In the late afternoon the Princes answered his summons. Kamose, sitting with his brother Ramose and Hor-Aha, watched them file into the room with a cool detachment. Bowing to him, they answered his invitation to be seated. Refreshments had been provided by Akhtoy, but no one made a move towards the dishes and cups. They all look as if they have been drinking for hours, Kamose thought. They are bleary-eyed and sullen. They slump on their chairs like recalcitrant children about to be reprimanded, their hands in their laps, and they will not meet my gaze. Only Ankhmahor smiles at me.
He cleared his throat and rose to his feet. Ipi, cross-legged on the floor beside him, finished smoothing the sheet of papyrus lying on his palette and picked up his pen. “You must serve yourselves if you are hungry or thirsty,” Kamose began. “I do not want us interrupted by the movements of servants. What I have to say to you will not take long. There are no intricate plans for our coming march north unless any of you has conceived a way to pierce Het-Uart’s defences. Meketra, I do not remember having you summoned here from your responsibilities in Khemmenu. Could it be that you have indeed come up with such a plot and wished to share it with me as soon as possible?” Meketra lifted a pale, expressionless face in his direction but his eyes fixed on a spot just below Kamose’s chin.
“No, Majesty,” the man said. “Regrettably I have no such idea. I risked your displeasure in coming to Weset because the harvest around my city was completed and the task of rebuilding continues now without my personal supervision. I was not needed for a time and I wanted to share in your triumph and thanksgiving.”
“I am indeed displeased,” Kamose retorted tartly. “You are needed where I say you are needed, Meketra. A request to join us here should have come first, with reasons why Khemmenu could have been left in the care of your assistant governor.” He wanted to say more, to castigate the man for his base desire to push himself to the forefront as often as possible, but pointing out Meketra’s flaws in public could only fuel the obvious resentment the Prince felt at being excluded from the company of his fellows in Weset. “Am I to assume that your presence here together with an unseemly number of your troops indicates a desire to go north with us this spring?” he enquired. Meketra seemed startled and then embarrassed. Kamose did not wait for a reply. He had no intention of including Meketra in his journey and briskly changed the subject. “Tomorrow at dawn you will assemble your men in marching formation,” he told them. “The Medjay will take the boats as before. I intend to reach Het-Uart as quickly as possible and stay there as long as possible until, if Amun wills it, the city falls to me. There is no necessity for any detours. Do you have any questions?”
It was as though they had been turned into stone. Every mouth remained closed. Every face went blank and every body became suddenly still. “What is wrong with them?” Ahmose whispered, and at the sound of his voice Intef raised his head. Now indeed his eyes met those of Kamose, filling suddenly with such a flush of hatred that Kamose blinked in shock. But when the Prince spoke it was with an unnatural calm.
“Majesty, we do not wish to go north this year,” he said. “We have been conferring with one another and we are not happy. For two years we have followed you. Our children are growing up without us. Our wives are tired of sleeping alone. We have been forced to delegate our authority to our stewards and our nomes are suffering without our guidance. Harvests and sowings, we have been absent. Give us leave to go home.” He waved a deprecating hand. “All Egypt is ours now save a small portion of the Delta. Apepa can do nothing. Let him stew in what juices he has left for another season or two. We are needed elsewhere.”
Kamose had listened to Intef’s speech with a mounting incredulity that quickened his breath and sent the blood singing through his ears. Now he sought the edge of the table for support and leaned on it, scanning the surly features before him. “You do not wish?” he managed. “You are needed elsewhere? What is this nonsense? Have you not just heard the words I spoke to Meketra? You are needed where I say you are needed, not where you imagine you would like to be! And as for Egypt being yours, who do you think you are, you arrogant Princes? Egypt is mine by right of birth and Ma’at! I have broken my heart to take it back for all of us. How dare you!” His voice had risen until he was shouting. He felt Ahmose’s fingers bite into his thigh under the cover of the table top and the pain brought him up short. “I am the King,” he finished more quietly. “I will forget this impudence, Intef, providing you do not question my supremacy again. We meet tomorrow morning. You are all dismissed.” He sat down and pressed his knees together to quell their trembling, but the Princes made no move to leave. They watched him carefully. Then Mesehti spoke up, his weatherbeaten face creasing into lines of resignation.
“His Majesty is right,” he insisted. “We have been selfish, my brothers. Our complaints could be his also, for was he not needed here in Weset? Have his stewards and his women not shouldered as much weight as ours?” He fixed Kamose with his mild stare. “We are not content, Majesty, it is true, but we have forgotten that neither are you. You are our King. Forgive me.”
“Traitor,” someone muttered, and Mesehti rounded on him.
“I told you that this would not work, Iasen!” he shouted. “I told you we were sinning! Kamose deserves better than our mutinous grumblings! If it were not for him, we would still be under the Setiu yoke! I want nothing more to do with such foolishness.”
“Fine for you!” Meketra shouted back. “Mesehti of Djawati, living comfortably under the sunshade of the Princes of Weset! No anguish for you! Kamose destroyed Khemmenu and then expected me to raise it to life again!” They had both sprung to their feet and were glaring at each other. Iasen pounded the table.
“We have seen Kamose and his brother reduce Egypt to a shambles!” he cried out. “Two seasons it has taken for the fields to recover, for villagers to rebuild their houses, and does he give us leave to assist them? No! We are made his accomplices and now he demands that yet again we desert our peasants and take the war tracks. Enough! Let us go home!” Now Intef too had left the table, his chair toppling backwards as he kicked it away.
Kamose held himself rigid. Catching Ankhmahor’s eye, he nodded once. Ankhmahor made for the door. Hor-Aha had risen and was standing close to Kamose, his hand on the knife at his belt.
“At least with Apepa we enjoyed a balance,” Intef spat. “He minded his own business and left us alone to prosper as we saw fit. He did not meddle.” His finger shot out, pointing straight at Kamose. “He would not have meddled with you either if your father had not given way to his supreme arrogance! But no, Seqenenra could not accept his place. ‘I am a King,’ he said, but he did not apply to us, his brothers, for advice or help. He did not need our counsel. He sent to Wawat for that!” The finger jabbed the air once more, this time at Hor-Aha. “A foreigner, a black tribesman! Your rebellion has gone far enough, Kamose. Let Apepa have the Delta. We do not care. Why should you? You have Weset. And what are you anyway? You are no more than one of us. A Prince. Just a Prince. My grandfather was Sandal Bearer to a King.”
“Be silent, Intef!” Makhu of Akhmin urged, tugging at Intef’s kilt. “You are committing sacrilege!”
“Sacrilege?” Iasen shouted back. “Everyone knows that the Taos have the same black blood in them that runs through the veins of their Wawat pet! Did not Tetisheri’s parents come up into Egypt from Wawat?” He swung to Kamose. “Send your so-called General back to where he belongs,” he demanded. “We are tired of kowtowing to him. And let us go home!” With a curse Hor-Aha lunged across the table, knife drawn, but at that moment the door crashed open and the Followers streamed into the room, Ankhmahor at their head. Quickly they isolated each Prince and the confusion began to subside. Kamose came deliberately to his feet.
“Sit down, all of you,” he commanded. After some hesitation they did so, Intef breathing roughly, Iasen white to his hennaed lips, and Meketra attempting a haughty demeanour that could not hide his distress. When they were settled, Kamo
se surveyed them disdainfully. “I knew that you were jealous of Hor-Aha,” he said, “but I believed that you would come to respect his military acumen and forget about his origins. I was wrong. I was also wrong in thinking that you were intelligent enough to understand that your prosperity under Apepa was an illusion that he could shatter any time he chose to do so.” His lip curled. “You have proven yourselves unworthy of your princely titles, let alone your birthright as Egyptians. You are Setiu, all of you. There is no greater insult. As for my claim to kingship, my ancestors ruled this country and every one of you knows it. Otherwise you would not have come at my summons two years ago, nor would you have assisted me in my war. I do not cringe at your ridicule, but I am incensed at the aspersions you dare to cast upon my grandmother’s roots. The rumours are false. They were started by the Setiu out of fear that one day the rightful rulers of this land might wake to a recognition of their bondage. You know this!” he shouted in disgust, his self-control deserting him at last. “Tetisheri’s father, Cenna, was a smer, her mother, Neferu, a nebt-per! Lowly titles but Egyptian names, you ingrates! Why do I defend myself against your accusations? You are not worth a further word. Ankhmahor!” The Captain of his Followers raised a hand. “Khabekhnet should be just outside. Bring him in.” When the herald had entered and bowed, Kamose addressed him. “My scribe will prepare a document that you will take to Khemmenu,” he ordered. “It is to be delivered to Prince Meketra’s assistant governor. The Prince will not be returning to Khemmenu and his assistant is to assume the governorship until another Prince is appointed.” Meketra gave an exclamation and Kamose swung to him. “I gave you Khemmenu in return for your service,” he ground out. “I restored you to power and favour. Do not speak.” With a wave he dismissed the herald and turned back to Ankhmahor. “Arrest Intef, Iasen and Meketra,” he went on. “Escort them to the prison and hand them over to Simontu.”
“But Majesty,” Mesehti protested feebly. “They are noblemen, Princes of the blood, surely you …”
“They are treasonous blasphemers,” Kamose cut in bluntly. “Take them away, Ankhmahor.”
When the three had gone, visibly shaken and surrounded by the impassive guards, the remaining men looked at one another in shock. “What has happened here?” Ahmose said at last. “Gods, Kamose, have we just witnessed a mutiny? Mesehti, what has gone wrong?” Mesehti sighed.
“Letters have flown back and forth between us all for the last five months,” he admitted. “We were glad to be settled in our own homes. Some of us simply wanted to stay there. We were tired, Highness. We saw no point in harassing Apepa any further. That, coupled with our growing dislike of you, General,” here he nodded at Hor-Aha apologetically, “fanned the embers of the fire that broke out in this room. I expected the protest and your reply. I did not expect such venomous loss of temper.”
“That was not just loss of temper,” Ahmose contradicted him. “That was an exposure. And as for harassing Apepa, do they not see that as long as a foreigner sits on the Horus Throne, Egypt is shamed? I find it hard to accept that they are stupid enough to put their personal comfort before that awesome truth.”
“Majesty, what will you do?” The question came from Makhu. Kamose grimaced. He was finding it difficult to collect his thoughts and his chest ached with the impact of what had taken place. He tried to consider its implications.
“If I execute them, I will be sending a message of disunity to Het-Uart that will inevitably put heart into Apepa,” he said. “I do not want to give that viper the satisfaction.”
“Execute them?” Ramose echoed in horror. “Kamose, you cannot!”
“Why not?” Kamose demanded. “I executed your father for something similar. Teti carried out his treason. These three had betrayal in their minds. The difference is minimal.” He threw up his hands. “But, as I say, I dare not give Apepa any encouragement. Therefore I have little choice. They can stay in prison until I return to Weset before the next Inundation. Hor-Aha, under whose command can I put their divisions? Ramose, pour us some wine. I am parched with thirst.” All at once he wanted to put his head down on the table and weep.
For the next hour they discussed their alternatives but all were suffering from the scene that had spun out of control with such dreadful rapidity and the suggestions made were barely acceptable. In the end it was decided that their departure would be delayed for a week while they thrashed out an alternate strategy. “You could always bestow titles on the division seconds,” Ahmose said gloomily as the meeting came to a close. “Create more Princes.”
“It is not a light thing to grant hereditary titles,” Kamose objected. “Besides, the bloodlines must contain a least some hint of the aristocratic if I am to make Princes.”
“You did it for Hor-Aha.”
Kamose smiled at him thinly. “So I did, but he was an exception. What sort of Egypt will I rule if its nomes are governed by commoners? I hate them, Ahmose, but I grieve for them also. The fools!”
“There is Sebek-nakht in Mennofer,” Ahmose said thoughtfully. “You have an agreement with him and I for one was very impressed by his manner. You might summon him to command a division.”
“I do not think so,” Kamose responded. “Not yet. He and Ankhmahor are very alike. He certainly seems trustworthy, but Mennofer is very close to the Delta. Too close. I can write to Paheri at Het nefer Apu though and ask what news of the Mennofer Prince there is. Gods what a mess!”
He cancelled the feast his mother had planned as a farewell and refused to see Tetisheri when she came to the door of his apartments in person, demanding to be told what had occurred and why three of Egypt’s Princes were languishing in prison. He did, however, confer with Simontu regarding their treatment. “Give them whatever luxuries they need,” he ordered. “Let them walk in the compound whenever they choose, under guard of course. Let them pray. Do not forget their station, Simontu.”
Behind the security of his doors he forced himself to eat. The food tasted of ashes and the wine was sour, reflecting the anguish within his own spirit. When the servants had removed the remains of his meal, he told Akhtoy not to admit anyone, and placing a cushion on the floor beneath his window he sank onto it, leaning his forearms on the sill and gazing out at the quiet of the garden.
The sun was beginning to set and the light was changing from its hard brilliance to a soft bronze. The shadows under the trees crept slowly across the thick grass of the lawns. Insects danced in the limpid air, themselves transformed into motes of flashing gold as Ra’s dying touched them. Kamose’s room faced the well-trodden path leading to the watersteps along which two of his Followers were strolling, deep in conversation. Their voices came to him but not the words they were saying and in a moment they disappeared from his sight.
It came to him that in times of similar crisis he had always sought the privacy and solace of the old palace but today he had unconsciously chosen to go to earth in his quarters like a wounded fox. Grief mingled with anger seized him and at last he gave way to it. The rage was safe and familiar, an emotion against which he had struggled ever since Apepa had come and pronounced sentence upon the family, a dark knife aimed first at the Setiu, then at the Princes, sometimes at the gods who had decreed this painful destiny for him. To succumb to its powerful lure was a relief.
But the grief hurt him intolerably, its source a well of loneliness, treachery and spiritual fatigue that spurted scalding from his heart, bringing with it the tears that he had never before permitted himself to shed. Now he did so, laying his head on his arms and crying freely. When he next looked up, eyes swollen, face, neck and chest soaked by his sadness, the sun had gone and twilight was creeping through the garden, warm and dusky.
I would like to be a child again, he thought as he rose. To be six years old, sitting out there under a tree with my tutor, copying hieroglyphs onto pieces of broken clay. I can still see my own hand clutching the pen, feel my tongue caught between my teeth with the effort of learning to write. Amun was supreme in h
is temple in those days, only a little more omnipotent than Father, who knew everything and could do anything. Life was happy and predictable. Food was placed before me with a regularity I did not question. The river flowed for me alone, to bear my toy boats and to play with me when I threw myself naked into its cool embrace. As unreflective as a little animal, healthy and secure, I lived in the eternal and did not know that time was passing.
Crossing unsteadily to the water jug beside his couch, he dampened a cloth and wiped his face, lit his lamp against the increasing dimness, then took up his copper mirror. His own features stared back at him, distorted by his weeping but still young and handsome, the nose sharp, the mouth full, the eyes, his father’s eyes, dark and intelligent. One black curl had fallen onto his brown forehead and he pushed it back with a gesture that reminded him suddenly of his mother’s hands, the gentle fingers running through tresses that had always been unruly, the quiet voice exclaiming ruefully, “Kamose dearest, who gave you and Si-Amun this unusual mop?” Who indeed? Kamose wondered, the rich burnished surface of the mirror giving back to him the movement of his lips. Some anonymous denizen of Wawat perhaps? Lies, terrible lies, he thought violently. They all lie. Apepa, Mersu, Si-Amun, Teti, Tani, the Princes, their tongues deceive, their smiles are false. And you, Amun. Do you lie also? Have I wasted my years in running after a mirage?
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