He is due to leave for the Delta. Make a copy for the archives.” Ipi slid the lid closed on his brush box, tucked the scroll into his kilt, and backed away respectfully.

Seqenenra stretched, poured more beer, and turned to Uni. He felt as though the weight of foreboding that had settled on his shoulders the night before had just rolled away. “What do you think of my solution?” he asked.

“The One will see it as a joke at his expense,” Uni warned. “He will be angry.”

“Oh, I do not think so,” Seqenenra disagreed. “The Setiu only laugh when donkeys fall down or old women trip in the street. Our King will close his eyes at night on visions of every one of my hippopotamuses’ noses swathed in leather thongs.”

Uni cleared his throat. “I do not think so, Prince. He will know you have been disrespectful.”

“But I mean him no disrespect,” Seqenenra replied emphatically. “I have tried to answer his letter in the same tone as it was addressed to me.”

“And what tone was that, Prince?” Seqenenra sighed.

“Uni, you are an efficient and valuable steward. Sometimes you are even the sharer of my secrets. Do not be impertinent.” Uni bowed stiffly.

Seqenenra took his beer and went out into the garden. Seeing him come, Tetisheri gestured and Mersu stopped reading. Tetisheri waved Mersu away. He gathered up his armful of scrolls and withdrew. Seqenenra sank onto his haunches before his mother. She drew one hennaed finger down his cheek. “Well, Prince?” she urged softly. “What did you tell the servant of Sutekh?” His gaze met her lined, kohled eyes. The bones of her face were as fine and dainty as a fawn’s. At sixty, her skin had the hue of parchment. Her hair was white, the veins of her hands blue and knotted, but her voice, her movements still held an echo of the lightly graceful girl she had been.