The Hippopotamus Marsh (28 page)

“No, Grandmother,” he replied. “A spear thrust to the side and a knife in my cheek, that is all. I will be myself in a week or two.” She nodded once and turned her terrifying gaze on Si-Amun.

“Aahmes-nefertari is still on her couch,” she said. “She gave birth to a son yesterday at sunset. Go to her when you can. She does not yet know that you are home.” At that she left them, stalking into the house, her spine straight and her shoulders set. Si-Amun knew that none of them would see her weep. He got up and went to the coffin where the sem-priests were examining the corpse.

“Can he be beautified?” he asked peremptorily. One of the priests answered with his face averted so that he might not breathe on Si-Amun.

“It is not too late, Prince,” he said. “The sand has slowed the process of decomposition. But we cannot repair these wounds. The skin is already too dry to take stitches.” Relief flooded Si-Amun.

“That is not important,” he told them. “Do the best you can. Take him away.” He could no longer bear to look down on the black and battered face of his father. Abruptly he went to Aahotep. She was kneeling with her dusty hands in her lap. Soil clung to her hair and stuck to the paint on her face. Si-Amun squatted before her but she turned away.

“Leave me alone, Si-Amun,” she whispered. “Go to your wife. There is nothing you can do for me.” Obediently he rose. She was strong, his beautiful mother. She would grieve by herself, she would mourn for the seventy days, but she would live.

Kamose’s litter was just disappearing into the shaded garden, Ahmose and Uni following. Kares, his mother’s steward, passed him with a bow and took up his station a few steps from Aahotep, folding his arms. Si-Amun wondered anxiously where Tani was licking her wounds, and like cold water flung in his face he remembered Mersu and what must be done. Mentally shaking off the panic that had begun to wrap itself around him, he started towards the women’s quarters. I will deal with one thing at a time, he thought. Aahmes-nefertari first, and my son.

Her room was cooler than the burning hands of the sun that beat upon the walls. Puffs of stale air entered from the windcatcher on the roof, stirring the plaited reed window
hangings and the wisps of disordered hair that lay on Aahmes-nefertari’s cheeks as she drowsed, propped high with pillows. Si-Amun motioned to Raa, on a stool by the couch, and with a welcoming smile the woman crept out. Si-Amun approached and kissed his wife’s pale lips. She woke with a start, shrieked in joy, and twining her arms about his neck, drew him down. “Si-Amun! I cannot believe it! We have been so worried since the scrolls stopped coming. Have you seen him yet? He is so strong, so lusty! What has happened? Is Father in Het-Uart already?”

He silenced her chatter, kissing her with a sudden ferocity in order to shrink the weight of his pain and loss, but already it was stopping his breath and squeezing his heart. “Si-Amun!” she exclaimed, pulling free. “You are crying!” He nodded helplessly, laying his head against her breasts, no longer trying to quell the sobs that shook him. She held him loosely and waited until he had spent himself, then she offered him a corner of the sheet on which to wipe his face and pushed him down onto the stool. “Victory was too much to ask,” she said.

“I know.” He did not feel foolish for breaking down. Not with her. She was eyeing him warily, fear of the unknown making her face suddenly all questioning eyes, and he knew that he must tell her everything. His guilt had begun to put a wall between them long before he left Weset. It had poisoned their relationship slowly. Now he must put it right.

He began incoherently, not knowing where to start, whether with his discontented life here on the estate, his boredom and disdain for Weset, or with the visit to Teti where in a moment of spiritual greed he had succumbed, but gradually his story grew sane, and cold, and terrible.

Her eyes never left his face. Occasionally they wandered to his mouth, to his curly black hair, but returned always to his gaze. He read disbelief, shock, sympathy and pain there, but towards the end he did not see what he had feared most. There was no scornful condemnation in her face. When he had finished, she lay back and stared at the ceiling. “Father is dead?” she asked, her voice thin. “The sem-priests …” He swallowed.

“Yes.”

“But he would have died anyway, Si-Amun, surely you see that? On the plain of Dashlut or in the canals outside Het-Uart, what does it matter?” She sat up and turned to him urgently. “The rebellion was doomed from the start, with or without the things you have done in secret!” Her fists clenched. “I do not want to lose you! Say nothing, my brother. Have Mersu killed. Persuade the others that no trial is necessary. Ramose did not know about you, did he? Then neither must anyone else. I do not want to lose you!” Her voice had risen.

Si-Amun sat dumb. She was speaking without thought, her first female instinct one of preservation for herself and her baby that overrode conscience or the thought of consequence, and he let her express it.

When she had fallen silent, her head moving agitatedly on the pillow, he leaned forward and imprisoned both her hands in his. “I cannot,” he said. “I must confess everything and take what comes. How could our life go on as before? It would lie between us, you as my accomplice, until perhaps you might grow to hate me. And as for me, a man with a dishonest secret gradually loses his pride and his virility. It seeps away, Aahmes-nefertari,
until only the secret and the guilt are left. I cannot live that way.”

“But if you deliver yourself up to justice, the family will execute you! They will have no choice!” Her knees came up under the white bedding and her tight fists pounded them. “It will not bring Father back nor avert the King’s retribution.” With a sudden thought she twisted towards him, sitting bundled on the edge of the couch. “You are the eldest son,” she pressed, eyes taking fire. “You are now Prince of Weset and governor of the Five Nomes. Oh Si-Amun, justice is in your hands and yours alone! Pardon yourself!”

“Aahmes-nefertari,” he said lightly, distinctly, “how could I respect myself? Dispense justice to others? How long would I hold your regard?”

“Well, what of me? What of your son? Raa!” The woman opened the door and bowed. “Bring the baby for Si-Amun to hold!” She turned back to her husband tensely. “If you insist on destroying yourself, what of us? I love you, I need you, your child needs a father, Si-Amun do not leave us!”

She had scarcely finished speaking when Raa appeared cradling a tiny sheet-shrouded form. With a lump in his throat Si-Amun rose, holding out his arms. His son opened his eyes and gazed up at his father sleepily. One small red hand was clutching the corner of the linen that surrounded him. With a shock Si-Amun recognized Seqenenra’s strong cheekbones and slightly slanted eyes. The baby smelled sweetly of natron and warm new flesh. Aahmes-nefertari watched them with a painful eagerness. “He is so helpless,” she hissed. “So am I, Si-Amun. Please!” Si-Amun kissed his son’s damp forehead and passed him back to Raa.

“Forgive me, my sister,” he said. “I cannot.” He tried to take her in his arms but she pushed him away savagely and buried her head in the pillows. She was sobbing by the time he had reached the door. Justice is in my hands alone, he thought with despair as he shut out the sound of her weeping and started along the passage. She spoke more truly than she knew. My hands alone.

After leaving his wife, he sought out Tani. He found her on the roof of the old palace, in the place where Seqenenra had been struck down, her linen in shreds where she had torn at her clothes, rocking back and forth silently. Seeing him come, she threw herself into his arms and he comforted her as best he could before persuading her to go to her quarters.

On the way back from the palace he saw his mother still huddled in the dust, but now she was protected from the sun by a canopy and both Kares and Hetepet stood nearby, waiting for her grief to be spent. Si-Amun left her undisturbed. Ahmose had disappeared, probably into the marshes to indulge his sorrow alone. Many of the servants who bowed to Si-Amun as he passed were in tears.

He himself wanted nothing more than to shut himself away, to husband whatever energy was left him, but he forced himself to enquire after Tetisheri. Fortunately his grandmother’s steward was nowhere to be seen. Isis answered his knock and told him that Tetisheri was resting and did not wish to be disturbed. Incense drifted into the passage through the open door and Si-Amun thought he heard the low chanting of Tetisheri’s priest.

He went away with relief and sought Kamose, who had ordered his litter to be placed by the pond in the garden.
Si-Amun sank gratefully into the grass beside him. “There is such peace here,” Kamose said as Si-Amun folded his long legs. “Next to the desert, this place has the power to heal and bring all into a proper perspective.” When Si-Amun did not comment, he went on, “Are they all right? How is Tani?”

“I handed her over to Heket. She is taking it very hard.”

“She is carrying a double load.” Kamose stirred and winced, fingering the bandage under his arm. “She needs Ramose more than she needs any of us. Tell me, Si-Amun, what do you intend to do?”

Si-Amun was startled. “About what?”

Kamose grunted. “You are Father’s heir. You must make the decisions now.”

“You sound so pompous!” Si-Amun flared and Kamose apologized hastily.

“I am sorry, brother. But something must be done about Mersu. If he suspects that we know what he has done, he will simply disappear, and soon.”

Si-Amun nodded unwillingly. “I know. I intend to have him arrested before sunset. But we are in mourning, Kamose. He can be tried but not executed until Father goes to his tomb. It would be simpler to put a knife through his throat in the dark.”

Kamose’s head rolled towards his brother. “Simpler but against every law of Ma’at,” he answered. “Whether we like it or not, Mersu must be properly tried before us, the mayor of Weset, and Uni as the estate’s Chief Steward. How Apepa must be laughing at us! “

I knew as much, Si-Amun thought, watching the play of moving shadow across Kamose’s naked legs splayed on the litter, but it was worth a small probing. Kamose might have
agreed to have Mersu quietly put away if he thought a trial too humiliating and painful for us all.

“What will Apepa do now?” he mused softly.

“Apepa can take his time and then do anything with us that he chooses,” Kamose said. “If I were him, I would slay all of us as an example to any other would-be agitators, but that might mean antagonizing the hereditary nobles of Egypt. The Setiu have seldom worked that way. Apepa is no different. I expect us to keep our skins but lose everything else.” He twisted to glance up at the servant standing a few paces away and the man came quickly, offering him water which he drank thirstily. He lay back on the litter. “I would give anything to get my hands on Teti!” he growled. “I would administer the five wounds myself before digging my knife into his well-fed paunch!” Si-Amun cringed mentally at his brother’s bitter tone. If only you knew, dear Kamose, he thought.

“Yet I can understand his actions,” he put in. “True Ma’at is hard for many to discern in these days. I feel pity for Teti.” Kamose did not deign to answer, and after a pause he changed the subject.

“What will you call your son?” he asked.

“The astrologers have not completed their deliberations,” Si-Amun replied. “I will abide by their decision.” As long as it is not Seqenenra, he thought to himself. That has become a name clouded by suffering and death. Oh, my father, so pure, so implacable! He rose. “Apepa will observe the period of mourning,” he said, “but we can expect our punishment immediately afterwards. Until then we must relish each day.” Kamose’s eyes were closed. He was falling into the sudden sleep of the convalescent.

“Yes,” he murmured. “Yes …”

That evening the family gathered in the hall to eat together, a subdued throng with swollen eyes and little appetite. Si-Amun had sent an invitation to Amunmose and to the mayor of Weset, and when the food had been picked over silently and the serving staff had withdrawn, Si-Amun prepared to address them. He was acutely conscious of Mersu’s tall, shrouded form as he rose. The steward was in his usual place behind Tetisheri, alert in his stillness for any need she might express. Uni, Kares, Isis and the other senior servants remained also, ready to listen to Si-Amun seemingly without involvement, but Si-Amun knew that only their training kept their faces bland and their bodies controlled.

Aahmes-nefertari was absent, still recuperating from the birth of their son. Kamose was propped on a camp cot, Hor-Aha beside him. Aahotep had washed and put on clean linen, but she sat behind her low table unadorned by any of her jewels. Ahmose chewed his roast goose thoughtfully, his calm demeanour belied by the ravages of grief on his face. Only Tetisheri had come to the meal in formal attire, fully painted.

She is like the queens of old, Si-Amun thought, catching sight of her as he rose to speak. The arrogance of her station strengthens every bone in her body. She loved her son fiercely and longed to see him on the Holy Throne. Her suffering is great, yet only those of lower station will see her cry. What did you think today, Mersu, when you waited upon a broken and distraught woman? Did you regret what you have done as I bitterly regret it? He saw Tani, sitting on Kamose’s other side, her hand in her brother’s. He smiled at her and won a weak grimace in return.

The company turned its eyes on him expectantly. A deep quiet fell so that Si-Amun could hear the soft soughing of the dry night wind through the pillars. He caught Hor-Aha’s eye and saw the General tense in anticipation. Taking a deep breath, he began to speak.

He told them of Seqenenra’s march, of the arrival at Qes, of the coming of Ramose in the middle of the night with his message of betrayal. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Tani jerk upright, but Mersu did not stir. Si-Amun marvelled at the coolness of the man. With an increasingly dry throat he described his father’s attempt to outflank Pezedkhu, his failure and his cruel death. No one moved. Only the lamps showed a semblance of life, their flames rising and sinking in the alabaster containers while shadows gyrated slowly on the walls.