Magic of the Nile (11 page)

Wheeling on the small hill, he admired the sunset—flaming reds and purples heralding the descent of the god Ra into the underworld, only to rise again in the morning. Not much time for personal reflection when marching to battle.
Yet sunset reminds me of Tyema without fail, especially the haunting songs she sang to the setting sun, there on Sobek’s private beach.
Under his breath he hummed a bit of the song she’d written herself. The more he considered the matter, aside from his own arrogance and ham handedness, the more he came to believe something else had been in play, something he’d been too in love to realize.

The truth is she does hide herself away in Sobek’s temple complex
.
I may have teased her about it, but now I know I unwittingly hit on an underlying truth.
Her elusive behavior wasn’t just village gossip and it wasn’t required by Sobek. Priestesses mingled with citizens in Thebes, were married, had families—so why was Tyema so reclusive? He didn’t feel she’d been false, or playing a role, but she’d hidden much beneath the serene surface. How often had she told him she was freer to be herself with him than at any other time? The girl learned to drive a chariot, by the gods. He chuckled at the memory.

But when he reflected over their whirlwind two weeks together, he saw how in nearly every conversation she’d deflected the talk to him and he of course had been only too happy to pour his dreams, plans and hopes into her willing ears.
No wonder she was overwhelmed when I casually assumed she’d marry me and move to Thebes.

She always asked him excellent questions when he talked about his travels or Court life and politics, made good points when they debated some issue or surveyed potential sites for the new port. She had an undeniable grasp of business and administration. Tyema was no figurehead high priestess, propped up by scribes. She was shrewd, with a knack for running the complicated affairs of her temple. So she was beautiful, talented, brave, funny, smart—and somehow he’d lost her.
 

When this assignment to the Southern Oasis is over, I’ll return to Ibis Nome and sort this out with her. I can’t imagine what barrier she sees in our way, but my love can withstand anything she might tell me
.

As darkness overtook the glorious sunset, he thought briefly of the girls the queen had named that afternoon in Thebes—Baufratet, his childhood playmate, and Nidiamhet the poetess, both the daughters of old noble families in the capital. Either would be a wonderful asset to an ambitious man trying to rise in the politics of Pharaoh’s Court.
Neither holds a candle to my paradoxical little priestess
. His heart was given
. If I can’t sort things out with Tyema, maybe I’ll go to the Afterlife a bachelor. And my younger brothers will have to ensure the family name carries on.

“Sir?” Menkheperr stood next to him. “The scout has returned from the Southern Oasis, with news.”

“Bring him to me at once. And summon the other officers and the senior sergeants.” Pushing aside the personal musings, Sahure descended the hill and went to his small tent. He was unrolling the papyrus map of the Oasis to facilitate a more detailed debriefing from the scout as the men crowded into his tent.
 

Wine was brought. Worn and shaking from exhaustion, the scout needed only a single gulp to drain the mug of beer handed to him. “The Oasis is besieged,” he said, wiping his lips.
 

A murmur went through the ring of listening warriors.

“Who dares to attack Pharaoh’s outpost?” Sahure asked, relieved to hear he faced a problem requiring a military solution.

The scout accepted a second cup of wine from the manservant. “It’s a mixed force, sir. Primarily nomads, a few mercenary warriors from the southern tribes, but also a small troop of Hyksos.”

Now there was cursing from his audience.

Sahure clenched his fist on the hilt of his sword. “Hyksos! You’re sure?”
 

The scout nodded. “There’s no mistake. I was with Pharaoh in the year he took Thebes from the Usurper Queen and in other battles of the campaign as well. I recognize Hyksos. This is a small detachment, maybe fifteen men.”

“They’ve probably recruited this tribe of nomads to be their allies, made them extravagant promises,” Sahure told his officers. “It’s the Hyksos style nowadays to get others to fight their battles.”

“Clever tactic. If the Hyksos can choke off the rich trade from Punt and Kush, Pharaoh’s treasury will be impacted. Which can create a ripple effect to harm Egypt.” Menkheperr took a deep drink of his wine, quizzing the scout, eyes narrowed. “Besieged, you say, not surrendered?”

The scout shook his head. “The fort is plainly still resisting.” Moving to the table where the map had been set up, he traced the topography for them. “The oasis is basically a large bowl in the desert, ringed with limestone cliffs and canyons. The fort lies here, on a slightly upraised ridge at the entrance to the main portion of the oasis.” He stabbed a finger at the red dot on the chart. “The town is outside the fort and has a few wells, but the majority of the water is deep inside the oasis. The enemy can’t gain access to the water without taking our fort.”

“I imagine rations are growing short inside the fort,” Sahure said. “Water wouldn’t be a problem for them, but if they were attacked several weeks ago, the stores of rations must be growing thin. They can’t go out to hunt either.”

“What of the villagers?” Menkheperr asked.

The scout shook his head. “I saw a few people moving about in the town without hindrance from the invaders. The locals seem to be staying clear of the fight.”

“The townspeople are the
Ta-itjawy
, sent by a great Egyptian pharaoh centuries ago to settle this oasis and hold the caravan route. They believe they’re descended from the goddess Sekhmet,” Sahure said. “They’re Egyptians, but through the long years they’ve grown independent minded, more allegiant to their goddess and the local chiefs than to Pharaoh.” He shared his new concern with the circle of his officers. “A high priority challenge once we’ve retaken the oasis is building closer ties to the villagers again. Clearly we need them as allies, not neutral parties who wait out any problem, or worse, who might help the enemy.”
 

“Certainly they did nothing to alert Pharaoh,” Menkheperr agreed.

Nodding, Sahure gave his renewed attention to the scout. “Did you see any caravans?”

“Massed to the south, sir, in a big camp, loosely guarded by the nomads and mercenaries. The Hyksos didn’t appear to be involved in directly managing the caravans. I’ve never seen so many in one place at one time before. Must be five to ten separate caravans, hundreds of camels and donkeys, all trying to stay as close to the oasis as they can.”

“What water are they drinking?” Menkheperr said. “Caravans travel from oasis to oasis. They don’t bring their own supply.”

“The invaders must be giving them rations from one of the small wells outside the oasis proper.” Sahure studied the map for a moment. “Were there any Egyptian-led caravans?”

“I saw the standards for one or two. “ The scout ticked off a few names of caravan masters, then said, “Ptahnetamun—”

“Wait,” Sahure stopped his recitation with an upraised hand. “You’re sure Ptahnetamun is one of the stranded caravan masters?” At the scout’s nod, Sahure said, “The gods may have given us an advantage in the game. He and I have mutual friends, so he’s unlikely to betray me to the enemy if I can sneak into his camp. By questioning him, I may learn more about the situation and the odds we’re facing in retaking the oasis.” Sahure nodded to the scout. “You’ve done a good job. Rest, regain your strength, and then tonight you’ll guide me to where the caravans are sequestered. I’ll attempt to contact Ptahnetamun.”

***

Dressed in a plain tunic designed to blend into the brown of the landscape and label him as a common caravan worker rather than a soldier if caught, Sahure followed the scout as they crept the last few yards to overlook the spot where the invaders had interned the caravans. In the moonlight, Sahure could see how the various caravans had made circles of their animals and cargo, close but not mingling.

“Ptahnetamun’s camped over there, sir.” The scout pointed to the western edge of the sprawling area.

Assessing the odds for success of his plan, Sahure evaluated the terrain between his location and the caravan he was seeking as best he could in the poor light. “Does the enemy patrol regularly?”

His man shook his head. “I think they rely on the threat of no water to keep the caravans docile until the fort has fallen.”

“Which probably works.” Sahure checked his belt daggers and issued his final orders. “Wait here. If I don’t return by dawn or am taken, report back to Menkheperr.”

Barely waiting for the scout’s acknowledgment, Sahure crept down the escarpment and closer to the perimeter of the caravan camp. Taking cover in what sparse brush there was, he circled the area to get closer to Ptahnetamun’s position, evading one half-awake nomad guard with ease. Sneaking between the restive camels and donkeys belonging to the caravan master he was seeking, Sahure crossed the line into the small, packed camp.

He was immediately accosted by two large caravan workers, blocking his camp with drawn knives and hostile demeanor. “And who might you be?”

“A friend of your master’s,” Sahure said, not intimidated. “I need to speak with him at once, and quietly.”

The man who seemed to be in charge eyed him. “You’ve the speech and manner of an Egyptian officer in disguise to me. Deserter from the fort?”

“None of your business,” Sahure answered, hand on the hilt of one dagger.
 

“Don’t waste time, take him to Ptahnetamun,” the other guard urged. “The master’ll get to the truth of this in a hurry.”

Motioning for Sahure to walk ahead of them, the first man said, “We’ll conduct you to the caravan master as you request and if you’re a deserter, he’ll deal with you quick enough. He hates cowards. Move one hand toward the pretty knife in your belt and you’ll die, whoever you are.”

“I’m not here to assassinate Ptahnetamun.” Sahure set a path to the tent the men indicated. “He’d already be dead and none of you would be the wiser if I had been, although your sentinels are more observant than the enemy’s, I’ll grant you.”

“Big talk.” The guard put a beefy hand on Sahure’s shoulder, apparently intending to shove him into the tent, but yanked his hand back as Sahure gave him a glare.

Ptahnetamun was heavy-set, bald, showing the effects of his age and many years on the caravan trail, but still a commanding presence. He surveyed Sahure as he spoke to his men. “What have you brought me, then?”

“Says he’s a friend. Looks Egyptian to me. Deserter maybe, wanting us to hide him.”

“Send them away and we’ll talk,” Sahure said. “I bring greetings from an old friend of yours.”

Ptahnetamun stroked his goatee, leaning back in his chair. “And who might that be?”

Crossing his arms, Sahure leaned against a stout tent pole. “A dancer you once met, Lady Nima.”

“You’ve seen her dance?”

Sahure grinned despite the seriousness of his mission. “Alas, I’ve never had the honor. Her husband is a most jealous man. But I’ve lost at senet to her countless times.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “She cheats so skillfully the gods must assist her.”

“Seems you do know her.” Apparently satisfied, Ptahnetamun sank back in his chair. “Leave us,” he said to his men. He motioned to the other chair. “Sit. I’m afraid I can’t offer you anything more than a sip of wine as the thrice damned nomads keep us on short rations. I’m raiding my own cargo to keep my crew alive.”

Sahure waited till the two burly caravan workers had left the tent, although he was sure they wouldn’t go far. Then he sat and accepted a small amount of wine, nodding his thanks.

“Are you from a relief column?” Ptahnetamun said, wasting no time. “What do you need to know?”

Without confirming or denying his status, Sahure went to the heart of the matter. “What are the conditions at the fort? How big is the enemy force?”

“If you’re here to relieve the garrison, you’d better move fast. They’re negotiating terms for surrender, or trying to.”

Sahure was astonished. “I can’t imagine the commander would surrender. He must know Pharaoh will send reinforcements.”

“The commander died in the first attack, is how I heard it. The nomads entered the area under the guise of a small caravan, then launched a surprise attack. The Egyptian troops here were able to keep the invaders from gaining entry into the fort itself but took heavy losses. I think the fort is down to some junior officer in command now, and he’s out of food and hope. He’s trying to negotiate life for the women and children who took refuge behind the walls.” Ptahnetamun cracked his knuckles. “The enemy has falcons which tore apart the carrier pigeons the garrison tried to send off, and I know for a fact they’ve caught and killed several messengers the fort tried to send under cover of night. Tortured them to death in front of the gates.” He spat. “Filthy Hyksos. The nomads at least deal a clean death to a captured enemy, but the Hyksos always want to show off their god’s black magic and appetite for human blood.”

Sahure was also well acquainted with the methods and beliefs of the barbaric Hyksos, so he kept a tight rein on his hot emotions over the needless deaths of good men.
I’ll say prayers for their kas later and see to proper burial. After the battle.
“My scout says the enemy force is primarily nomads, with a small group of Hyksos. Maybe a few mercenaries from the south.”