“I don’t want to be with them at all,” Tani said. “I hope we do get tents in the garden.”
“We must behave as though nothing is wrong,” Kamose said decidedly. “Don’t let them slight or intimidate us. The noblest families in Egypt are represented here, as well as the King’s Setiu advisers. We have no animosity towards them.”
Yet no one moved to leave the shade of the canopy. The last stragglers in the King’s entourage were wandering by. Most of them ignored the little group. Some bowed, whether mockingly or in earnest Kamose did not know. He stood on, one arm around Tani’s shoulders, and longed suddenly for the sound of his father’s voice.
Nehmen had appropriated Kamose’s suite of rooms for the King. It had been Seqenenra’s and his father’s before him. The rooms were simply decorated with bright wall paintings of day-to-day life but large and airy. The viziers were quartered in Si-Amun’s rooms, and Ahmose found himself ousted for Nehmen and Yku-didi. He and Kamose decided to sleep in the barracks with the sequestered soldiers but an order forbidding it came from the King through Nehmen, so they found themselves squeezed into a servant’s cell. Fortunately it was not Mersu’s.
To Tani’s delight, billowing tents of coarse linen were erected by the pool in the garden for herself and her mother. Aahmes-nefertari had accepted her grandmother’s invitation to have a cot put up in her bedchamber and she went to ground there, little Ahmose-onkh beside her in his basket.
All at once the large house with its many passages became uncomfortably crowded. Kamose and his brother, venturing out in the late afternoon with their huge and silent guards padding behind them, found every corner occupied by officials and courtiers who were passing the time before the King left his bedchamber in desultory talk, board games and gambling. Their servants jostled each other as they came and went from the kitchens or the forest of tents that had mushroomed on the ground behind the house where the majority of the courtiers had been assigned space. Kamose’s nostrils were tickled by wafts of exotic perfume, hot pastries and precious oils from Rethennu. Jewels winked at him on the prettily gesturing, hennaed hands, the smooth, pampered skin of arms and necks, swung from the ears of painted men and women who glanced curiously at him as he went. Even the servants had gold rings in their ears and seemed to stare at him with a haughty disdain as they stepped aside so that he and Ahmose could pass. “Try the office,” Ahmose whispered, but even here there was no oasis of calm. As the two young men pushed open the door they were met by a sudden silence and the regard of several pairs of eyes. Yku-didi and three heralds were there, conferring with the Treasurer, their scribes cross-legged on the floor in a welter of paint pots and scrolls. There was a scramble to rise and bow to the Princes. Kamose nodded curtly and retreated, closing the door. “The garden,” he suggested, and he and Ahmose picked their way back along the passage. On the way, scraps of tantalizing conversation followed them.
“… the tax on my date groves. My steward swears by Baal-Yam it is not true.”
“… but she caught them by the tamarisks, you know, the place that’s so nice and shady and private behind the temple wall. He says it isn’t what it seems but I know …”
“… the negotiations have taken so long. Who do the Keftiu think they are? The whole thing is producing mountains of documents and no results. The King …”
“It’s a spell to make you remember where you put it, but the cost is high, ten uten, and you might prefer to commission an identical circlet and hope it’s ready before she asks where it’s gone …”
“Oh, I have landed on the House of Spitting! Good luck and bad together! I need a throw of five, five!”
“Hush, it’s them! How handsome they are, even if their skin is so dark! If the King wants to banish them he can send them straight to my bedchamber …”
It took Kamose a moment to realize that the last speaker, a woman with alluring almond eyes and golden leaves tied into her sleek black wig, was referring to Ahmose and himself. With a wry smile he turned into the reception hall, Ahmose at his heels.
Here there was a reverential peace. A few courtiers stood about in quiet groups, sipping wine and talking in low voices. To Kamose’s right, under a tall canopy of cloth of gold, stood the Horus Throne. With one accord the two of them approached it. It was of gold, its arms ending in the snarling muzzles of lions, its sides a beautiful sweep of turquoise and lapis wings where Isis and Neith, the sisters of Osiris, spread their arms to protect and enfold the god who sat upon it. The back was intricately tooled, the gold inlaid with jasper and carnelian showing many ankhs, symbols of life, hanging from the staff of eternity and the stool of wealth. The sides, tiny tiles of ivory alternated with ebony, depicted a King striding forth, Crook and Flail held out before him, Hapi, the god of the Nile, behind him and Ra before. On the rear a great Eye of Horus glimmered. Kamose approached the Throne, pride and a spurt of possessiveness making him blind to all else around him. “Do not touch it, Prince,” a voice warned. Kamose looked down. The Keeper of the Royal Regalia was sitting below the three steps of the dais, his charge beside him. Kamose conjured a smile.
“I have no intention of touching it,” he answered.
“Look, Kamose,” Ahmose whispered. “Here, on the seat. It is Horus in his aspect of the Falcon God of the Horizon. How splendid he is!”
“And look at the footstool,” Kamose whispered back. “The King places his feet on Egypt’s enemies, the Nine Bowmen, but the Setiu are conspicuously absent!” He and Ahmose grinned at each other, a moment of wicked humour eclipsing all else.
“One could hardly grind one’s own ancestors into the dirt,” Ahmose hissed, shaking with suppressed laughter. “Oh, Kamose! I feel almost sorry for our upstart King!”
“Hush!” Kamose indicated the Keeper of the Royal Regalia. “We should not linger here, Ahmose. Our guards are becoming uneasy.” The two burly soldiers were indeed shuffling and looking about awkwardly. Kamose and Ahmose continued on their way through the lofty room.
As they went, a man detached himself from one of the groups and came towards them, bowing several times. “Princes,” he said as they halted, “I am Prince Sebek-nakht of Mennofer, erpa-ha and hereditary lord. I am honoured to meet you both.” His smile was open and friendly. They returned his bow.
“The Princes of Memphis possess an illustrious lineage,” Kamose observed. “My house is not my own at the moment, Sebek-nakht, but I welcome you to Weset. We are at your service.”
“Thank you,” the man said. “I am a priest of Sekhmet, Lion Goddess of Mennofer. I am also one of the King’s architects and my father is vizier of the North. If I can serve you in any capacity, your Highness has only to ask.”
“I am grateful,” Kamose answered, taken aback and yet touched by the man’s courtly words. “I am in no position to request any favours at present but I appreciate your offer.”
“The Mennofer Princes have always been very powerful men,” Ahmose commented as he and Kamose left the hall and stepped out into the warm afternoon sunlight. “Do you think we have a friend there, Kamose?” Kamose shrugged.
“We have no friends,” he replied shortly. “We have no need of a priest or an architect, and the support of a vizier’s son means nothing now. It is too late. Where was the mighty erpa-ha Prince when Seqenenra needed him?”
But under the bitter words was a flicker of gladness. Egypt’s native sons recognized each other. The nobles of this country could do little more, but Kamose no longer felt alone amid a hostile throng. A sympathy more secret and less courageous than the Mennofer Prince’s might exist behind any of these northern faces that displayed the cosmetician’s skills. Kamose wondered if the Setiu King might be sitting atop a house of fragile reeds after all.
The feast that took place that night was the most sumptuous ever seen in Weset. The King occupied the dais, sitting in cushions before his gilded table surrounded by pink and green spring flowers. Electrum sparkled as he bent to speak to his Queen on his right, lifted food to his
mouth, or paused to survey the company. On his wigged head the Fiery Uraeus, the golden cobra and vulture with their beaded eyes and watchful gaze, reared in protective warning. Below him the Chief Herald stood with his staff. His Fanbearers, holding the ostrich plumes, flanked the dais together with his generals and bodyguard. The Queen was a dark and delicate young woman in a silver-shot sheath, her arms tinkling with silver, her fingers heavy with gold. Behind her, three of his other wives chattered and giggled, garbed in fine linen and buried in flowers.
The crush of diners around the many tiny tables scattered about the floor was intense and spilled out over the portico, down the steps, and into the garden. Dozens of perspiring servants moved to and fro bearing trays of steaming dishes and flagons of wine. Others presented the courtiers with garlands of early blue and pink lotus, strings of blue beads and perfume cones to be tied on their heads. The blending of hundreds of voices was deafening, the mingled aromas of food, flowers and the melting cones overpowering. Occasionally a puff of night wind blew in from the garden but it only served to stir the laden air. The playing of the King’s musicians was drowned in the cacophony.
Kamose and the family sat far back against a wall, facing a tumultuous sea of laughing, drinking courtiers and largely ignored. They took their meal quietly. Although they had put on all their finery they felt awkwardly out of place, old-fashioned and slow. They were soon finished and sat with cups before them, the sweet smell of their lotus wreaths mingling with the released scent of the oil that slipped lazily down their necks. “What is that strange instrument?” Tani enquired, pointing to where the musicians were vainly playing. “I recognize the harps and drums and, of course, the finger cymbals.”
“It is called a lute,” Tetisheri answered. “The Setiu brought it with them. When the dancing begins you will be able to hear it. The sound is stronger than the harp but not as gentle.”
“This wine is Charu,” Ahmose broke in, licking his lips speculatively, his voice full of awe. “The best wine in the world.”
“And the perfume locked in the cones is myrrh,” Aahotep cut in. “Are we children, to be impressed by these things? Gold buys everything and means nothing.”
“Yet it is hard to look beyond the gold to those through whose hands it passes,” Aahmes-nefertari said, her eyes on the Queen, who was listening to her husband, her chin sunk in one hennaed palm.
“We must try,” Kamose urged her. “We are not unimportant, Aahmes-nefertari. All this,” he gestured at the riotous crowd, “all this is because of us. The King is here, six hundred miles from Het-Uart, because we are more important than any noble in this room. Remember that.”
“I would have preferred a visit from a herald with a scroll,” Tetisheri complained. “They eat more in a day than we set on our tables in a month. Uni is crazy with anxiety over our stocks of flour and honey. The harvest is a long way off.” No one had the heart to remind her that for them the harvest would probably be meaningless. They fell silent, a little pool of worry and sobriety amid an increasingly raucous congregation.
At last the King signalled. The noise dropped to an anticipatory murmur. Servants removed the tables and the diners pressed back towards the walls. The musicians took a moment to gulp their beer and mop their faces. Then the entertainment began. Afterwards Kamose, falling onto his cot in his cramped quarters, remembered that part of the night as a blur of glaring colours, naked bodies and exotic music. Imprisoned in the crush, his head throbbing, he suppressed a wild desire to leap up and run out onto the desert where there was a fresh wind and starlight. Tetisheri was lying back on her cushions, eyes closed, drowsing. Aahotep had her arm around Aahmes-nefetari. Tani was sitting with knees drawn up, mutely watching the activity. Ahmose had disappeared, but Kamose saw him a little later talking to the Mennofer Prince and the men around him. They were all smiling.
With a rumble of drums and the high click of finger cymbals the dancing started. Kamose, no stranger to the delights and intricacies of such expression, took little notice. Everyone loved dancing. The King’s troupes were very accomplished. Their skin gleamed with oil, their hair, weighted with silver balls, swung pleasingly. Their supple bodies bent and swayed. But the last dancers were black, their hair stuck with the plumage of strange birds, their loincloths of animal skins. As they danced they uttered hoarse cries. Their eyes roved fiercely over the gathering and they shook strange instruments. Kushites, Kamose thought. A gift, I suppose, to our King from Teti-en, Prince of Kush, that ingratiating governor who preens himself on enjoying Setiu approval and who is so closely bound to Het-Uart by treaties that the King calls him “brother.”
The dancers were replaced by magicians who turned wooden sticks into snakes that slithered black and menacing over the floor and made the women shriek, then were grasped by the tail and became sticks again. The magicians were able to clothe themselves in fire, pull singing birds from their mouths, and other marvellous things. But Kamose watched coldly. Outside the moon was shrinking, paling towards the dawn. The swollen river ran swiftly silver and the lush new growth along its banks was shrouded in darkness.
He felt eyes on him and lifted his head. Apepa was staring at him expressionlessly from the dais over the clapping, shouting throng, his face unreadable. Kamose stared back, wondering what thoughts were flitting through the King’s mind under the stiff helmet whose wings brushed the royal shoulders. No contest existed between the two men. Apepa was the law and Kamose the criminal. Yet, as he considered the King’s blank gaze, Kamose sensed fear behind it, and a challenge. It is between you and me, he thought, as the Queen touched Apepa’s hand and he turned to give her his attention. You know it, irrational as it seems. You and me.
On the following morning Kamose rose early, washed and dressed, and walked to the temple, trailed by the soldiers detailed to guard him. He performed his duty to Amun, spoke briefly to Amunmose, then walked back to the house in the sparkling, fresh air. The flood was at its height. Water lapped at his feet and spread beyond him to the very edge of the cliffs, reflecting a pale sky. Two hawks hung motionless above him as though dazed by the strength of the sunlight and the smooth mirror of the vast pools below. Their presence lightened his heart and he saluted them silently as he approached the house. Already the noise and bustle of the King’s retinue could be heard and a strong smell of new bread assailed him as he turned away from the river and headed for the garden.
On the way, Yku-didi came up to him. “The King has commanded that you attend him in the reception hall in one hour, Prince,” he said with a bow. “You may not wear jewellery or sandals. A simple kilt will be sufficient clothing.” Kamose fought down his apprehension. Criminals appearing for sentencing had to be barefoot and unadorned but he had somehow believed that his rank would protect him from this humiliation. For answer he nodded, dismissed the herald, and returned to the servant’s cell. Akhtoy rose from his stool before the door.
“Go to the other members of the family and tell them that we will meet together in the garden in one hour,” he told his steward. “Has the King risen?”
“Yes, Prince. He and his train have finished the morning prayers to Sutekh and are taking nourishment.”
“Thank you. You can go.”
For the first time, Kamose wished that time would stand still, that some mighty cataclysm would come and sweep them all away before he had to stand before Apepa with his loved ones under the eyes of the northerners. He could imagine what their thoughts would be. Relief that the judgement was not falling on them, an avid titillation as the sentence was pronounced, food for gossip for many weeks to come.
He entered his room and stood with eyes closed, breathing deeply, conjuring the faces of his father and Si-Amun in an effort to boost his courage, but their picture only discomfited him further. I am angry with them, he thought in surprise. They left me to face this alone, and I am angry. He turned his thoughts to Amun, whose golden image sat smiling in the temple surmounted by his beautiful plumes. Amunmose would be present
in the hall today in his full regalia, praying quietly for those to whom the god owed loyalty. The Princes of Weset have served you faithfully for generations, he said to the god in his mind. Now is the moment of reciprocation. Take up our cause, your cause, and smite the Setiu …
His thoughts trailed away, the words lacking conviction. It had all been said to Amun a thousand times and Kamose did not want to pray any more. He sat on the disordered cot where the hard-pressed servants had not yet had time to change the linen, folded his arms, and set himself grimly to wait.
Shortly before the hour was up Kamose left the cell and went into the garden where the rest of the family was already gathered, a tight, sombre little group staring haughtily back at the courtiers who strolled about waiting for a herald to announce that they might enter the hall. Swiftly Kamose kissed the women. His mother and sisters wore ankle-length, unpleated sheaths. They were without jewels or wigs. Aahotep’s healthy, gleaming tresses fell to her shoulders, one streak of grey at her temple catching the sun. None of them were painted but Tetisheri. She stood resplendent in wig, silver necklet, earrings and bracelets. Her sandals were of soft white leather. Blue eye paint smudged her lids and kohl-rimmed eyes. Tani had been crying. Her eyes were swollen red. “Where is Ahmose?” Kamose enquired anxiously, ignoring the flutter of hushed conversation that had broken out at his appearance.
“We do not know,” Tetisheri replied. Kamose surveyed her and as he did so he felt his mood change from fearful anticipation to a lightness he had not experienced for a very long time. His grandmother regarded him with her customary cool hauteur. The others had their eyes fixed on him too, their gaze full of expectation. They were relying on him to conjure some magic that would save them, but Tetisheri would always stand on nothing but her blood and her station in life, unrecognized though that might be. She was the wife of a King, the mother of a King, and that was enough for her. “He will doubtless appear at the last moment,” Tetisheri went on. “Fetch me a shat cake, Uni. This waiting has given me an appetite.”
The Hippopotamus Marsh Page 28