The Oasis (41 page)

While he was speaking, the area in which the men sat became gradually full of limpid morning light. A breeze sprang up, the air tinged with a warmth that would rapidly grow to heat, and the surrounding vegetation rustled and quivered at its touch. All along the bank the soldiers were rising, moving towards the water to wash, and the cooking fires of the night before were being coaxed back into life. For a while Kamose answered the Princes’ questions as the details of their deployments were elucidated, then he dismissed them to their duties and they scattered. “Will you attempt to parley with Pezedkhu?” Ahmose asked him as they left the table and walked along the shade-dappled track to their tent, the Followers around them. Kamose glanced across at him sharply.

“No, of course not. What purpose would talking serve?” he asked. Ahmose shrugged.

“I’m not sure. It was just a fleeting thought. Pezedkhu, more than his master, will know that all of Egypt but for the Delta is in our hands. He might be persuaded to change sides.” Kamose chuckled, startled. “It is an interesting idea,” he replied. “But I suspect that the General is a loyal man. It would be as if Apepa tried to corrupt Hor-Aha. Beyond imagination. Let us see what happens in the next few days. If we enjoy a total victory, we will shake Pezedkhu’s confidence and perhaps his fidelity also. Let us set up our own watch in the sand, Ahmose, but first we must pray.”

That had been two days ago. Now Kamose, trying to quell his irritation at the sound of his brother’s formless humming, sighed inwardly. Pezedkhu had made no further moves. The dust cloud sent up by the daily activities of his army hung in the distance like a mildly menacing threat, neither growing nor abating. His scouts could often be spotted, black specks that trembled far away on a horizon distorted by the heat and the glare of light on the desert dunes. Kamose’s scouts ranged those miles also, gaining solidity as they approached him and then slowly vanishing back into the wasteland after reports that held little substance.

After so many hours spent peering towards the oasis, Kamose’s eyes had begun to trouble him, but he was reluctant to relinquish his perch, and he knew that all his men, from Ankhmahor to the lowliest infantryman, felt the same undercurrent of tension. He also knew that none of them could maintain this attitude of interior watchfulness coupled with physical inactivity for much longer. The edge of their battle-readiness would become blunted. Fear of the unknown would creep in and fantasies would begin to weaken them.

Each morning Kamose held a meeting with his commanders and the Princes, but there was little to say. All preparations for engagement were complete, and Kamose was beginning to wonder secretly what he would do if Pezedkhu simply continued to sit there passively, if the army trudging from the oasis by some miracle did not arrive at all. Would he himself take the initiative and attack the General? The prospect was enticing. His fingers ached to draw his bow. The weapons hanging from his belt, dagger and sword, protested their impotence. If he shifted his gaze from the shimmering sand, he could see his men strung out thickly along the irregular line where green met beige, thousands of them sitting or lying in the scant shade of the palms and acacia, gossiping, gambling, dozing under the eye of the patrolling officers, all of them waiting, like him.

But, at last, in the middle of the afternoon of the third day, when the citizens of Het nefer Apu lay on their cots sleeping away the worst of the heat and Kamose’s head swam with the need to join them, he saw a chariot come careening along the track, its spokes flashing in the sun. It came up to his knoll and halted in a shower of dirt, the horses lathered and panting, and the scout jumped from its rear and ran towards him. Kamose came to his feet. “They are here, Lord!” the man shouted. “Two hours away but no more! They are in terrible condition! It will be like killing cattle in a pen!” Kamose felt the drowsiness seep away. His head cleared and his heart settled to a steady, strong stroke. Ahmose and Hor-Aha had come up to stand beside him.

“How many?” Kamose barked back. The man was almost dancing in his excitement.

“Not enough!” he called. “You will take the day, Majesty! My horses need water. Give me leave?” Kamose dismissed him and turned to Hor-Aha. The black eyes squinting into his were alight, the white teeth gleaming between parted lips.

“It worked, General,” Kamose breathed. “It worked. Alert the commanders. Get the Medjay moving. I want them circling out there to keep the enemy bunched together as they approach the river. Send to Paheri to stand ready, and form up my divisions here on the track. Warn the officers closest to Pezedkhu’s forces first. He will have received the news also and I expect him to strike quickly.” Ahmose was already striding away and yelling for his chariot. They had argued regarding Ahmose’s place in the forthcoming clash. Kamose had wanted him to lead the divisions that would in a very short time be pouring out onto the desert but Ahmose had wrinkled up his nose in disgust. “I do not want to be safe,” he had retorted in answer to Kamose’s importuning. “I intend to captain the divisions facing Pezedkhu unless you give me a direct order to the contrary, O Mighty Bull. Stop trying to protect me!” Kamose had given in with poor grace and he regretted it now, watching his brother swing himself up behind the charioteer and the vehicle wheel away in the direction of the massed and hostile forces to the north.

Well, it was too late to reverse any orders now. Already the long line of men to his right was wavering and re-forming as the soldiers scrambled for their weapons and began to converge on the track under the yells of the officers. More men had begun to pour out from the trees behind Kamose, the crowd parting as the chariots raced through it to roll ahead. Kamose walked down to join them, and seeing him come, his own charioteer picked up the reins. Kamose sprang up behind him and at a word they began to move to the forefront of the noisy throng.

The horizon to the west was no longer clear. It was marred by a wavering grey haze. Kamose imagined that he could discern shapes within it, but their nature was not yet clear. Did any horses survive? he wondered anxiously. Chariots? How many officers are still on their feet? Are they captained at all or have they become nothing but a rabble? And is Ramose among them? He had no more time for conjecture. Hor-Aha’s chariot had come abreast. “All the divisions are moving into their appointed positions, Majesty,” he called across. “Pezedkhu’s men have also come to readiness but as yet no arrows have been fired. His Highness has control on the northern front. Scouts are hurrying into the enemy’s area.” Kamose acknowledged the General with a gesture. Pezedkhu is learning even now that the tables have been turned against him, he thought. Now he is the one outnumbered. Will he act rashly, throw himself at us? If he does, then Ahmose will be fighting the real battle.

The cacophony around him was abating. The officers’ orders came crisp and clear in the hot air, a chorus of calm, controlled voices. To right and left his squadrons rolled, and behind him as he glanced back the divisions marched, the sun glinting off the forest of spears and sliding along the blades of the thousands of drawn swords. Pride swelled in him. You have done this, Seqenenra my father, he thought with a lump in his throat. These men, these sturdy brown Egyptians marching steadily towards victory with their black hair swinging and their white kilts swirling, are here because you dared to defy the power of the usurpers. Your vision has transformed the face of this country, turning peasants into soldiers and lifting the shamefaced gaze of Princes from the ground to the rich vista of a rediscovered dignity.

Sweat began to trickle from beneath the rim of his helmet and he raised one gloved hand and wiped it away. Reaching behind him, he withdrew an arrow, holding it loosely, his eyes on the distance where the haze blurred the sky. The shapes within it were now clearly men but how many and in what condition he could not say.

He could see the Medjay now, strung out and loping effortlessly ahead of the chariots. Here on their own ground, their bare feet impervious to the burning sand, they looked like lean black hyenas. Even as he watched, Hor-Aha’s chariot broke away and began to angle to the right. Leaning forward, he spoke to his own charioteer and their vehicle veered left, away from the track, Ankhmahor and the Followers turning with them.

Now Kamose could see the full panorama of the impending engagement, Medjay in seeming disarray but moving to outflank the enemy, chariots spread out to either side, and in the middle the infantry, rank upon rank of marchers churning the earth in their inexorable progress. Kamose spared one thought for his brother then pushed the familiar protective concern away. Ahmose would command well, and he was supported by fine officers and disciplined men.

Someone began to sing, the light tenor voice rising above the creak of harness and the low swell of the thousands of plodding sandals. “My sword is sharp but my weapon is the vengeance of Wepwawet. My shield is on my arm but my protection is the power of Amun. Truly the gods are with me and I shall once again feel the waters of the Nile embrace my body when the enemy of my Lord lies lifeless at my feet …” Others took up the words, the song swelling through the ranks. Kamose smiled across at the captain of his bodyguard.

“That is no farmer’s song, Ankhmahor,” he called. “It belongs to the serving soldier.” Ankhmahor grinned back.

“They are all soldiers now, Majesty,” he answered, his words almost drowned in the flood of music. But before long a command for silence rang out and the stirring sounds died away.

Now Kamose’s attention was no longer on the cloud of dust but on its cause, a wide body of men coming slowly towards him, engulfing the track and the sand to either side. At first Kamose felt a twinge of fear, for they appeared to be marching in formation, but as they drew closer he saw that they were stumbling over hummocks of land any healthy soldier would have ignored and their pace was painfully ragged. As he watched, he clearly heard an order issue from somewhere in their front ranks and swords were drawn, but the actions were clumsy and unco-ordinated and Kamose distinctly noted one man on the outer perimeter who was desperately and drunkenly trying to obey without the strength to pull the weapon free of his belt.

They are almost spent, Kamose thought with a rush of uncharacteristic pity. I should order them surrounded and disarmed, it would not be difficult, but then how to feed them and what to do with them afterwards? Besides, my men crave action, they need to fight, and I need to send an uncompromising message to Apepa.

The Medjay were now ranged in a half-circle to either side of the enemy, bows unslung and arrows fixed. Hor-Aha’s chariot had slowed and Hor-Aha himself stood looking in Kamose’s direction, his arm raised, waiting. Kamose lifted his own arm, for one moment powerfully aware of the relentless force of the sun, pouring heat and a dazzling light on the glistening sand, of the grim silence that had fallen on his troops, of the salty taste of sweat on his lips, then he gestured. With a shout Hor-Aha signalled the Medjay and his cry was answered by a roar issuing from the throats of his tribesmen. Kamose turned and his sign was acknowledged. Hoarse shouts filled the air, and with a howl his army flung itself on the Setiu.

It was no battle but a slaughter of men half-insane with thirst, weak and emaciated, who dazedly tried to obey the commands of officers as exhausted and confused as they. Staggering and reeling, swords dangling from shaking hands, they were cut down remorselessly. Kamose, watching the brutal massacre from his chariot, felt nothing as all the pent-up frustration of his troops was released in one deafening torrent of bloodlust and the Setiu fell in their hundreds, scarcely uttering a sound. They had no chariots. They had obviously survived this far on the water intended for their horses, and when Kamose realized that there would be no resistance, he waved his own chariots back. The Medjay also, after waiting in vain for running targets, simply stood with their bows in their hands beside the chariots, visibly disappointed.

Long before sunset it was over. As the noise began to abate, Kamose had himself driven around the edge of the carnage, Hor-Aha and Ankhmahor beside him. His men were picking over the dead for any booty they might acquire, treading carelessly through the dark pools and rivulets already sinking into the greedy sand, their own half-naked bodies mired in blood. Ankhmahor glanced up. “The vultures are circling,” he said, and Kamose heard his voice quiver. “The scavengers waste no time, Majesty.” He returned his gaze to Kamose’s face. “This was more terrible than anything we have done so far.”

“Hor-Aha, let them keep whatever they can find,” he said. “Remind the officers to take the hands. I want to know exactly how many Setiu fell here today. Send scouts back along the track. I also want to know where the chariots are. If they are still whole, we can use them.” Hor-Aha nodded and jumped down and presently Kamose saw the officers disperse among the dead. The axes began to rise and fall, chopping off the right hands of the dead for the body count. Kamose let out his breath. “Well, Ankhmahor, it is done,” he remarked with a deliberate lightness he did not feel. Indeed he felt only a kind of numbness as though he had drunk too much poppy. “Bring the Followers and we will find Ahmose. There is no point in mustering these men to reinforce my brother unless he and Paheri are faring badly. I am worried that no word has come from our second front.” He thought the Prince would speak. Ankhmahor’s kohlrimmed eyes were huge and troubled. A shard of anger pierced the armour of Kamose’s indifference and he grasped Ankhmahor’s wrist. “Perhaps now we can afford the luxury of an honourable war with rules that both sides recognize,” he hissed. “But I doubt it, Prince. This has been a revolution fought without a code and it will continue thus. I am well aware that when the history of Egypt is written I will not fare well. Yet surely there will be readers who can grope behind my actions to the principles I hold dear.” He thrust a finger at the carnage just beyond them. “Those Setiu were soldiers. Soldiers understand that they are paid to fight, but also to die. No one tells them in what manner they may die. I salute the bravery of those men who crossed the desert dying with every step and stood to be finished off by other soldiers, but I hold no sentiment towards them. They did their duty.” He released the Prince and as he did so a wave of mental fatigue flooded him. “I love you, Ankhmahor,” he said dully. “I love your devotion to Ma’at, your intelligence, your steady, quiet support. Do not remove it from me, I beg you. I need your heart as well as your outward obedience.”