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Authors: P. C. Doherty

BOOK: The Assassins of Isis
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‘I'm sorry to call you here, Captain.'
‘With all due respect, my lord, I don't think you are.' Mafdet turned his head and stared directly at the priest.
‘I beg your pardon?' Impuki leaned his elbows on the table, joining his hands to conceal the anger in his face.
‘You don't like me, my lord,' Mafdet said. His accent was harsh, lacking the soft culture of Thebes. He liked to emphasise that he came from the north, from the town of Henes, in the Delta, where life was not as comfortable and easy as it was in Thebes. ‘My lord,' he repeated, wiping the sweat from his face with one hand and drying it on his robe, ‘you don't like me, and now you hold me responsible.'
‘And why don't I like you?' Impuki asked, intrigued at the captain's insistence on having this conversation.
‘You don't like me, my lord, because I am a soldier, I come from the north, my manners are rough and I like my food and drink. I have as much experience of life as you do. I have served Pharaoh and her father most loyally. I have held positions of authority. I was an officer in the retinue of Lord Rahimere, once Grand Vizier of Egypt.' Mafdet could have bitten his tongue. Rahimere had died in disgrace, and it was best not to mention him. ‘I was recommended to this post by the Commander-in-Chief General Omendap,' he added hastily. ‘I am a good captain of the guard; nothing disturbs the peace in the Temple of Isis.'
‘I don't like you,' Impuki lost his temper, allowing his
tongue to run away with him, ‘because …' He paused, fighting for breath. ‘I think you like killing, Mafdet.'
The soldier snorted, shook his head and glared at the High Priest from under his eyebrows.
‘And that's another thing I don't like about you,' Impuki added. ‘The way you stare at me. As for keeping the peace in the temple …'
Mafdet picked up his war belt and eased the sword in and out of its scabbard, a threatening gesture not lost on Impuki.
‘I don't like you, Mafdet,' the High Priest decided to return to his confrontation, ‘because I think you like killing. You are a bully, you swagger around, you drink and eat like a pig!'
‘Do I do my job?' the soldier asked. ‘Where have I failed? Is there any disturbance, do trespassers scale the walls? Are temple treasures stolen? Are the pilgrims and worshippers not carefully marshalled and controlled?'
‘The hesets.' Impuki spat the words out. ‘Four of our temple girls have disappeared, dancers and singers, consecrated by their parents to dance in the Holy of Holies and give praise to the Mother Goddess, virgins who have taken a vow never to leave the safety of these precincts. In the space of a few months four of these girls have disappeared without trace.'
‘If a young woman has an itch—'
Impuki banged the desk with his fist. ‘These are sacred girls, dedicated to the Goddess, not temple prostitutes! No one has seen them leave, they have not returned to their parents' houses. According to the High Priestess,' Impuki snorted in derision, ‘they were happy enough.'
‘So how is that my fault?' Mafdet sneered. ‘How can I be held responsible for their disappearance? If you decide to scale the walls, my lord, and run away, what can I do to stop you?'
‘Well, the walls could be patrolled.'
‘They already are, by your priests and my guards.'
Impuki picked up the fan and wafted it in front of his narrow face. He could feel the anger seethe within him. The muscles at the back of his neck were tense, whilst his mouth was as dry as if he had been facing a desert wind. He closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing, and when he looked again, Mafdet was sitting, legs crossed, arms hanging down by his sides, staring up at the ceiling, humming quietly.
‘I'll have you dismissed,' Impuki declared. ‘I'll make an appeal to the court. I have the Divine One's ear. You'll be discharged to join the other lazy veterans in the beer shops of the Necropolis or the slums of Thebes.'
‘If you do that, my lord,' Mafdet straightened the chair, ‘I, too, will ask for an audience before the Divine One, or my patron General Suten, or perhaps Lord Senenmut, Pharaoh's Chief Minister. I will tell him about the secret doings of this temple.'
‘The secret doings?'
‘Well, my lord.' Mafdet sighed and patted his stomach, smacking his lips as if eager for a drink. He looked longingly at a jug standing near the doorway. ‘It is remarkable how many men and women come to this temple and die in the House of Twilight.'
Impuki stopped wafting his fan. ‘What are you implying? Our patients are old and very ill; they come here to die and we make their last days as comfortable as possible.'
‘They still die,' Mafdet answered cheekily, ‘and before they do, they write out their wills and leave most generous legacies to the temple.'
‘We don't need their money and you know that,' Impuki answered. ‘They wish to repay us for our care and skill. You will find this common practice in other temples; the income we receive from such legacies is a drop in the pool.'
‘And there are other matters,' Mafdet continued.
‘What matters?' Impuki could now feel the sweat soaking his body. The buzzing of the flies over a dish of sweetened dates seemed to grow, an irritating sound which set Impuki's teeth on edge; for the first time since this confrontation had begun, he felt a prick of fear in his gut. How much did Mafdet know? What was he hinting at?
‘If you have anything to say, now is the time.' Impuki drew a deep breath. ‘If not, I think it is about time to dispatch you to your duties. I want you to search the temple gardens, the groves, the undergrowth, the orchards, all those lonely places.'
‘And what am I looking for, my lord? Do you think the temple girls are hiding there, giggling behind their fingers, eager to play hide and seek?'
‘We have many visitors to this temple,' Impuki retorted. ‘The sick in body and mind come here. They visit our schools of life, they make offerings in our chapels and seek the advice of our priests and physicians.' He took a deep breath. ‘It is possible that we have admitted a sinner, a man who likes to prey on young women—'
‘Nonsense,' Mafdet interrupted. ‘One thing I know about our temple girls is that they have powerful voices. If any man touched them, their screams would be heard all over Thebes.'
‘How do you know that, Captain? Have you tried to touch one yourself?'
‘I have heard rumours.'
‘The young women of this temple are dedicated to the Mother Goddess; they are not the playthings of a drunken soldier.'
‘To echo your words, my lord, if you have any allegation to make, do so. I am friendly with these girls. I tease them. If I wished to hire one to satisfy my own pleasure, then I would do so honourably.'
‘I'm giving you an order, Captain. Instead of sitting in your guard house tonight, search the temple grounds.
It is months since the first heset disappeared; she may even have been a victim of a quarrel amongst the girls themselves. I fear you must search for a corpse.'
‘At night?' Mafdet objected.
‘You can carry a torch,' Impuki retorted. ‘And it is something best done under the cloak of darkness so that we don't raise suspicion. Let us forget our quarrels. The parents of these girls are now petitioning the court. The Divine One herself has taken a great interest in their fate. As I said, I want you to search the orchards and groves, those lonely parts of the temple grounds. Look to see whether the ground has been disturbed, make a careful note of where you go. Tomorrow morning report on which areas you have covered.' Impuki waved his hand. ‘Now you may go.'
Mafdet belched noisily. He slowly picked up his leather breastplate, kilt and war belt, gathering them into a bundle, scraped the chair back as noisily as possible and stamped out of the chamber. He climbed the steps into the temple grounds and stared up at the night sky. The heat had now gone, the breeze was cool and ripe with the smells of the temple gardens. In the distance he could hear the faint sound of the chapel choirs rehearsing for the morning sacrifice, and from the bull pens came the lowing of the cattle being prepared for the sacrifice once the sun returned. Servants hurried by, busy on their various tasks. The Temple of Isis rarely slept. There was bread to be baked, meat to be cooked, wine jars to be brought up from the cellar, temple forecourts to be cleaned and sprinkled, animals to be tended to, the countless tasks of a busy temple. Above all, there was the care of the sick, both those in the House of Twilight and those who would be allowed to sleep in the forecourts, the poor and crippled, who had spent money and time reaching the temple in the hope of a cure for their illness.
A group of young temple girls came by dressed in their billowing white robes and heavy black wigs. They chatted amongst themselves, shaking sistras or clattering
tambourines. One or two glanced flirtatiously at Mafdet before wafting by in a cloud of perfume. The Captain of the Guard watched them go, then slowly made his way through a grove of trees to his own small, square-built house which adjoined the temple barracks. He unlatched the door and went in, revelling in the smell of cooking oil which mingled with a small pot of cassia he had placed in the centre of the table. Mafdet liked things clean; he always insisted that the tables, benches and furniture, every pot and jug, be scrupulously scrubbed by his orderlies. Jars of perfume were to be left out to sweeten the air; as Mafdet always remarked, he'd had his fill of smelly latrines and pits. Now he was Captain of the Temple Guard he would have the same luxuries as those plump priests.
Mafdet went to the rear of the house, into the stone-floored bathroom and latrine. Using a thick cloth, he picked up a small pot of fire placed there and brought it back into the centre of the room. He placed it on the table, took off the lid and blew carefully. The flame, a wick floating in a small pool of oil, flared vigorously. Mafdet used this to light other lamps before returning to the bathroom, where he washed his hands and face in a bowl of herb-strewn water and wiped himself clean with a napkin. During the day he had a servant to tend him, but at night he liked to be by himself. He had business to do, plans to make, money to count. He thought of High Priest Impuki and smiled, baring his teeth like a dog. ‘My lord Impuki this, my lord Impuki that!' he hissed. ‘Well, my lord Impuki,' he filled a beer jug and sipped appreciatively, enjoying the harsh tang of the brew, ‘perhaps I know more than you think.' He recalled the High Priest's angry face and his instruction to search the grounds. Mafdet sat down on a stool and laughed softly to himself. He would do nothing of the sort. If the temple gardens were to be searched it would be during the day. He had no intention of jumping to the High Priest's every whim and wish.
Mafdet finished his beer. He felt tired and sleepy. He recalled what Impuki had said about the temple girls, and smiled quietly to himself. As he thought of a certain heset's golden body squirming beneath him, his eyes grew heavy and he promised himself a short sleep before resuming his drinking. He put the beer cup down and went and lay on the long couch which served as his bed. For a while he drifted in and out of sleep. Memories came and went: of the chaos caused by Rahimere's fall, followed by service out in the Red Lands; of sleeping with one eye open, ever ready for those Libyan marauders to come slipping out of the darkness. Ah well, that was all over; now a life of comfort beckoned. Mafdet fell asleep.
He was slapped awake brutally, startled by a cup of cold water thrown into his face. He lurched forward, only to discover that his hands were bound above his head whilst his legs were held fast by cords which bit into his ankles. He tried to speak, but the linen cloth stuffed into his mouth made him gag and fight for breath. Mafdet turned his head. Was this some sort of nightmare? Yet he was in his own house; the oil lamp still glowed. He glimpsed a movement, and a shadow detached itself from the darkness and came towards him. Mafdet gazed in terror as the head came into view, the face hidden behind a jackal mask. The intruder was cloaked in black, and the sinister features of that mask, the glittering eyes, cruel snout and sprouting ears, reminded Mafdet of the city executioner. He shook his head, trying to understand who this terrifying figure could be, and why it was here.
‘Mafdet.' The voice was low and throaty. The Captain of the Guard couldn't decide if it was female or male. ‘Mafdet, you have sinned against the Goddess.'
Mafdet shook his head and strained with all his might against the cords around his wrists and ankles, but they were tightly bound and the cords held. He struggled, trying to lift his body, but it was impossible.
‘Do you remember, Mafdet?' The voice came like an echo in a dream. ‘Do you know what happens to those who commit sacrilege against the Goddess?' Mafdet could only stare at this monstrosity from the Underworld. ‘You have to be punished, Mafdet.'
The Captain of the Temple Guard felt his tunic being raised. He tried to scream as his loincloth was wrenched away, and his body convulsed in agony as the knife, pressed against his genitals, thrust deep.
BEHEN: ancient Egyptian, ‘murderous'
The Hall of Two Truths in the Temple of Ma'at at the heart of the Waset—Thebes, the City of the Sceptre—lay silent. So expectant was the crowd gathered at the back and along the sides of the hall that they forgot to stare round. They did not admire its painted pillars and columns of dark green and light blue with gold lotus leaves carved around the base and silver acanthi at the top. Nor were the spectators distracted by the marble floor, polished and shiny so it seemed as if you were walking on water: so clear it acted like a mirror and caught the reflections of the silver flowers, butterflies and birds carved on the ceiling. The Hall of Two Truths was truly a chamber of beauty as well as justice. Its wall paintings depicted Ma'at, the Goddess of Truth, in many poses and roles: as the beautiful young woman, the divine princess, kneeling before her father Ra; as the judge, standing in the Hall of Judgement with the jackal-faced Anubis and the green-skinned Osiris as the Divine Ones assembled to weigh a soul and determine its final fate. In other paintings she was portrayed as a warrior princess fending off the destroyers, the creatures of the Underworld, who exulted in such names as Devourer of Faeces, Gobbler of Flesh, Supper of Blood, Grinder of Bones. Next to these she appeared in more peaceful roles holding the scales of justice or stretching out the feather of truth.
All these paintings and carvings reminded everyone assembled in the hall that this was a court of justice, a place of judgement, where men and women faced the all-consuming power of Pharaoh and suffered the consequence of her displeasure. Here, sentence of death was passed, the dreadful decree which dispatched criminals to a suffocating death in the desert or to be hung in chains from the Wall of Death outside the city.
Now, in the first weeks of the Inundation, in the third year of Pharaoh Hatusu's reign, sentence of death was to be proclaimed. The onlookers in the court either gasped or held their breath, for the trial recently ended manifested how the Pharaoh Queen, scarcely a woman of mature years, had tightened her grip on the collar of Egypt. When Pharaoh's power was strong, the princely tombs in the Valley of the Kings and the Valley of the Queens were left untouched. If Pharaoh weakened, the powers of darkness always made their presence felt, either in attacks on the temples or in the raiding of tombs across the swollen waters of the Nile in the City of the Dead. Such raids had recently taken place, and all manner of men and women had been involved. Priests of the mortuary temples, priestesses of the serpent goddess Meretseger, whose shrine overlooked the Necropolis, merchants and soldiers, high-ranking ministers and officials: no fewer than two dozen people in all had been arrested. Hatusu, her face mottled with fury, had met her councillors of the Royal Circle and demanded such raids be brought to an end. Now the man responsible for Pharaoh's justice, Chief Justice Amerotke, was about to pass judgement. He had been left in no doubt that he was to show all of Egypt how Hatusu had tightened her grip on the Kingdom of the Two Lands.
Hatusu herself had come down to the court early that morning to lecture Amerotke in his chamber behind the shrine. The Chief Justice thought Pharaoh had never looked so beautiful: her flawless skin drawn tight, eyes sparkling
with life, the blood running fast and free. She was so angry she could not stay still, but walked up and down, linen robes swishing, her multicoloured sash swinging backwards and forwards to the clatter of bracelets and necklaces: these reflected the light from the torches and lamps so it seemed the Pharaoh Queen shimmered in an aura of fire. She had even pressed the pearl-encrusted fan used to keep her cheeks cool against Amerotke's neck.
‘You are sure they are guilty, my lord?' she demanded.
‘Of course, Divine One.'
Amerotke kept his eyes on the Uraeus, the spitting cobra, which lunged from the centre of the circlet around Hatusu's head. In many ways, he thought, the Pharaoh Queen in her present mood was more dangerous than any snake.
‘I want those criminals dead.' Hatusu took away the fan, snapped it open and began to use it vigorously. She turned, and stared down at her Chief Minister, Senenmut, his thick-set face impassive as he squatted on a footstool and watched his divine mistress engage in not such a divine tantrum.
‘You must not, my lady, be seen to interfere,' Senenmut declared. ‘The tombs were invaded, the criminals caught; justice will be done.'
‘I want them all to see justice is done. I want people as far north as the market towns of the Delta who stare out over the Great Green to know that I am Pharaoh. I want people who live beyond the Fourth Cataract to tremble at the sound of my name.'
‘They already do.'
Amerotke leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. Hatusu was not angry with him, she was just indulging her well-known temper. In truth he realised this cunning Pharaoh Queen was delighted at what he had achieved.
‘They will see you as mighty of form,' he continued, ‘strong of heart, beloved daughter of Pharaoh, Lord of the Two Lands, she whom Nekhbet the Vulture Goddess has covered
with her feathered wings, she whom Horus protects as he burns millions.'
Hatusu now hid her face behind the fan.
‘She to whom,' Amerotke continued his teasing, ‘the priests of Amun, Isis and Osiris offer incense to the clash of cymbals and the braying of trumpets. She who wears the double crown and the feathered headdress, whose words leap down from her mouth.'
Hatusu's rage subsided. She stood for a while listening to Amerotke imitate an imperial herald, then began to laugh, shoulders shaking, fingers going to cover her mouth. She had thrown the fan at Senenmut and hitched more closely around her shoulders the beautiful jewel-encrusted Nenes, the coat of glory, worn only by Pharaoh. Now she clapped her hands in appreciation.
‘If you ever wish to become a herald, Amerotke, I can arrange that, but in the meantime …' She drew so close Amerotke could smell the beautiful Kiphye perfume, the juice of the resplendent blue lotus. Up close Hatusu's eyes reminded him of a leopard's, almost amber-coloured, whilst he knew those beautiful lips, parted so prettily, could curl in a snarl. She lifted her hands, sheathed in their blood-red gloves, and gently touched Amerotke's face. ‘Three years, Amerotke, I have been Pharaoh, and you are right. I am the beloved of the gods. I am the smiter of the vile Asiatics, the crusher of the rebellious Kushites, and before me the People of the Nine Bows tremble. My ships cross the Great Green, my war barges patrol the Nile, my chariot squadrons go deeper and deeper into the Red Lands. My soldiers build wells, fortify oases, map roads; they set up inscriptions and monuments to my glory. My troops patrol the Horus path across Sinai, I demand the princes of Canaan flood my court with tribute, wines, wool and precious timber. But what is the use of that,' she pressed her fingers against his cheek, ‘if I can't even protect the sepulchres of my kin, my father, brother, mother and husband? You know
what they did, Amerotke, those miscreants? They looted the tombs, desecrated the mummies. They stripped them of jewels, gold and silver, selling them like trinkets in the marketplace. What do you think, my lord Amerotke, the princes of Canaan will say when a merchant approaches them and offers to sell jewels which once protected my dead father's eyes? What does that say about the power of Hatusu?'
‘My Lord Amerotke is not to be blamed.' Senenmut spoke up. ‘He is the one who hunted these villains down and brought them to justice.'
‘Ah yes. Justice!' Hatusu stepped away. ‘Make sure my justice is done, make sure it is published and shown that it has been done.' She snapped her fingers at Senenmut and swept out of the chamber.
That had been three hours ago, just before dawn. Now Amerotke sat enthroned on the dark-red-quilted Chair of Judgement, its acacia wood inlaid with silver and gold, the back of the chair rising above him from which a tasselled awning stretched out above his head. Both the arms and the feet of the throne were carved to represent a lunging lion with the face of Sekhmet, the destroyer goddess. Amerotke stared across at the group of men and women manacled and chained, guarded by Asural, the burly Captain of the Temple Guard, dressed in full ceremonial armour, sword in one hand, club in the other. Around Asural stood the temple police, whilst Amerotke knew that in the courtyard outside, the death carts had been assembled. On a cushion at Amerotke's feet knelt Lord Valu, the Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh, the royal prosecutor, keeper of the Crocodile Diadem. Amerotke knew the ritual. Valu would ask for justice, for sentence of death to be passed on all those he'd presented to the Goddess.
‘This is my decree.' Amerokte grasped the flail and the rod, the symbols of justice; he crossed his arms, imitating Pharaoh when she issued a decree. ‘The crimes you have
committed are a blasphemy which stinks as high as heaven, offensive to both man and god. You entered the Holy of Holies, the Houses of a Million Years. You opened the coffers and caskets of the great ones, and plundered their treasures, sealed there for all eternity. You disturbed the dead.'
Amerotke paused as the onlookers gasped and sighed, for that was the real crime: not the theft, but the disturbance of the dead. What happened to their corpses in this life would influence their Kas in the next.
‘You used corpses as torches, setting alight the mummies and embalmed remains of divine children.' Amerotke stared at these criminals, men and women now almost indistinguishable, the dirt and muck of the prison dungeons staining their bruised flesh and torn clothes. ‘Very well.' He picked up a scroll and handed it to Valu. ‘Here are the names of the prisoners. Ten of the men shall be impaled alive at the entrance to the Valley of the Kings; the women will be buried alive beside them. The rest can hang in chains from the Wall of Death.'
‘And the treasure they stole?' Valu asked.
‘Everything these criminals robbed,' Amerotke continued, ‘is to be sealed and brought here to the Temple of Ma'at, and placed in the embalming rooms below. The goods will be purified and inspected by Lord Senenmut before being returned to their proper place.'
Some of the prisoners were starting to shout and weep. Asural and his guards began to walk amongst them, thrusting cloths in their mouths to gag them.
‘This is Pharaoh's justice,' Amerotke continued, ‘and as it is written, so let it be done.'
Lord Valu smiled, his fat face creasing in pleasure. He scrambled to his feet, bowed to the judge who had made his job so easy, and backed away before turning, snapping his fingers and shouting at Asural to escort the prisoners out to the waiting death carts.
Amerotke put the flail and rod down on the small table
before him which carried the Books of Judgement. The court began to empty. He took off the heavy symbols of office, the beautiful cornelian pectoral, the bracelets and rings, as well as the chain of justice around his neck. He felt exhausted. He had trapped these criminals, he had proved, or at least Lord Valu had, that each had been guilty of a heinous crime. He could well understand Lord Valu's pleasure, for most of the work had been done for him when the evidence was handed over to his House of Scribes.
‘My lord?' Amerotke looked up. Asural had returned, helmet under his arm. ‘Shall I replace the bar?'
Amerotke nodded. The Captain of the Temple Guard, helped by one of his men, lifted the bar of sweet-smelling cedar wood and placed it across its three trestles. This separated the place of judgement from the rest of the court; it was only removed when the judge was about to give sentence.
‘Is my lord ready for the next case?'
Amerotke got to his feet and walked over to the speaker, a fresh-faced young scribe who squatted with the rest, a writing tray across his lap. He crouched down and smiled at his kinsman, Prenhoe.
‘Are you so eager for justice, Prenhoe? Are you not tired after writing so long?' He tapped the pots on the writing tray which contained red and black ink. ‘Don't they have to be refilled? Aren't your fingers tired and your mouth dry? Or have you forgotten all other appetites except your hunger for justice?'
The other scribes now began to join in the teasing.
‘We have to wait,' Amerotke continued, ‘at least until Lord Valu and Asural return.' He got to his feet. ‘Prenhoe, take some refreshment.' He pointed towards the Chair of Judgement and the table before it with his insignia of office. ‘But make sure you guard what is there. Oh, by the way, where is Shufoy?' Amerotke stared round. Usually his manservant was never far away. ‘The ever-dancing dwarf', as Asural
called him, would come hastening up to his master once any case was finished to discuss its finer points. Amerotke couldn't remember seeing him during the trial.

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