The Hippopotamus Marsh (25 page)

The desert opened out before Seqenenra, a flow of pale, churned sand running to meet a black sky thick with stars. He took a deep breath. The village of Qes, a jumble of lightless huts, lay to his left and was already receding, the grey lines of Hathor’s tiny temple with it. Seqenenra swallowed. The chariot jerked as the wheels ploughed into sand. Then the horses found the firmer ground beneath the cliffs and picked up their pace. They were once more facing north, and the boundary of his princedom was behind him.

The darkness began to thin. Soon Seqenenra could make out the silhouette of the rocks rearing jagged and tiered above him on his right. The desert stopped flowing indistinctly and became hollows and dunes, still a lifeless grey but beginning to throw out spidery shadows. With difficulty Seqenenra twisted around. Behind him his army snaked, the men trudging with heads down and eyes on their feet, for the terrain was one moment clinging sand and the next hard-crusted soil. He saw them as dim wraiths, their forms unclear, their obedient silence otherworldly, as though the battle had already been fought, the soldiers murdered, he himself leading an army of ghosts towards eternity. It was only the approach of the light-without-Ra, he knew, but he could not dismiss the premonition that possessed him.

The sky faded to pearl. The stars went out. If he braved the spray of fine sand the horses kicked up and craned to
the side, he could see ahead to where the Braves’ chariots were wheeling out on the desert. The cleft at Dashlut was nine miles away. Their progress was slow. They should reach it by early afternoon. Seqenenra wondered when the scouts would return. Probably not much before the army itself slowed to negotiate the winding track back towards the Nile. He forced himself to remain calm.

The sun had now risen. The army marched on the western flank of the cliffs in the blessed cool shadow that would shrink as the morning progressed. But now the men were cheerful, the order of silence lifted, and their white teeth flashed in their dark faces as they sang. Occasionally an officer rolled by, saluting Seqenenra as he inspected the ranks, the blue plumes on his horses waving in the morning breeze.

Just before the sheltering shadow shrank to nothing, Seqenenra called a halt. The men broke rank and cast themselves on the ground, waiting for the distribution of water and bread. Seqenenra had his chariot backed against the cliff, and ate and drank in his bonds. He was beginning to worry about the horses. Without water they tired quickly. They were not creatures of the desert. With luck they could be led to the Nile this evening.

By the time he had swallowed his allotment of warm, brackish water and dry bread, the shade had disappeared. Orders rang out and the men stretched, picked up their spears, and formed rank once more. Seqenenra had his canopy attached. The sun had appeared over the top of the cliff and immediately attacked them all. There was no more singing. The men strode doggedly, sweating and thirsty. Amun, Seqenenra prayed as he watched Si-Amun’s
bronze back become slippery and his kilt transparent and sticky with his body’s moisture, let us not have to fight in this. If we do, then Ra, more than Pezedkhu, will be the death-dealer.

It was with immeasurable relief four hours later that he saw the cavalcade slow and at last come to a halt. The horses were wheezing and trembling, their sides drenched and white with foam. Si-Amun sank onto his haunches, the reins loose in his hand, and rested his head against the burnished prow of the chariot. Presently Kamose came up and stepped from his vehicle. “The corridor to Dashlut is ahead,” he told his father. “The scouts returned about an hour ago and reported a clear passage. The land between the exit and the river seemed empty but I do not like it. There were not even any peasants about.”

“Pezedkhu’s scouts will have discovered our last camp at Qes at dawn,” Seqenenra pondered aloud. “Will he believe that we turned around and started back to Weset or will he suspect the truth? If I were the General I would send scouts south to verify our flight, but I would also take my troops to Dashlut so that every eventuality would be covered. He can move more swiftly than we. He has not had to battle the sand.” He shaded his eyes and looked at Kamose. “What do you think?”

“I think that one does not become the King’s General unless one is wily as well as a good warrior,” Kamose replied. “We must presume that he is hard on our heels. Can we continue to march along behind the cliffs?”

“I don’t think so,” Seqenenra answered. “The horses need water. The next break in the cliffs is at Hor, beyond Khemennu, and to reach it we would have to detour many
miles into the desert to get around the cliffs that sprawl in great spurs out into the sand. Teti hunts there often. The rock provides good shelter for lions.” He resisted the urge to reach up and rub the old wound on his head which was itching fiercely. “The men must rest. We could camp here and guard the entrance to Dashlut, in which case Pezedkhu would have the time to arrive and cut us off at the other end, or we can march through and camp briefly by the Nile, just long enough to sleep for an hour before pressing on. Either way we do not have enough of a start to outrun Pezedkhu entirely.”

“Then let us go through to the river,” Kamose said. “We have ample food on the donkeys but water goes at a terrifying rate and if we are cut off from the river we die of thirst in a very short time. Better to give battle than give Apepa the satisfaction of having killed us without a blow!” Seqenenra nodded.

“So be it.” He watched Kamose spring into the chariot, shaking sand from his feet as he did so, and suddenly he wanted to run after him, to embrace him tightly, to feel his hot, taut flesh pressed close. Kamose brandished his whip and was gone in a whirl of dust. Si-Amun stirred. “Has the sun made you sick?” Seqenenra asked him anxiously. Si-Amun came to his feet, gathering up the reins. He gave his father a queer, twisted smile. “No,” he replied. “It takes more than mighty Ra to make me quail. I am sick with the need to kill.” To that, Seqenenra had no answer. Si-Amun whistled at the horses and the chariot started forward. Already the vanguard of the Braves had disappeared into the narrow gap in the cliff.

The strip of land between cliff and river, thick in winter with green crops springing from the marshy ground, but
now lying like the parched bed of some long-dried-up lake, was wider at Dashlut than at Qes. Seqenenra, emerging from the sweet coolness of shade between the cliff sides with the hair at the base of his neck standing up, looked anxiously towards the Nile. It was dauntingly far away, and seemed farther than it was because of a heat haze that made the ground shimmer.

The horses, smelling water, tossed their weary heads and picked up speed. The army tumbled after, men’s spirits rising now that the threat of the desert was behind them. Seqenenra heard Hor-Aha’s voice raised above the babble of excitement. “What are you doing, you fool! Don’t take them out of harness! Where are the stable boys with the buckets?” The confusion was orderly. Servants moved among the stationary chariots, some watering the beasts, some checking the harnesses. The charioteers were gathered around Hor-Aha, their blue helmets bent to hear his words. Guards were already taking up their stations on the perimeter. The soldiers were dipping ladles into the skin buckets being carried from one group to another. Seqenenra’s servant came bowing, water in his hands, and Seqenenra and Si-Amun drank greedily.

The group around Hor-Aha broke up. Kamose came striding up to his father.“What are your orders?” he asked. Seqenenra gazed to the north, then to the south. He was uneasy but the scene that met his eye was peaceful. The river seemed empty, flowing shallow and turgid below its banks. The tired trees bent under the weight of the sun. The acres across which the army was sprawled was shadowless.

“Pass the word among the officers that the men may sleep for an hour if they wish,” he said, his eyes returning
to Kamose, “but they must do so in battle formation, weapons to hand. Charioteers in their vehicles, horses yoked. Divide the Braves. Put half of them on our south flank and half on our north. I do not like this summer afternoon, Kamose. It sends shivers down my spine.” After Kamose had gone, Si-Amun eased himself down onto the floor of the chariot.

“Let me untie you, Father, so that you can at least lie down for a while,” he begged. “I would like the physician to take a look at you.” Seqenenra hesitated. It was true that his back ached, not to mention his head. It would be a relief to stretch out. Again he surveyed the countryside, asleep under the sun’s drug. Many soldiers had cast themselves on the ground, kilts drawn up to cover their heads.

“Very well,” he answered after a while. “But no physician, Si-Amun. There is nothing he can do.” Si-Amun untied him and gently helped him to lower himself onto the floor of the chariot, just out of reach of the sun’s rays. He relaxed with a sigh. Presently he said, “Si-Amun, I know that I am putting you in grave danger. You should have a warrior at your back to fight while you manoeuvre the chariot. I have instructed one of the Braves to follow us closely, and if I fail he must take my place. Neither must you try to protect me at the risk of your own safety. Agreed?” Si-Amun turned his head. He was lying beside his father, arm touching arm. Now he smiled, and their dry, hot breath mingled.

“Agreed,” he said. “I am where I wish to be, Prince. I am a good driver and a good warrior. Stop fretting.” Seqenenra grunted sleepily, but was too tired to say more. He fell into a restless doze.

He was woken by the sound of a horse screaming. In the second before he came fully awake he wished irritably that Ahmose would understand that at certain seasons the stallions should not be stabled next door to each other, then he was fighting to pull himself up in the chariot, Si-Amun grabbing for the reins that had been looped over the front bar. His army, now scrambling to its feet and groping for its spears, was surrounded by a sea of chariots whose horses sported the blue and white plumes of royalty. Beyond the chariots the royal infantry stood, the men fresh and terrible, the late sunlight glinting red on the forest of spear tips, the sturdy shields and the axes hanging from their belts.

Si-Amun reached for his father with one arm, trying to control the frightened horses with the other, but Seqenenra clung to the chariot’s side and pushed him away. “I can balance here!” he shouted. “We must take the offensive! Move, Si-Amun!” Even as Si-Amun turned, lashing the horses, and they began to roll over the baked ground, Seqenenra heard a volley of yelled commands echo against the cliff face and his army was galvanized.

He saw Kamose draw a knife and cut the throat of the horse that had been felled by an arrow before leaping back into his chariot behind his driver and vanishing into the whirl of dust the other chariots were making. Behind them the soldiers had begun to run in orderly ranks, spears canted under their arms, shields raised. Seqenenra, teeth clenched, the fingers of his good hand locked tightly around the smooth bronze bar of the chariot, spared a glance behind.

What he saw made him breathe a prayer of thanks to Amun for his decision to divide the Braves, for Pezedkhu had anticipated his move and had held back half his
division to the south, sending the rest to the north of the Dashlut rift. We are trapped, Seqenenra thought as his spear rattled against his feet, unless we can somehow escape through the cliffs and re-form on the desert where there is room to move. I was a fool to come through. I should have stayed out there in the sand. One charge to hold them off, and then a retreat. But is there time?

Hor-Aha was in control of the north-facing troops. His voice rose clear and confident above the roar of the first engagement. The chariots flung themselves at the opposing forces. Si-Amun cried a warning a moment before Seqenenra’s chariot came to an abrupt halt which nearly tore his arm out of its socket. In the small hiatus, Seqenenra shouted, “Order a retreat through the cliff path! The Braves and the chariots can defend!” Si-Amun nodded, volleying commands to those around him who ran to pass the word. Arrows clattered against the chariot and Seqenenra instinctively ducked, bending with difficulty to retrieve his spear. Now he had to stand with his back against the chariot to maintain his balance. He was gripping the spear with his good hand. Other chariots milled about, the charioteers trying to manoeuvre them into the best position for the warriors to shoot their arrows right into the enemy, and Pezedkhu’s men were doing the same. Thrown spears, the first onslaught, littered the ground. Already the foot soldiers were shrieking and hacking at each other with axes and knives.

Seqenenra marked a man who had just jerked a dagger from the belly of one of his Medjay. The soldier was gasping, looking about for another victim to engage. Hafting his spear, Seqenenra sent it slicing through the air,
but the small movements of the chariot spoiled his aim, unbalanced him, and he toppled onto the floor. With an oath Si-Amun dropped the reins and turned. The soldier was running towards them, axe raised for a throw. Coolly Si-Amun pulled a knife from his belt and it flew in a glittering arc to bury itself deep in the man’s chest. With an expression of surprise he fell inches from Seqenenra’s sweating face. “Stay down there, please, Father!” Si-Amun yelled at him. “The engagement is too fierce for a retreat.”

A Brave had seen the exchange. He jumped into the chariot, bow at the ready, and straddling his Prince he began to fire arrows into the thick press of struggling bodies. Seqenenra watched. His heart gave a bound. It seemed as though his soldiers were holding their own here on the north flank of the battle. The lines had not been pressed back. Some of his chariots had freed themselves from the melee and were wheeling by the river, shooting the enemy on his perimeter.

The enemy, Seqenenra thought bitterly. Look at them! Few of them are Setiu. They are good Egyptian men killing good Egyptian men. How far we have come from the holiness of Ma’at! With the heat and terror of the moment his left eye had closed altogether and the lid was convulsing. His head was pounding. He heard the Brave shout, “They are breaking on the south front, Prince!” and for one delirious moment believed that he was speaking of Pezedkhu, but Si-Amun groaned.