“I can shave his head, wash him, and remove the splinters, but I cannot return him to consciousness. I suggest that a priest be present to sing spells of healing.”
“You believe that he will die.”
“Yes,” the physician said simply.
They were interrupted by Si-Amun who came running into the room, his blue linen helmet still framing his face, a whip coiled in one hand. “What is happening?” he demanded. “Hor-Aha has been told to take the troops back over the river and the servants are falling over each other in the house like beheaded geese!” For answer Kamose stepped aside. Seqenenra lay on his stomach and his hideous wound was exposed to Si-Amun’s view as the young man moved closer. For a moment there was silence, then Si-Amun swayed. Kamose put out a hand to steady him. “What is it?” Si-Amun croaked. Kamose let him go.
“Someone tried to murder him with an axe,” he said grimly. “And not just any axe. It was a Setiu weapon.”
“No! “
Kamose looked curiously at his brother. Si-Amun’s face had lost all its colour and Kamose was afraid he would faint. Something in Si-Amun’s tone as he had shouted had made Kamose’s hackles rise.
“Calm yourself, brother,” he said quickly. “Father lives. For how long we cannot say, but …” He got no further. Si-Amun had left the room.
But Seqenenra did not die. All that day the physician worked on his flaccid body, washing him, shaving away his thick black curls, removing the flaps of scalp that had been torn so grievously and picking out the tiny pieces of bone embedded in the thick membrane that protected Seqenenra’s brain. Seqenenra did not so much as sigh. His breathing remained shallow and spasmodic. Kamose stayed with him for many hours, unmoved by the physician’s grisly ministrations, but eventually he was forced to go with Hor-Aha, who was trying to appease the disgruntled soldiers. The chariots were returned to the stalls. The horses were turned out onto the sparse, brittle grass beside the barracks of the family’s bodyguard. “What do you want me to do with the men?” Hor-Aha, asked Kamose when they were at last on their way, tired, filthy and disheartened, to Seqenenra’s office. “Shall I send them home?”
“No,” Kamose replied adamantly. “Not yet. We have victualled them at great inconvenience to ourselves for many weeks and we will go on doing so. I have much to consider, Hor-Aha, and until I have reached a proper decision you can go on drilling them with mock battles and the like. We have the time to make more bows at least.” Hor-Aha ventured a small grin, but quickly sobered.
“The Prince is dying, is he not?” he said, turning his dark face to Kamose. “If he dies, what will you do?” Kamose knew what the General was asking. He answered vehemently.
“My father will not die. Our physician is a fine one. The High Priest himself is saying the spells. The couch is surrounded by powerful amulets.”
“But if he does?” Hor-Aha pressed. Kamose walked on, not looking at the tall Medjay. “Then someone will pay,” he promised grimly.
Si-Amun had left Seqenenra, his thoughts in turmoil, and was running panting through the house, when Raa met him. “Your pardon, Prince,” the woman said, “but your wife has gone into labour, and she is most distressed. Can you come?” Si-Amun, stunned and confused as he was, had not hesitated. Without bothering to reply to Raa, he had swerved towards the women’s quarters. One of the midwives from Weset had been summoned but had not yet arrived.
Aahmes-nefertari was pacing beside the couch, both hands across her abdomen, weeping. One of the family’s priests was lighting incense in a long holder. Kares, Aahmes-nefertari’s steward, waited just inside the door for any orders. When Si-Amun’s breath had slowed, he went to his wife and kissed her. “Is the pain bad?” he asked, and she turned her tear-stained face to him.
“No, not yet,” she sobbed. “It is Father, the way he looked when the litter bearers brought him down, so grey, and that terrible hole in his head. Hold me, Si-Amun!” He put his arms around her and she buried her face in his neck. “He will die,” she choked, her voice muffled. “My baby will be born under dreadful omens! I am so afraid!” He comforted her as best he could, while behind them the priest began to chant and the sweet odour of the holy smoke began to envelop them. Its scented haze calmed Aahmes-nefertari. “I have prayed and brought offerings to Taurt every day,” she said, her voice stronger. “Surely she will not betray me now. Si-Amun, thank you for coming. Please leave, and send Mother. Is the midwife not here yet?” Her tone had risen, become strident. He took her face between his brown hands, and kissing her wet eyes and her tremulous mouth, bade her have courage. His own voice was none too steady.
“Kares, send after that stupid midwife,” he ordered. “The rest of you, stop gaping and make yourselves useful. Music would be soothing and perhaps a board game or two.” He spoke sharply, knowing that the uneasiness in the room stemmed from the drama being played out in another part of the house and not wanting its effects to panic his wife. The servants sprang to obey him and he left them.
He could not stay in the house. Shock and anger at the attack on his father was mixed with anxiety over his wife, and in the end he took a skiff and one bodyguard and had himself poled into the reed swamps. There he let out a fishing line and lay back in the boat, eyes on the gently swaying papyrus fronds above his head. He was twenty now and Aahmes-nefertari four years younger. From the time of their childhood, they had been betrothed to each other according to the ancient custom whereby the heir to the throne must marry a fully royal princess, usually his sister, and so keep the blood line pure. He and Aahmes-nefertari had always known that they would marry, in spite of the fact that the males of their line no longer sat on the Horus Throne, and the knowledge had made him protective of her as they grew up together. He loved her, though he had secretly scoffed at his father’s insistence on a tradition that no longer had validity. If I am proud with a prince’s arrogance, he thought, eyes squinting against a dazzling sky, then Father is doubly so with his dreams of this family’s return to godhead in Egypt. Is. Was. Aahmes-nefertari will be all right, but Father …
Groaning, he sat up. There was a tug on his fishing line but he ignored it. He knew he must consider the terrible consequences of his moment of weakness with Teti. Am I responsible? he wondered, no longer able to hold worry about his wife as a shield against his first sight of Seqenenra lying like a sacrificial bull, impotent and near death. If I had not sent that message to Teti, if Teti had not betrayed me to Apepa, would Father even now be marching along the river road towards the north? Surely word of the army would have reached the King in any case! Did Apepa order a murder? Or was Father struck by some frightened servant or soldier?
He knew he was simply pushing words around in his mind while all the time he was filling with guilt and self-hatred. It is as though I myself wielded that cursed axe, he thought miserably. I, Si-Amun, Prince of Weset. But who struck the actual blow? Mersu? Mersu with his Setiu ancestors, his kinship with Teti’s Chief Steward? Now that I consider it, he was not very curious about the scroll I asked him to send, almost as though he were expecting me to approach him. I send to Teti. Teti sends on to Apepa. And the King reads, considers, and decides to punish his proud southern subject once and for all? His ka responded with a bleak assent. Dismally Si-Amun drew in his line and gave a strangled command. The skiff began to glide back through the rushes to the bank.
The kitchen staff prepared a scanty evening meal but no one wandered into the hall to eat it. There was no change in Seqenenra’s condition. A pall of grimness settled over the house. Aahotep, desperate to be with her husband, encouraged and comforted her daughter. Tani, forgotten by all in the confusion and tragedy of the day, went to her couch early and lay rigid and utterly miserable while Heket told her stories to try and take her mind off her father’s state. A desolate silence came with the night, the only area of bustle and noise being the women’s quarters.
Si-Amun returned to his rooms and took a dagger from his box. It had been cleaned and honed, ready to lie at
his belt on the long chariot ride north. Placing it inside his shirt where it rested cold against his skin he made his way to Mersu’s small cell. He did not want to summon the man. Someone in the future might remember that he had done so and wonder why. Reaching the passage and acknowledging the guard’s salute, he walked to Mersu’s door and pushed it open.
The room was empty. It was furnished sparsely but adequately. Mersu’s pallet lay against one wall, a very low table and a stool beside it. Two chests holding the steward’s possessions lay side by side against another wall. A lamp stood on the table. Smiling grimly, his heart pounding, Si-Amun closed the door behind him and lowered himself onto the stool. He could have searched the chests, lifted the pallet, but he did not. Folding his arms so that he could feel the lethal comfort of the knife, he leaned back against the wall and waited.
The time for the evening meal came and went but Si-Amun was not hungry for food. His appetite was for absolution, cleansing. He thought of Seqenenra, fighting for his life as Ra’s thin light faded from the tiny window high in the wall and the room sank into darkness. Rousing himself, Si-Amun took a spill from the table, went out into the passage, lit it from the torch blazing above the patient soldier, and went back into the room to light the lamp. He considered dismissing the guard but did not do so. Soldiers were expected to ignore the actions of their superiors. The room filled with a warm, steady glow. Si-Amun was about to resume his seat when the door was flung open and Mersu’s angry face appeared. Si-Amun stared, bemused. He had never seen the steward with other than a bland expression.
“I saw the light under the door,” Mersu began. “How dare you enter my …” but then he recognized Si-Amun. Immediately a mask fell across his features and he was once again the well-trained servant. He bowed. “Forgive me, Prince,” he murmured. “I thought one of the underlings had been prowling and the guard had somehow failed to challenge him. I am sorry.” Si-Amun had swung round to face him, hands at his sides.
“Close the door,” he ordered. For a fleeting second he thought he saw fear flicker over the steward’s face but it could have been a waver of the lamplight. Mersu silently obeyed. “Now, Mersu,” Si-Amun went on calmly though his stomach knotted with tension. “Tell me where you were last night.” Mersu inclined his head.
“I suppose the family is questioning everyone,” he observed. “Such a terrible thing has not happened in all the time I have been serving the Lady.” He sighed. “To answer you, Prince, I waited upon the Princess until she closed her doors. I then went to the kitchens and ate with Uni. I spent about an hour with him. As the night was so hot, I persuaded him to swim with me, and I came back to my cell at about midnight, just before the temple horns blew. The swimming had tired me. I fell asleep immediately. But I left my door open,” he added. “If anyone passed along the passage they would have seen me on my pallet.”
His expression had not changed. It registered nothing more than deference as he spoke, and his eyes were clear. Yet the words are too smooth, Si-Amun thought as he listened. I am quite sure that Mersu did indeed eat and swim with Uni and go to bed shortly thereafter, but I am equally sure that he did not stay there. Oh gods, if I am wrong and I have insulted Grandmother’s favourite she will never forgive me. “Mersu, do you remember the scroll I gave you to deliver to Teti’s steward?” he asked. Mersu nodded. “You were not at all surprised at my strange request. Why?” Mersu looked startled. He spread his hands.
“I barely considered the command,” he answered. “What business was it of mine anyway, Prince? You wished to communicate with your mother’s cousin. That was all.” I want to believe you, Si-Amun thought in the tiny silence that fell between them.
“I do not think so,” he said slowly, and Mersu’s hand dropped and found the sleeves of his cloak. “I think that Teti or his steward told you to expect such a request from me. I think you are a spy for Apepa in this household.” Mersu’s eyes grew round with shock.
“Prince, I am deeply affronted,” he said harshly. “I have served the Princess Tetisheri for thirty years and she has never once complained of my care. My loyalty to the House of Tao has never been questioned before!” Si-Amun took a step towards him.
“Perhaps that is because there has never been a need to question your loyalty until now, when Father decided to place a final breach between himself and the King,” he spat back. “Your soul is Setiu, Mersu.” Mersu did not reply. His whole stance conveyed his disappointment and mortification. Si-Amun knew that he had already done irreparable harm to the relationship between Mersu and the family. He swallowed. “Turn out your chests,” he ordered.
Anyone other than a servant would have demanded to know why, but Mersu, the consummate steward, went immediately to his chests, lifted the lids, and began to pull out the contents, piling them on the floor. Si-Amun went and stood behind him. There were six or seven long pleated steward’s gowns, a razor, a spare pair of sandals, a plain wooden cosmetic box which, when Si-Amun gestured, revealed a pot of scented oil and a pot of kohl, and several wigs. The other chest contained a pretty carved box in which Mersu kept the gold he had saved, several amulets, a small statue of Amun, another of Sutekh, and assorted bracelets and necklaces, all of copper but finely decorated with carnelian and turquoise. Tetisheri had been generous to her servant.
Si-Amun felt his heart sink. Bending, he scoured the chests, fingered the belongings, and at last nodded curtly. Mersu began to put the things away. There was no scroll here, no message for Mersu. But then, if I were Mersu, Si-Amun thought, and I had received an order to murder my lord, I would certainly not leave the papyrus lying about. I would burn it immediately. Despair seized him. I know Mersu is guilty but I cannot prove it, and now the wretched man will hold a grudge against me forever.
Mersu had risen and was waiting politely, but behind the downcast eyes Si-Amun sensed relief. Perhaps even triumph? Then another thought struck Si-Amun. What if the message was not written on papyrus? Apepa is no fool. He would not send an expensive scroll to an underling for fear of detection. Surely he would send words scratched on a piece of broken pottery, like the bits used by students or scribes who were learning their craft. Pots were broken in large households all the time. A steward holding a bit of such a pot would be remarked by no one.
He began to pace the floor, scuffing the dirt with his feet. The floors of the servants’ cells were not tiled but made of smooth mud bricks whose surfaces became gritty and deposited a fine film of dry soil underfoot. He sensed Mersu become alert as he moved, but his sandals did not catch on anything. Baffled, he stared at the lamp, pondering. Mersu said nothing.
Then all at once, Si-Amun knew. With a grunt he strode to the lamp, pushed the burning wick aside as it floated in the warm oil, and retrieved a small piece of red pottery. He heard Mersu exhale, a long sigh of defeat. Si-Amun wiped the piece clean on his kilt, tensing for Mersu’s escape, but the steward merely stood with hands still buried in his sleeves. The lamp spat and the shadows flickered as the wick settled once more. Si-Amun held the message to the light. “Kill the traitor,” it said. It was signed “Itju,” above a crude depiction of Sutekh. Itju was the King’s Chief Scribe. Si-Amun stared at Mersu, and Mersu stared back. “You should have smashed this as soon as you received it,” Si-Amun whispered at last. “Then nothing could have been proved against you.” Mersu smiled faintly.
“I did not have the time,” he said. “I tried. If you had not been here tonight, I would have done so. I received it yesterday from a herald passing on his way to the second cataract. Your grandmother kept me busy all day, and if I had refused to eat and swim with Uni as I do every evening, he would have been suspicious. I hid it in the kitchen, in a pile of refuse. I should have left it there. I could not go back for it until after I had struck the Prince, and then it was too late. There was consternation, errands of panic to run …” He shrugged. “Amun has punished me for my perfidy.” He swallowed. “Believe me, Prince Si-Amun, I love your father and this family. Weset is my home. But
my duty lay with the King and his orders must be obeyed.”
Si-Amun listened in horror. The last words might have been his own.
“The King used me,” he said, still whispering. Mersu inclined his head.
“Yet is the King not entitled to use any of us, his subjects?” he replied. To that Si-Amun could find no answer. Seeing him hesitate Mersu came forward eagerly. “I know that you share my loyalty to the Horus Throne in Het-Uart,” he said urgently. “What I did was dreadful, Prince, but necessary. I should not be blamed for it. Say nothing, I beg!”
“Say nothing?” Si-Amun laughed harshly. “Amun! You try to murder my father and then ask me to say nothing? I will take you at once to Kamose and your mistress and you will be tried and executed!”
“I think not,” Mersu said softly, “for if you try, I will tell your brother how you betrayed your father’s plans to Apepa. You will be forced to kill yourself as a matter of family honour.” Si-Amun’s face flushed red. He clenched his teeth.
“You filthy worm!” he ground out. Mersu was unmoved.
“I am sorry, Prince, but it is the truth. I will keep your secret, if you will keep mine.”
“It is not the same!”
“Yes,” Mersu said firmly. “It is.”
I should kill him now, Si-Amun thought, feeling the dagger move against his waist. I can tell Kamose that I discovered the truth and struck in grief and rage. But Kamose will ask me how I knew to search Mersu’s cell. A sweat of fear and claustrophobia drenched him suddenly. I am encircled, he thought desperately. I have no choice any more. Amun forgive me! I deserve to die too. He wanted to wrench out the dagger and push it through the steward’s lightly breathing chest, but he did not have the courage to kill the man who had bent over his basket when he was a baby, who had fed him by hand and been there to catch him when he took his first unsteady steps. Nor could he face the sure aftermath of such an act.
“But I swear by Amun, by Mut and Montu,” he said aloud, “that if you attempt to complete your terrible deed, I will reveal all both you and I have done. I hate you, Mersu. Hate you!” He stumbled into the passage, and as he ran blindly in the direction of his apartments, it came to him that it was not Mersu he hated. It was Apepa, and himself.
The Hippopotamus Marsh Page 12