The Horus Road (41 page)

That evening the Amun and Ra divisions with the Medjay straggled into camp. Ahmose gave Hor-Aha instructions through Khabekhnet that in the morning the Medjay were to take five ships and patrol the lesser tributary to the east of the city, concentrating their attention on the one gate in the wall on that side, the Horus Road Gate. The river and consequently the tributaries had regained its banks but would not begin to shrink farther for another month. All Het-Uart’s gates led out onto the short plain between wall and water. In the previous year the docks had been destroyed. No one leaving the city would be able to escape without bridge or boat, but still Ahmose was taking no chances.

He had his generals position their troops much as he had done during the last confrontation. Amun and Ra took the western edge, spreading out behind the navy. Thoth, under General Baqet, curved around the southern end, overlapping with the Medjay outside the eastern Civilians’ Gate. Sebek-khu’s division, Montu, he sent to guard the area in the north-west where the lesser tributary ran between the city and the northern mound, which Egypt had taken and now firmly held. Twenty thousand men, not including the navy and the Medjay, were set to ring Het-Uart on the following day. Each division had makeshift bridges that could be flung across the brimming ditches if the gates should open. Ahmose held the Division of Osiris in reserve.

He knew that his mood of expectancy was probably a delusion, a foolish wish that had somehow been transformed into a magical certainty by his yearning mind, but the soldiers seemed to feel it also. Optimism swept the vast encampment, begun by Ahmose’s return with his two divisions but kept alive by rumours that His Majesty had found a secret way into the city, that he intended to bring down the walls at once, or among the more superstitious, that he had been given a spell by Amun’s Seer that would ignite the whole of Het-Uart and make it disappear in one enormous ball of flame. The Greatest of Fifty reported these things to the Commanders of a Hundred, who in turn approached the Standard Bearers, and at last Ahmose was brought the news that his whole army was waiting breathlessly for him to perform a miracle.

He laughed, knowing that peasants, even peasants who had become excellent soldiers, were a credulous horde and this spate of wild theories would vanish on the heels of the next wave of intriguing gossip, but he shared their agitation. That night he slept only fitfully, waking often after dreams that he could not remember to lie gazing briefly into the darkness of his tent before drifting into unconsciousness once more.

The following day was no better. Tired and nervous, he managed to dictate a letter to Aahmes-nefertari and one to Ahmose-onkh and make a brief inspection of the chariot horses before retiring to the bank of the tributary where he paced, swam, ate without appetite, and finally decided to while the afternoon away in target practice with his bow. Ankhmahor and Harkhuf joined him, accepting his wager of a gold bracelet and losing.

He was glad when the sky began to fade into evening. He sat in his tent talking to Akhtoy, while outside Khabekhnet and his heralds huddled around a fire and gambled with knucklebones. He had gathered them together in case he needed to send a flurry of orders to the generals, feeling ridiculous as he did so, but determined that he would not be caught unprepared. Both he and Akhtoy were tense. There was a heaviness in the air as though more rain was about to fall. His head was aching mildly but persistently and the scar behind his ear itched.

Shortly after sunset Akhtoy lit the lamps and got out the sennet board. Ahmose did not really want to play but neither did he want to drink or walk outside, so for a further two hours he and his steward tried to concentrate on the game. It had a cosmic significance, even when used to while away a lazy afternoon. Depending on what house a player’s cone or spool landed, it could reinforce the luck of the day or attract a negative fate and Ahmose, feeling that his destiny trembled in the balance, was almost afraid to toss the sticks that decided his moves. Beyond the tent the Followers on guard duty paced to and fro, their footfalls muted. Within, the small brazier Akhtoy had lit against the night chill crackled. The rhythmic clatter of the sennet sticks was the only other sound breaking the profound quiet.

Ahmose had just thrown a score that would remove his last piece from the board and give him victory when someone came thudding up to the tent, answering the Follower’s challenge breathlessly and pushing his way into the lamplight. He stood panting, his hands on his knees and his head hanging. “Forgive me, Majesty,” he gasped. “There were no chariots hitched and I had to run all the way.” Ahmose recognized Amun’s plumes on the bronze armlet the man wore.

“What does General Turi say?” he rapped out. He was clutching a golden cone so tightly that it was biting into his palm and he let it go.

“Something is happening on the city walls,” the officer explained. He was recovering his breath and straightening. “There are men emerging along it, not many, but the night is dark and we cannot see them well. They carry no torches.” Akhtoy was already lifting Ahmose’s sword belt, bow and quiver of arrows from their chest. Ahmose thrust his feet into his sandals and bent swiftly to tie them.

“Go to the stables and tell Prince Makhu to hitch every chariot,” he commanded. “Take one yourself and drive back to General Turi. I am coming at once.” The man saluted and rushed out and Ahmose reached for the belt, buckling it on with shaking fingers. “Perhaps your dream spoke true, Akhtoy,” he said. The steward held out the quiver and Ahmose ducked his head, drawing the leather strap down onto his chest. “Open the shrine and pray to Amun that it may be so. Het-Uart is finished.”

Outside he glanced up at the sky. The Followers were already picking up their spears and Ankhmahor appeared out of the dimness. “The moon is new,” Ahmose said to him anxiously. “How can we fight, if we must, in this darkness?”

“If we cannot fight, then neither can the Setiu,” Ankhmahor reminded him. “I do not think we face battle, Majesty. Even Apepa is not that stupid.”

“He may be, now that he no longer has Pezedkhu to make his decisions for him,” Ahmose retorted. “You are the Commander of the Shock Troops of Amun, Ankhmahor. Get about your business. Send me Harkhuf in your place.”

He waited in a fever of impatience for Makhu and his chariot, quelling the urge to flee along the riverbank towards Het-Uart. Shouts echoed in the blackness, followed by the rumble of his awakening troops. A few strides away, through a tangle of bushes, the tributary was little more than a few sullen glints of weak starlight on the fluid obsidian of its surface. The heralds were clustered close by and quickly he dispersed them with orders to bring him whatever information each General had. When his chariot arrived at last, looming suddenly out of the gloom, he signalled to Khabekhnet to get up behind him. “Keep the reins!” he yelled to Makhu. “Take me as close to the city as you can!”

It was not far to the south-western corner of Apepa’s mound, but to Ahmose it seemed to take an eternity to get there. At last Makhu brought the horses to a halt and Ahmose jumped to the ground, Khabekhnet following. Before them the lesser tributary, the wide man-made ditch that left the main flow of water and snaked around the eastern side of the city, lay darkly peaceful. To their left the main branch of the Nile ran away into the night.

Ahmose peered up at the wall, cursing the lack of light. There was nothing to see. No shapes moved against the blurred ceiling of stars. The city seemed sunk in sleep. But all along the bank of the canal to Ahmose’s right, Baqet’s soldiers were hurrying to form ranks and Tchanny, the division’s Commander of Shock Troops, came up to Ahmose and bowed. “Majesty, do you want the bridges laid down?” he wanted to know. It was a sensible question. The shock troops of each division were always the first to go into battle and Tchanny needed to be prepared. But after a moment’s reflection Ahmose shook his head.

“No, not yet,” he said. “I must have word from General Turi before I decide what to do. He is stationed opposite the western gate where the figures were seen. I will send you a runner, Tchanny.” The man bowed again and went away just as the Followers, who had been on foot, arrived. Harkhuf’s face materialized, pale and tense, at Ahmose’s elbow. His sword was drawn.

Minutes passed. Ahmose felt each second with the slow pounding of his heart as he and his bodyguard waited. His eyes were becoming adjusted to the darkness but there was little to see. The night was windless and calm. One of the horses whickered softly and his bronze harness tinkled.

Suddenly a great roar went up, subsiding to a rumble of thousands of voices sharp with excitement. Harkhuf cried out. Ahmose did not move, though his heart gave a jolt that made him feel momentarily nauseous. His face was turned to the west, straining to discern something, anything, but it was from the east that word finally came. One of his heralds was shouting the news even before his form became clear. “The south gate is opening!” he screamed. “Majesty, the south gate!” This is not a fantasy, Ahmose thought in the second before he unfroze. I have won. I know it to the very marrow of my bones. Het-Uart is mine at last.

“Send to Baqet,” he said calmly. “The bridges must go down and Tchanny must get his men across the ditch at once.” The man had scarcely spun away when a chariot came hurtling across the ground and another herald flung himself from it.

“Majesty, the city has surrendered,” he said, his voice broken with exhilaration. “Men on the wall above the western gate have called it and the gate is opening. Generals Turi and Kagemni have ordered the bridges positioned.”

“Good. Then they must get their shock troops over the water as soon as they can.”

“General Sebek-khu sent a runner to General Turi with the same message,” the herald went on. “The Royal Entrance Gate to the north is also wide.”

“Then I may presume that the Horus Road Gate and the Traders’ Gate are opening too,” Ahmose said. He wanted to turn to Harkhuf and embrace him wildly, lift him off his feet, kiss him vigorously. “Go to the northern mound,” he instructed the herald. “Tell General Khety that on no account is he to leave it. The Horus Division must stay where it is, with the gates firmly closed. I want no surprise attack on Apepa’s part to regain it. I will send to Khety if his men are needed.” The man and his chariot sped away. Harkhuf touched Ahmose’s arm reverentially.

“Congratulations, Great Horus,” he said. “You have triumphed.” There was such wonder in the young man’s tone that Ahmose laughed.

“It is a marvel after so long, is it not, Prince Harkhuf? But we are not yet inside those damnable walls. It is too soon to be offering me any praise.” He walked to his chariot and mounted behind Makhu. “Come,” he called. “We will join General Baqet. I want to see our soldiers stream into the south-eastern gate.”

Makhu skirted the edge of the canal and soon had to slow for the press of Thoth’s soldiers. Five thousand men were waiting to cross the water. They parted at Khabekhnet’s warning shouts and Ahmose’s chariot rolled through their ranks, but some time before Makhu brought it to a stop by the brink of the ditch where the bridge now lay, its length a span of sturdy planks lashed together but appearing tenuous in the uncertain light, Ahmose knew that something was wrong. Tchanny and his Shock Troops had not moved. Baqet was with them. He bowed as Ahmose alighted and walked up to him, pointing across the water. “What are we to do, Majesty?” he murmured.

The citizens were pouring out of Het-Uart. The gate was clogged with them, a slow-moving mass of humanity that seemed to ooze through the gaping aperture like dark oil and began to spread to either side along the wall. The area between wall and ditch was already choked with them and more were coming. They were almost completely silent, vague faces above huddles of shadowy clothing and bundles of belongings, but for the fractious crying of babies and the sobbing of one nameless woman.

Two thoughts struck Ahmose almost simultaneously. One was that in order to force a way through the tightly packed throng his troops would have to push the people into the water. The second was even more sobering. He knew that he was incapable of giving the order to kill these miserable shuffling creatures. “Apepa is doing this on purpose,” he said grimly. “He is using his people to prevent our rapid occupation of the city and perhaps to inspire me with pity for him and for them. Well, I do feel pity. Look at them, Baqet! Have you ever seen such living corpses! I do not think they are a threat to us, do you?” Baqet shook his head.

“I see no soldiers among them, Majesty, but I suppose a few may have weapons concealed beneath their cloaks. The light is very uncertain.” Ahmose continued to watch the pathetic exodus. The crowd now extended to right and left out of his sight, a swaying, staggering host that reminded him of paintings he had seen depicting the victims of famine when the Nile failed to rise. But of course they are victims of famine, he thought. Not through lack of a flood but through my siege.

“Open a path through the troops and let them go,” he said to Baqet. “It is not in the way of Ma’at to murder those already half-dead from starvation and disease. They can do us no harm. Set men to either side of the bridge to watch them as they cross. Bring torches. Any carrying weapons must be detained.” Baqet passed the order to a senior officer beside him who began to shout it in turn. The soldiers clustered by the water began to form themselves into two lines but their movement was misinterpreted by the people on the opposite bank. A flurry of agitation went through them and someone cried out, “Mercy, mercy, men of Egypt! Do not harm us! We are nothing!” They were turning back to the gate in their panic, but the gate was crammed with their fellows trying to get out. Baqet jumped onto the floor of Ahmose’s chariot.

“We will not hurt you!” he called, his voice carrying strongly over their shrieks. “The King has decreed that you should leave the city unmolested! Come over! Come over!” He continued to yell until his words pierced their near hysteria. Hesitantly one man, bolder than the rest, stepped onto the bridge and began to edge along it. The herd watched him, their noise dying away. When they saw him walk freely through the soldiers’ ranks in the flaring light of the torches, there was a concerted rush to follow him and soon they were streaming across, heads down, eyes darting from side to side at the impassive troops. Most were on foot but occasionally a cart appeared, full of those citizens too old or too sick to walk and hauled by straining men with bent backs. The Egyptians gave these scant attention, afraid of the diseases that lurked beneath the cloaks that swathed the occupants, and already aware that no matter what weapons might be concealed in them there were no longer any men capable of putting up a fight. Baqet rejoined Ahmose. “The donkeys must all have been eaten,” he remarked. “This sight is terrible, Majesty. What will you do with them?” Ahmose shrugged, his eyes on the river of dejection spreading out to disappear into the night.