The Oasis

by Pauline Gedge

  “Perhaps,” Kamose replied, full of a momentary pity for the man who had presided with such pomp and self-assurance over the prosperity that had been Khemmenu. “I think you are wrong, but even if this war turns against me and I and all who support me are destroyed, at least I will have done the right thing, the honourable thing.”

  “The honourable thing?” Teti shouted querulously. “Honour resides in loyalty to those in authority and to the King most of all! I have been honourable all my life!”

  “You really believe that, don’t you?” Kamose said. “But was it honourable to corrupt my brother Si-Amun, so that he had no choice but to take his own life? Was it honourable to engineer the attack on my father through a member of his own household? To agree to take everything my family owns in payment for this so-called loyalty? Those things go beyond mere faithfulness, Teti. They belong to greed and a cold callousness. They are the acts that have signed your death warrant, not Apepa.”

  “It is nothing but revenge!” Teti broke in hotly. His face had flushed a hectic red and Kamose saw sweat begin to trickle under his armpits. “You would have done the same if you had been trapped in my situation!”

  “I do not think so. Oh, my uncle, I know what led you into such a snare. I know that your grandfather led an insurrection against Sekerher, Apepa’s own grandfather, and had his tongue cut out for his temerity. I know that your father, Pepi, served long and hard in Apepa’s army and thus lifted your family out of shame. These things are clean. They belong to the realm of Ma’at, action and consequence, the promptings of conscience that cause a man to do what he believes to be right. If your deeds had been born of such roots, I could applaud them, even though I could not agree.” He paused and swallowed, aware that his voice had been rising with his fury. “But you twisted that loyalty into something filthy,” he went on more calmly, “the pain and death of your own kin in exchange for personal gain. You could have come to us, explained the net being cast around you, begged for help or advice from Seqenenra. You did not, and that is why I am going to execute you.” Teti’s knees at last gave way and he sank onto the stool.

  “You do not understand the pressure, Kamose,” he choked. “Everything for you is black or white, right or wrong. You do not see the subtleties of either. If you did, you would not be slaughtering innocent citizens in your mad meanderings down the Nile. Do you think I lost no sleep over the decisions I made? Felt no remorse?” Kamose folded his arms against the almost physical stab of rage Teti’s words caused him. What do you know of remorse? his mind clamoured. Of the foul necessities that are haunting my couch and poisoning my food? Of the pity and horror that threaten to unseat my very ka?

  “That is exactly what I do think, Teti,” he managed huskily.

  “Then all I can do is beseech you for mercy,” Teti pleaded. “I am a broken man, Kamose. I have nothing left. I am no threat to you any more. Set me free, I beg you. For the sake of my son and of your mother, my wife’s cousin,” and here he put a hand up against Ramose’s back, “do not bring bereavement to my loved ones.” Ramose stiffened.

  “Father, for Thoth’s sake do not beg!” he said urgently. “Do not demean yourself!”

  “Why not?” Teti blurted. “What is it to you if I grovel for my life? He will spare yours, Ramose, but he is determined to revenge himself on me, no matter what I say. There is no kindness in him.” Ramose looked across at Kamose.

  “Please, Highness, if you can,” he said softly. Kamose shook his head once, a denial.

  “No. I cannot. I am sorry, Ramose. Hor-Aha, go into the other room and bring out my aunt.” Hor-Aha made as if to obey, but at Kamose’s words the woman herself appeared in the doorway. She bowed then drew herself up proudly, and with a spurt of tenderness Kamose saw that she was painted and arrayed decently in clean linen even though there was no sign of her body servant.

  “I greet you, Kamose,” she said bleakly. “I have heard everything that has passed here. I have lived a good life and served Thoth in his temple with honesty and devotion. I am ready to die with my husband.” Kamose was taken aback. It is just as well that your husband does not possess your strength of character, he thought, looking into that aging, dignified face. If he did, I might be tempted to let him go.

  “That will not be necessary, Aunt,” he said. “Neither I nor Egypt has anything against you. You are free to go to the river.” He had used the euphemism that described women whose husbands had been killed in battle and who had been driven from their homes, and she smiled icily.

  “As opposed to those women who are forced there?” she retorted. “No thank you, Kamose. I have nowhere to go.”

  “My mother would welcome you at Weset.” For a second she faltered, but then her chin came up.

  “I have no wish to accept the hospitality of those who have conspired to ruin Egypt and murder my husband, relatives though they be,” she said. “I do not deny that Teti is weak, but so are many men. Nor do I deny that he had a hand in those despicable events of which you have spoken, although I knew nothing of them until long afterwards. But I am his wife. My loyalty belongs to him. There is no life without him.”

  “Kamose, if you will release her to me, I will care for her,” Ramose interrupted. “I will take her away. I will make no trouble for you, I swear.”

  “No!” Kamose said harshly. “No, Ramose. I want you with me. I need you. Tani needs you. I want to give Tani back to you!” Misery, quickly controlled, flared behind Ramose’s eyes.

  “And how will you do that?” he flashed. “Supposing you win through to Het-Uart, supposing you can siege and overcome that mighty city, supposing you find Tani still alive, have you the power to restore her to the innocence of her girlhood? Wipe from her consciousness all that has passed since Apepa carried her away? Have you received one word from her? For I have not.” His fingers found his side where the arrow had struck and he lowered himself onto the stool. “It was a dream, Kamose, and it belongs to the past,” he finished wearily. “What you and I want does not matter any more.” Kamose stared at him.

  “Do you still love her, Ramose?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you have no right to give up that love or our hope until the future has unfolded. You will come with me.” He turned to the General. “Hor-Aha, I will give my aunt some time to say farewell to her husband. Then place her in the care of one of my heralds and send them south to Weset. I will dictate a letter to my mother.” There was nothing left to say. Feeling old and empty, Kamose left them. The sunlight smote him like a hot blow after the dimness of the room behind him and he paused for a moment with eyes closed against its onslaught. “Hor-Aha,” he said heavily, “I am sick unto death of the word ‘honour.’”

  An hour later he watched from the shade of a canopy as his aunt, still stiff and unyielding, walked across the churned and stained parade ground beside the herald and out through the eastern gate. He had dictated a hurried message to Aahotep and Tetisheri, telling them of the events that had transpired since his last letter and asking them to care for the woman. He knew that his mother’s conscience would not allow her kinswoman to suffer any more than she had done already, and he hoped that in Weset she might find some peace. The bodies of the dead were being hauled through the gates to east and west to be burned, and it came to Kamose that if he won this dirty war, if by some miracle he was permitted to return to Weset as King and live out the remainder of his days in peace, the memory of the stench of burning human flesh would eclipse all other remembrances of this time.

  The Princes had begun to gather, their servants busy around them erecting sunshades and opening their camp stools. Iasen of Badari leaned close to Mesehti of Djawati, both men deep in conversation. Ankhmahor stood with a good-looking youth Kamose recognized after a second as the Prince’s son Harkhuf. Makhu of Akhmin was speaking rapidly and with many gestures to two officers who were listening respectfully, but Prince Intef of Qebt sat alone, his brooding dark eyes fixed on the sun-fired scene before him. None of th
em approached Kamose. It was as though they knew that the space around him was temporarily inviolable, and he was grateful. He found himself gazing without thought at the spasmodic ripple of shadow cast on the ground when the breeze stirred the tassels of his canopy, and he came to himself with an effort, his thoughts sluggish, his heart numb. It has to be done, he told himself firmly, trying to gather up the tatters of his resolve. And I have to do it.

  Ahmose came striding across the slowly emptying parade ground, Hor-Aha beside him. Both men had obviously cleaned themselves and Ahmose had donned a starched yellow linen helmet beneath whose rim his freshly kohled eyes roamed the activity going on around him. Coming up to Kamose, he nodded gravely but said nothing, settling himself on the stool his attending servant placed for him. Hor-Aha bowed, then sank cross-legged to the earth and quickly became immobile. A mood of solemnity fell on the three men and for a long time they simply watched as the interior of the fort was restored to a semblance of normality.

  Then Kamose sighed and straightened. “Hor-Aha, have the work cease,” he said. “Bring out Teti and Ramose. Ipi!” he signalled to his scribe, who had been waiting with the other servants a short distance away. “Prepare to take down the indictment and the execution order. Ahmose, I will have the Princes behind me.” Ipi came close, while Ahmose, with a grim nod, walked across to the nobles. One by one they followed him back to cluster behind Kamose, who had come out from under the canopy.

  An expectant hush fell. Presently the guards on the door of the commander’s quarters fell back and Teti emerged, his arm through his son’s. He had made no attempt to wash himself or change his linen and he was still barefoot. Pale and blinking, he stood irresolute until, at an abrupt word from the General, he shuffled forward. Kamose crooked a finger at Ramose. “You need not be a witness,” he said gently. “Go outside the walls if you wish.” At his words Teti clutched Ramose’s arm with both hands and whispered something urgent in his ear. Ramose shook his head.

  “I will stand by my father,” he called. “But I ask you once more, Kamose, will you show mercy?” For answer Kamose turned to Ipi who was now at his feet, brush in hand over his papyrus.

  “Write,” he said. “Teti son of Pepi, erstwhile Governor of Khemmenu and Administrator of the Mahtech nome, Inspector of Dykes and Canals, you are accused of collusion in the attempted murder of Prince Seqenenra of Weset and of betraying and thus bringing to ruin the House of Tao, which House is allied to you by blood and the ties of familial loyalty. You are accused of treason against the rightful King of Egypt under Ma’at, Kamose the First, in that you have spied against him on behalf of the usurper Apepa. For the crime of attempted murder you are sentenced to death.” The echo of his voice rebounded from the baking walls of the fort. He felt the mounting tension of the motionless Princes at his back and the heat of the sun pounding against his skull. Silence had rushed in to fill the void left by his proclamation and he fought its pressure, aware of the dozens of soldiers, their labour suspended, their eyes fixed on him avidly, waiting.

  I dare betray no weakness, he thought. I must not swallow or clear my throat or glance to the ground. This is the moment when my authority is confirmed. “Teti, have you prayed?” he asked. With an outward impassivity he watched as Teti struggled to reply. The man was crying quietly, the tears tracking his plump cheeks and falling glistening upon his heaving chest. It was Ramose who answered for him.

  “My father has prayed,” he said. “He is ready.” Kamose held out a hand and Hor-Aha laid his bow and one arrow across his palm. Kamose’s fingers closed around the weapon. His own skin was slick but he knew he must not wipe the sweat away. Carefully he fitted the nock of the arrow to the bowstring and his other hand came up to cushion its tip. Placing his feet apart and turning his shoulder to the target, he began to take the strain of the draw. “Ramose, stand away,” he called. Sighting along the shaft of the arrow, he saw the young man kiss his father, steady him as though he were a baby unsure of its balance, then move out of his vision. Teti alone filled it now, swaying and weeping, his lips forming prayers or admonitions or simply the babblings of terror, Kamose could not tell. He took a breath, held it, opened the fingers of his left hand, and Teti staggered and fell onto his side. A small amount of blood dribbled around the shaft of the arrow that had smashed through his ribs. Ramose ran to the twitching body and fell to his knees and from Kamose’s rear came a collective sigh. He passed the bow back to the General. “Write again, Ipi,” he said to his scribe’s bent head. “On this day, the fifteenth of Pakhons, the sentence of death was carried out upon Teti son of Pepi of the city of Khemmenu for the crime of attempted murder. Make a copy before you file the scroll, and send it south to my mother. Akhtoy, are you there? Give me wine!”

  An excited chatter had broken out as the soldiers slowly returned to their tasks, but the Princes still stood mute behind Kamose. He ignored them, gulping the wine, aware that his limbs were shaking. Wiping his mouth, he was about to hold out his cup for more when he saw Ramose approach. The man bowed and lifted an expressionless face to Kamose. The hands he had placed on his knees to make the obeisance were glossy with blood.

  “Kamose, give me leave to have my father taken to the House of the Dead in Khemmenu,” he said huskily. “He must be beautified, mourned, my mother must come back from Weset for his funeral. You cannot let him be burned!”

  “No, I cannot,” Kamose agreed, forcing himself to meet his old friend’s eyes. “But it is impossible to keep the army here through the seventy days of Teti’s beautification and mourning. We must move on, Ramose. Let him go to the House of the Dead and I will have your mother escorted north for his funeral. By then I expect to be sieging Het-Uart.”

  Ramose nodded, tight-lipped. “I understand that you can do little more, but you will forgive me if I am not grateful.” He bowed again and retreated, and without Kamose’s permission Hor-Aha followed him, barking orders that sent four men scurrying to bring a stretcher and lift Teti onto it. With Ramose at its side, the little cavalcade wound its way to the gate and Hor-Aha came back.

  “The officers and soldiers who are to stay and destroy the fort are already moving their possessions into the barracks, Majesty,” he told Kamose. “Nefrusi is over, it is done. I need your command to rank the army and get it on the march.” Kamose rose and turned, scanning the faces of the Princes still arrayed behind him. All met his scrutiny calmly.

  “It is about forty miles from here to Het nefer Apu in the Anpu nome,” he said. “There are perhaps eight or ten villages between Nefrusi and Het nefer Apu and we do not yet know how many of them contain garrisons. We have acquired many weapons here, and chariots and horses, a great blessing, but now we need some time to assess how these things have changed the nature of our forces. I propose to go north some ten miles, then rest briefly while you see to it that your peasants learn to use and care for the axes and swords being issued to them. In that time the scouts will be able to give me a clearer picture of what lies ahead. Have you anything to say? Do you have any requests regarding your welfare or that of your divisions?” No one spoke and Kamose dismissed them, walking thankfully past the spot where Teti’s life had flowed away and out onto the river path.

  The barges were already loaded with the vital booty taken from Nefrusi’s armoury and granaries and soldiers swarmed in a noisy mob around them. “Ahmose, send to the sem-priests in Khemmenu,” he said to his brother as they swung side by side away from the dust and clamour. “Make sure they are well paid for Teti’s beautification. Ramose cannot do it. I have disinherited him. And take my greetings to Meketra. Tell him I will keep him apprised of the campaign.”

  “Pacify him further, you mean,” Ahmose retorted. “I do not trust that man, Kamose.”

  “Neither do I,” Kamose admitted, “but he has done nothing to earn our suspicion. We must treat him as the ally he has proved himself to be.”

  “So far,” Ahmose said darkly. They regained their boat without further conversation.


  Ahmose discharged his errands and returned at sunset, together with Ramose, whom he had met in the house that now belonged to Meketra. Ramose had been collecting a few personal belongings and mementos of his family, amid what Ahmose described as a chaos of chests and furniture and harried servants as Meketra and his brood took over Teti’s estate. “Meketra’s wife seemed to know exactly where she wanted everything placed,” Ahmose told Kamose, as they ate their evening meal in the last soft glow of Ra. “But of course she ran the house years ago, before Apepa gave it to Teti.” He blew out his lips and looked across at Ramose who sat nursing a cup of wine, his food untouched on the dishes before him. “I’m sorry, Ramose, but it is nothing but the truth.”

  “I know,” Ramose said curtly. “I only pray that Meketra can find enough peasants to tend the vines properly. Father was proud of his vintage, and without pruning this winter the grapes will be small and bitter. It will be hard, though. You have killed them all.”

  For a moment Kamose puzzled over how he and Ahmose might be responsible for the death of Teti’s fruit, but then he understood. He made no response. Will you ever forgive me? he asked Ramose in the tumult of his mind. Can we ever be friends again or will the exigencies of this appalling age drive us even farther apart? To his relief Ahmose gave his attention to his food, and in a daze of silent exhaustion Kamose watched his brother eat.

  Later that night he woke from a sodden sleep to the faint sound of crying. The boat was rocking gently as it rode the current north. Dull light came and went in fitful bands across his cot as the lamps set at prow and stern swayed with the motion, and the only other sound was the constant, sweet murmur of water under the keel. They were floating, Kamose knew, drifting slowly with only the current for propulsion until the dawn, as the captain had advised. Turning onto his back, he lay listening to that muffled outpouring of desolation. It could have been one of the sailors or an expression of homesickness on the part of a servant, but Kamose knew it was not.