An Evil Spirit Out of the West (Ancient Egyptian Mysteries) (7 page)

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Authors: Paul Doherty

BOOK: An Evil Spirit Out of the West (Ancient Egyptian Mysteries)
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Now I was a poor archer, ever ready to fumble with the flaxen bowstring or hard shaft of reed. Sobeck my companion proved to be an indifferent charioteer so we decided on our respective roles and I found my gift for war. At first I was clumsy but I grew to love the rattle of the chariot, the speed and power of the two horses and the exhilaration of a charge with streamers flying and horse plumes nodding. Like all young men I believed I had been born to ride in a chariot. My real education began after a number of nasty accidents when both Sobeck and I had either to jump clear and, on one occasion, even onto the back of the horses when a wheel buckled and cracked against a rock.
I became a charioteer, a master of the chariots, an expert in their construction. I studied their fabric, the imported elm and birch, as well as the tamarisk, which provided the wood for the carriage, the axles and the yoke. The six-bolt wide-spaced wheels placed at the back of the chariot were of special interest; their construction gave the vehicle more speed and mobility, their hubs and rims protected by thick red leather. The craftsmen described the body of the chariot, how it could be covered with copper and electrum and emblazoned with any insignia, whilst a floor of closely knit thongs heightened the experience in a full charge of standing on air. We learned how to position the quiver of arrows, the embroidered container for javelins as well as the leather pouches placed at the side of the chariot containing food and water for two men.
I chose my own horses, two bays, the Glory of Anubis and the Might of Montu. Believe me, nothing was more glorious than the ‘Squadron of the Kap’ in full battle honours, blue and gold plumes dancing between the horses’ ears, their necks, backs and flanks protected by leather coats of the same hue, to which war streamers and tassels displaying the same imperial colours danced in the breeze. Our chariots, polished and emblazoned, would move in a straight line across the pebble-strewn hard plain to the east of the Malkata Palace, on the very border of the Red Lands. There were ten chariots in all, Prince Tuthmosis’ and Colonel Perra’s included. We advanced in a line, wheels creaking, horses neighing, streamers and plumage dancing, all a-glitter in the blaze of the sun. Sobeck standing beside me was dressed the same as me in a leather kilt, marching sandals and a coat of Syrian mail across his shoulders. I looked to the left and right, revelling in the power and glory of this moving line of war. The whole scene would be watched by the Veiled One sitting in his cart under an awning surrounded by his Kushites. Near one of the wheels of the cart, Weni, looking pathetic under his parasol, squatted on a camp stool and nursed his beer jar.
The drill was always the same. Colonel Perra would move forward and his tedjet, or fighter, would intone the war hymn.
‘All glory to Amun who dwells beyond the Far Horizon!
All glory to his Son, the Strong Bull in the South,
who has received his favour.’
We would repeat the refrain. The paean would be intoned.
‘All glory to Montu,
All glory to Horus, the Golden Hawk who is blind
yet sees.’
Each time we repeated the refrain, the chariots would move faster. The half-moon standard on Colonel Perra’s chariot would rise and fall as it broke into a charge whilst we followed in fast pursuit. The earth rumbled under our wheels, the sky echoed to the crack of our whips, the sun bathed us in its glory as we broke into a breathtaking gallop across the grey-red ground, loosed like shafts from a bow, like hawks swooping through the air. All life, all thought, word and action narrowed down to that glorious cascade of charging horses and chariots. We would reach the arrow butts and the air would hum with our flight of arrows. Then we would be past, charging onto the narrow straw-filled baskets. I’d stand feet apart, slightly stooped, reins wrapped round my wrists, guiding and coaxing, singing out to my two beauties. I praised their speed, their fire. I’d watch their heads plunge and rise whilst, at the same time, keep a keen eye out for any obstacle or be ready to take any advantage of the ground. I was full of the heart-throbbing music of the God of War.
Beside me Sobeck leaned against the rail, his body taut, prepared to pull back the bowstring and, when the quiver was empty, stand, javelin in hand, ready for the next target. Once we dealt with that we’d turn, determined to outrace each other, though, of course, never pass Colonel Perra. It was a heartstopping, blood-thrilling, death-challenging charge back across the desert to that waiting cart almost obscured by the shifting heat haze. Once we had reached the line there would be jubilation, laughter, teasing and taunting. Tuthmosis would climb onto the cart and embrace his brother, a gesture which always provoked a stab of envy in me.
One day, during the boiling heat of Shemshu, in the thirty-second year of the Magnificent One’s reign, the Veiled One rose and, resting on his cane, its head carved in the shape of a Nubian, he clambered down from his cart. Veil pulled back, he walked along the line of chariots, impervious to the dust still clinging like a cloud around us. He stopped at every team and talked softly to the horses, letting them nuzzle his hand which, I suspect, was smeared with the juice of crushed apple. He looked at each of my companions, then passed on. He had certainly grown; the protuberant belly and breasts and broad hips were more pronounced; although his hands and feet remained delicately long and thin. His face was still striking, the cheeks slightly sunken, the lips fuller and those almond-shaped, well-spaced eyes luminous and liquid. He walked slowly but gracefully. A Kushite carrying parasols and sandals came hurrying up behind, only to be summarily dismissed. Silence reigned, broken by the creak of a wheel, the snort of a horse and the low buzz of flies hovering over the dung. Above us circled vultures, their broad wings dark against the sky. The Veiled One stopped before me and lifted his head, revealing a beautiful smile, warm and generous, and eyes bright with excitement.
‘I will take Mahu, the Baboon from the South.’ His eyes held mine. ‘He shall be my tedjet.’
Sobeck immediately clambered down. I glanced at Colonel Perra who just shrugged. Weni was giggling behind his hand. Tuthmosis stood a little distance away, hands on his hips, a knowing look on his face.
‘I will be the driver.’ The Veiled One did not shout but his voice carried, an imperious command which no one dared question. He asked the names of my horses and, when I told him, he whispered to each, caressing their necks, letting them hear his voice and smell his sweat. He glanced up. ‘We forget how horses can smell so keenly. But come, before they cool!’
The Veiled One let his shawl slip away exposing copper-skinned shoulders, their blades protruding, his back slightly bent. Resting on his cane, he walked along to the chariot and clambered in, ignoring my gesture of support. He slipped his cane into the empty javelin container and grasped the reins, spreading his bare feet, clicking his tongue. I sensed that his skill was as great as mine though the chariot was strange and the horses new. He stood next to me, misshapen yet graceful, careful not to brush or knock me. Beads of sweat ran down his neck, and his body exuded a sweet cloying perfume. Clear of the veil I now noticed how strange his head was: the sloping forehead, the egg-shaped skull, the strangely elongated neck. His movements were carefully measured. He backed the chariot out, turning it for the long run, urging the horses forward. Once we were some distance away he reined in and turned his face to the sun, staring up narrow-eyed. I wondered if his sight was as strong as our own.
‘Praise me, Father,’ he raised a hand, ‘as I have praised you who existed before all time began. Bless me, Father, as you have been blessed by all creatures under the sun. Support me, Father, Lord of Jubilees, Ruler of the Years, beautiful in aspect. Let the rays of your power guide my heart with an iron hand. Oh, Joyous One, listen to your son the beloved.’
The others could not have heard him. He turned and winked at me.
‘So we meet again, Mahu.’ He clicked his tongue and urged the horses on. ‘Even though I have watched you from afar.’ He then glanced over his right shoulder and spoke in a tongue I couldn’t understand, as if someone else was standing on the far side of the chariot. Sharp guttural words. I wondered if it was Akkadian, the language used by Pharaoh’s scribes when writing to his vassal kings. He spoke again and turned back. ‘You are not frightened, Baboon of the South?’
‘Should I be?’ I grasped the chariot rail.
The Veiled One chuckled. ‘Do you know a funny story, Mahu? Can you tell me one?’
I racked my memory. ‘An old woman had a very garrulous husband. He would never stop talking even when asleep.’
Again the chuckle. ‘Every day,’ I went on, ‘she used to lead the cart on which he perched down to the market.’
‘And?’ The Veiled One grasped the reins more firmly.
‘One day a passer-by ran up. “Oh ancient one,” he yelped, “your husband has fallen out of the cart.” “The gods be thanked,” the Old Woman replied, rubbing her ear. “Why is that?” the passer-by asked. “Because for a moment I thought I had gone deaf.”’
The Veiled One threw his head back and bellowed with laughter, loud and clear. He then urged the horses forward, snapping the reins, calling out their names, sometimes lapsing into that strange tongue. I was about seventeen summers old, the Veiled One a little older, but he drove like a Lord of the Chariots. Undoubtedly he had been trained yet he possessed a gift and I realised the chariot freed him of any disability; he could now fly like the Horus falcon. He stood slightly stooping, his arms, wrists and hands displaying surprising strength and skill. There is a time as any soldier knows when a war chariot, both horses and driver, become united, long like a spear speeding through the air; you are not aware of the barb, shaft or feathered flight, just its swift death-bearing beauty. The Veiled One urged the horses on. They galloped as one, their direction straight. He guided them round the potholes and ruts. I clung to the rail aware of the ground racing away beneath us, the buffeting breeze and the Veiled One immersed in the thrill of the charge. Now and again he would whisper under his breath. We reached the targets, turned and streaked back like a javelin to the mark. We slowed down, but then picked up speed again and the Veiled One, leaning slightly to the left then the right, made the horses perform the most complex twists, as any war chariot would in battle, slicing deep into the enemy foot. At last we stopped just in front of our admiring audience who cheered and clapped. The Veiled One grasped his cane and clambered down. A servant hurried up carrying his shawl, veil and dark leather wallet. The Veiled One grasped this, opened it and handed me an amulet of jasper, cornelian and red sandstone: it was carved to depict the two celestial hills of the Far Horizon with the sun rising between them. He pressed this
aknty
, this Sun-in-the-Horizon amulet into my hand, stroked my finger, winked and walked away.
Later that day we celebrated, though Tuthmosis and the Veiled One were not present. Colonel Perra had also gone to the palace to convey the Squadron’s congratulations to the Princes. Naturally we discussed the Veiled One’s skill, his strange, ungainly movements yet his mastery of the horses. Horemheb looked a little jealous, not so much of me, but rather that he had been outclassed: however, he had the good grace, once the beer loosened his tongue, to praise the Veiled One’s prowess. Naturally I was teased and taunted. The beer jug was passed round. We stretched out our hands to the brazier, welcoming its heat against the cold night air. Weni, of course, was already drunk – clasped, as we say, in the arms of Lady Hathor. He abruptly put the jug down and, picking up a soiled napkin, covered his face and pretended to be the Veiled One driving the chariot, flailing his arms and hands around and provoking bursts of laughter from everyone except myself and Maya. Encouraged in his parody, Weni persisted, demanding what would happen if the Veiled One engaged in battle with a sheet across his face? Or, what if his chariot crashed? Again the imitation.
‘Would he go hobbling round the battlefield?’
I emptied my beer jug onto the ground and walked away.
The following day was a festival. There was no drill but we went down to the stables to tend to our horses, and check the harness, frames and wheels of our chariots. I was immersed in memories of the previous day; the amulet I kept in a wallet, and now and again I would walk away, take it out and study it carefully. I stayed late that day, long after the others had left. Sobeck came hurrying down.
‘Mahu, you’d best come!’
‘What’s the matter?’
Sobeck wiped sweat from his face. ‘Weni has been found dead, drowned in a pool.’
I recalled that olive grove, the dark reedfilled pond, Weni leaning against the tree, beer jug in hand. I hurried back to the barracks where Weni’s green-slimed, water-drenched corpse had already been laid out on the bench on which he had so often stood to lecture and berate us. Death is always pathetic but Weni’s was even more so. He lay, eyes, nostrils and mouth clogged with brackish mud, his loincloth sopping wet, trickles of dark water running down his legs. With his swollen belly he looked like a landed fish and his face had the same look of surprised horror. I took a napkin and covered his features and recalled what Weni had done the previous day. Orderlies brought a stretcher to convey the corpse to the House of Death. The others drifted around, muttering amongst themselves. Meryre had tried to intone a mortuary prayer but the others were not interested.
‘Get him prepared quickly,’ Horemheb bawled at the orderlies, ‘before he begins to smell.’
I crouched down and took the ring from Weni’s stubby fingers. He’d always been proud of that, a gift from the Magnificent One’s father. I placed this on the corpse and looked carefully at the nail of that finger, plucking at the little strips of leather. The corpse was removed. I walked around the barracks through the side gate and into the olive grove. I found Weni’s tree; the beer jug lay cracked on the ground beside it. The muddy edges of the pool were marked with the feet of those who had pulled him out. I noticed something gleaming in the grass and picked it up. It was a small copper stud, certainly not from the war-kilts of anyone in the Kap. I had seen such studs on the war-kilts of the Veiled One’s Kushite retinue. I weighed this in my hand and got to my feet. Weni was an old soldier, a drunkard, but sure on his feet, careful what he did. Going back to the olive tree, I sat down and imagined Weni sitting there, half-drunk, those dark shapes creeping through the trees. A sharp, short struggle, the jug being thrown to the ground, Weni being dragged to the pool and forced in, his head and face held underwater until all life left his heart. I recalled Weni laughing mockingly the night before.
‘Is there anything wrong?’
I whirled around. Sobeck stood staring at me curiously.
‘No, no, nothing.’ I got to my feet and threw the copper stud into the pool. ‘No, there’s nothing wrong, Sobeck, at least for the moment.’

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