The Horus Road (33 page)

Aahmes-nefertari had been indignant at his unspoken implication that she and Aahotep had been frivolously amusing themselves when they formed their network but she had not challenged him. He was not so contemptuous of the enterprise when we first told him of it, she thought mutinously. In those days he was grateful for any assurance of protection no matter how nebulous. I will not discuss the matter with him again.

Sometimes Ahmose joined her on the roof, and sprawled amid the cushions they talked quietly or played board games or took turns naming the constellations that blazed overhead, but more often he preferred to sit in the shrouded garden drinking beer with Turi, Kagemni, Hor-Aha and others. By the beginning of Mesore the divisions of Amun and Ra were back in Weset and comfortably inhabiting their new barracks, and Paheri and Ahmose Abana had passed through Weset on their way home to Nekheb. Ankh-mahor had also returned with his son Harkhuf, whose wound had left nothing but a steadily whitening ragged scar.

Aahmes-nefertari, sitting high above the hundreds of pinpricks of light that marked the other occupied roofs of the city and listening to the gusts of masculine laughter drifting up from the lawn below, felt as abandoned as a worn-out sandal. The harvest is underway, she thought gloomily. The crops are falling before the scythes of the reapers and the air is full of the flying dust thrown up from the threshing floors. In the vineyards the men and women are singing as they tread the grapes, and the honey from the hives is being poured like thick sunshine into the jars. Gardens are fragrant with the aroma of crushed herbs, coriander and cumin, thyme, and the sharp freshness of the mint. Yet there is no quickening in my womb, no sign that my baby lives. It is too soon, I suppose. In another month it will make its presence known, but for now I feel barren amid a profusion of fertility. Is this how it will be, Ahmose enveloped in a world of men while I struggle to conform myself once more to the trivial world of feminine pursuits? Is this what I have worked for in all the months that he was away?

A flicker of movement caught her eye beyond the palms in whose thin fronds the setting moon was captured and peering over the edge of the roof she saw a skiff go slipping silently by, one oarsman in the stern and the embracing figures of a man and a woman utterly engrossed in each other near the prow. “Senehat,” she said dully, and the girl left her perch by the windcatcher and came forward. “I am reminded that I have not yet received an assessment regarding the number of inet-fish to be salted and stored for the Keftian merchants. Keep it in your mind if you can and tell me to deal with it tomorrow.” Senehat murmured an assent and melted back into the shadows. Gods, Aahmes-nefertari thought, lying back and closing her eyes. The moon is full, the night’s breath is scented with love, and I am reminded of inet-fish. She was too empty to cry.

10

THE WHOLE OF WESET
had celebrated the Beautiful Feast of the Valley in the month of Payni, at the day of the full moon, and the Taos had joined the crowds of hundreds streaming across the river with offerings of food, oil and wine for their dead. Ahmose had not forgotten the day of his father’s birth in Phamenoth, marking it with the usual prayers and feast as was customary for every family member living or not. Birthdays came round regularly like the various gods’ days and were occasions for happy reflection. But the Beautiful Feast of the Valley was an event of universal solemnity and rejoicing while the priests moved from tomb to tomb with incense. When the formalities were over, the relatives of the beautified settled down beside their dead to eat a meal in their presence and speak of them with love.

We have so many dead, Ahmose had thought as he watched the servants lay out the feast within Kamose’s little courtyard. Grandmother’s husband, Osiris Senakhtenra; Seqenenra, my father; two babies; Osiris Kamose; and Si-Amun, whom we are not allowed to acknowledge on this day. We go from door to sealed door laying our offerings before them, but life is so immediate at this time of the year, an explosion of fruits and grains, the excitement and anxiety of the wait for the harvest and then for Isis to cry, the preparations for the New Year festivities. Only those newly bereaved can mourn. Not that the Feast is intended as a time for grief. It exists for the sanctification of the dead and the conjuring of their memories. Behek is the only one whose loss remains fresh and painful. How much can a mere dog feel? How limited is Behek’s power to reason? Does he wait in this arid place for Kamose to come out or does he know that my brother’s essence is gone and believe it his duty to guard his long sleep?

Ahmose-onkh was kneeling in the sand with his arms around Behek’s neck. His tutor, Pa-she, stood beside him explaining something Ahmose could not hear over the hubbub of the servants’ chatter and the clink of utensils. That association is working well, Ahmose’s thoughts ran on. There were a few tantrums at first when Ahmose-onkh realized that he could no longer race about the house and grounds with an exasperated Raa in pursuit, but he seems to have not only accepted Pa-she’s discipline but be developing a trust in him. Pa-she’s weekly reports on his charge’s progress do not include that fact, of course, but it is evident in the way the boy’s behaviour has improved. Aahmesnefertari has triumphed in this as in everything else.

He glanced at his wife sitting quietly in her chair a short distance away. A wariness had grown in her of late, a habit of answering him with an abrupt yes or no, a blandness of expression that effectively hid the workings of her mind. To others it might have been interpreted as a return to the shyness of her youth, but Ahmose knew otherwise. She was deeply and constantly angry with him, a rage mingled with disappointment and hurt pride, and though he wished it were not so, he had his own wounded pride to battle. He had tried to bridge the distance between them, joining her on the roof sometimes in the warm nights that were imbued with a sensuous invitation to love, but the words he needed to say had not come and she had rebuffed him with a sharp request not to condescend to her. He would have persevered, desperate to recover the intimacy they had once shared, but his divisions had returned, Ankhmahor and Harkhuf arriving at the same time as Paheri and Ahmose Abana, and he had been forced to turn his attention to his army.

He was careful to admit his relief at the distraction. Sitting in the lamp-hung garden, surrounded by the men with whom he had fought, discussing the future and reliving the Het-Uart siege and battle, he revelled in their robust laughter and frank conversation. He was aware of his wife sitting high above, alone and brooding, but for the first time since he and she had come together as man and wife he was in no hurry to be with her. He wondered if the new pregnancy was exaggerating her mood. He was glad that another child would be born, but he dreaded the accompanying anxiety that would hound him as it grew.

He had gone to the temple in secret to have the omens read, standing a respectful distance from the young priest with the Seeing gift as the man bent over the film of oil on water in the basin, waiting with bated breath for the recitation of the vision. His heart had leaped with fear when the ceremony was complete and he read defeat in the shake of the priest’s head. “Seek a message from Amun’s oracle as well, Majesty,” he had said. “The oil does not always show accurately what will be, but the god’s voice is infallible.”

“Is it sickness or death?” Ahmose had croaked.

“Both sickness and death for the child,” had been the pitiless reply and Ahmose had left the dark room and got onto his litter to be carried home in a fit of hopelessness. Up until then he had simply accepted that children were vulnerable to fevers and diseases. Children died easily. But now he began to wonder whether perhaps there was a disfigurement in Aahmes-nefertari’s womb, something invisible but ultimately lethal to the babies she had borne. The possibility increased his anguish. Regardless of their current estrangement, he loved her with a steady liberality that still filled his heart and had never altered.

It occurred to him, the thought creeping into his mind like a snake writhing towards the damp shade under a rock, that some other woman might give him healthy offspring. After all, he was entitled to take other wives. Even concubines. He could not really imagine making love to anyone but Aahmes-nefertari. He knew himself to be the sort of man who cleaves to only one woman and is content. The feel of her skin under his fingers, the odours released by her body during sex, the taste of her mouth beneath his, all meant security and fulfilment to him. Strange flesh could never take the place of those precious things nor be a substitute for the seamless garment of mutual trust and understanding they had woven together. But strange flesh might conjure future Kings and their Queens who would live long enough to reach the age of reason. Horrified, Ahmose tried to put away such uncomfortable deliberations, but the snake, having found a dark and chilly place, curled up and would not be expelled.

Ahmose-onkh had been trying unsuccessfully to entice Behek away from his post. He had given up and at Akhtoy’s call he came running in under the protection of his parent’s canopy. Pa-she, after a bow in their direction, walked more sedately to join the other members of the household staff where their reed mats and sunshades had been set up just outside the tomb’s compound. “Oh it is so hot!” Ahmoseonkh exclaimed, reaching for the jug of water. “Why must this Feast take place in summer?”

“Because during the winter the Inundation makes the river difficult to cross and during the spring everyone is busy with planting and sowing,” his mother answered. “It is a fitting time to remember the dead.” Ahmose watched with approval as the boy wiggled his fingers in the water-bowl without being told before his servant laid a platter of food across his knees.

“Pa-she has been teaching you good manners,” he said. Ahmose-onkh nodded solemnly.

“My tutor knows everything,” he pronounced. “Majesty Father, did you know that there are six hundred holy symbols that the mighty god Thoth gave to Ptah so that he could use them to speak everything in the world into being?”

“Yes indeed,” Ahmose said gravely. “And we ourselves use them in our formal writing. But surely you are not learning them yet!”

“Not yet.” Ahmose-onkh tore a piece of cold roast duck from a bone and bit into it energetically. “I am practising the hieratic script on the bits of clay Pa-she makes me collect myself from the kitchen. I can only form twelve letters so far.”

“Twelve!” Aahmes-nefertari exclaimed. “But that is very good, Ahmose-onkh. Will you show me your work soon?”

“I will when I can do them all,” he said, licking the salt from a slice of cucumber before putting it in his mouth. Then he looked up at her. “Was that rude, Majesty Mother? I have just learned the admonition of the scribe Ani.” He frowned, chewing thoughtfully. “‘Remember how your mother brought you into the world and with what embracing care she nurtured you’,” he recited haltingly. “‘Never give her cause to accuse you and lift up her hands to the god in condemnation of your conduct, and never give the god reason to listen to your mother’s complaints.’” He blew out his breath with the effort of his success and beamed. Aahmes-nefertari smiled delightedly across at Ahmose, the first free smile, he thought, that I have received from her since I came home.

“That is excellent,” she told Ahmose-onkh. “You have a good memory.” Ahmose-onkh clapped gleefully but then destroyed the impression of obedience and erudition he was trying so hard to give by saying, “Which god did the scribe mean, Majesty Mother? We have so many. May I take these bones and scraps to Behek?”

“I am very pleased at the change in him, Aahmesnefertari,” Ahmose commented, his eyes on his stepson’s small figure as he crossed the sand. “Pa-she has told us how quickly his pupil grasps and retains what he is taught.” Aahmes-nefertari nodded.

“Pa-she asked if he might take him onto the roof some night and show him the constellations,” she said. “My first reaction was one of fear, Ahmose. I thought of Father up there above the old palace and then of how Kamose was murdered and you wounded. Isn’t it silly? We have never been more secure and yet I still start at shadows.”

“So do I sometimes,” he admitted. “But the two of them will be quite safe with a guard in attendance.” He snapped his fingers at Akhtoy. “It is time to go back to the house,” he said. “I want to see Abana and Paheri before they leave for Nekheb. I have given them a month with their wives before they are to go back to the Delta.” At once her face became masked.

“I will stay here a little longer,” she decided coolly. “I want to leave an offering for Si-Amun and I do not care that it is not allowed.”

“Neither do I,” he replied softly to her defiant face. “Remember his funeral, Aahmes-nefertari. All of us, Amunmose included, dared to sanctify his body at the same time as we were burying Father.” He could not remember whether or not she had honoured Si-Amun at other Beautiful Feasts and he wondered if she was insisting on doing so now as a gesture aimed at his discomfiture. “Akhtoy, fetch the Prince and have the litters brought up,” he ordered. “The ceremony is over.”

Following Mesore, the first day of the month of Thoth marked the beginning of the new year, the rising of the Sopdet Star, and the start of winter. All Egypt was in festivity, crowding the temples, spreading out along the banks of the Nile where the sweetmeat sellers and those who sold cheap effigies of the gods barked their wares, and flooding the village compounds to dance, drink and gossip. Nobles and the wealthy took to the water in the evening, drifting to the music of drum, pipe and lute while the reflection of their torches rippled in the slow wake of their decorated skiffs and barges.

Ahmose rose before dawn to hear the Hymn of Praise sung for him in Amun’s temple and then officiate himself at the opening of the shrine and the feeding, clothing and censing of the god. He had hoped to find comfort in the faintly smiling face of the divinity who had been venerated by his family for generations and who had been the companion of Kamose’s dreams, but the golden features seemed closed to him on this momentous day, breathing an air of self-sufficient mystery into the sanctuary that Ahmose’s prayers could not penetrate.

He had told no one of the Seer’s damning vision. Nor had he approached Amun’s oracle. As long as I do not seek to have the prediction confirmed, I may doubt and thus hope, he said to himself dismally as his body bowed and prostrated itself, his arms lifted and fell, his mouth formed words of praise and supplication with the white-robed men around him. The baby is alive. Aahmes-nefertari felt it move inside her. Taking my hand, she laid it on her belly and I myself felt the tiny flutter of its limbs. All may be well. The Seeing oil may have attracted demons wishing to delude me, poison my love for her and the great promise of the future. Yet he was a truthful man and his rationalizations rang hollow even to himself.

Walking across the outer court of the temple to his litter, scorched and blinded by a sun still unrelentingly fierce, he fought the dejection. I will take her on the river tonight, he vowed. I will sleep with her on the roof. I will make my body an instrument of reassurance for her when my tongue refuses the words I would say. Today the priests begin their watch on the Nile, ready to record the water’s rise. Today another year begins with all its unknown joys and terrors and only the gods know how it will end, but surely the regard Aahmes-nefertari and I have for each other is in our own power to preserve or see dribble away like sand through open fingers. Nodding to Ankhmahor and his military escort, he climbed onto the litter and started for home.

Egypt exhaled with relief when the annual flood began. The harvest was safely in, the corresponding taxes set, and Ahmose was becoming reconciled to the daily round of consultations, audiences and small quandaries of which his life was now composed. Sebek-nakht’s family arrived in Weset with all their belongings, a signal to Ahmose that the Prince had committed himself finally and completely to his service. Ahmose appointed him Chief Architect and gave him a house next to the houses of the foreign ambassadors who had begun to trickle into the town that was rapidly becoming a city. Ahmose began to look forward to his hour with Sebek-nakht in the old palace. As the level of the Nile continued to swell and then spill over onto the land with its precious burden of silt, the palace also seemed to stir with new life. Ponderously, slowly, it was emerging from its long sleep of neglect, as though the hundreds of bricklayers, masons, artists and junior architects swarming over it were performing the function of sem-priests in the House of the Dead. Gutted and disembowelled, its shell undergoing a restoration to its former glory instead of the preservation of its corpse, it was being beautified for a return to grandeur instead of to a tomb.