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Authors: Paul Doherty

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BOOK: The Season of the Hyaena (Ancient Egyptian Mysteries)
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‘And the priest was also sacrificed?’
‘Of course. Meryre can then proclaim that no sooner had he entered the palace than one of his retinue was murdered and his place taken by a man bent on a second murder, the destruction of Lord Rahmose. Meryre also ensured that someone in the palace blocked that door so that the assassin couldn’t escape. He was meant to be killed. Meryre needed to prove the assassin was not a member of his entourage so he could point the finger of blame elsewhere.’
‘And the attack on you?’ Sobeck asked.
‘Later that day a member of Meryre’s coven – and he must have such in the palace – arranged for the pile of laundry to be taken to my chamber with snakes hidden in the basket. On that same night a servant was dispatched with strict orders to take the laundry out of the basket.’ I shrugged. ‘You know how the palace servants are. If you give them an order to throw precious goblets into the Nile they will do so. Why should they suspect any danger or treachery? And so the damage is done. Meryre can point out that the city of Thebes, not even the Palace of Malkata, is safe for him or the servants of our Prince.’
‘And so he demands the fortress at Buhen.’ Djarka smiled. ‘And the removal of the Prince to the City of the Aten?’
‘He also knows the Royal Circle will agree,’ Sobeck added. ‘They wanted Meryre to go north. They knew you would travel with him. Meryre’s request that the Prince accompany you to the City of the Aten seems logical enough.’
‘For a while,’ I replied, ‘Meryre had his way. He made no mistakes. He didn’t mean for the Prince to be killed. The attack this morning wasn’t really intended to be carried out here, but at the City of the Aten. Flying false colours, armed with forged letters, those barges would have landed their troops in a half-deserted city.’ I pulled a face. ‘We would have been killed, but the Prince, Ankhesenamun, Meryre and his entourage would have been abducted.’
Sobeck whistled in disbelief.
‘And what then?’
‘Meryre would have had the best of both worlds,’ I replied. ‘He could claim that he was being held captive, whilst the usurper possessed Egypt’s legitimate ruler. Once that happened, the usurper would have marched south, collecting troops on the way. They would have been able to display our young Prince as the true head of their forces. Meryre would provoke uprisings in various towns and cities—’
‘Whilst my lord Ay,’ Sobeck intervened, ‘not to mention Horemheb and Rameses, would have been distracted by these uprisings as well as the revolt which would certainly have occurred at Buhen.’
‘I agree. Buhen is the gateway to Nubia. The princes of Kush would be only too willing to rise in revolt in return for promises of more rights and privileges: more independence, greater freedom from Thebes. Horemheb is a shrewd general,’ I added, ‘or thinks he is. Which way would he have turned? To the north, or to Buhen in the south? Not to mention the uprisings in between.’
‘We should kill Meryre,’ Djarka declared. ‘Claim he suffered an accident or fell ill.’
‘Leave him for the while,’ I disagreed. ‘What we need to do is to find out the true strength of the usurper. Tomorrow morning, Djarka, I will leave Memphis. I’ll crop my hair.’ I grinned. ‘I’ll ask Sobeck to give me a few bruises and cuts. I’ll travel north to Sile and offer my services.’
‘You could be recognised.’
‘They won’t expect me,’ I retorted. ‘I’ll change my appearance. I know what I am looking for. We cannot trust anyone else. We’ll tell no one except Colonel Nebamun. You, Djarka, will remain and guard the Prince and the Lady Ankhesenamun, even though she’s a lying bitch who tried to claim responsibility for everything.’
‘And me?’ Sobeck asked.
I clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You have a choice, my friend. You can stay here with Djarka or you can come with me! In the meantime I am going to sow a little confusion of my own. Meryre and his retinue will be kept under house arrest. He will wonder where I have gone.’
‘And this confusion?’ Djarka asked.
‘I’ll tell him I’ll swim with the surge of the river and, for a proper consideration, I may even change sides.’
Per Sutekh
(Ancient Egyptian name for Avaris)
Chapter 6
Awaken Seth, Lord of Destruction!
Red of hand and red of hair,
Bringer of War!
He who destroys millions by fire and sword
Who feasts on the slain of battle …
I murmured the words, more as a good luck charm than a prayer, as Sobeck and I disembarked along one of the many canals which pierced the Delta. In the far distance were the towers, turrets and silver-capped obelisks of ancient Sile, a crumbling city set amongst the fields and palm groves of that most fertile place. The quayside adjoined a small market town, one of those sleepy, tawdry villages dotted along the Nile and its tributaries, now transformed into a place of war. A teeming mass of armed men wandered its streets, mercenaries from every kingdom under the sun. They swarmed like flies on carrion, lounging in the makeshift beer shops along the quayside or clustered at the mouths of needle-thin alleys and streets. Sobeck and I, to all appearances, were just two more sword-sellers, dressed in leather kilts, high-tied boots and linen vests. Our weapons and blankets, panniers and provisions were heaped on the back of the most docile donkey Nebamun’s stable could provide, a good travelling companion who’d been no trouble even on the barges as we journeyed north. I had grown quite attached to it, joking with Sobeck that it provided better company than many a man.
We had prepared our stories, a common tale. We dressed and acted like professional mercenaries much given to raucous song and filthy curses. I had shaved my head and wore a collar of copper, with similar bands on wrists and forearms. Sobeck was attired the same, though he aped the language and swagger of the mercenaries better than I. A true enigma, Sobeck! I had reflected on this during the journey from Memphis. I was Chief of Police. It was my job to collect information about enemies of the Royal Circle. Sobeck, however, had come by choice, boasting as usual that he had nothing better to do. Secretly I suspect this disgraced Child of the Kap wished to be accepted by us all, particularly by me, who had grown up with him at the House of Residence in the Malkata Palace. During our river journey, whenever we were given the opportunity, we discussed the past. I asked if his absence as Lord of Am-duat, the underworld of Thebes, would be noted. Sobeck grinned in that sly way he had, not holding my gaze, and replied he would be a poor chief if he were forgotten in a month.
Naturally, as we approached Sile, such conversations ended. One night, when we moored in the shadow of another village, we caught a pedlar eavesdropping on our conversation outside a dingy beer shop. Sobeck followed him into the dark, knife grasped in his hand, and when he returned, reported we were still safe. Spies and informers abounded, so everyone was careful. Fellow travellers would stare, but never question or discuss what was happening. Nevertheless the tension was palpable. A usurper had invaded Tomery, the Kingdom of Two Lands, and a savage war was imminent. Armed men were everywhere. We glimpsed troops moving along the banks, provision carts and the occasional chariot squadron sending up clouds of dust. Smoke often smudged the sky, and after dark, night prowlers from the desert scavenged amongst the corpses along the river banks. One old man, out of his wits, complained how Seth’s red shadow covered the Nile; that the Hyksos had returned with all the terrors of the Season of the Hyaena. Others, more sensible, merely complained about raiders and the lack of patrols, or dismissed us as river scum floating north or south to sell our swords to the highest bidder. The countryside was held in a grip of fear whilst the great cities closed their gates and fortified their walls against these hyaenas, as one old lady, chomping on her gums, called us.
As we moved through that market town towards the usurper’s camp, I realised that she spoke the truth. The inhabitants appeared to have fled, leaving their homes to the scavengers: Shardana in their horned helmets and leather garments; Libyans and Nubians festooned with feathers and plumes, faces and bodies painted or tattooed, kilts fashioned out of animal skins flapping against their thighs. Soldiers from the islands of the Great Green were there, and even a few fair-skinned warriors from the lands beyond. All were armed and dangerous, displaying weapons of every kind: bows and arrows, clubs, daggers, swords, spears and two-edged axes. The air stank of sweat and strange perfumes which couldn’t disguise the reeking odour of the narrow lanes. The camp followers had also arrived: the wizards with their necklaces of bone and grotesque masks; fortune-tellers, wandering priests, leeches and physicians, dancing girls and prostitutes of every age and country. Nevertheless, although the market town was filthy, order was strictly maintained. Hittite officers and their military escorts patrolled the streets or lounged at the mouths of alleyways, ready to quell any trouble. Here and there stood the huge Hittite war chariots with their crew of three, driver, shield-bearer and archer, garbed in striped robes over metal-fringed leather jerkins and war kilts.
A grisly sight, a dire warning to those who broke the law, waited for us in the centre of the village: a row of corpses impaled on stakes driven through the chest, or up through the bowels. Each victim had been doused in resin and burned; their twisted black shapes seemed like demons frozen in the air. On the ground before each stake was a piece of wood proclaiming their crime:
techar
, spy;
nek
, rape;
thai
, thievery. Despite such bloodthirsty spectacles, the town seemed a noisy, gaudy place, dominated by a swirl of colour, cheap perfume and the chatter of at least a dozen tongues. A place where men greeted each other with open camaraderie, but beneath the singing, the laughter and the raucous drinking a sinister, threatening atmosphere lurked, as men of blood gathered for the slaughter.
No one accosted us, though we had to keep a sharp eye on our baggage; eventually we were through the village into a line of trees fringing the plain where the usurper had set up camp. At first my heart failed at the sight. A great makeshift fortress, surrounded by a moat fed by one of the canals, rose up from the plain, protected not only by the moat but by a soaring mound and a lofty, sturdy palisade of sharpened stakes. A bridge crossed the moat and cut through the mound to the huge double gates with wooden turrets on either side. From these, and elsewhere along the fortress, banners and standards fluttered in the breeze. The air was rich with the smell of wood smoke, burning meat, fried fish, incense, sweat and blood. On each side of the fortress a small town had sprung up of huts, bothies and tents. The air rang with the calls of trumpets, shouts, the neigh of horses and the lowing of cattle. I felt as if I was in one of my nightmares, standing in some lonely thicket looking out on to a city of the Underworld.
‘Much stronger,’ Sobeck whispered. ‘Much stronger than we thought, Mahu. What do you reckon?’ He gestured at the fortress and the camp. ‘What?’ he whispered. ‘Ten to fifteen thousand fighting men? Not to mention those we saw in the village, as well as those we met on patrol, foraging or hunting.’
A farmer, his cart laden with provisions, whip cracking the air over his oxen, shouted at us to get out of the way. We stepped aside and joined the other travellers making their way up to the camp. Once we’d reached it, we walked as calmly as we could around the fortress precincts, our donkey plodding patiently behind us. The field camp was like any I had seen: beaten paths snaked between tawdry huts and ragged tents. Camp fires burned, farmers, peasants and a legion of road wanderers offered everything for sale. We noticed horse lines and chariot parks and, as in the market town, the ubiquitous Hittite officers and military police. Walls and canals were protected. Latrine pits had been dug well beyond the picket line. Discipline was ruthlessly enforced. We passed a huge cage containing three naked malefactors being prodded and poked with sharp sticks by a horde of camp followers. A drunk who had defecated away from the latrines was being made to stand in his own ordure. Another, guilty of filching from the cooking pot, lay spread-eagled on the ground, the soles of his feet being beaten by two burly Kushites armed with split canes.
No one bothered us except for the traders or the fortune-tellers shaking their magic cups full of tiny bones. Whores and pimps touted for custom. Cooks tried to entice us with platters piled high with spiced meats. We walked slowly, wide-eyed, gaping-mouthed yet learning as much as we could. I noticed that the side gate, similar to the main, was closely guarded by troops placed before it and in the towers at either side. At the rear of the fortress another gate, leading down to the horse meadows and paddocks, was just as closely guarded. We were allowed to pass by but warned not to stop. At the far side of the fortress stretched another camp, screened off by a soaring palisade. Above this I glimpsed the top of a Mastaba, one of those ancient limestone pyramids used to house the dead before the Two Lands came together. The outer case was crumbling but its top jutted above the high palisade like a spear point against the sky; the sickly-sweet odour of spilt blood and the nauseating stench of burnt flesh were very strong. The guards at the entrance to the palisade were all dressed in black leather armour and jackal masks. A group of mercenaries were passing through the gate. As this swung open and closed, I glimpsed stakes, blackened earth, and heard the deep, cough-like roar of a lion.
BOOK: The Season of the Hyaena (Ancient Egyptian Mysteries)
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