The Oasis (14 page)

“Half the garrison’s force was executed and the rest put to work reducing the walls to rubble. I did not want to take the commander’s life but he gave me no choice, being not only of Setiu blood but openly hostile to me. I do not think that even now, even after subduing the land from Weset to Het nefer Apu, the Setiu regard us as more than a temporary revolt. I heard as much from the commander’s mouth before he died, and of course Teti recited the same tired lines. We move on towards Henen-Nesut tomorrow. I wish there was time to take the track west from here to Uah-ta-Meh. I would like to explore the oasis. Pray for us. We are so tired.”

Tetisheri lifted her hands and the papyrus rolled up with a whisper. Kamose’s last few words had wrenched at her heart when she had first heard them read by Uni while she and Aahotep sat at meat in the dining hall. They still did. “We are so tired,” she repeated the words of the scroll now in her mind. Not tired in your bodies, my dearest ones, but tired in your souls. Yes. And we do indeed pray for you, every day. Pushing the scroll aside, she unrolled the next, allowing herself a tiny spark of the same pleasure she had felt when news of Teti’s death reached the estate. She had hidden it from her daughter-in-law, for although Aahotep had known her relative’s execution was inevitable she was clearly distressed. “You will recite no more lines,” she said aloud. “Or issue deceitful and treacherous orders. You may lie beautified in your tomb but I wager that the scales in the Judgement Hall did not balance when your heart was laid on the dish. I hope Sebek found you a juicy morsel.”

This letter was headed “Payni, day thirty.” “We have battled our way to Iunu,” it said after the usual salutations, “and tomorrow we enter the Delta and come to Nag-ta-Hert, a mighty fort built on a mound, according to the scouts. At least ten thousand troops are quartered there. It is Apepa’s bastion against incursions into his heartland from the south. I do not yet know how we will deal with it. I cannot hope for another Meketra to visit me in the night. I have spared most of the inhabitants of Mennofer, killing only the active soldiers, for the city and its nome are governed by Prince Sebek-nakht. I remembered him as soon as he emerged from the White Wall with his entourage. He came to Weset with Apepa at the time of our sentencing and he was the only Prince brave enough to speak to us publicly. He went hunting with Ahmose. Perhaps you can recall him. He is a priest of Sekhmet, an erpa-ha and hereditary lord, and one of Apepa’s architects. His father was Vizier of the North before he died. His hospitality was generous and not, I think, tainted by a desire to ingratiate himself. With him we visited the ancient tombs on the plateau of Saqqara, inspected the harbour which was full of all kinds of trading vessels as well as our own boats, and worshipped in the temple of Ptah. After a long conversation that took us through the night, the Prince has sworn that if we leave Mennofer intact he will make no move to warn Apepa of our strengths and weaknesses and he will support us with any goods or weapons we may require. Ahmose trusts him implicitly, but then Ahmose bestows his admiration on any man who can bring down a duck with a throwing stick on the first try. I like the Prince well enough to believe that he will stand by his word. Ankhmahor knows him well.”

Yes, I recall him, Tetisheri thought. I knew his mother, a woman who took an active and stern hand in the education of her sons. His blood is pure. But, Kamose, I like your jibe at your brother even less now than when you first dictated it. Surely you realize that a falling-out between you will spell disaster. That is one more thing that must be discussed while you are here.

The next scroll was as light as a handful of feathers and after tapping it with one long fingernail she laid it in the chest. I do not need to look at this message, she thought. I know it by heart. “Epophi, day thirty. Nag-ta-Hert. It has taken us a whole month to siege and burn this accursed place. Sloping walls, sturdy gates, all uphill. Ten thousand bodies to fire. Three hundred of ours to bury. Murmurs of mutiny in Intef’s division. Why has Apepa not reacted?”

We will chew that particular bone together also, Tetisheri promised him in her mind. It is not logical that Apepa still has no knowledge of the advance. Where are his troops? He sent Pezedkhu hundreds of miles south to Qes to defeat Seqenenra. What is he waiting for this time? The stirrings of mutiny to spread? Would he presume there would be such dissatisfaction eventually in an army whose men are being asked to kill their own countrymen every day?

Well, so much the better, she said to herself as she undid the second to last letter. Kamose and Hor-Aha can deal with mutiny. They have breached the Delta’s southern defences. Nothing lies between them and Het-Uart. Unrolling this missive gave her a glow of sheer triumph and she read it aloud as if to a reverential audience. “Mesore, day thirteen. I am dictating these words within sight of Apepa’s great city, sitting in my boat while all around me it is as though the paradise of Osiris has come down to earth. Luxuriant greenness is everywhere, cut through by many wide canals whose water is as blue as the sky that can hardly be glimpsed for the profusion of trees. Birds make a constant musical clamour and the air is full of the odours of ripe fruit from the orchards. I understand now why the northerners call our nome Egypt’s southern brazier, for Weset is arid indeed compared to this flagrant fecundity.

“The city of Het-Uart is built on two huge, low mounds, one larger than the other. Each one is defended by massive high walls with sloping outer surfaces. Both are completely encircled by canals that are dry at this time of the year but when filled must make the mounds well-nigh unapproachable. I have sent heralds to the gates of the main mound of Het-Uart, of which there are five, to shout my name and titles and demand Apepa’s surrender, but there has been no reply. The gates remain firmly closed and the city, being walled in all its four-mile circumference, is impregnable.

“Our ranks have swelled to nearly thirty thousand infantry, but there is no time to lay down a siege. The Inundation will be upon us in two weeks if Isis wills to cry and I do not want the army to winter here. Therefore I have commanded a scouring of the Delta. Towns, villages, fields, vineyards, and orchards are to be put to the torch to prevent the citizens of Het-Uart from obtaining enough food to sustain them through the siege I intend to mount next campaigning season. The Inundation will do the rest. We still do not know how many soldiers inhabit the two mounds, but Hor-Aha estimates their number to be at least one hundred thousand, perhaps more. Apepa has not released them. He is a fool.”

But is he? Tetisheri asked herself as she stood, put that scroll and the latest one into the box, and lowered the lid. If Het-Uart is so impossible to storm, why should he risk his army in an aggressive action? I wouldn’t. Let the besieging army grow tired of patrolling those unyielding, unfriendly walls. Let them eat up their stores and then tighten their belts. Let their hearts grow cold and faint as the days go by. You will have to be very clever indeed to overcome both enemies, within and without, my Kamose, Tetisheri mused as she at last perched on the edge of her couch and called for Isis to remove her sandals. Burning half the Delta will not do it. What will? Soon you and I can grapple with this dilemma face to face.

In the two weeks that followed, no further scrolls arrived from the brothers, and Tetisheri found herself fighting once more the ogres of an over-active imagination. Apepa had opened the gates and flooded the Delta with those one hundred thousand warriors. On their way home Kamose had been ambushed by distraught peasants and murdered. Ahmose had fallen ill under the Delta’s humidity and was gasping out his life while the fleet was stalled in some northern backwater.

Weset was preparing to celebrate the beginning of the New Year with great feasts for Amun and Thoth, who had given his name to the first month, and the priests whose task it was to record the level of the Nile from day to day waited anxiously for the minute change that would herald the Inundation. Aahmes-nefertari spent the anxious days in solitude, keeping her worry to herself, but Tetisheri and Aahotep made their way to Amun’s temple, standing mute while Amunmose’s voice was raised in supplication and the incense wreathed about the swaying bodies of the holy dancers.

It was there that the herald found them, coming over the stone flags of the outer court and bowing as they emerged from their devotions. Tetisheri felt Aahotep’s hand slide into hers as the man straightened up. “Speak,” she offered. He smiled.

“His Majesty will arrive before noon,” he said. “His craft is even now upon my heels.” Aahotep’s fingers were withdrawn.

“That is very good,” she said steadily. “Thank you. Are they well?”

“They are well, Majesty.” She nodded gravely, but her eyes were shining.

“We will wait by the watersteps. Herald, tell the High Priest that there must be milk and bull’s blood at once.”

Two hours later the pavement above the steps was crowded with silent watchers. Above them the canopies billowed, white linen rising and collapsing slowly in the hot wind, and under them the whole household stood in tense expectation. Chairs had been set for the three royal women, but they too were on their feet, eyes narrowed against the relentless glare of sunlight on water as they strained to see down river. Behind them the servants and musicians clustered and beside them Amunmose, draped in the leopard skin of his sacerdotal office, rested one hand on the shoulder of the acolyte who clasped the large silver urn containing milk and blood. The censers had been fired, their smoke rising almost invisibly into the fiery air. No one spoke. Even Ahmose-onkh was quiet in his nurse’s arms.

The silence was not broken even when the prow of the lead vessel nosed around the bend. It came on like the denizen of a dream, oars dipping to plough the water and rising in a glittering fall of droplets, and not until the assembly could hear the warning cries of the captain did the spell break. Like the legs of some enormous insect the oars were shipped at his command and the craft came gently to rest against the mooring pole. In a sudden whirl of activity, servants rushed to secure it, the ramp appeared, the musicians began to play with a thunder of drums and tremor of lutes, and Amunmose took the urn from the boy. Priestesses shook the systra. But Tetisheri was oblivious to the instantaneous din. Her eyes searched the men grouped on the deck. There was Ahmose, brown and sturdy in his yellow-and-white striped helmet, ringed hands on his hips, the sunlight sparking from the gold lying on his broad chest. He was grinning delightedly at Aahmes-nefertari. But where was Kamose?

Soldiers ran down the ramp to form a guard and Prince Ankhmahor followed. Tetisheri recognized him at once, but her gaze did not linger on him. Chanting the prayers of welcome and blessing, Amunmose began to pour the milk and blood in a pink stream onto the sizzling stone of the paving and a man began to descend the ramp. He was thin, the muscles of his gold-gripped arms and long legs standing out as flexing knots, and his face beneath his blue-andwhite headdress seemed all gaunt hollows. Around his neck hung a pectoral Tetisheri knew, Heh kneeling on the heb sign, the Feather of Ma’at, the royal cartouche encircled by the wings of the Lady of Dread, the lapis gleaming a sultry blue in its prison of gold. Bewildered, with a terrible pang, Tetisheri lifted her eyes once more to the man’s face. He had reached the foot of the ramp now and was pacing through the sticky, steaming puddles of milk and blood, looking for her, looking at her; it was Kamose himself. “Gods!” Tetisheri breathed, horrified, then she knelt in prostration, Aahotep beside her. “Rise,” a voice invited, tired, thin, as thin as the body from which it came, and the women rose. Kamose held out his arms. “Am I really home?” he said, and the women fell into his embrace.

For a long time Tetisheri held him, inhaling his familiar odour, feeling his warm skin against her cheek, only vaguely aware that Aahmes-nefertari was shrieking with joy and Ahmose had passed her in a flash of yellow. Amunmose had ceased his singing, the end of his prayer drowned out by the prattle of greetings and conversation. Kamose released his kin and turned to the High Priest, gripping his hand. “My friend,” he said huskily. “I have depended much on your faithfulness and the efficacy of your petitions to Amun on my behalf. Tonight we will all feast together and at dawn I will come to the temple to make my sacrifice to the Great Cackler.” Amunmose bowed.

“Majesty, Weset rejoices and Amun smiles,” he replied. “I will leave you to the welcome of your family.” He backed away and Kamose gestured.

“Mother, Grandmother, you must remember Prince Ankhmahor. He is the Commander of the Followers and also of the Braves of the King. I have left the other Princes with their respective divisions.” Ankhmahor performed his reverence and excused himself, issuing orders to the soldiers as he went. Ahmose and his wife were still clasped closely against each other, eyes shut, rocking in mutual elation. Tetisheri, struggling to conceal her shock at Kamose’s appearance, was recovering her wits. Glancing behind him at the craft now choking the river from bank to bank, she asked sharply, “Kamose, where is the army? Where is Hor-Aha? Is this all you have brought home with you?” He graced her with a tight smile.

“I have brought all the Medjay,” he replied brusquely. “I will discuss my disposition of the remainder of our forces with you later, Tetisheri. Now all I want to do is stand on the bathing slab under a deluge of scented water and then fall onto my own couch.” The smile trembled and slipped. “I love you, both of you, all of you,” he finished. “I would kiss every servant assembled here if my dignity would allow!” The words were humorous but his voice had broken. For a moment he waited, lips compressed, his gaze wandering across the façade of the house, the limp trees, the small glint of sun on the surface of the pool half-glimpsed beyond the vine trellis, then he started towards the entrance pillars. At once the Followers fell in before and behind him. Ankhmahor strode at his side. But they had not gone far when a grey shape detached itself from the shade of the vine trellis, came streaking towards them, and flung itself at Kamose. He opened his arms and bent down. Whining with joy, Behek pawed him, licking his face and nudging at his neck. Kamose remained still, only his fingers betraying any emotion as he buried them convulsively in the dog’s warm fur.