“Kamose …” Ahmose whispered but Kamose ignored him. Calmly he fitted the arrow to his bow, lifted the weapon, adjusted his stance, and sighted past his gloved hand to the centre of the mayor’s heaving chest. In the name of Amun and for the glory of Ma’at, he breathed and released the arrow, watching it plough deep into the man’s breast, seeing his eyes open wide in shock and disbelief before the body slumped to the ground.
“Now, Hor-Aha!” Kamose shouted. “But no women or children!”
He was answered by a triumphant roar from the throats of the Medjay. At the General’s signal the air was suddenly thick with missiles and the townspeople unfroze. They had seen their mayor go down in a stunned surprise that lasted until Kamose’s voice rang out. Now they scattered, screaming in terror, snatching up their children and fighting to escape. Kamose noted with satisfaction that the Medjay’s first volley had been directed at the garrison whose soldiers, to their credit, were trying to take cover and shoot back. But their arrows sank harmlessly into the reed sides of the boats or soared overhead to pierce the Nile, so great was their surprise, and soon they too turned and ran. Kamose nodded across at Hor-Aha who raised an arm and barked a command. The men began to swarm from the boats, some leaving their bows and drawing their axes, some fanning out to encircle the town. After that first mighty upsurge of sound they had fallen silent, a tide of black death moving swiftly and with a chilling efficiency through Dashlut while its inhabitants shrieked and wailed.
Kamose watched. For a while the dusty expanse between the river and the collection of houses was deserted but for the sprawled bodies of the mayor and his hapless companions, while out of sight, in the narrow alleys, behind the mud walls, beyond the town where the fields spread out, the slaughter went on. But before long it was as though the houses, the palms, and the boats themselves formed the outer limits of some strange theatre. The space between began to fill with children who ran to and fro in a mad parody of play before cowering against the walls or kneeling, sobbing, with their faces hidden in the dirt as though by shutting out the hysterical clamour around them they could make it go away. Women emerged from the early shadows, some dazedly pacing, some running uselessly from one group of children to another, some wailing as they staggered about laden with objects they had snatched up instinctively from their homes and clutched to themselves as though the familiar touch of pots and linens could defend them.
One woman came stumbling to the foot of Kamose’s ramp and stood looking up at him, tears running down her cheeks, her bare arms glistening red with blood that was obviously not her own. Grasping the neck of her coarse shift in both hands, she struggled to tear it, her breath coming in great gasps. “Why?” she screamed. “Why, why?”
Ahmose groaned.
“I cannot bear this,” he muttered. “I will sit in the cabin until it is over.” He turned away. The Followers around Kamose stood silent and the woman too eventually closed her mouth. Shaking a soiled and trembling fist she wandered to the nearest tree and flung herself down, curling in on herself and crying. Kamose crooked a finger at the captain of his bodyguard.
“Tell General Hor-Aha to have the bodies collected here and burned,” he ordered. “I want a great plume of smoke to go up. I want the stench to sting Apepa’s nostrils even as the sound of my father’s hippopotamuses offended his ears.” He did not trust himself to speak again. The man saluted and strode towards the ramp and Kamose entered the cabin. Ahmose was sitting on one of the camp stools, his arms folded and his shoulders hunched.
“The garrison would have been mostly Setiu,” he said. “Though I don’t suppose they think of themselves as foreigners any more. The townsmen …”
Kamose flinched. “Not
“Now, Hor-Aha!” Kamose shouted. “But no women or children!”
He was answered by a triumphant roar from the throats of the Medjay. At the General’s signal the air was suddenly thick with missiles and the townspeople unfroze. They had seen their mayor go down in a stunned surprise that lasted until Kamose’s voice rang out. Now they scattered, screaming in terror, snatching up their children and fighting to escape. Kamose noted with satisfaction that the Medjay’s first volley had been directed at the garrison whose soldiers, to their credit, were trying to take cover and shoot back. But their arrows sank harmlessly into the reed sides of the boats or soared overhead to pierce the Nile, so great was their surprise, and soon they too turned and ran. Kamose nodded across at Hor-Aha who raised an arm and barked a command. The men began to swarm from the boats, some leaving their bows and drawing their axes, some fanning out to encircle the town. After that first mighty upsurge of sound they had fallen silent, a tide of black death moving swiftly and with a chilling efficiency through Dashlut while its inhabitants shrieked and wailed.
Kamose watched. For a while the dusty expanse between the river and the collection of houses was deserted but for the sprawled bodies of the mayor and his hapless companions, while out of sight, in the narrow alleys, behind the mud walls, beyond the town where the fields spread out, the slaughter went on. But before long it was as though the houses, the palms, and the boats themselves formed the outer limits of some strange theatre. The space between began to fill with children who ran to and fro in a mad parody of play before cowering against the walls or kneeling, sobbing, with their faces hidden in the dirt as though by shutting out the hysterical clamour around them they could make it go away. Women emerged from the early shadows, some dazedly pacing, some running uselessly from one group of children to another, some wailing as they staggered about laden with objects they had snatched up instinctively from their homes and clutched to themselves as though the familiar touch of pots and linens could defend them.
One woman came stumbling to the foot of Kamose’s ramp and stood looking up at him, tears running down her cheeks, her bare arms glistening red with blood that was obviously not her own. Grasping the neck of her coarse shift in both hands, she struggled to tear it, her breath coming in great gasps. “Why?” she screamed. “Why, why?”
Ahmose groaned.
“I cannot bear this,” he muttered. “I will sit in the cabin until it is over.” He turned away. The Followers around Kamose stood silent and the woman too eventually closed her mouth. Shaking a soiled and trembling fist she wandered to the nearest tree and flung herself down, curling in on herself and crying. Kamose crooked a finger at the captain of his bodyguard.
“Tell General Hor-Aha to have the bodies collected here and burned,” he ordered. “I want a great plume of smoke to go up. I want the stench to sting Apepa’s nostrils even as the sound of my father’s hippopotamuses offended his ears.” He did not trust himself to speak again. The man saluted and strode towards the ramp and Kamose entered the cabin. Ahmose was sitting on one of the camp stools, his arms folded and his shoulders hunched.
“The garrison would have been mostly Setiu,” he said. “Though I don’t suppose they think of themselves as foreigners any more. The townsmen …”
Kamose flinched. “Not
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