It was not far to the enclave where the privileged had managed to close themselves off from the stench and noise of the rest of the mound. A rough wall formed a wide semicircle that joined the main mound’s defences at either end. It was interspersed at regular intervals by solid wooden doors, each leading into a small courtyard, the house beyond, and a tiny garden running down to the massive outer wall. The doorkeepers had fled and the doors themselves stood wide.
In accordance with Ahmose’s earlier instructions, the foreign dignitaries had been herded together in the courtyard of the first house. As Ahmose, Khety and the Followers strode through the doorway the babble of excited voices raised in the Keftian tongue abruptly died away. A small sea of dark eyes were turned to him apprehensively before several dozen oiled and ringleted heads descended in submission. Ahmose’s gaze flicked over them quickly. There were no women or children present. “Is there a spokesman among you?” he asked. At once the heads were raised. One man came forward, this time kneeling to press his mouth to Ahmose’s dusty foot. He wore a kilt as the Egyptians did, but it was heavily and brightly embroidered in a tight pattern of interlocking whorls and the edge that curved up to the woven waistband was thick with red tassels. A red headband encircled his forehead and another held the cascade of oily curls at the nape of his neck. On one wrist he wore a copper bracelet in the likeness of an elongated dolphin whose snout met its tail. Ahmose bade him rise. “Are you all merchants?” he enquired peremptorily. The man understood him at once.
“His Majesty Awoserra Apepa receives his military advisers and all his senior officers from his brothers in Rethennu,” he answered, then realizing who he was addressing, he flushed dully under his smooth olive skin. “Oh forgive me, Majesty, I beg you. We are unaccustomed … We concern ourselves only … I did not mean …” Ahmose gestured impatiently.
“Go on!” he urged. The man spread his delicate fingers.
“Thank you. You are gracious. Most of us are indeed traders, here to expedite trading negotiations between Keftiu and Egypt. Some here are architects and artists. His M … Apepa favours the colours and forms of Keftiu and much of his palace in Het-Uart has been decorated by us. I myself am a trader, providing Apepa with ships and olive oil in exchange for papyrus, flax and gold.” Obviously encouraged by Ahmose’s expression, he smiled. “The loss to your brother of the thirty treasure ships built by Keftians was a mighty blow to Apepa.”
“Doubtless.” Ahmose looked over the silent throng. “I have no intention of doing you any harm,” he said loudly. “Indeed, trade with your country flourished during the reign of my ancestors. We are old partners, you and I. You are to give your names and occupations to General Khety’s scribe. Those of you who are architects and artisans will be allowed to return to Keftiu. Egypt has no use for you. This mound is now an Egyptian military base and all your homes are confiscated. Merchants may go back to your island, or if you are enterprising I suggest that you gather up your families and possessions and make your way south to Weset where you should request audience with Queen Aahmesnefertari who is eager to transfer all trading contracts from the Setiu to what has now become the capital of a united country. I will give you time to obtain permission to do so from whomever rules Keftiu. The gold routes into Wawat are even now being confiscated. Such a shift in your allegiance will be well worthwhile. Ipi, have you made a note of all this?” Cross-legged at his feet, the scribe nodded. Carefully Ahmose gauged their reaction, and seeing nothing but relief and a calculated lust dawning on their faces, he held up a hand. “That is all. You have one month to be gone.” A murmured chorus of gratitude followed him as he and his entourage left the courtyard and moved farther along the coarsely erected wall.
“They will hate Weset,” Ankhmahor remarked. “Here in the Delta they are close to their beloved Great Green. The desert will suck them dry.”
“They will hate my city but love the profit they will make,” Ahmose retorted. “Aahmes-nefertari will sort them out and then we too will be all the richer.”
The Egyptian merchants, having also been herded into one courtyard, presented Ahmose with a very different demeanour as he confronted them. He could almost feel their hostility, veiled though it was behind their blank stares, and he wasted no civilities on them. “Are there any nobles among you?” he barked, not even bothering to greet them, wanting to shout at them: You are Egyptian, you could have opened the gates long before for Kamose, you could have chosen to spy for us, you are not worthy to live, let alone take up my precious time when hundreds of your brothers lie bleeding and suffering for Egypt’s sake. He watched them stealing furtive glances at one another. After some minutes three men stepped forward.
“I am Antefoker, Prince of Iunu,” one of them said. “I have an estate at Iunu but I come to my house here so that I may perform my duties as Chief Judge to Apepa once the Inundation has receded. There are always disputes between one landowner and another when the boundary markers have been temporarily washed away. I do not speak of peasant boundaries of course. The local temple officials deal with those.” He paused, drew breath, drew another, then finished, “I have not been concerned with the war, Majesty. I am a peaceful man, minding my own business and doing a needful duty.”
“Indeed?” Ahmose said mildly. “In other words you have pushed your head into the sand of deliberate ignorance, like some stupid Kushite ostrich, while every true Egyptian has been straining nerve and sinew to free this sacred land.” His lip curled in disgust. “You are worse than the traitors who attempted to take my life. At least they were capable of action, no matter how misguided. Seeing that you have concerned yourself with the direction of irrigation canals and crumbling fields, I think I will put a hoe in your hand and give you a shaduf to work. Have you sons?” Antefoker could not answer. His throat worked and his hands clenched. When he did find his voice, it was a croak.
“Majesty, this is not just!” he protested. “I have no love for Apepa, but it was either work for him or become landless! There were many Setiu eager to assume my title and responsibilities if I had refused! Yes, I have sons, and it was for them that I sacrificed my integrity.”
“What son respects a father who shrugs off the health of his very soul?” Ahmose cut in acidly. “But perhaps I am unjust. There are many like you still in Egypt, Antefoker, men who perch precariously on the fence and will not touch ground one side or the other. I cannot leave you a judge but I can make you an under-scribe to one of the temple judges in Iunu. I suppose that a noble, no matter how debased, should not be seen with soil under his fingernails. Give the names of your sons to General Khety’s scribe. In my army they might learn loyalty. Your estate at Iunu is khato to me. And what of you other two?”
One of them had large holdings in the western Delta where he oversaw the vines that produced Egypt’s finest wine. Ahmose entirely selfishly left him in his position after questioning him closely regarding the culture and care of the grapes, but he placed him under the supervision of one of his own agricultural overseers. Once more he made sure that Ipi had scribbled down all the changes. The other rather pathetic nobleman held a minor title and an even lesser post as an under-assistant to the administrator who had governed the mound before the Setiu army had moved in. Obviously he had lost his position and Ahmose left him alone. “The rest of you,” he shouted. “I neither know nor care what you were doing here. Take your belongings and leave. Be thankful that I have spared your lives. A less merciful King might have sent you all south into Wawat and you would have perished in the gold mines.” He saw a stir to the rear and forestalled the squeak of protest. “One word and I will do it!” he roared. “Khety, Ankhmahor, let us leave. The air in here has a fouler odour than that of burning corpses.”
He spent the remainder of the day touring his other divisions, consulting with his exultant generals, having Ipi take down the names of those who had distinguished themselves in the battle and were worthy of rewards, and standing beside the wounded. Towards evening, as he was making
his way wearily towards his tent and Makhu was at last driving his equally weary horses back to their stalls, a scout accosted him. “Majesty, I bring messages from the Generals Neferseshemptah, Iymery and Akhethotep,” he said. “The eastern Delta is yours. Your divisions have control of the Horus Road and are even now marching on the forts comprising the Wall of Princes. What are your orders?” Overjoyed, Ahmose felt his tiredness slip from him.
“It is not necessary to lose good men in trying to take the forts,” he said after a moment’s consideration. “It will be enough to hold the Horus Road on their western side. Sooner or later the Setiu inhabiting them will simply concede defeat and walk away and then we can reclaim and hold them. Well done! Tell the generals that if they judge the east to be truly secure I will move to allow the troops to go home in rotation. I will send the details later. Take back to them the news of our victory here.”
This time his tent welcomed him with a warm promise of food, drink and a peaceful rest. Akhtoy and his body servant were waiting. There were no scrolls to be read, no immediate decisions to make, only the luxury of hot water and relaxation. He entered happily. Behind him Ankhmahor was giving the orders for the first watch and before him Akhtoy was pouring the wine. Ahmose found himself humming a tune from the nursery of his boyhood as he kicked off his sandals and settled into his chair.
On the following morning Ahmose presided over the funeral rites for the Egyptians who had fallen. The scribes had completed the lists of their names, and the pits into which their bodies had been reverently lowered had been covered over. Ahmose ordered a stela erected over each crater with the names of those beneath inscribed on the stone so that the gods might find them. The funeral itself was a solemn and moving affair with the divisions drawn up in silent ranks behind their standards and the bitter incense pluming skyward in grey columns to mingle with the smoke that still coiled from the fires consuming the dead Setiu.
Afterwards Ahmose kept the soldiers in formation while he mounted a makeshift dais and distributed the awards due to those who had earned them. There were promotions, citations and the promise of the Gold of Valour to certain men who had shown great courage or initiative. It was, of course, impossible to actually present the trophies until Ahmose returned to Weset and had them made.
General Baqet of the Division of Thoth was one of the recipients for his grim determination to hold the line against Pezedkhu’s onslaught until the reinforcements arrived, and Kay Abana was another. When Ahmose singled him out for his attack on Pezedkhu, he saw that the young man was already wearing the dead General’s ring on a silver chain around his neck. Ahmose had thought long and hard regarding his rash captain. Kay seemed to be impulsive and foolhardy, but Ahmose had come to understand that beneath the swagger that both endeared him to his marines and amused his superiors there was a genuine stoutness of heart and good military judgement. “As well as the Gold of Valour I have decided to place you in charge of my flagship, the Kha-em-Mennofer, and give you the title of Admiral,” he told a delighted Kay. “As captain of Shining in Mennofer you will be responsible for my safety when I am on board her and as Admiral you will direct the course of the navy’s strategy during any battle. Your father and Paheri are still the navy’s overall administrators.” Kay stood looking up at Ahmose and the group of generals who surrounded him.
“Majesty, the honour is too great,” he said gravely. “I am overwhelmed. Speech fails me.”
“I doubt that,” Turi whispered, and Kay obviously heard him. The grin that could soften authority and inspire obedience spread over his face.
“On this occasion you are wrong, General Turi,” he called up. “Majesty, I am your servant forever. Thank you.” But he could not resist one of the grandiloquent gestures for which he was becoming famous. “As a show of my gratitude and a pledge of my undying loyalty I beg your permission to change my name,” he went on with a bow and a flourish. “I am not worthy to do so, but I would like to become Ahmose instead of Kay.”
“I am Lord of your life but not of your naming,” Ahmose shot back. “Carry my name if you wish, and may it bring you health and prosperity.”
“Prosperity depends entirely on you, Great Incarnation,” Kay retorted happily. “I thank you yet again.”
“He is a good choice in spite of his manner,” Turi said as Kay, now Ahmose, stalked back to his place. “He will serve you well and faithfully.” Ahmose agreed. Signalling to Khabekhnet to announce the ceremony complete, he bade the generals accompany him to the table set up outside his tent, and left the dais.
The remainder of the day was spent in drawing up plans for the rotation of troops. Ahmose divided the divisions of Horus and Ra so that half the complement of men could go home and sow their crops. The rest of Khety’s and Kagemni’s hosts he put together on the northern mound so that the full number of soldiers comprising a division, five thousand, were always present. He divided up the other divisions in the same way, providing for half his entire force to continue the siege of Het-Uart. As for the eastern Delta, he sent messages granting his generals the power to give leave to as many fighters as possible while still maintaining the security that had been so hard won. “It is now the beginning of the second week of Tybi,” he said. “If the first complement of men go home and sow and then return, leaving their women to tend the new crops, it might be possible to release the rest in time for them to finish their share of the same task. Tybi is followed by Mekhir, the month when most of the sowing is done, and then Phamenoth and Pharmuthi before the season of Shemu when the time of our greatest heat and aridity begins. I do not expect a military offensive from the enemy during Shemu this year. I know that it is traditionally the time for battle, but where will more Setiu troops come from? Not from the east. That flow has been stopped. Not from the northern mound. We have taken that. Het-Uart itself does not support enough soldiers to face us again. It is only a matter of months, I think, before Apepa surrenders.”
“I cannot quite grasp the fact that, but for one miserable piece of ground, Egypt is back in the hands of Egyptians,” Turi remarked. “After so much misery it seems unreal.”
“It will be real enough when the King stands in the palace at Het-Uart before the Horus Throne and gives the order to take it south,” Paheri replied. “What of the navy, Majesty?” Ahmose gave him an apologetic smile.
“Many ships have sustained damage during the boarding at the hands of Pezedkhu’s men,” he answered. “Those ships that need repair, together with their crew, must go back to Nekheb. Kay and you or Baba Abana can go with them. Both of you know shipbuilding. So one of you will be going home while the other stays here. I need the tributary patrolled, even during the lowest ebb of the river. No citizen of the city must be allowed to leave or enter. Cull out those men you do not need and send them to their villages for the spring sowing. I leave those decisions up to the pair of you.” Both men nodded sagely. Ahmose stood to signal that the meeting was over and all rose after him. “I must go back to Weset myself with the Medjay,” Ahmose finished, “but I will stay here until the middle of Tybi to receive your final reports and I will of course leave heralds with each of you so that we may speak to one another on papyrus.”
The truth is that I am strangely reluctant to go home, he said to himself as he watched them wander away in little groups, discussing the situation as they went with an avidity and relief that was apparent in their easy gait. I do not want to arrive there in time for my daughter’s funeral when I have already been drained of all pity and regret by the death of my soldiers. I do not want to meet Aahmes-nefertari’s new scribe. I do not want to hear of the fine work Prince Sebeknakht and my wife have been accomplishing together. Life with the army has been robust and simple and I dread a return to the complexities of my household. Or is it just that I dread coming face to face with Aahmes-nefertari for fear that the welter of jealousy and possessiveness I have been able to keep in check will erupt once more?
I have the gloomy feeling that I will be returning
to a very different Weset to the one I left six months ago.
Ramose had been standing quietly at his elbow and now interrupted his reverie. “And what of me, Ahmose?” he asked gently. “If you give me a choice I will stay here, you know that.” With an effort Ahmose turned to him.
“Yes,” he answered. “But I want you to go back to Khemmenu where you belong. Take over the estate and the governorship that is yours. If the siege is not broken by the beginning of Thoth I will be back here, in this same spot, and you with me. Until then, get about some other business and forget the tarnished treasure Het-Uart holds!” He had spoken with a growing irritation, all at once seeing Ramose’s constancy as a weak, rather pitiful thing. Ramose looked at him sharply.
“I will obey you, of course,” he said simply. “I seem to have annoyed you. I apologize.” Ahmose’s shoulders slumped.
“No, it is not you,” he admitted. “To tell you the truth, Ramose, I am loath to go back to my southern responsibilities myself. I have become someone different these last few months. If I could look forward to some peaceful fishing, a few afternoons at target practice, a jug or two of wine at dinner and then nights without anxiety I might not feel this … this shrinking.” Ramose did not reply. He touched his friend briefly on the shoulder, bowed, and was gone.
Ahmose stood for a long while, feet apart, arms folded, eyes on the walls of the city that soared up into the dusky scarlet of an evening sky. The air was soft. Little zephyrs blew around him, stirring the hem of his kilt against his thighs and brushing across his cheek. Between his isolated and guarded tent and those red-tinged defences, his army sprawled, its members weaving patterns of orderliness in the usual apparent chaos. Licks of new flame began to prick the increasing dimness as the cooking fires were kindled.
The Horus Road Page 20