The Oasis

by Pauline Gedge

  “As you have probably noted, there have been promotions among my sailors and marines,” he said conversationally and with a seeming irrelevance. “For instance, on the recommendation of Paheri, I appointed Kay Abana captain of his own ship. There have also been promotions among the ranks of your soldiers, particularly of common men from infantry to charioteers with the concomitant title of officer, on your advice. But I have done nothing to elevate any member of the Medjay archers in spite of the fact that they have acquitted themselves with exemplary skill and obeyed their Prince without demur.” He inclined his head at Hor-Aha who had remained motionless, his dark body blending with the night around him, only the shine of his eyes and the white smudge of his kilt betraying his presence. Ahmose placed a warning hand on Kamose’s knee but he ignored the gesture. “The captains of the ships in which they sailed have spoken highly of them but their Prince has said nothing,” Kamose went on crisply. “Why is that?” He leaned across the table and fixed them with a stare. “It is because, like a good commander, the Prince has no wish to cause dissent among his fellows.” His palm came down on the surface of the table with a resounding slap. “I had thought that by now, having marched and fought together, you were beyond this dangerous prejudice,” he almost shouted, “but I can see that I am mistaken. I intend to promote one hundred Medjay to the rank of Instructor of Retainers and distribute them among your divisions. They will each have one hundred of your best archers under them and they in turn will train others. They will be given officer privileges and responsibilities. Now you will hear my will.” He sat back again and folded his arms. “You may disband your divisions. Three thousand of your troops may go home until the Inundation is over. One thousand stay here to guard us from the north. One thousand come to Weset with me on active duty. Thus I leave eleven thousand men at Het nefer Apu and take eleven thousand to Weset. I will discuss with Paheri the disposition of the navy. All of you will travel with me to make sacrifices in the temple of Amun before you go to your several nomes. While you fritter away your time before the next battle season, you will send me regular reports on the state of your governorships and other holdings. Are we agreed?” It was obvious that they longed to meet each other’s eyes but did not dare. Solemnly they regarded Kamose, sitting smiling across at them, until Intef cleared his throat.

  “We are your servants, Majesty,” he croaked. And then more confidently, “It is wise to secure our northern border with the Setiu and of course with Teti the Handsome in Kush, and we thank you for allowing us and our peasants a chance to greet our loved ones again. As to the matter of the Medjay …” He swallowed, and it was Iasen who continued.

  “I think we would all agree that the tribesmen have acquitted themselves magnificently, Majesty,” he said. “Many deserve promotion. But let it be within their own ranks. Let those selected to be officers command their own kin. If you place them over Egyptians, there will be trouble.” Kamose inclined his head mockingly.

  “I seem to remember a similar objection many months ago,” he said. “It was pointless then. It is merely stupid now. A gaggle of peasants has been forged into an army with which the Medjay have merged. Indispensably, I might remind you all. I have spoken. It will be done.” He rose and at once they rose with him, reverencing him silently, but he read anger in their stiffly bending spines.

  Beckoning Ankhmahor and Hor-Aha, he left them, entering his tent while Akhtoy scrambled to bring the lamps. Ahmose turned to face him.

  “Kamose, I do not think …” he began, but Kamose put up a hand.

  “I do,” he said distinctly. “You know that it is just and proper, Ahmose.”

  “Yes, but there are more tactful ways of reminding the Princes that they are under your thumb,” Ahmose muttered. “Trouble in the ranks is one thing. Trouble among the bluebloods is quite another. Let us hope that the glory of this day will temporarily appease their ire.”

  The four men settled themselves comfortably on cushions scattered over the carpet that hid the hard earth beneath. Kamose dismissed the servants. The noise of merrymaking along the riverbank was a constant undercurrent to their desultory conversation. Music came fitfully floating to them in the occasional lulls between the shouts of the soldiers, by now happily drunk, and the shrieks and laughter of the women who had joined them. “I hope the mayor of the town and the officers can indeed keep control of the situation,” Ahmose remarked. “It would be sad to march out of Het nefer Apu on a tide of ill-will after the months of good co-operation between army and townsfolk.”

  “I do not think we need to worry,” Kamose answered absently, his mind returning to Ramose in anxious impotence. “The men are cheerful and therefore compliant. They will grumble and bicker tomorrow when their heads ache, but not now.” He was sitting on the floor with his back against the edge of his cot, one arm up along the mattress, the other cradling his wine.

  “I have had word from my tribesmen in Wawat, Majesty,” Hor-Aha said unexpectedly. “It came yesterday. Forgive me for keeping it from you, but we were all occupied with Pezedkhu. There is trouble brewing in the south.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  Hor-Aha put down his cup and drew a finger across his mouth. “The Kushites are taking advantage of the fact that many men from Wawat are here with you. They are pushing north into Wawat territory. I have not told my Medjay of this. They would want to leave at once and go home to defend their villages if I did.” Ankhmahor frowned.

  “I know little of the territory beyond the cataracts,” he said, “but I remember my history lessons. The men of Kush have always coveted Wawat. Why?”

  “Gold,” Ahmose drawled. He was lying on his side, his head propped on one elbow. “Wawat has gold and Kush wants it for trade. Our ancestors built several forts in Wawat for the single purpose of protecting the gold. I too remember my lessons. The history of the land beyond Weset is of great importance to us in the south. Wawat is our neighbour.”

  “How pressing is the need for action?” Kamose asked his General with a sinking heart.

  “It is not yet imperative,” Hor-Aha told him. “But if Your Majesty will not allow the Medjay to go home, they will no longer fight well.” Kamose was thinking swiftly.

  “I wonder if Teti-En is behind the unrest in Wawat,” he mused. “I have been pondering the advisability of another assault on Het-Uart, particularly now that Pezedkhu knows our full strength. I did not want to give him a chance to adjust and prepare a more successful campaign. But I cannot go north with the possibility of another front opening in the south. Does Teti-En have his eye on Weset?”

  “I do not think so,” Ahmose objected. “He has appeared to be quite indifferent to Apepa’s plight. It is more likely that he is using our preoccupation with the north to march on Wawat and annex it for his own ends. Once he has control of it, then he of course also controls the ancient forts. Will his ambition grow? That is the question.”

  “Your pardon, Prince, but that is not the question to me or to my tribesmen,” Hor-Aha put in vehemently. “The Medjay have been indispensable to you. They have come a long way to fight for you. They will expect you now to fight for them.”

  “What, go into Wawat?” Ahmose blinked. Kamose took his arm from the cot and ran a hand through his hair. He met Hor-Aha’s gaze and read a challenge there for the first time. The knowledge jolted him.

  “Tell me, General, are the Medjay members of my army or are they merely allies?” he asked evenly. “Who ultimately has command of them, me or you? Are we speaking of mutiny in my ranks or the rights inherent in an alliance?” The room went suddenly still. Ankhmahor sat with both hands around his cup, his eyes resolutely downcast. Kamose and Hor-Aha continued to stare tensely at one another. It was Ahmose who broke the uncomfortable silence.

  “It is indeed a delicate point,” he said soothingly, “one we have not had to consider before. Let us think of it as irrelevant, Kamose. If Wawat is in danger from Teti-En, then Weset may also be threatened. It would make sense to take a
small punitive force down there. After all,” he finished reasonably, “you have told the Princes that you intend to leave eleven thousand troops here at Het nefer Apu. If Apepa remains true to form, he will not leave the Delta. Our northern flank is safe for the present. We can go south during the Inundation.”

  My dear Ahmose, ever the peacemaker, Kamose thought hotly but he did not say the words. Instead he made himself nod at his General, raise his eyebrows, and purse his lips as though in reflection.

  “I owe you and the Medjay a debt,” he said as calmly as he could. “All you had to do was request my help, Hor-Aha. I have always trusted you. Could you not trust me?” He had the pleasure of seeing the man’s eyes falter and drop.

  “Your pardon, Majesty,” he said in a low voice. “I am anxious that the Medjay not be seen as flighty savages by the Princes who scorn them and me. Their homes are threatened. They cannot put the good of Egypt ahead of that. In some respects they are indeed as primitive as children. I humbly beg your help in Wawat.”

  Humbly? Kamose thought, upending his cup and drinking to hide the expression of disdain he could not repress. There is not a humble bone in that powerful black body of yours, my clever General. If I choose to go into Wawat, it will not be to restore a few ramshackle huts to your half-wild aliens. “Bring me the message you received,” he said. “I want to see it. What you are asking requires at least some planning, Hor-Aha, and I am tired. It has been a long day. Bring it tomorrow morning.” It was clear that Hor-Aha had understood completely. Setting down his cup he rose to his feet and bowed.

  “Your Majesty is gracious,” he said tonelessly and turning he stalked out of the tent. Ankhmahor also stood.

  “I must undertake a last inspection of your guard before I sleep,” he explained. But on reaching the tent flap he hesitated. “Be careful, Kamose,” he said quietly. “Be very careful.” His obeisance was slow and deliberate, a mark of genuine respect. Then he was gone.

  The brothers looked at one another in a lull that only extended as far as the limpid circle of friendly lamplight. Outside, the cacophony of revelry went on. Then Ahmose said, “What just happened here, Kamose?” Kamose flung himself onto his cot, kicking off his sandals.

  “What happened is that our beloved General made an error,” he said shortly. “Hor-Aha let slip a glimpse of the true nature of his ka.”

  “He is concerned for his countrymen,” Ahmose protested. “His worry and his fear that you would not understand them made him incautious.”

  Kamose laughed bitterly. “Incautious? Yes indeed! He threatened us, Ahmose! Or did you miss that small fact?”

  “You are being overly suspicious,” Ahmose said, coming over to him and perching beside his legs. “Look at it sanely, Kamose. Kush is encroaching on Wawat. Hor-Aha wants to release the Medjay to deal with the problem. He is loyal to us but he understands his men. He tells us exactly what he fears if we neither let them go nor agree to help them. What is wrong with that? Do you not value such honesty?”

  “Of course I do!” Kamose snapped. “It was not the words he spoke but the thing I heard in his voice and saw in his eyes, a flash of something arrogant yet sly. We are sensible men. Both of us appreciate the need to do something about the situation. Both of us see how we may further earn Medjay loyalty by sending or even leading Egyptian troops into Wawat, at the same time curbing any ambitions Teti-En may have and securing those old forts. Hor-Aha is an intelligent man. He sees all this. He could have put it to us differently.” He folded his hands on his naked chest and turned his head to look at Ahmose. “But somehow he made a mistake. He let us see a flash of his well-hidden ambition. I think that he wants to set himself up as an independent Prince of Wawat. Not now, perhaps, but in time. With our inadvertent aid.”

  “But, Kamose, he carries our father’s blood on his belt,” Ahmose reminded him. “He loved Seqenenra. He has served us with unswerving fealty.”

  “All that is true,” Kamose admitted. “But years have passed since our father died. Men change. Circumstances change. Opportunities arise that can sometimes waken dark regions in a man’s soul that tendril through everything that he is.”

  “That is insane!” Ahmose exclaimed. “You are speaking of someone you have befriended, indeed championed against our own countrymen, Kamose! Hor-Aha is like our own kin!” Kamose gave an odd smile.

  “Is he?” he whispered. “I do not know any more. In any case, Ahmose, we have a much better reason for marching into Wawat than the rescue of the Medjay, although we do want to stay in their good graces. We need gold.” He struggled to a sitting position. “Gold for trade with Keftiu. Gold to pay the Princes. Gold to restore the old palace. So far Wawat’s gold has gone into Apepa’s coffers, but no more. We will not tell Hor-Aha this, of course. We will be all concern for our Medjay allies. Do you think we might offer the Medjay a home in Egypt, Ahmose? Build them a town where their families can live, and make them a part of the permanent army I intend to establish? Hor-Aha knows perfectly well how important they are to us. Damn him! Is there no one I can fully trust?”

  “Perhaps not,” Ahmose responded thoughtfully. “But what King could ever ultimately depend on anyone but the gods? You are wrong about Hor-Aha, Kamose. You need to sleep on these misgivings of yours to see how insubstantial they are. You need to go home for a while.” He sighed. “So do I. I would like to be there for Aahmes-nefertari when she gives birth next month.” Kamose’s expression softened.

  “I had forgotten,” he said apologetically. “Pezedkhu drove the remembrance from my mind. We will go back to Weset and then south to Wawat. Oh, Ahmose.” He closed his eyes. “Will there ever come a day without alarms of any kind?”

  He slept fitfully and then more deeply, as somewhere in his dreams he became aware that the cacophony outside had finally died away. When he woke, it was to full sunlight and an unnaturally quiet atmosphere. Ahmose was still on his cot and snoring gently, curled up on his side, one cheek pillowed in his palm. Slipping his feet into a pair of worn reed sandals and wrapping his limp kilt of the day before around his waist, Kamose stepped out into the blinding glare of the morning.

  The Followers to either side of the tent’s entrance came to attention and saluted him, and a man who had been crouching a little way away rose and stood smiling, a cup in one hand and a hunk of bread in the other. He was thin, with dark smudges under his eyes and an unfamiliar gauntness to his features, but with a rush of pure joy Kamose recognized him. “Ramose, Ramose!” he cried, and striding forward he enveloped the younger man in a crushing embrace. “How is it that you are here? Have you been squatting outside the tent all night? But surely not! I thought … Well, I do not know what I thought! Akhtoy, where are you? Hot food at once!” He released Ramose, who set his cup on the ground and shook the spilled droplets of water from his hand.

  “Two of your scouts found me out on the desert,” he explained. “They brought me in yesterday, but they had to wait until the battle was over. I was exhausted, Majesty. I had to sleep.” Kamose wanted to hug him again. If the guards had not been watching, he would have danced his way back into the tent. Instead he put an arm around Ramose’s shoulders and drew him inside to where Ahmose was sitting up, bleary-eyed.

  “I wondered what all the shouting was about,” he mumbled. “Ramose! I knew you would turn up eventually. You look terrible.” He gave a yawn that turned into a wide grin. “Welcome back. Give me a moment to appreciate the morning and then share your news.”

  “Believe me, Highness, I am here against great odds,” Ramose said. “I am in no hurry to recount my adventures. I am still savouring the delights of safety and freedom.” He was smiling, but Kamose noticed that his knees trembled as he lowered himself onto a stool. Akhtoy, prompt and self-effacing as always, had entered with his servants behind him bearing the first meal of the day. He began to set it out. The bread was still warm from the town ovens and the fresh dates gleamed on their bed of lettuce leaves, the first of that season. Inet-fish and Nile perch se
nt out a fragrant garlic-scented steam. Dark beer frothed in the cups. At Kamose’s gesture the three men began to eat, and not until the dishes were scoured did Kamose fling his linen napkin onto a tray and invite his friend to speak.

  “But tell us of Tani first,” Ahmose said. “Did you see her? Is she well?” A shadow passed across Ramose’s sun-ravaged face. He took a mouthful of his beer and swallowed it slowly before replying. Then he sighed.

  “You will not like what I have to say,” he told them. “Tani is now a wife to Apepa.” He continued to speak, recounting his meeting with their sister, giving them her words and his with clarity and bitterness. It was obvious to Kamose, himself listening with a mounting incredulity, that the intensity and immediacy of the interview had branded Ramose forever and its scars would never fade. “I did not try to persuade her to escape with me,” Ramose said. “There would have been no point. She has been utterly duped by that foreign scum.” He clenched his teeth and fought for control before going on. “She sends you her love and begs for your understanding.”

  “Understanding! She is insane if she imagines that I will either forgive or forget her betrayal!” Kamose exploded. “This news will destroy her mother! What can I say to you, my friend? Nothing can touch your grief.”

  Ahmose had gone white to his lips. “We will think of her as a casualty of war,” he said huskily. “We must, Kamose, or we shall be reduced to impotence every time we remember her. She is a sacrifice, one of the costs the family has paid to the gods in return for victory.” He swallowed noisily. “At least she still lives. That is something for which we must be grateful.”

  “I do not wish to discuss her any more,” Kamose retorted. His incredulity had turned to a rage that sent the blood pounding in his ears, his eyes, so that he could hardly hear or see for the force of its drumming. “I will remember her as she was in the days of her innocence. Everything else I deny!” Ramose looked at him bleakly.