Authors: Pauline Gedge
Yet Ahmose, searching himself as time ceased to move, found that Pezedkhu, the fantasy wreathed in the poison of dread, was gone. Only the Pezedkhu of destiny remained, a man whose fate had been bound up with the House of Tao since the stain of Seqenenra’s defeat and death and whose nebulous presence had infused the very atmosphere both Kamose and Ahmose had breathed ever since. Seeing him come was like preparing to greet an old friend.
Harkhuf and the Followers hurried to surround him but Ahmose waved them back. He heard them fitting arrows to their bows and remembered that a King’s bodyguard were forbidden to waste arrows unless in direct defence of their charge. In the next second they would fire and Pezedkhu would fall. Ahmose felt a twinge of regret.
Pezedkhu flicked a finger. It was a tiny gesture, almost unnoticed, but to Ahmose’s horror the General was suddenly ringed with archers rising from their knees where they had been hidden, bows straining, arrows already tight to the string, arrows leaving the string, and before Ahmose could flinch, someone staggered against him, someone else grunted, someone gave a strangled cough, and he turned on feet gone numb to see his men littering the deck like so many skewered swine. Harkhuf was on all fours, a black shaft protruding from his shoulder, and Ahmose’s first dazed thought was: How can I tell Ankhmahor? Qar was running towards him, sailors at his back. Harkhuf began to sway and gasp spasmodically.
“You are a clever man, Ahmose Tao, but not clever enough,” Pezedkhu called. “You are no match for me. Did I not kill your father? Did I not haunt your brother to the end of his days? Where are the vaunted Followers now? You are naked before me and I am going to kill you too.”
His voice sent shivers down Ahmose’s spine. He was no match for this brilliant, brutal man and neither were any of his generals. His mouth had gone dry. He licked his lips, tasting the salt of terror on them, wanting to cower down and close his eyes, but he did not. He felt Harkhuf scrabbling blindly at his ankles in an extremity of pain and he sensed rather than saw Qar lift the man away. Your mother killed to save your life and Kamose died for you, he told himself. So has every other Egyptian fallen this day. This is the moment when you may truly become a King. He stepped forward until the rail was pressing against his waist.
“Your foreign master is not worthy of you, General,” he said, surprised at the clarity and evenness of his own voice. “Surely you see that whether you kill me or not, Het-Uart is doomed. It is the last tiny island in a sea of Egyptian power and the waves are about to swamp it forever.” Pezedkhu smiled. There was nothing sardonic or patronizing in the wide movement of his mouth. It was warm and affable.
“I have many masters,” he replied. “Apepa is but one of them. When his war with you is over, I shall go home to Rethennu, to my wife and my forests and my ocean, until I am needed elsewhere. I like you, Ahmose, and I admired your brother, but what can you offer me compared to all that?” He shook his head and began to unsling his bow. “Besides, your blandishments are hollow. Where are the archers you ought to have held in reserve? You are now dead, and once you are dead your armies will collapse. Apepa will triumph.” Pezedkhu selected an arrow and fitted it to his string.
Ahmose waited in frozen impotence. I am taking my last breaths, he thought, but could not accept. How is that possible? The late sun is glinting off the tip of Pezedkhu’s arrow as he raises it and takes aim, the tip that will be buried deep within my chest. It is beautiful. Sunlight is life, touching the water and turning it into crystal fragments, warming the curving cedar sides of the boat in which he stands to a polished glow. I should ask him for news of Tani. He will know how she fares. I should fall to the deck and so perhaps deflect his shot and save my life. But he did nothing. He waited, his gaze travelling the length of the arrow, past the gloved hand and rigid, muscled arm forcing tension on the bow to the narrowed brown eyes fixed below his collarbone and the confusion of shapes beyond. Sun sparking briefly on some indistinguishable thing of metal in the shapes beyond …
Something came whistling through the hot air from behind Pezedkhu, gleaming as it revolved, and came to rest with a thud somewhere behind Ahmose. Simultaneously an arrow whipped past him, close enough to stir up a wind, and was lost. Full awareness returned to him in a burst of sound and a blur of motion. The noise of battle buffeted him once more. The smell of freshly spilled blood from the deck filled his nostrils. Dazed, he turned. His bodyguard lay dead around him but for Harkhuf who was sitting slumped at the foot of the mast. Qar squatted beside him, the shaft of a broken arrow in his fist. An axe had buried itself in the wood above Harkhuf’s bent head, its long haft still quivering. Ahmose turned back.
Pezedkhu had been thrown off balance. His shot had gone wide. Stumbling to one side he was already recovering, his shoulders hunched, his body swinging around to see from whence the axe had come. The
North
loomed wide and threatening behind him. Its men were launching themselves onto the deck of Pezedkhu’s craft and they and Pezedkhu’s soldiers were already locked together. Hor-Aha’s arm was still raised from the action of throwing. As Ahmose watched, he ran across the deck of the
North
and sprang over the water, landing neatly in the midst of the furore. Zaa pen Nekheb was already across. So was Kay, and he was advancing on Pezedkhu. Ahmose saw him drop his sword and draw a dagger.
Pezedkhu’s bodyguard had closed around him, but the soldiers and crew of the
North
were still pouring across. A group of them under Hor-Aha’s shouted directions were making straight for the thin cordon of men standing between Pezedkhu and Kay who was circling warily, seeking his chance. At the onslaught the line broke, and heart in mouth Ahmose saw an avenue of vulnerability suddenly appear.
Kay did not hesitate. He rushed forward. Pezedkhu was already recovering from the shock of Hor-Aha’s unsuccessful attack but he was encumbered by the tall bow still in his grip. Dropping it and kicking it away, he reached for his sword but he had lost valuable seconds, and before the weapon was half out of its scabbard Kay was on him, elbow tight to his side, dagger poised to thrust into the larger’s man’s belly. Pezedkhu’s arm came up in an instinctive movement of self-defence and Ahmose saw a red gash appear as the knife struck bone and slid down to sever the muscles of the General’s forearm. Kay was thrown off balance by the sheer speed of his charge but he did not drop his dagger. He fell forward. Pressing his wounded limb to his chest, Pezedkhu swung his other fist, connecting with Kay’s temple. Kay slumped to one knee, waving his weapon wildly to and fro as he fought the dizziness of the blow.
Pezedkhu was struggling to pull his sword free of its scabbard with his one unscathed arm while the other trembled uncontrollably, still hugged against him. Blood was streaming down his body in two dark rivulets and soaking into his linen kilt. He was grimacing with pain. Teeth bared he tugged frantically at the sword hilt, weaving an erratic dance as he tried to avoid Kay’s lunges. But as he stepped back, one foot came down on his discarded bow. He stumbled and the bow jerked, tripping him. Pezedkhu went down. Before he could recover, Kay was on him, crawling over the deck, and the blade of the dagger was buried in his throat.
Kay collapsed onto the twitching body, lying prone for a moment in an exhaustion and relief Ahmose could almost feel, then he scrambled up and tugged the weapon free. Feverishly he began sawing at the lifeless wrist, digging and hacking until Pezedkhu’s hand came free. Then he rose and turned to Ahmose, holding it gleefully aloft. “I have taken this hand, Majesty!” he shouted. “Pezedkhu’s hand! I give thanks to my totem Nekhbet and to your Father Amun of Weset! Apepa is defenceless now! Long life and prosperity to Your Majesty!” Ahmose was forced to cling to the ship’s rail for fear his legs would no longer hold him upright. The setting sun’s rays were glancing red off the silver ring still encircling one of Pezedkhu’s thick, strong fingers. He could even see the deep lines spidering across the General’s wide palm.
He is dead, he is dead, he said to himself. So quickly, so easily. He was only human after all, Kamose, a man who fell in battle just like other men. I suppose I imagined some climactic meeting between us when we would come together in single combat with the fate of Egypt at stake but he has been defeated by the ordinary captain of one vessel among many. Regret and compassion overwhelmed him. It is the end of an era, he thought suddenly. Pezedkhu, Seqenenra, Kamose, you wove a sombre garment together, threads of doom and foreboding, of bitterness and terror and murder, and your destinies have been accomplished. Woodenly he turned to find Qar at his elbow. “Send a sailor across to bring me that hand and then take me back to the bank,” he said hoarsely. “Khabekhnet must carry it through the ranks. The Setiu must see it. By nightfall the victory will be ours.”
He sat on a coil of rope and waited, blind to the uproar around him, until presently Qar bent and placed the hand in his lap. It was no longer bleeding. The fingers curled inward as though reaching for a caress. The nail on the powerful, spatulate thumb was split and the others were rimmed in grime. Ahmose lifted it gently and turned it over. The ring’s face was engraved with symbols he did not recognize, foreign symbols, Pezedkhu’s name perhaps, or the name of his wife or son inscribed in the language of some obscure Setiu tribe. I knew nothing about him but his skill as a strategist and his great personal authority, he thought sadly. Qar cleared his throat. “Captain Abana humbly begs you to allow him to keep the ring when you have finished with the hand, Majesty,” he said. “He wishes to wear it as his rightful booty, but he understands that the Setiu General was no common enemy and you may decide to offer it as a trophy to Amun when you return to Weset.” Ahmose nodded, eyes closed. He cradled the hand reverently in both of his as the
Living in Ptah
slowly extricated itself from the last confused clashes still going on and beat its way towards calmer waters.
Khabekhnet and a few of his heralds had seen the vessel emerge. They had paced its progress and were waiting at the place where, hentis ago, it seemed to Ahmose, he had boarded it. The ramp was run out and he walked unsteadily down towards the cluster of mired chariots and weary horses. “This is Pezedkhu’s hand,” he said, passing it to the Chief Herald. “Impale it on a spear and carry it through the fighting. Call out his death and demand the enemy’s surrender. Then bring it back to me.” Khabekhnet took it as a flurry of excited murmurs rippled through the other heralds. Ahmose did not wait to receive their bows. Turning away, he strode towards the cluster of tents beneath the sheltering arms of the sycamore.
The noise of the battle slowly dimmed. Other sounds began to take its place, ordinary, comforting sounds, the trilling of birds in the band of growth beside the tributary, the voices of servants as they went about their evening chores, the whinny of a horse from the direction of their enclosure. The flap of Ahmose’s tent was folded back and he could see movement inside. As he approached, Akhtoy came out, and at the sight of the man Ahmose felt a great weight of exhaustion descend on him, weakening his limbs and bending his spine. “Pezedkhu is dead,” he said huskily. “It is only a matter of time before our victory is declared. My Followers are slain, all but Harkhuf who is wounded. Send my physician to his tent at once.” Akhtoy’s gaze travelled him swiftly.
“Majesty, are you also hurt?” he asked. Ahmose looked down. His palms were smeared with Pezedkhu’s dried blood and below them the blood of his bodyguard was congealing in blotches and long splashes on his kilt and down his calves. He began to strip himself in a sudden fever to be clean, tearing sword belt and linen from his waist and the helmet from his head, pulling off the pectoral, tossing everything onto the earth.
“Bring fresh natron,” he said through clenched teeth. “I must wash now, Akhtoy. I must wash.” Then he was running for the water, stumbling a little as the bank shelved down, his feet catching in hidden roots, his toes stubbing against small stones, until he felt the cool, flowing resistance of the Nile against his skin. Falling forward he submerged himself, opening his eyes and his mouth to the river’s insinuation, rubbing his hands together, forcing his body to remain beneath the surface until he felt the last stains of death soften and dissolve away. Gasping, he broke into the limpid early evening air and saw his body servant waiting with a dish of natron and a towel. Ahmose beckoned. “Come into the water,” he called. The man slung the towel around his neck and waded obediently into the gentle current. “Now scrub me hard,” Ahmose ordered, “and when that is done, do it again.” The natron in the man’s practised fingers grated almost painfully against his skin and Ahmose welcomed the sensation, feeling the horror of the day slough away and a measure of equilibrium return.
Nevertheless when he came to the threshold of his tent with the servant behind him, his body tingling and his mind more calm, he paused for a moment, unwilling to enter a place whose familiarity seemed cramped and old. Akhtoy came forward holding a cap and it was only then that Ahmose realized he had been bareheaded in a public place. “There is food and beer, Majesty,” Akhtoy said as he settled the covering on Ahmose’s shaved skull. “You have not eaten since early this morning. The physician has gone to tend Prince Harkhuf. Prince Mesehti wishes to know whether or not you will require your chariot again today.” The second of dislocation had passed. Ahmose moved forward to the chair drawn up beside his table and lowered himself into it, aware that his legs were aching as well as his head.
“I am not hungry but I suppose that I had better eat,” he replied heavily. “It is going to be a long night, Akhtoy. Send to Mesehti and tell him that I want the chariot at once.” He drew the cup brimming with dark beer towards him and reached for the bread. “As soon as I have eaten, I will see Harkhuf. Is there any word from Ankhmahor?” Akhtoy shook his head.
“No, Majesty, but he should be returning from Aabtu at any time.”