The Horus Road (37 page)

“She will be intensely curious to know what is happening,” she remarked. “Perhaps Abana should have stopped in at Djeb on his way to Nekheb to tell her.”

“Just as well I did not suggest it,” Ahmose retorted. “She outranks him utterly. She might have demanded to be collected as the ships passed by and he would have had great difficulty in refusing her.”

“I wish that I was going with you.” Aahmes-nefertari spoke wistfully into the small silence that followed. “You are not the only one who is sometimes bored, Ahmose.” He raised his head and kissed her tangled hair.

“I need you here as Queen,” he said lightly. “Besides, you are now too big to fit inside my chariot.” She did not laugh at his joke.

“You will be back before our baby is born, won’t you, Ahmose?” she insisted. He struggled up onto his elbow and looked down on her troubled face.

“This matter will be over in less than a week from tomorrow,” he said. “Compared with the major campaigning I have done, it is a mere flick of the sword. The celebration of the Feast of the Coronation of Horus on the first day of Tybi will see me by your side, Aahmes-nefertari, and the baby is not due until the next month. Do not fret.”

Her features cleared and she closed her eyes, but he did not move, his own eyes travelling along the pleasant curve of her jaw, the long black lashes lying against her cheek, the thin shadow between her breasts half-hidden by the bedclothes. I will be here, my sister, he thought, but I do not want to be. If you knew how desperately and cravenly I could wish myself a thousand miles from Weset when you give birth, your love for me would turn to contempt in a moment. If the Seer is correct, there is nothing but heartbreak for you and despair for me in your distended womb. Amun help me, for I adore you still and would spare you this coming pain if I could.

She had drifted into sleep, her breathing slow and regular, and he rolled onto his back and lay with one arm across his forehead, staring into the red shadows flickering on the ceiling and trying to banish the fantasies creeping into his mind.

11

AFTER BEING FERRIED ACROSS
the river to the west bank, Ahmose and his men struck out for the south, past the place of the dead and round the slow curve the Nile took. On their right the run of hummocked sand continued, ending in the serried range of hills that alternately tumbled and rose sharply against a cloudless sky. On their left, beyond the straggling groves of palm trees through which they marched, the marshes clattered softly in the brisk wind, thick with white birds clinging precariously to the stiffly swaying reeds. Here and there Ahmose glimpsed the twin humps of hippopotamus nostrils, and swirls of glittering water told where they had submerged.

The Nile’s level was sinking, the sun was bright but without the uncomfortable heat of Shemu, and happily Ahmose inhaled the mingled scents of wet earth and his horses’ sweat. Before and behind him his soldiers strode talking aimlessly and cheerfully to one another, the murmur of their conversations a pleasant accompaniment to the creak of his chariot wheels and the dull thud of the Followers’ sandalled feet around him. It is like a hunting expedition, he thought contentedly. The men know that they are in no danger from this little routing. Their quarry is already cornered, a rabble of angry townspeople who will present no challenge to their seasoned skill. As for myself, my only obligation is to stand in my chariot and watch Egypt slide by. I am free.

They had started out just before dawn and by noon had covered half the distance to Pi-Hathor. Ahmose called a halt, eating his bread, dried fruit and goat’s cheese with his back against a palm trunk while one of the Followers unhitched his horses and led them down to the water to drink. Everywhere in the dappled shade the soldiers were sharing their rations, their swords and bows discarded carelessly beside them. Some had even stripped and were splashing about in the shallows, shouting and laughing. Ahmose did not mind. He was in no hurry to move on, indeed he could have fallen asleep under the crown of fronds whispering dryly high above him. But Turi’s voice, brusque and commanding, cut across his somnolence and he rose reluctantly while the soldiers scurried to dress and retrieve their weapons.

Two hours after sunset their one scout came back to tell Ahmose that Pi-Hathor lay a mere mile away. “I think they have been warned of your approach, Majesty,” he said. “As far as I could ascertain without actually entering the town, the streets and alleys are still full of people although by now they should be in their houses, eating their evening meal.”

“I suppose it was inevitable that word of our coming should have reached them,” Ahmose replied. “Now that we are close, we have seen a few peasants watering their oxen. I daresay they also saw us.” He thanked the scout and sent him back to keep watch, ordering the rest of his troops to find a place in which to spend the night. They had not brought tents. Each man curled up in his blanket and Ahmose did the same. Turi appointed sentries as a safeguard, although Ahmose thought it unlikely that Pi-Hathor would be able to organize a raid, let alone put up any resistance to his soldiers the next day.

At dawn, momentarily chilled and stiff, Ahmose left the sandy hollow where he, Turi and Ankhmahor had rested, and after a quick meal they were on the march again. But they had not gone far when the front column halted and someone came running back to Ahmose. It was Mereruka. “You will find Pi-Hathor deserted of men, Majesty,” he told Ahmose. “They have all gone to Esna in the night to join the townsmen there. Unless you mean to burn the place do not waste your time with Pi-Hathor. Only women and children remain.”

“They were indeed warned, then,” Ahmose said. Mereruka smiled slyly.

“They were. I warned them myself,” he announced. “My son has been watching for your arrival. When he told me you were close, I spread the word. It did not take much shouting to persuade the men to hurry to Esna where together they might provide a greater resistance to your troops.”

“So now we can strike one blow instead of two and have Abana’s assistance to do it,” Ahmose said admiringly. “Truly you are a devious man, for a breeder of donkeys. What of my Admiral?”

“We parted company undetected and he continued south,” Mereruka declared. “Two of my spies in Esna, reed cutters who must work by the river and thus are never suspected, sent me a message that Admiral Abana had arrived south of Esna last night. Even now he will be preparing to fall upon the town.” Peering down into the man’s face, still indistinct but becoming more clearly defined in the strengthening light, Ahmose made a mental note to see that he was rewarded with the Gold of Favours for his loyalty. And I will need his continued expertise, he thought, as he dismissed Mereruka and saw him melt away into the morning’s thinning shadows. When all is set to rights in Egypt, I will make him the Eyes and Ears of the King. Aahmes-nefertari will be pleased. She has probably already considered such a promotion for him. With a rueful shake of his head Ahmose gave the command to form ranks.

It was as the spy had said. The Nile bowed to the east at Pi-Hathor so that the town was set some way back from the water and the river path crossed several wide and well-beaten avenues leading down from the town to the docks. A silent and apprehensive throng of women and children stood before the dilapidated warehouses fronting the first houses, their eyes following the progress of the soldiers as they passed. A few dogs rushed out to bark and snap at the strangers from a safe distance but they were the only things that moved. Even the children were motionless.

Ahmose noted that the docks themselves were falling into ruin, their planking holed, their supports leaning drunkenly away from the prevailing north current. There was no sign of any ships. In spite of his obvious safety Ahmose’s scalp prickled as his chariot rolled past the bizarre scene. His men had fallen mute. All that could be heard was the sound of their combined footfalls and the snorting of the horses echoing off the decaying buildings, but the air seemed charged with hopelessness and a weight of hostility that reminded him forcibly of his weeks with Kamose, the terrible campaign for control of the towns and villages between Weset and Het-Uart, the killing and burning day after day until both he and his brother had been half-mad with the bloodiness and brutality. He was more than glad when Pi-Hathor disappeared from sight behind him and the river began to curve back towards the west.

The early sunlight was strong, the air fresh and cool, and Esna only four miles away. The men soon regained their good spirits but there was no more idle chatter, for in spite of the entirely predictable outcome of the imminent engagement there was still fighting to be done.

They heard the town before they saw it, and the wind brought to them a sudden gush of hot air and the not distasteful smell of charring wood. Ahmose commanded swords to be drawn as he urged his horses past the forward ranks, Ankh-mahor and the Followers running at his side. Reaching the front of the column he paused.

Esna’s docks were alight, the flames leaping almost transparently into the brilliant sunshine, the air above them shaking with their heat. The river around them was choked with ships and Ahmose realized why there had been no vessels at Pi-Hathor. The townsmen, all good sailors, had brought them here and they were clumsily circling Abana’s craft that were easily recognizable by the forest of bows crowding the decks in disciplined rows. Some of Abana’s men were shooting their arrows into the milling throng of screaming men on the bank but most were aiming at targets on the other boats.

Quickly Ahmose assessed the situation. No strategy was needed here. It was simply a matter of wading at once into the press of townsmen choking all the ground between river and buildings and cutting them down. Some were brandishing swords and a few had spears, but most were armed with nothing but knives, quarry implements and tools better served in the construction of ships. Quashing a surge of guilt and pity, Ahmose gave a terse order to Turi and saw him raise cupped hands to his mouth to relay it to his officers. The Followers took up their defensive positions around him, swords at the ready. Eyes scanning the noisy conflict on the water, Ahmose spotted Abana himself. He was standing in the prow of one of the vessels and as Ahmose picked him out, he too saw Ahmose. Bowing briefly, he raised an arm. But Turi’s troops were advancing rapidly on the howling mob and Ahmose’s attention turned to them.

It was not quite a massacre, for a man had emerged from the crowd and seemed to be a leader of sorts. His voice often rose above the uproar, his words unintelligible but his tone unmistakeably commanding, and obediently the townsmen feinted this way and that, drew into tight groups or ran to take up other positions. Ahmose was reminded of Mereruka’s contention that someone was co-ordinating the revolt in both cities. This was obviously the mind upon which all disaffection had centred, the man who had caused it to focus and acquire purpose. Ahmose, watching him attentively, wondered if he had once been a soldier in Seqenenra’s army or perhaps even one of Apepa’s troops. It was impossible to tell whether he was Setiu or not. He had a sword which he held high and used as a rod to indicate his intention to the men fighting so desperately close by. Every muscle in his body seemed tensed on his task and yet, Ahmose thought rather sadly, for all his effort and courage he must know that his cause was doomed from the start. How I hate this necessity!

For a while soldiers and citizens were inextricably mixed, but gradually out of the clouds of dust stirred up by the to and fro of struggling bodies and shuffling feet the number of citizens began to decline. The pace of the engagement slowed. Bodies littered the ground and the survivors began to flee, casting away their makeshift weapons and running towards their half-drowned fields or plunging into the Nile, where two of their ships, abandoned and on fire, were drifting and listing. Abana’s marines had already boarded the others and were hacking at men who were used to handling vessels but not making war on their unstable decks. The screams and groans of the wounded filled the air along with the excited cries of the victors. The clash had lasted perhaps an hour. It was not yet noon, the sun had not quite reached its zenith, and already the battle was over.

The man who had held the rebels together was still shouting. He had jumped from his perch on a rock and was dashing towards the river, not in an attempt to escape, Ahmose surmised, but in an effort to pierce the fog of panic engulfing his men and rally them. A few were heeding him, turning back and pushing their bodies through the churning water. Skidding down the bank he rushed to meet them, wading out until he stood chest deep, the unpredictable movements of the swinging vessels making a choppy wake that broke against him.

He did not see Abana lean over the rail of his ship, evaluate the situation in one swift glance, and launch himself from the deck, landing feet first just behind the man in a great splash that Ahmose could hear. The man swung round but clumsily, impeded by his sword and the resistance of the water. Abana came up crouching and sputtering, flung both arms about his quarry, and unbalanced him. Both men went over, and when they surfaced, Abana had the man’s sword wrist in both his hands. He was shaking it viciously, using his jerking elbow and his head to administer whatever blows he could. “Turi!” Ahmose yelled. “Get someone into the water to help him!” The order was unnecessary. Already several soldiers were pounding along the bank to where the two men were struggling. But by the time they had flung themselves into the river, the man’s sword had been wrenched from his grasp and was sinking beneath the surface and Abana, one arm around his prisoner’s neck and the other tightly gripping his hair, was dragging him to the shore.

His capture marked the last of whatever weak resistance remained. The men still in the river came wading out disconsolately and flung their weapons onto the verge. Turi came up to Ahmose and saluted. “It is all over, Majesty,” he said. “What do you want done with those who surrendered?” Ahmose scanned the fiery, crackling ruin of the docks, the jumble of dead bodies sprawled everywhere, the women who had already begun to trickle out of the town and were setting up a chorus of wails.

“Guard them for now,” he answered. “Collect the bodies and have them burned. Keep those women out of the way. And I want a count of our dead and wounded as soon as possible.”

Leaving his chariot, he walked to where Abana and his prisoner stood, both dripping with water, amid a circle of watchful soldiers who drew back and bowed as he approached. Abana grinned at him, tossing a shower of droplets from his glistening head. “He was no match for the superior training and discipline of an Egyptian Admiral!” he exclaimed. “But he commanded his people well, did he not?” Ahmose nodded and looked the man up and down. He was shivering a little, whether from fear or reaction it was difficult to tell, for his expression remained calm.

“What is your name?” Ahmose asked. The man’s eyes dropped.

“Yamu,” he said.

“You are Setiu.” It was a statement not a question, and the man inclined his head. “Yamu, you have caused much useless bloodshed here today,” Ahmose went on. “None of this,” he gestured savagely, “was necessary. If the citizens of Pi-Hathor and Esna were dissatisfied, then they should have brought their grievances first to their respective mayors and then to me in Weset. I would rather have appointed a judge to investigate your distress than bring a thousand soldiers to destroy you!” Yamu’s head came up and his features were all at once animated by scorn.