Authors: Pauline Gedge
“Tetisheri,” he said as kindly as he could, “I am impressed by your dream. Akhtoy had a similar one some time ago, just before the gates of Het-Uart opened. But if you tell me in order to persuade me to stay at Sharuhen, you are mistaken. I go to end the siege. My mind is made up.” He tensed against the flood of protest he believed would come but she merely nodded once and dropped her hand.
“You are the King,” she said utterly unexpectedly. “Your decisions are in the way of Ma’at. Yet you sacrificed a bull in the hope that Amun would grant you this one last victory, did you not?”
“I did, but …”
“Amunmose has brought milk mixed with the blood of your offering,” she interrupted him imperiously. “It will sanctify your going and consecrate your feet to speed you to Apepa’s death. I know it. All I ask is that you tarry one week in your tent outside Sharuhen. One week. Will you do that for me?”
“It will take more than a week for the army to pack up and prepare to march,” he answered. “But yes, Grandmother, I can promise that.”
“Thank you.” She spoke with such uncharacteristic humility that he was disarmed. Scooping her up bodily, he planted a kiss on her leathery cheek before setting her back on her feet. She bore it with dignity, signalling to the High Priest to begin the rite. At once he began to sing, walking ahead of Ahmose, the pink milk and blood splashing the stone and cascading down the steps to be diluted in the dark water below the ramp. “Go, Ahmose, leave now!” Tetisheri urged. “The ramps of the servants’ ships are already drawn up, as Apepa draws near to his doom. I will pray for you every day. Do not wash the mixture from your sandals. Carry the god’s blessing with you all the way to Rethennu.”
“Watch over my sons,” Ahmose managed, and she smiled.
“Always,” she said.
The blood and milk were not sticky under his sandals, for the stone paving was cool. Nevertheless he felt the liquid moisten the sides of his feet and seep under his soles as he descended the steps. He ran up the ramp, and turning saluted Amunmose and his grandmother. She did not wave back. She had gathered the cloak tightly around her again, her grey hair straggling stiff and untidy on her shoulders, her aging but imperious features soft in the light of the lamp Isis held high, and for once Ahmose loved her unreservedly.
The mooring ropes were cast adrift. Qar called to the helmsman and the rowers lowered the oars. Ponderously the
North
swung out into the sluggish current. The last he saw of Tetisheri was her proud carriage as she walked back towards the shrouded bulk of the sleeping house.
The journey to the Delta was uneventful. Ahmose did not hurry but neither did he put in at Khemmenu to see Ramose as he had wanted to do on the way south. He arrived at Het-Uart at the end of the first week of Mesore, having spent long, pleasurable hours hanging over the railing of the
North
to watch the fields being harvested as she beat her way down the Nile. Villagers were busy in the Delta also, picking fruit from the laden trees and stripping the grapevines. Ahmose felt to his bones the new harmony his beloved country was making. Everywhere the atmosphere was one of hope and abundance, a new trust in the security he was creating. Whether Sharuhen fell or not, he reflected, the past hentis of foreign rule were fast disappearing from the minds and memories of his subjects. But not from mine and not from my descendants, he vowed as he moved from his cabin to the railing and to the shore in the quiet evenings. I will make sure that no future King ever forgets these times so that never again will Egypt become the prey of rapacious men who live-without-Ra.
At Het-Uart word of his coming had preceded him and Mesehti was waiting with his chariot. After a few hours consulting with Khety and Sebek-khu regarding the continued demolition of the city walls and its reclamation, he set out along the Horus Road, his baggage and his entourage strung out cheerfully behind him. Abana had not been in the Delta. He was on his way to Rethennu on one of the water ships and Ahmose looked forward to greeting him later. This late in the summer the flood plains were dry and hard and even the Sea of Reeds had shrunk. Ahmose made good time. At the Wall of Princes he spent a pleasant night with Generals Iymery and Neferseshemptah in one of the forts, hearing over beer and coarse bread how the restoration and re-manning of the Wall was proceeding steadily. It was good to be back among soldiers, he thought to himself contentedly, but not as good as sitting with Aahmes-nefertari and their son in the garden at home, sharing gossip after a long, hot day. He missed them already.
Eight days later he was met by Standard Bearer Idu and an escort from his Division of Amun, and surrounded by the Followers he entered the perimeter of the camp. He might have left it only yesterday. There were the same neat rows of tents, the same aroma of roasting meat, the same toing and froing of soldiers sauntering in noisy groups or hurrying on errands, the same flash of chariot wheels as officers came and went. A cloud of dust far to his right where the bivouacs ended and the gravelled desert began told him that a contingent of troops was drilling, although the distance was too great for him to hear the shouted commands of the captain.
While Akhtoy oversaw the erection of his tent and Khabekhnet went to summon the generals, Ahmose had himself driven closer to Sharuhen. The camp has remained true in my memory, he thought, but for some reason I imagined Sharuhen itself to be smaller as the months passed. Perhaps because I so desperately desired to conquer it. But it is larger than I remembered. Its walls are higher and sturdier, its impression of inviolability stronger. I am doing the right thing in accepting a limit to the extent of my retribution. I wonder if my commanders will agree?
They gathered outside his tent in the long shadow it cast. The late afternoon was hot and they gladly accepted the water and beer Akhtoy poured for them. Ahmose, scanning them carefully as one by one they arrived, reverenced him, and took their places around the table, thought that they seemed subdued. Although happy to see him return, there was no laughter or idle talk among them. He brought them to order with a greeting and asked for their reports. Kagemni was the first to speak. Under his crumpled red linen helmet his brow was furrowed and shining with sweat, and dust had settled in the creases around his long nose. “There has been no word from the city, Majesty,” he said. “We are watched occasionally, almost casually, from the top of the walls but otherwise we are ignored. We need more water. The summer heat here is intense and the wind has veered from the west, off the ocean, and now blows from the north, stirring up the desert and making the soldiers irritable. They cannot bathe to relieve their distress.”
“We have begun to send them to the ocean in shifts,” Akhethotep added. “There they can disport themselves in the Great Green and wash, but many of them fear the size and force of the sea. Food is not a problem, however. General Hor-Aha has turned the Medjay into hunters. They range the mountains and regularly bring in much game.”
“There has been an increase of eye sickness, Majesty,” Baqet interposed. “The physicians sent to the Delta for more unguents. The constant glare of light off the sand is responsible, of course, and the dust. There is no shelter here, nothing green.”
“The Medjay do not care for such shelter,” Hor-Aha said. “They are content. But the rest of your troops complain to their officers every day. Also it must be the season of locusts. My tribesmen have encountered large swarms of them in the thin strip of fertile land at the foot of the mountains. They do not fear them, but their black clouds can be seen from the camp and the sight of them stirs a superstitious dread in the other soldiers. They are seen as an omen of disaster.”
Ahmose studied his friend. He alone of all the generals appeared to have benefited from his stay in this dry, forsaken place. His black skin had a sheen of health to it and his dark eyes were clear. His hair had grown again to its former length and lay gleaming on his broad shoulders. Unlike the others, he was not sweating. Ahmose rapped the table. “I had already decided to give up the siege,” he said, “and everything I hear from you reinforces that decision. It is time to admit a bloodless defeat, my Generals, and retire behind the Wall of Princes. I will lose face but my soldiers will doubtless bless me. No Egyptian likes being away from his land for too long.” No one objected and in their silence he read relief. “I see that you agree,” he continued dryly. “Then you may inform your officers that we will march one week from today. I will give you the redistribution of the divisions later. Now I invite you to eat with me and we will talk of other matters. I am pleased to be in your presence again.”
After they had gone, he was reluctant to enter his tent. The light was fading and with it the heat, although the wind still gusted, flattening his kilt against his thighs and tugging at the lappets of his helmet. Taking Ankhmahor, he strolled in the direction of the fort. He was drawn to the rugged adamant of its stone, its aura of complete indifference. He tried to imagine its gates open, its citizens coming and going along the road to the ocean, the ox carts of traders rattling as they drew near, the cries of its children and the chatter of its women, but he could not. Sharuhen was too solid, too real to be a mirage, yet there was a dreamlike quality about it that troubled him. I shall never see what is inside it, he thought. Somewhere within its mute defences Apepa and Tani eat and sleep, walk and talk, but my mind sees them standing stiffly motionless while the sun rises and sets, a pair of statues who neither breathe nor blink. I suppose the rock walls muffle all sound, particularly with the gates closed, but I cannot rid myself of the fancy that Sharuhen is crowded with lifeless figures.
For three days he rose early, had himself driven as close to the city as was safe, and spent the morning hours sitting under a canopy with his gaze on the southern gate. He had no duties to perform. A wave of excitement had rippled through the camp with the news that the siege was to be lifted, but Ahmose remembered the sneering arrogance of the man who had spoken from the wall and would not give his name and a part of him regretted this retreat. I would have liked to see him humbled, he thought. For what is he but the petty ruler of a single city? Yet I, King of Egypt, must slink away from his haughty disregard like a whipped dog.
But on the fourth day, as he was slumped in his chair with the thin protection of the canopy flapping above him, he saw a man suddenly appear on the top of the wall. Ankhmahor uttered an exclamation that was echoed by the Followers clustered around. Ahmose came to his feet, his mind all at once filling with his grandmother’s dream and his promise to tarry outside Sharuhen for seven days. Excitement flooded him. The man lifted a horn to his mouth and blew. “Egyptians!” he shouted. “The Queen Tautha desires audience with her brother! Let her approach him unharmed!”
A hundred ideas flashed through Ahmose’s head, but one was uppermost. They will open the gate to let her out, we could rush them then, but no, it would take too much time to muster an assault, can I and the Followers make the attempt? The man had not waited for a reply. He had disappeared as quickly as he had come. Already the gate was inching open and a small figure was emerging. It was Tani, unescorted, a lone woman crossing the hot waste towards him, the tassels of her robe flicked by the wind, stray strands escaping from her bound hair and being flung against her neck.
“Mesehti, the chariot!” Ahmose called. The Followers were also watching Tani come nearer, their hands on the hilts of their swords. Do they expect her to lunge at me with a dagger? Ahmose thought idiotically. Then she was before him, eyes narrowed against the sunlight, holding her hands wide.
“I bring no weapon,” she said to Ankhmahor, a hint of sarcasm in her voice. “Greetings, Ahmose. I must speak to you immediately and privately. Am I permitted?” For answer he indicated the chariot. She stepped up onto its floor and he followed. Mesehti clucked at the horses and they set off towards Ahmose’s tent. He had not said a word.
Once inside he dismissed Akhtoy and turned to face her. “Have you brought me the surrender of Sharuhen?” he demanded, without much hope. She laughed once in shock.
“No, of course not!” she said sharply, then she softened. “It is wonderful to see you again, Ahmose.” He would not respond to the tenderness of her tone.
“What do you want?” he asked roughly. “Have you had enough of the Setiu? Have you come to beg me to send you home? I will do it gladly, Tani.” She bit her lip and looked away.
“I need your help,” she said in a low voice. “My husband is very ill. He needs poppy to ease his pain but there is none in the city. Sharuhen’s supply has always come from Keftiu, but the siege has put a stop to it. May I sit down?” He nodded and she collapsed into a chair. “I know how you hate him,” she went on urgently, “but I pray that you will take pity on a fellow man in great distress.”
“He is ill?” Ahmose repeated in astonishment. “Apepa? What is the matter with him?”
“There is a steep stone stairway leading from the house where we live, down to the street entrance,” she said. “He was descending it when he tripped on something, a pebble perhaps, I don’t know. He fell. The guards caught him at the bottom but it was too late. He had broken his leg.”
“A broken leg? But surely …”
“He broke it in three places,” she blurted. “Not cleanly. Shards of bone were sticking out of his skin. He was screaming. Oh, Ahmose, it was terrible. He went on screaming while he was carried back into the house and laid on his bed. His physician tried to push the bones back into place and he fainted. It was useless. That was three days ago. Then the ukhedu started to spread. Washing his leg and putting salve on it did no good. It swelled and oozed. He can hardly be touched without his shrieking with the pain. This morning I left him drowned in sweat and shaking as though it was winter.” Her face worked and she burst into tears. “His physician is a fool!” she cried out. “He is dying, and in such agony you cannot imagine! Please, Ahmose, give me poppy!” Grabbing up a piece of linen from the table, she held it to her eyes. Her shoulders were heaving with her sobs.