The Oasis (48 page)

“Perhaps ‘the one’ referred to is not Ahmose at all,” she said. “Perhaps it is Ahmose who will die.” He held her tightly in acknowledgement of the generosity of her statement but he shook his head against her warm cheek.

“That does not agree with my dream,” he said. “No. Ahmose and I together have almost completed the work of freeing Egypt but it will be his privilege to claim the ultimate reward, not mine.” Gently he set her away and got up. “Thank you for telling me,” he said. “Thank you for not treating me as Tetisheri and Aahotep treat you.” He was able to conjure a smile as he kissed her and made his way to the door. “I love you, my sister.”

“And I you, Kamose.” Her gaze was level, an interchange between equals. It comforted him a little as he closed the door quietly behind him and made his way to his own quarters.

13

THE FORMAL THANKSGIVING
to Amun for the inspiration and aid to the house of Tao that had culminated in the great victory on the desert outside Het nefer Apu was the most sumptuous celebration within living memory. Gold from the stolen treasure ships that had been stored in the temple was used by Kamose to ensure that the ceremony, those invited to it, and the feasting that followed, was spared no expense. The homage he himself would perform before the thousands expected to crowd the outer court and the select few invited to stand in the inner court was to take place in the late afternoon, but on the chosen morning Kamose, simply clad in kilt, linen headcloth and sandals, walked by himself through the predawn hush in order to greet Amun early as a mark of especial respect.

The river path was empty and shrouded in the peculiarly expectant silence that precedes the rising of the sun as Kamose swung along it, came to the canal, and turned along its placid verge. Ahead, the twin pylons loomed, darker shapes against a sky still thick with night, although the stars were fading, and the walls enclosing the sacred precincts ran away to either side to be lost in the gloom. But a pinprick of light danced just within the outer court. Coming up to it, Kamose halted and Amunmose bowed to him briefly. “Purify yourself,” he said, passing the lamp to an acolyte, and obediently Kamose followed the boy back under the pylons and round to where the sacred lake lay, its inky surface calm. Here he removed his clothes, and walking down one of the four stone ramps leading into the water he submerged his body fully, letting the liquid flow into his mouth and eyes. Regaining the paving, he took fresh linen from the boy, quickly patted himself dry, put on his sandals, and returned to where the High Priest waited.

“I am purified,” he said. Amunmose gestured and Kamose followed him across the deserted outer court and into the inner court.

Here the roof kept out any light but the brief slanting rays of a setting sun and at this hour the pillared darkness was illuminated by torches. The lesser priests had just completed the regular procession to the centre altar with their offerings of food, beer, wine, oil and flowers, which were being purified with sprinklings of water from the sacred lake and consecrated with incense. Kamose inhaled deeply. The temple, like the old palace, had always spoken to that part of him needing the sanity of divine order and the reassurance of continuity. Now as the scent of the fresh blooms and the sweet-acrid odour of incense infused him, he felt everything in him loosen. Behind him he heard the temple singers gather, a rustle of whispers and quiet coughs, but he did not turn around.

In the flare of the torches Amunmose approached the sanctuary, his long white tunic glowing, the snarling head of the leopard skin flung across one shoulder bumping gently against his hip. At the doors he paused, waiting for the signal from an acolyte high above on the roof of the temple to signal that the sun had just appeared on the horizon. In a few moments the cry came, and breaking the clay seal to the sanctuary, he flung the doors wide. At once the voice of the priestly chanter broke out. “Rise, thou great god, in peace! Rise! Thou art in peace.” The singers clustered to Kamose’s rear burst out in response, their music rising in a crescendo that filled the inner court. “Thou art risen! Thou art in peace! Rise thou beautifully in peace! Wake thou, god of this city, to life!” Again the lone chanter sang and again the chorus replied, “Thy brows wake in beauty, O radiant visage which knows not anger!” Amunmose beckoned and Kamose stepped with him into the presence of Amun.

In the Holiest of Holies, the small, secret heart of the temple, Amun sat smiling kindly, the orange flames of the torches sliding like precious oils over his golden skin. The two ostrich plumes denoting his ancient personification as the Great Cackler rose delicately from the crown rimming his forehead. Hands on his knees, he gazed at Kamose with mild recognition. To his left the sacred barque in which he made his infrequent journeys rested on its pedestal. To his right lay the exquisitely carved cedar chest that held the various utensils Amunmose needed to perform the god’s ablutions and another altar, on which lay the previous evening’s offerings.

Swiftly Kamose bent to kiss his totem’s fingers and feet and then stood back. Amunmose, in a ritual gesture that was nevertheless fraught with a touching affection, embraced the god, thus bringing his soul back from the sky to his place in the temple. Four times he softly sang, “I worship thy majesty with the chosen words, with the prayers which increase thy prestige, in thy great names and in the holy manifestations under which thou revealed thyself the first day of the world,” and weaving over and under the devout salutation was the flawless harmony of the singers.

Amunmose began the required tasks of his office: removing the night’s offerings and replacing them with the gifts from the altar in the inner court, washing, painting and clothing the god and presenting to him the strips of white, blue, green and red linen representing the totality of Egypt. Under cover of the High Priest’s movements and the surging music outside the sanctuary, Kamose spoke quietly. “My Lord, my totem, protector of Weset and upholder of my family,” he said, a lump rising in his throat. “I acknowledge your omnipotence. I worship your benign power. Later I will come to you in all the pomp and glorious array of my kingship, but now I stand before you humbly as your son. I thank you for the victory you have been pleased to bestow on my armies. I thank you for the holy dreams you have sent me in which your desire has been made known. I thank you for the privilege of removing from this country the stain of foreign feet, so that you may walk upon Egypt’s soil without pain, and I vow to you that if you give me Het-Uart I will raise you above every god and you will see every knee in Egypt bend before your glory.”

But I will not thank you for your oracle, he said silently. Ahmose may one day have cause to stand where I am standing and give you homage for the words but your will for me seems hard, Mighty One, though of course it is just. Forgive me this tiny corner of fear lurking in my soul.

He watched as, through the pleasant grey murk of incense smoke, Amunmose took up the alabaster bowl of medjet oil, dipped the little finger of his right hand in it, and reverently touched the god’s forehead so that he might be protected from all evil and impure influences and do his divine work unimpeded. The salts were being proffered: five grains of natron from Nekheb, five grains of resin, five grains of lesser salts. Oh let it be that I come here with the Double Crown on my head to have my own divinity sanctified in spite of that dreadful pronouncement! Kamose thought passionately. Pity my agony, Amun! Grant that I may indeed reap the ultimate reward for my sleepless nights and death-filled days! But in the god’s mild, enigmatic smile he read no alteration, no sense that the power filling the sanctuary would relent.

Amunmose had almost completed the morning rites. Several times he sprinkled the floor and walls of the sanctuary with holy water, then he veiled the face of the god. The unused incense was emptied onto the ground. Taking a broom, the High Priest began to back out of the room, sweeping away his footprints as he went. Kamose, with a last look at the sublime being who had somehow become his soul’s companion as well as his god, preceded Amunmose who then closed and bolted the doors and sealed them with clay once again. The singers closed their mouths, prostrated themselves before the doors, and began to disperse. Amunmose turned to Kamose and smiled. “Come into the sacristy, Majesty,” he said. “I have something to show you.”

The outer court was now bathed in limpid early sunlight and the sky above was a delicate shade of blue. Kamose’s stomach growled. He was suddenly ravenous, but he accompanied the High Priest to one of the small lateral rooms running around the inside of the court. An acolyte was waiting to relieve Amunmose of the leopard skin. Amunmose shrugged it off, and walking to one of the huge storage chests against the walls, he lifted the lid and drew out a necklace. Even without direct light it glowed. “Amun’s jewellers have taken the liberty of preparing ten of these,” he told Kamose. “Amun decreed victory for you. Therefore the men worked in the certainty that you would want to distribute the Gold of Favours to those under your command who had distinguished themselves.”

The Gold of Favours. Kamose was unable to speak for a moment. Taking the heavy thing from his friend, he stared down at it overcome with emotion. Each one of its golden rings, though thick, was intricately filigreed. Kamose knew the hours of dedicated work such a treasure represented. “I do not know how to thank you, Amunmose,” he said huskily, placing the necklet back on the High Priest’s upturned palms. “Neither the Gold of Favours nor the Gold of Flies has been awarded within living memory. I can only promise you that more gold will pour into Amun’s coffers than even he could imagine.” Putting his arms around the other man, he held him tightly. “Have them sent to Akhtoy,” he decided. “I will indeed distribute them at the feast tonight. Bring the jewellers. It is not an accepted custom for mere artisans to be invited to such a formal occasion but I wish to publicly recognize their faith in me.”

In the instant of intimacy he was tempted to unburden himself to the High Priest, question him about the oracular saying, give voice to his insecurities, but he held his tongue. Whether he liked it or not, there was a small but unbridgeable gulf of blood and station between himself and the smiling man he had just released. Taking his leave, he crossed the main body of the court and emerged from the shadow of the pylons into the full bright heat of the summer morning.

In the afternoon, arrayed in gold-shot linen, a gold and lapis circlet on his wig and the royal pectoral resting against his brown chest, he was carried to the temple through the near-hysterical accolade of the crowds thronging the river road. Behind him his women swayed in their litters, the curtains raised on his orders, although Tetisheri had protested against being exposed to the public gaze. The Followers of His Majesty went before and behind. Ankhmahor strode beside Kamose’s conveyance. Heralds went ahead calling Kamose’s titles. The Princes came behind, walking easily in their spotless kilts, their jewelled sandals scuffing up the dirt of the path. With them were their officers.

All along the route the vendors had set up their rickety stalls, selling everything from crude clay likenesses of Amun to lucky amulets that would impart to the wearer something of the magic of the blessed day. Others hawked slices of hot hyena meat, fish fried in safflower oil, the tender fresh vegetables just coming into season and dressed with dill, parsley or mint, strong dark beer, everything to fortify the people who had begun to assemble not long after Kamose had made his thoughtful way back to his house and who had waited patiently but noisily for a glimpse of the glittering procession. Small craft of every description jostled on the river. Flower petals tossed by the children rained down on water and onlookers alike.

The outer court of the temple was jammed with the lucky who had managed to elbow their way to good vantage positions. Young men sat high above the pillars shouting impudent encouragements to those struggling below. It took the heralds some time to clear a path for the royal entourage but in the end the litters were set down just within the inner court. Here the mayor of Weset and other local notables stood in their own finery. Prostrating themselves to Kamose, Ahmose and the other members of the family, they rose to watch His Majesty approach the closed doors of the sanctuary and light the incense burners held out reverently to him. Once they were lit, Kamose took them from the acolytes and, holding them high, began the rite of formal thanksgiving, his deep voice rising above the clamour in the outer court and gradually subduing it. The temple singers took up his theme as he fell silent, pouring out their praise. “Hail to thee, Amun, Lord of the Red Land, vivifier of the Black Land! Hail to thee, Amun, who has caused the invader to be crushed beneath the feet of thine appointed son Kamose! Hail to thee for whom Egypt lives, by whose heart Egypt is sustained!” The holy dancers, their long black hair loose and their fingers tinkling with castanets, twirled and bent in adoration, and Kamose, kneeling and then stretching himself full length on the warm stone paving, paid public homage to the god of Weset.