The Oasis (50 page)

Hor-Aha was the last Prince to be honoured, and Kamose, seeing him striding confidently to the foot of the dais, found that he had no words for his greatest strategist. Placing the gold over the General’s black braids, he touched the dark cheek before stepping away and their eyes met. Hor-Aha raised his eyebrows and smiled. In spite of his festive kilt, the carnelian Eye of Horus on his chest and the bulky rings on his fingers, he still wore the plain leather belt with its worn pouch containing his secret totem, the blood of Seqenenra, and with a thrill of distaste Kamose willed himself not to let his gaze stray to it. Then he was gone and those commanders worthy of the Gold of Favours took his place, Paheri among them.

Finally it was the Medjay’s turn. Two of them had been singled out for bravery. They glided to the dais on their light, soundless feet, looking up at Kamose with bright eyes like shiny beads, their cheap clay necklaces and the gaudy ribbons they had tied in their hair in honour of the feast making them seem even more incongruous among the nobles and Weset notables than they were. Kamose smiled at them, speaking of the Medjay’s skill and fearlessness and thanking them for what they had done, but he could not ignore the embarrassed silence that had fallen or the resentful mutters that filled it.

“To Set with them!” he grumbled at Ahmose when the ceremony was over and he sat down and gestured for Akhtoy to fill his cup. “Their fine lineage chokes them! Why can’t they see that without the Medjay they would still be out there hacking their way towards Het-Uart and perhaps in danger of actually having to spill some of that precious blue blood of theirs? Sometimes I actually hate them, Ahmose.” His brother let go of Aahmes-nefertari’s hand and turned to fully face him.

“We have been over this a thousand times before, Kamose,” he said in a low voice. “Their suspicion and prejudice cannot be changed. All we can do is limit it as best we can by taking care not to rub their noses in your preference for Wawat warriors and a black General. Keep them feeling safely superior and it will not matter.” He pursed his lips and tapped Kamose on the knee. “There was no Gold of Favours for Prince Meketra,” he went on. “He is not even here. Why?” Kamose shifted restlessly.

“He fought no battles for me,” he answered roughly. “All he did was betray Teti. The Gold of Favours is not for such as he.”

“He should at least have been invited to the thanksgiving and the feast,” Ahmose urged. “All his fellow Princes are here. Word will reach Khemmenu soon that there were great celebrations in Weset from which he was excluded. How do you think he will feel? Glad that he was left in peace at Khemmenu? No. He will be bitter and offended. He will not consider that he does not deserve the Gold of Favours. He will believe that you have deliberately slighted him, that you hold him of little account.”

“Then he will believe the truth,” Kamose returned. “I have not deliberately slighted him, Ahmose, but I neither like nor trust him. I cannot help it.”

“I agree with your assessment of his character,” Ahmose sighed, turning back to his wife. “I only hope that we are not creating trouble for ourselves later. You do not trust Intef or Iasen either, but they are here.” To that there was no answer. Kamose hurriedly finished his wine, and bidding the guests continue to enjoy themselves, he quietly left the hall. He had had enough.

There was nowhere in the house to which he could retreat from the crescendoing din of the feast. Even in his own quarters with the door closed he could still hear the drunken squeals and laughter of his guests, and the garden, when he escaped outside with a cloak over his arm, was no more peaceful. Light and noise streamed out from between the pillars of the reception hall to be slowly dissipated in the shrubbery between the house and the protecting outer wall. Wandering towards the river, answering the challenge of the guards as he went, Kamose came at last to his watersteps where the family’s barge and a couple of skiffs rocked peacefully against the mooring poles. A distance away to right and left the larger ships lay, dark hulks whose masts reared into the starry sky. For several moments Kamose considered crawling onto the tiny cot within the cabin he and Ahmose had shared for so many weeks but he was wary of the desire to retreat into so comfortable and familiar a place, both physically and mentally. With a word to the patient soldier watching the river he wrapped his cloak tightly around him and lay down in one of the skiffs. He was asleep almost immediately.

He did not hear the hall empty as towards dawn the drunk and satiated crowd dispersed towards the town or the accommodation Tetisheri had provided for them. Nor did he stir when with the first rays of the new sun the servants began to prepare for another day. He came to consciousness only sluggishly to find Akhtoy bending over him, sheath held high around his thighs to keep his linen out of the water, calling his name. Kamose sat up blinking in the bright morning light. “I have been searching for you for hours, Majesty,” the steward said with a note of irritation. “Her Highness’s labour began shortly after she retired for the night. The physician and her mother are with her. His Highness is breaking his fast by the pond if you wish to join him.”

“Thank you, Akhtoy.” Kamose stepped out of the skiff. The water lapping over his feet felt cool and his head began to clear. “I will eat with Ahmose. Please send my herald to me. And do not look at me like that. I will bathe later.” With a bow Akhtoy regained the paving above, slipped on his sandals, and disappeared along the path. Kamose followed more slowly.

He found Ahmose sitting on the grass under a canopy, bread and cheese and a bowl of fruit beside him. He waved Kamose into the shade. “She woke me just as I was falling asleep,” he said without preamble. “She is not worried, only glad that she does not have to endure another day of pregnancy in this heat. Mother will make sure all goes well and a priest is there to burn incense for Bes.” He deftly sliced open a pomegranate and began to spoon out the seeds. Kamose looked at him curiously.

“And you,” he said. “Are you worried?” Ahmose set down the spoon and frowned.

“Not for Aahmes-nefertari,” he decided. “This is her third child. She is young, healthy and strong. But I worry for Egypt.” He turned anxious eyes on Kamose. “We still face the possibility of death in battle,” he went on soberly. “You or me. If we are both killed, the only heir to the Horus Throne whether we have recovered it or not, is Ahmoseonkh. Children are vulnerable, Kamose. They die easily. They die suddenly.” He pushed the plate of fruit away. “Ahmose-onkh is fine today. He toddles about happily molesting snakes and driving the servants to distraction. But tomorrow he may have a fever and the next day be carried to the House of the Dead. Then who is heir to Egypt? You refuse to marry and get sons. We Taos must have sons.” He scowled. “If Aahmes-nefertari gives birth to a girl, we are in a precarious position.”

“I know,” Kamose admitted, his mind filling with the memory of his father and Si-Amun. Seqenenra had produced three sons. Two were left. And one of us will not survive, he thought grimly. According to the oracle it will be me, but have I not always known somewhere deep in my ka that to Ahmose alone will go the glory of a long life at the pinnacle of Egypt’s nobility? “You can take a second wife, Ahmose,” he said carefully.

There was a long silence. Both men fixed their gaze on the cloud of flies that had begun to hover and then crawl over the disembowelled pomegranate and its oozing purple juice. Then Ahmose cleared his throat.

“You do not believe that you will live much longer, do you, Kamose?” he said softly. “You know about the oracle. So do I. Aahmes-nefertari told us both. Yet I pray fervently that it may be a mistake, that we are fretting over a phantom future.” With savage, quick gestures quite unlike him he began to slash at the flies with his whisk. “I have thought about taking another woman,” he grunted as he flayed the air. “But I will not tempt Ma’at. Not yet. You may reconsider your duty, Kamose, and marry yourself, and give us royal sons.” He tossed the whisk onto the grass and at last looked directly at his brother. “Besides, no matter what my legitimate right may be, Aahmes-nefertari is not ready to accept the planting of my seed elsewhere. She has suffered a great deal, losing Si-Amun, losing her first child, being handed to me instead of to you, trying to come to terms with Tani’s betrayal. She and Tani were close in a way that brothers cannot understand. Her life has been one deprivation after another. If she seems weak and prone to emotional outbursts, we should not be surprised.”

“She has changed,” Kamose broke in unthinkingly. “When I talked with her after I gave the news about Tani, there was something in her I had not seen before. A steadiness. Almost a detached coolness. Whether for good or not I can’t say. She said that she has grown up.” The flies were back mindlessly circling the fruit and this time Ahmose ignored them.

“The waiting is hard,” he remarked, and Kamose realized that the subject under discussion was now closed. “Shall we swim, Kamose? Already the garden is like a furnace. Or will you eat?” Kamose shook his head, looking with distaste at the stiffening bread and sweating chunk of brown goat cheese. Glancing up, he saw his herald approaching. He and Ahmose came to their feet as the man bowed.

“You sent for me, Majesty?” Kamose nodded.

“Take a message to all the Princes and commanders,” he said. “They are free to go home and see to their harvests and their family affairs. I shall expect regular reports from them on the state of their holdings, to be addressed to my grandmother. They must be prepared to be summoned after the Inundation. My permission extends to Prince Ankhmahor in particular. Tell him to delegate his authority over the Followers to his second. Prince Hor-Aha will not be leaving yet, however. I will speak with him myself later. That is all.”

“You will miss Ankhmahor,” Ahmose said when the herald had gone. “But at least you are keeping Hor-Aha. I wish you would change your mind about Wawat. I hate the south. Unbearable heat and uncivilized tribesmen. I do not want to go there.” Kamose was removing his kilt and sandals. Naked, he moved off along the path to the river.

“Neither do I,” he called back over his shoulder. “But think of the gold, Ahmose!” Yet it was difficult for him to keep his own mind centred on the gold. As he plunged into the tepid water of the Nile, he was imagining the miles that would separate him from Weset, the amount of time it would take for reports from Tetisheri regarding the Princes to reach him far away in the desert wastes of Wawat, the dangerous void he would leave that anything might fill. Anything. Or any one.

There was still no news from the house when the brothers had scrambled, dripping, onto the watersteps and had made their way back through the garden. Once painted and dressed, Kamose asked Ahmose to accompany him to the west bank to see how the Medjay were faring. Together they were rowed across the river and carried in litters to the stark site of the barracks. No grass grew here on the sweep of hard-packed sand beneath the western cliffs. No trees afforded shade. Yet the Medjay did not seem to care.

Hor-Aha came out to greet Kamose and Ahmose from the doorway of the small house Kamose had ordered built for him, and the three of them walked between the rows of dun-coloured mud dwellings, greeting the archers and listening to any complaints they might have. There were few. The Medjay were an unquestioning, pragmatic group of men, easily controlled by a firm hand, but Hor-Aha warned Kamose as they paced side by side in the blistering heat under the entirely inadequate shelter of the sunshades held over them by their servants that his countrymen were restless. They wanted to go home to Wawat and see for themselves how their villages were faring under the onslaught of the Kushites. They would submit to his command but eventually they would begin to slip away. “They have heard rumours that the Princes are going,” Hor-Aha said frankly. “They say that they have fought more bravely than the Princes. Their officers wear the Gold of Favours. Why can they not go home?”

“They wear the Gold?” Ahmose queried, amused. “It is not supposed to be actually worn! What odd savages they are!”

“I know that they deserve to leave,” Kamose said. “But, Hor-Aha, I am afraid that they will not come back.”

“They will return to fight again if you go with them into Wawat and set their land to rights,” Hor-Aha insisted. Kamose wiped a trickle of sweat from his temple and squinted across at his General.

“We will go at the end of this month then,” he capitulated abruptly. “That will give us time to look at any maps of Wawat that still exist in the temple archives. Apepa knows the gold routes but they have been lost to us for a very long time. I must leave some defence at Weset, Hor-Aha! Surely you see that!”

“Then let local soldiers do their duty, Majesty,” Hor-Aha finished emphatically. “My Medjay must go home.” Kamose felt Ahmose’s quizzical gaze on him. He wanted to reprimand the General for his disrespectful language but he resisted the urge. He recognized the fuel of his ire. It was fear, not offence.

He and Ahmose ate the noon meal together in the coolness of Kamose’s quarters. The women had not appeared. The house was quiet. Kamose expected Ahmose to go to his own rooms for the afternoon sleep but to his surprise Ahmose simply stretched out on the floor, a headrest under his neck. “If I am alone, I will worry,” was all he said before closing his eyes. For some time Kamose, lying on his couch with his head propped on one palm, looked down at his brother, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest under the loosely crossed hands, the flutter of his eyelids as he dreamed. I love him, he thought fondly. In spite of all the tragedies the years have brought us I take him for granted because his nature is so constant. He is always present, always in the moment, his steadiness seems rock-like and I rely on it without reflection. Yet he deserves more. He deserves to be treasured and told that he is precious to me. His brother’s regular slow breaths were soothing. Kamose rolled over onto his back and fell asleep.

When they woke, the long, hot slide towards sunset had begun. Slaking their thirst, they wandered out into the garden and sat drowsily watching the fish in the pond now shadowed by the surrounding trees break the surface of the water with mouths agape to snap up the first mosquitoes. “There is something about the summer that returns me to my mother’s womb,” Ahmose murmured, yawning. “I feel ageless, timeless, unconcerned about anything. I feel utterly lethargic.” And I feel like a ghost haunting an illusion, Kamose thought. He did not reply.