The Horus Road (49 page)

“‘The astrologers insist that the baby be called Sat-Kamose. Aahmes-nefertari received their decision with an apathy that is quite unlike her, but I and your grandmother were angry. We sent the men back to the temple to cast the horoscope again and I questioned High Priest Amunmose regarding their qualifications, all to no avail. The astrologers are knowledgeable, seasoned priests. They did recast the baby’s horoscope but they refuse to seek another name. I believe that your distress at this tragedy will be as deep as mine. If it is, I entreat you to come home. I gather from your last missive that you have settled into yet another siege; therefore it should be possible for you to leave your generals in charge of the army for a while. If you cannot leave Sharuhen for your daughter, perhaps you should do so for your wife.’” Ipi looked up. “That is all, Your Majesty. Apart from the Queen’s titles and signature of course.” Ahmose met his eye. Sympathy and concern were there behind the good servant’s expression of politeness.

“Thank you, Ipi,” he managed. “I will send a reply tomorrow.” His tone was dismissive. Ipi retrieved his palette from beside his knee, got up, bowed, and disappeared into the gathering dusk. “Clear away this mess and then leave me,” Ahmose said to Akhtoy, and rising himself on legs gone suddenly weak he took the few steps back into his tent, pulling the flap closed behind him.

Hekayib had lit a lamp while Ahmose was eating. Ahmose stood staring into its alabaster radiance, unable to go any further. Oh gods, poor child, poor Aahmes-nefertari, he thought incoherently. The Seer warned me, he was emphatic, “death” he said, but somehow I had hoped that this time there would be a reprieve. Sat Kamose. The two words rang through his brain and reverberated in his heart like a funeral dirge. Sat Kamose, one a name that belonged to a murdered man, the other owned by a goddess who stood at the portal to the Underworld and poured the water of purification over the deceased. She was doomed even before her birth, his thoughts ran on. Marked for Osiris in her mother’s womb. And what of Aahmes-nefertari?

He moved woodenly to his Amun shrine, opened its doors, and sank to the floor before the delicate golden image of Weset’s totem, but he found that he could not pray. His mind was too fractured. Aahotep’s letter had held a note of criticism as well as concern, he realized. “Should” and “entreat” she had said. It was true that nothing would be gained by his presence here. The monotonous routine of the siege would continue without him. Heralds would keep him informed of any changes in the situation. He did not anticipate a swift conclusion to the problem of Sharuhen. But terrible changes were taking place at home without him, events that would slide into the past weeks before their pain struck at him. This time you must be by Aahmesnefertari’s side when that baby dies, his heart whispered. This time you must not fail her, for if you do, she will be lost to you for ever. At last he was able to get up onto his knees. Closing his eyes and raising his hands, he begged his god to stand between Sat-Kamose and the Judgement Hall until he was able to hold her just once as a living child.

Summoning Akhtoy, he gave orders that his chests should be packed. He sent to Mesehti at the stables to have his chariot ready just after dawn and he told Ankhmahor to prepare the Followers to leave for Weset. Ipi and Khabekhnet were also warned. The herald who had brought Aahotep’s scroll was dispatched at once to the Delta with a request to Paheri to have a swift ship waiting with double the usual complement of rowers so that there would be no need to stop anywhere along the Nile. When Akhtoy had closed up the last chest, Ahmose went to bed, lying on his cot in the denuded tent while the need for haste continued to grow in him, a lump of stone more forbidding than the blocks that kept him from Apepa.

By the time the sun rose, he was fed and dressed. Leaving the horse-drawn carts containing his servants and his goods, he had Mesehti drive him to where the Division of Amun was already drilling, the soldiers’ kilts swirling as they marched, the tips of their spears glinting red, the brisk commands of the officers carrying clearly in the cold, early morning air. Turi was watching critically from the small dais that had been set up beside the parade ground. When he saw Ahmose dismount and come towards him, he jumped down and bowed. “Majesty, I did not expect to see you today!” he exclaimed. “Have you come to personally put the division through its paces?” Ahmose shook his head.

“No. I have received word that my daughter is born but she is dying. I must go home.” Turi put out a gloved hand.

“Oh, Ahmose, I am sorry,” he said. “Tell Aahmesnefertari how sorry I am.” There was no formality in Turi’s words. He had known the family for a long time. Ahmose smiled briefly.

“I am Commander-in-Chief but you are the General commanding my pre-eminent division,” he said. “I want you to take my place while I am gone. You have my authority to make whatever decisions are necessary regarding the efficiency and well-being of the army, Turi. The water supply has been dealt with. Consult often with Abana. Give the Keftians anything they desire within reason. I expect regular reports, but I don’t suppose they will contain anything new. Detail soldiers to hunt at the foot of the mountains. They might as well occupy themselves in providing whatever fresh meat they can find. But impress on them the need to stay away from the tribes. I want no battle front opening on our eastern flank.” He took a deep breath. “I will return when I may, but not until I am sure that Aahmes-nefertari does not need me.”

“I understand. How will you travel?”

“By chariot as far as Het-Uart and then by boat. It might be faster to board one of the water carriers at the Great Green, but I should inspect the runners I have positioned along the land route into Egypt as I go. Meet with the other generals every week, Turi. The mood of a besieging army can become downcast very quickly. I think that is all, unless you have a query.” On impulse he embraced his friend. Turi hugged him unselfconsciously before bending to kiss his hand.

“May the soles of your feet be firm, Majesty,” he said. “Do not worry about Sharuhen. Greet your mother for me.” There was nothing left to say, but Ahmose was suddenly reluctant to go. For a moment he scanned the wheeling ranks of his troops, now brilliantly lit under a fully risen sun. You would be proud to see how these peasants have been transformed into soldiers, Kamose, he thought, and mounting his chariot he spoke a word to Mesehti and began the long journey back into Egypt.

15

AHMOSE REACHED HET-UART
in eight days, having satisfied himself that the stations of runners he had positioned along the land route into Egypt were secure and efficient. He paused briefly to consult with Generals Iymery and Neferseshemptah whose troops were manning the Wall of Princes and patrolling the eastern Delta, pleased to see peace and order growing everywhere in the newly sown fields and dense orchards surrounding the villages. Het-Uart itself was a hive of industry. The walls of both mounds already resembled the crumbled ruins of some ancient monument, although they would not be completely demolished for several months, and of the palace there was scarcely any sign save for a huge area of scorched red earth, a few blackened trees and the wall built by Ahmose’s ancestor Senwasret, standing proudly and now pointlessly between the vanished building and the road to the Royal Entrance Gate.

Many citizens had crept back, but the majority of mud houses were occupied by the soldiers of the Montu Division. Khety’s Horus troops had similarly drifted into abandoned homes on the northern mound. Ahmose noted the strategic advantage of the city for both trade and as a military base for any incursion he might choose to make into Rethennu in the future. I shall build a new, fortified palace on the site of the old one, he decided. Not as my capital of course. Weset will remain the centre of Egyptian administrative power. But Het-Uart will serve as my northern bastion.

Three ships were waiting to take him and his entourage south and it was with a feeling of both apprehension and relief that he boarded the
North
, Abana’s old command, with Ankhmahor, Ipi and Khabekhnet, greeted captain Qar, and leaned on the rail to watch the other two craft being loaded. He had spoken to Paheri and Baba Abana, who were engaged in co-ordinating the convoys of water for the troops at Sharuhen from the Delta end. He had made a brief inspection of both his naval and divisional officers. There was nothing left to do but wait for Qar to shout the order to cast off.

The journey to Weset that ordinarily would have taken at least a month was accomplished in a little over half that time. Paheri had provided two teams of rowers and, while Ahmose slept, the
North
continued to beat its way slowly south. Khemmenu was approximately halfway between Het-Uart and Weset and Ahmose was tempted to put in there. He missed Ramose and he was curious to see the Setiu girl, Hat-Anath, framed against the setting of Teti’s old house, but overriding his inquisitiveness was a growing sense of urgency and he resisted the temptation.

In the middle of a bright late spring morning the
North
rounded the long, sweeping curve that heralded the approach to Weset, and with a mixture of excitement and inner cringing Ahmose saw the familiar sprawl of closely packed houses along the bank beyond the river path dappled in the shade of the palms and sycamores that meandered throughout his town. Amun’s temple rose warmly beige above its own sheltering trees. As the ship beat ponderously towards the eastern bank, his watersteps drew nearer, with the old palace bulking grey above the high new wall encircling the whole estate and a little farther along, the closed and guarded gate to his garden. Qar issued a flurry of orders. The oars were lifted in unison from the water and the
North
drifted gracefully to bump gently against its mooring poles. Sailors picked up the ramp and prepared to run it out. Ahmose was home.

The soldiers at either side of the gate had straightened at the sight of the royal flag flapping from the
North
’s tall mast. They had been peering warily at the trio of men waiting to disembark, their attention veering between the
North
and the two craft behind it, but as the ship came closer their expressions cleared. “It is His Majesty!” one of them exclaimed. “The flag spoke true!” They dropped their spears and rushed to steady the ramp. The gate behind them was opening. Faces appeared, then the gate was flung wide. Ankhmahor and the Followers walked down the ramp and Ahmose followed. He gave no orders. The Followers fanned out around him as he passed quickly through into his own domain, the scent of blooms and wet grass rising to meet him, the morning shadow of the house casting remembered shapes upon the glistening lawn, and farther away, the smudges of unfolded white and blue lotuses rocking almost imperceptibly on the glittering surface of the pond.

A canopy had been erected there and two figures sat side by side under it in a welter of scrolls. Alerted by the commotion, they looked up, then Ahmose-onkh detached himself and came racing along the path. Halfway to Ahmose he slowed to a dignified walk, but Ahmose could see his body tight with the effort the boy was making to control it. He came up, halted, and performed a deep bow. “I am overjoyed to see you so unexpectedly, my Father,” he said.

“And I you, my little Hawk-in-the-Nest,” Ahmose replied. He reached down and straightened the youth lock that lay in a glistening braid over one narrow shoulder. “Are you perhaps too grown-up now to allow me to embrace you?”

“No, indeed,” the child said gravely, then a smile split his face and he flung himself on Ahmose. For a moment he hung on Ahmose’s chest, all arms and legs, before Ahmose set him back on his feet. “We know that the impostor ran away to a fort called Sharuhen,” he remarked. “Have you captured him yet, Majesty?”

Ahmose studied the solemn little features. They had changed just since he had been away. The eyes were larger, the jawline wider, the cheeks thinner. He is beginning to leave his babyhood behind, Ahmose thought with a pang of love and pride. He will soon be a handsome youth. “Pa-she and I have been studying Rethennu,” Ahmose-onkh was saying. “Just beyond Sharuhen there is grassland and forests and mountains that sometimes shake, and locusts come and eat the crops. It sounds like a horrible place. Have you seen the mountains shake, Father?”

“No. All those things happen farther to the north-east. And no, I have not yet captured Apepa. Sharuhen is a mightily defended fort, my son. It will not be defeated soon.” He took the boy’s chin in his palm. “I have come back to see your mother and your new sister,” he explained gently. “Go back to your tutor now. We will talk later.”

“She is very sick,” Ahmose-onkh whispered. “Mother thinks she is cursed.” Herself or the baby? Ahmose wondered. Ahmose-onkh bowed again and turned back to where Pa-she had risen and was standing under the canopy, anxiously watching their interchange. Ahmose called a greeting to him before moving on and was rewarded with a reverence.

The Captain of the Household Guards had emerged from the house and was waiting for him as he approached the side entrance. “Welcome home, Majesty,” he said. “If I had known of your coming, I would have cleared the river path and placed more men at the watersteps. I will warn the rest of the household that you are here.”

“Thank you, Emkhu,” Ahmose answered, concealing his impatience. “I appreciate your conscientiousness. But I want to go to the Queen at once. Where is she?”

“Her Majesty spends most of each day in the nursery once the morning audiences are over,” Emkhu told him. He hesitated. “Majesty, I … we … I am very glad that you are here.”

“I understand,” Ahmose said quietly. “Make sure we are not disturbed.”

He passed rapidly through the house, startling the servants, who barely had time to recognize and bow to him before he was gone. A growing murmur of surprise and speculation had begun to grow behind him by the time he came to the women’s quarters and saw Uni rising from a stool outside Aahmes-nefertari’s door, eyes widening fleetingly with shock. “I am most relieved to see you, Majesty,” the steward said, his face already falling back into lines of customary politeness. “I had hoped that your mother’s letter might bring you home.”

“Did she exaggerate?” Ahmose demanded. Uni shook his head.

“Not at all. The Princess becomes weaker every day and the Queen more despairing. She has been able to continue her governmental duties with Khunes’s help, but she herself is near to collapse. She has suffered much over her children.” There was no hint of condemnation in Uni’s tone. Ahmose had expected none. Uni, like Akhtoy, knew the minds and hearts of his charges better than they knew their own.

“Is she within?”

“She has had the door removed between her sleeping room and the nursery,” Uni explained. “She will no longer allow any servant or nurse to touch the Princess, which means of course that she wakes every time the Princess cries. And she cries a great deal. I have tried to reason with Her Majesty but to no avail.”

“I will go in now,” Ahmose said. “Bring wine and something to eat in about an hour. Don’t announce me.” Uni pulled open the door and he walked inside.

She was not in her little reception room, nor in her bedchamber beyond. Ahmose went through them quietly. He could hear her singing, her voice soft and low but with a note of such anguished tenderness imbuing it that Ahmose paused, unwilling for a second to intrude upon her privacy. He approached the doorway. He could see her through it, bending over a high cot on which a basket had been set. There was no one else in the room and the only furniture was an armless chair.

She must have sensed him standing there, for all at once she stopped singing and glanced up sharply, at first without recognition. Her face was pale, her eyelids swollen. Dark purple patches under the eyes themselves made it seem as though some scribe had smudged her with ink. Her naked collarbones protruded like rails beneath her throat and her arms were thin. Ahmose could see little of her body, for her sheath had billowed out in front of her as she inclined over the basket. Gods, she is dying too, he thought, love and fear suddenly rushing through him in a hot flood. She was staring at him as she slowly straightened, the whites of her eyes becoming visible for a moment as she saw who it was.

“Ahmose?” she choked, then she was rounding the foot of the cot and running towards him, fists clenched. Throwing herself on him, she began beating at him and shrieking his name. He managed to put his arms around her, holding her loosely, not dodging her blows, until suddenly she went limp against him, and laying her head on his breast she huddled there, sobbing harshly. “I hated you, I have been so angry with you, you left me all alone, I cannot bear it, I can take no more,” she was half-babbling, half-wailing, her fingernails digging into his skin, her forehead fever-hot where it was pressed to his ribs. His grip tightened around her and he swayed to and fro, dismayed at her fragility, awed by her complete loss of control. For a long time they stood thus, locked together, until the torrent of her pain and rage began to ebb and her sobs became intermittent, then he moved her gently away. “I have composed a new face for the overseers and ministers every morning,” she said. “It has been the most difficult challenge I have ever faced. I think I am going insane, Ahmose. What are you doing here?” There was still an edge of hysteria to her voice. He ran his thumbs across her cheeks, wiping away the tears, and kissed her wet mouth.

“Mother sent me a letter, dearest one,” he told her. “It filled me with remorse and anxiety and I knew I had to come. Now show me my daughter.” For answer she took him by the hand and led him to the basket. The action was almost shy, and although she was moving ahead of him, he had the impression that he was the one guiding and she a child. He was surprised that her violent outburst had not wakened Sat-Kamose. Any healthy baby would have been screaming at the sound. But he realized at once as he peered into the wicker cot that this Princess was too weak to respond to any shock.

She was lying on her back, arms limp at her sides, black eyes partly closed, breathing rapidly. Ahmose drew down the small sheet covering her and had to repress a start of pity at the sight of the clearly discernable rib cage, the tiny, jutting hipbones. “She looks starved,” he murmured.

“She is starved,” Aahmes-nefertari answered. “She drinks greedily but then she vomits and curls up her little knees and cries. Oh, Ahmose, my heart is torn apart by her suffering. If there was anything I could do, even to the shedding of my own blood, I would do it! The physicians are impotent. I have consulted four of them. Our own Royal Physician wants to give her poppy, but I said no. It might harm her further. I did not know what to do!”

Ahmose reached down and lifted the body that was lighter than the pectoral he wore around his neck. Sat-Kamose gave a whimper, turning her head towards him, and in the moment that the tuft of her soft hair touched his chest he fell in love with her. Going to the chair he sat and cradled her, rocking slowly. One pale fist like the bud of a flower crept up and found his own wide chest, resting there with such immediate acceptance that he wanted to cry out himself.

But Aahmes-nefertari had sunk to the floor beside him, both arms around his calf, her head pressed to his thigh. She was still shuddering and he dared not add his newfound agony to her own. “Forgive me for my bitterness and my silence,” she whispered. “I have been cruel to you and I am sorry.”

“No,” he said thickly. “It is I who have behaved with the most boorish insensitivity. I love you, my wife, and I love my daughter.”