The Hippopotamus Marsh (15 page)

Uni did not like the old palace. As he walked into the cooler dimness he wished that he had a charm hanging between his shoulder blades. He touched his amulet, crossed the audience chamber as Seqenenra had done, and turned towards the stairs he knew his master favoured. A sudden flurry above him and a thin piping made him shrink against the wall, his face distorted with disgust. Bats. It would be necessary to speak to the peasant detailed to drive the beasts into the open each morning in case the Prince needed to mount these steps.

Uni pressed on and up, coming at last to the chipped and broken doorway. Heat beat at him as he emerged blinking, and he stood for a moment until his eyes had adjusted. “Prince, are you here?” he called politely. There was no answer, but answer was not needed. Uni saw his master almost immediately.

Seqenenra was lying face down in the dust and blown sand, his cheek against a chunk of brick, his arms invisible beneath him. His splayed legs were in full sunlight and the edge of his kilt stirred in the erratic puffs of breeze. Uni felt
his heart stop, then lurch in his chest. Scrambling forward he touched Seqenenra hesitantly, and it was then that he saw the smashed skull, the brown, dried stain of blood pasted across the grey face. “Ah, gods, gods,” he whispered.

Straightening, he looked around desperately for help. Soldiers from the eastern barracks were milling under the trees by the river, a confused mass of brown limbs, white kilts and sun-fired spears waiting to embark for the west bank. He could not call that far. No one would hear him. Then he caught a flicker of movement passing the cleft in the wall surrounding the garden. “Here!” he shouted, but his voice was a croak. He took a deep breath. “Here! Up here!” He continued to shout. Presently a figure appeared, leaning through the gap and looking up, shading his eyes with one hand. It was one of the gardeners. “Run as fast as you can and bring servants and a litter!” he ordered. “When they are on their way, find the Princes Si-Amun and Kamose. I saw them going towards the river. Send the physician to the Prince’s bedchamber immediately. Immediately! Run!” The man looked bewildered, but at Uni’s hysterical tone he disappeared.

Uni crouched by the body. There was nothing more he could do until the litter arrived. Hesitantly he ran his fingers across Seqenenra’s shoulder. The skin was harshly dry and cold. Is he dead? Uni thought, sudden nausea making him pant. He could see no more than part of the Prince’s face, but one eye was glazed under a lid that was only half-closed. The sun was rapidly dispersing the shade the Prince lay under. Uni removed his kilt and laid it over the exposed flesh. As he did so, he realized for the first time that one does not tear open one’s skull by tripping and
falling, nor can one fall up steps. Someone had crept up behind the Prince and done this terrible thing.

“Uni!” a voice shouted. He looked down. Aahmesnefertari was leaning through the gap. “What is happening up there? What are you doing?” He knew that he must persuade her to go into the house, that she must not see the thing lying behind him, but something about his stance must have alerted her. Before he could remonstrate, she was forcing her distended body through into the courtyard.

“Princess, no!” he shouted. “I will talk to you in a moment! Please return to the house!” But she ignored him. After her, Uni saw the litter bearers come hurrying. He went down to meet them.

He could not stay at the foot of the stairs with a pale and anxious Aahmes-nefertari. He left her and returned to the roof to supervise the Prince’s transference to the litter as gently as possible, sensing from the glances of the men that they considered such care pointless. Seqenenra was dead. They were probably right. He ushered them back down the stairs, acutely conscious of the Princess’s upturned face at the foot, and he was powerless to prevent her from drawing close as the litter reached the ground. She bent over her father, puzzlement evident in her gestures, then the full significance of what she saw struck her. She screamed once, swayed with one hand pushed into her cheek, and Uni took her shoulders and forced her gently onto a step. “Stay here, Princess,” he said. “I will send you Raa.” She wrapped her arms around her protruding abdomen, looking up at him with huge, frightened eyes.

“Is he … is he dead?” she managed.

“I do not know. Stay here.” He bowed without being aware of the obeisance, an unconscious act of long habit, and ran after the bearers.

For fear of jolting him, they carried Seqenenra out through the huge, gateless aperture at the end of the courtyard that had once been hung with copper and had seen the resplendent passing of kings and nobles. Uni, watching the limp for anxiously, saw not the slightest evidence of life. The eyes were partly open but dull. Dried blood had oozed from between the slack jaws and dribbled down the chin to dry in the hollow of the neck. The scalp was a mess of crinkled skin. Uni was beginning to suffer from the effects of the shock he had sustained. His legs were shaking and his head swam. He was very glad to see Kamose and Tetisheri hurrying along the passage towards the bedchamber at the moment the litter turned from the hallway. The physician was already waiting within. While the servants lifted Seqenenra onto the couch, Kamose gripped the steward’s arm. “Speak to me!” he grated.

“No one could find the Prince,” Uni explained, beginning to shiver, “but I thought that he might be in his favourite spot so I sought him there. He was lying on the roof of the women’s quarters,” he pointed into the room, “like that.”

Kamose indicated the stool by the door. “Sit,” he ordered. “You look ill. When you feel recovered, send a servant to Si-Amun and Hor-Aha. Si-Amun is on the west bank hitching horses to the chariots. He must come at once. Hor-Aha is to ferry the troops back across the river. They may rest today, and have him give them plenty of
wine. Then command Mersu to wait upon me. You are excused for the day, Uni. You have done well.”

Uni looked curiously into the hard, set face. Kamose’s lips were a thin line, his nostrils pinched, his eyes completely black. The steward had known the Prince since the time of his birth. He had been a quiet baby, a brooding youth and a self-contained, self-controlled young man. He could talk lightly and easily of many things, and his slow smile had warmed the heart of many a guest. Uni suspected that he was deep, that Kamose’s true life was lived far beneath the tranquil, graceful gait and tolerant conversation. Now he knew instinctively that Kamose was in the grip of a vast rage. The young Prince’s words had the sharp edge of complete authority. Uni did as he was told.

In the bedchamber there was a tense, unbelieving silence broken only by the physician’s soft movements. Kamose and Tetisheri stood rigidly side by side. Aahotep had pushed past Kamose while he spoke to Uni and was kneeling by the head of the couch, tears running down her freshly painted cheeks, but she was obviously in command of herself. For a long time they all watched the physician make his examination, their eyes moving with his hands as though mesmerized, then Aahotep stirred. “Is he alive?” she asked. The man checked his motions and regarded her with surprise.

“Of course he is alive, Princess, or I would not be doing this. I would have called in a sem-priest. See for yourself.” He drew a small copper mirror from its wooden case and held it close to Seqenenra’s mouth. It misted with a thin film of condensation.

“Ah, Seqenenra,” Aahotep breathed. “Who has done this to you?” At the question the others loosened. Tetisheri stalked to the couch.

“What is the extent of my son’s injury?” she barked. The physician put his mirror away.

“When he is washed, Princess, you will see that, apart from a graze on his cheek where he fell against something sharp, his only wound is this dreadful blow to the skull. The axe penetrated so far that the contents of the pan are exposed.”

“Axe?” Kamose exclaimed tersely. “He was attacked with an axe? How do you know?”

“I can tell by the shape of the wound,” the physician answered. “I can also tell you that the axe was made of bronze. One of our own axes would not have been able to penetrate so cleanly. It would have been too soft, and the force of the blow would have resulted in many splinters of bone embedded in the brain. There are splinters which I shall have to remove, but not many.” He would have gone on, but there was a commotion at the door and Tani’s voice rose above the remonstrations of Mersu.

“Father! What is it, what is going on? Let me pass please, Mersu!” Aahotep rose quickly. Her hands, as she pressed them against the sheet, were trembling.

“Amun forgive me, I had forgotten about Tani,” she said, and before the harassed Mersu yielded she was across the room and out the door. Kamose turned back to the physician.

“Will he die? What hope is there?” The physician raised his eyebrows and his shoulders.

“I can shave his head, wash him, and remove the splinters, but I cannot return him to consciousness. I suggest that a priest be present to sing spells of healing.”

“You believe that he will die.”

“Yes,” the physician said simply.

They were interrupted by Si-Amun who came running into the room, his blue linen helmet still framing his face, a whip coiled in one hand. “What is happening?” he demanded. “Hor-Aha has been told to take the troops back over the river and the servants are falling over each other in the house like beheaded geese!” For answer Kamose stepped aside. Seqenenra lay on his stomach and his hideous wound was exposed to Si-Amun’s view as the young man moved closer. For a moment there was silence, then Si-Amun swayed. Kamose put out a hand to steady him. “What is it?” Si-Amun croaked. Kamose let him go.

“Someone tried to murder him with an axe,” he said grimly. “And not just any axe. It was a Setiu weapon.”

“No! “

Kamose looked curiously at his brother. Si-Amun’s face had lost all its colour and Kamose was afraid he would faint. Something in Si-Amun’s tone as he had shouted had made Kamose’s hackles rise.

“Calm yourself, brother,” he said quickly. “Father lives. For how long we cannot say, but …” He got no further. Si-Amun had left the room.

But Seqenenra did not die. All that day the physician worked on his flaccid body, washing him, shaving away his thick black curls, removing the flaps of scalp that had been torn so grievously and picking out the tiny pieces of bone embedded in the thick membrane that protected Seqenenra’s brain. Seqenenra did not so much as sigh. His breathing remained shallow and spasmodic. Kamose stayed with him for many hours, unmoved by the physician’s grisly
ministrations, but eventually he was forced to go with Hor-Aha, who was trying to appease the disgruntled soldiers. The chariots were returned to the stalls. The horses were turned out onto the sparse, brittle grass beside the barracks of the family’s bodyguard. “What do you want me to do with the men?” Hor-Aha, asked Kamose when they were at last on their way, tired, filthy and disheartened, to Seqenenra’s office. “Shall I send them home?”

“No,” Kamose replied adamantly. “Not yet. We have victualled them at great inconvenience to ourselves for many weeks and we will go on doing so. I have much to consider, Hor-Aha, and until I have reached a proper decision you can go on drilling them with mock battles and the like. We have the time to make more bows at least.” Hor-Aha ventured a small grin, but quickly sobered.

“The Prince is dying, is he not?” he said, turning his dark face to Kamose. “If he dies, what will you do?” Kamose knew what the General was asking. He answered vehemently.

“My father will not die. Our physician is a fine one. The High Priest himself is saying the spells. The couch is surrounded by powerful amulets.”

“But if he does?” Hor-Aha pressed. Kamose walked on, not looking at the tall Medjay. “Then someone will pay,” he promised grimly.

Si-Amun had left Seqenenra, his thoughts in turmoil, and was running panting through the house, when Raa met him. “Your pardon, Prince,” the woman said, “but your wife has gone into labour, and she is most distressed. Can you come?” Si-Amun, stunned and confused as he was, had not hesitated. Without bothering to reply to Raa, he had
swerved towards the women’s quarters. One of the midwives from Weset had been summoned but had not yet arrived.

Aahmes-nefertari was pacing beside the couch, both hands across her abdomen, weeping. One of the family’s priests was lighting incense in a long holder. Kares, Aahmes-nefertari’s steward, waited just inside the door for any orders. When Si-Amun’s breath had slowed, he went to his wife and kissed her. “Is the pain bad?” he asked, and she turned her tear-stained face to him.

“No, not yet,” she sobbed. “It is Father, the way he looked when the litter bearers brought him down, so grey, and that terrible hole in his head. Hold me, Si-Amun!” He put his arms around her and she buried her face in his neck. “He will die,” she choked, her voice muffled. “My baby will be born under dreadful omens! I am so afraid!” He comforted her as best he could, while behind them the priest began to chant and the sweet odour of the holy smoke began to envelop them. Its scented haze calmed Aahmes-nefertari. “I have prayed and brought offerings to Taurt every day,” she said, her voice stronger. “Surely she will not betray me now. Si-Amun, thank you for coming. Please leave, and send Mother. Is the midwife not here yet?” Her tone had risen, become strident. He took her face between his brown hands, and kissing her wet eyes and her tremulous mouth, bade her have courage. His own voice was none too steady.

“Kares, send after that stupid midwife,” he ordered. “The rest of you, stop gaping and make yourselves useful. Music would be soothing and perhaps a board game or two.” He spoke sharply, knowing that the uneasiness in the room
stemmed from the drama being played out in another part of the house and not wanting its effects to panic his wife. The servants sprang to obey him and he left them.

He could not stay in the house. Shock and anger at the attack on his father was mixed with anxiety over his wife, and in the end he took a skiff and one bodyguard and had himself poled into the reed swamps. There he let out a fishing line and lay back in the boat, eyes on the gently swaying papyrus fronds above his head. He was twenty now and Aahmes-nefertari four years younger. From the time of their childhood, they had been betrothed to each other according to the ancient custom whereby the heir to the throne must marry a fully royal princess, usually his sister, and so keep the blood line pure. He and Aahmes-nefertari had always known that they would marry, in spite of the fact that the males of their line no longer sat on the Horus Throne, and the knowledge had made him protective of her as they grew up together. He loved her, though he had secretly scoffed at his father’s insistence on a tradition that no longer had validity. If I am proud with a prince’s arrogance, he thought, eyes squinting against a dazzling sky, then Father is doubly so with his dreams of this family’s return to godhead in Egypt. Is. Was. Aahmes-nefertari will be all right, but Father …