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Authors: Paul Doherty
The Season of the Hyaena (Ancient Egyptian Mysteries) (34 page)
BOOK: The Season of the Hyaena (Ancient Egyptian Mysteries)
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‘The men of Israar,’ I repeated. ‘What do you know of them?’
‘They are the heart of our people.’ He sighed. ‘They have more priests than the rest. They have not been tainted by Egypt, by its glorious splendour, its luxury, its opulence. They tend their herds, moving backwards and forwards, sometimes in Canaan, sometimes along the rich Black Lands of Egypt.’
‘Have you heard rumours,’ I asked, ‘that they were involved in the abduction or escape of Akenhaten?’
‘Master, if I had heard,’ the answer came too easily, ‘I would have told you. When the Divine One,’ he sighed again, ‘left or was killed, I, like you, was banned from his presence. You were weak due to the plague. I had still not recovered from her death …’ He let his words hang in the air, a memorial of his deep love for the woman whom I’d discovered to be an assassin. Then he clambered to his feet, ‘I know nothing of Akenhaten. I know nothing at all,’ and went back to his bed.
I returned to my chamber. Once again I went through Khufu’s story but could learn nothing else. Nevertheless, I was convinced my old master was alive, that he had revisited Egypt and would now return to his secret place in Canaan. I also went through the documents taken from the Delta. In the main they were interesting: letters between Aziru and his allies in both Canaan and the kingdom of the Hittites. I cleared the documents away, so intent on what I was doing that I started at the soft touch on my arm. Tutankhamun was standing dressed in his night shift, his eyes filled with tears. He held a small wooden box; he silently offered this to me. I took the casket and lifted the lid. Inside were the two mummified corpses of the tortoises he had drowned.
‘I did not intend to do wrong, Uncle Mahu. I just thought I should punish them.’
I closed the lid and crouched down. He put his arms round my neck and stood trembling. I took him across to the table, removed the cover cloth and gave him a sweetmeat and a sip of wine.
‘Forget the tortoises, my lord,’ I whispered. ‘They were good tortoises and have now travelled across the Far Horizon.’
‘Will there be tortoises there?’ Tutankhamun asked.
‘If you want, my lord, there will be tortoises, gazelles, cats and dogs.’
‘When will I go to the Far Horizon?’
‘Only when you are very old,’ I replied. ‘And the father of many children and the grandfather of countless others.’
Tutankhamun giggled, licking his fingers and staring at me like the little owl he was.
‘Is it true, Uncle Mahu, that my father is still alive? I heard the servants talking. If he is alive, why doesn’t he visit me? Why did he leave me?’
‘Your father had to leave you, my lord, for his safety and yours.’
‘When I become a man,’ Tutankhamun declared, ‘I shall be a warrior. I shall sweep north like Ahmose did, carrying fire and sword against the People of the Nine Bows.’
I prised the wine cup from his hands and placed it back on the table. ‘My lord, how old are you now?’
‘Uncle Mahu, you know how old I am. Since you left, my day of birth has come and gone. I am now midway between my seventh and eighth year.’
‘Can you remember,’ I asked crouching down, ‘your father ever visiting you?’
The young Prince shook his head.
‘Did he ever send you a gift?’
‘Many gifts, toy soldiers, a chariot, a hippopotamus …’
‘Did he,’ I intervened, ‘or possibly Lord Pentju ever mention the Watchers? Think, my lord.’
Tutankhamun squeezed his eyes shut and opened them quickly.
‘Never, Uncle Mahu. Who are the Watchers?’
‘Finally, my lord,’ I scooped him up in my arms, ‘how often have I told you never to leave your bedchamber in the dead of night?’
Joking and laughing, I took him back, placed him in his bed and sat down to wait until he had fallen fast asleep.
hui
(Ancient Egyptian for ‘to shoot venom’)
(Ancient Egyptian for ‘to shoot venom’)
Our hunting party left Memphis early the next morning, ostensibly to enjoy a day’s relaxation, but as Maya wryly observed, our true quarry would be more elusive. We were accompanied by a host of chariots, a swarm of retainers, huntsmen and a pack of yelping hounds trained to the horn, whip and whistle. The guest of honour was Horemheb, still very much the Themum, the Hero of the Hour. Rameses and Huy were still drunk from the previous night. Maya was distraught at Sobeck’s departure. Pentju seemed the most alert of us all, although sombre-faced and withdrawn. Lord Ay was in his usual fine form.
‘It’s good,’ he announced from his glorious chariot as we assembled outside Nebamun’s mansion, ‘to be free of the heretics and traitors.’
No one dared mention how he had been foremost in that heresy, as his unfinished tomb at the City of the Aten bore witness, its walls inscribed with fulsome praise of both Akenhaten and his God. Ah well, there again, politicians have all the memory of a butterfly – when it suits them. Watching him grasp the reins, talking and joking with his companions, I wondered how much the Lord Cobra really knew about those sombre last days of Akenhaten. However, for Ay, that door was closed, bolted and sealed. He’d never tell the truth even if the Goddess Ma’at came over the Far Horizon and ordered him to do so.
We had chosen a fine morning, a glorious dawn promising a warm day. We moved through the grass and trees heading into the west, the sun behind us, its light catching and illuminating the wild flowers. Our dogs, yapping and snarling, were eager for the hunt. Now and again a hare would start from the grass or a flock of webbed quail burst up in a flash of colour, wings beating the air, their cries of alarm carrying out to the flocks of gazelles and wild goats, who would gallop away in clouds of hazy dust. Wild grey asses kicked up their hoofs, whinnied and threatened our dogs before cantering away. We scattered a line of game before us, our chariots fanning out in the morning light, huntsmen calling in the dogs.
We reached the end of the grasslands and came upon our real prey, a formidable herd of wild bulls, hefty and muscular, with pointed horns and mad, fiery eyes, a clever disguise for their speed and cunning. They always reminded me of Horemheb, the same bulk, ferocity, bravery, cunning, and above all, surprising speed. Our great hero, the noble general, was intent on a kill, eager to make his offering to his patron God, Horus of Henes. The dogs were released and streamed like a flight of arrows towards the herd. The huntsmen followed after. Immediately the bulls broke up, but one of their leaders, an old scarred beast, angry and agitated, turned, swinging its head, lowering its horn, snorting in fury and pawing the ground. The danger with wild bulls is you never know until the last moment whether they are going to flee or charge. This one charged, a sudden burst of speed, heading straight for our pack of dogs. I loosed shaft after shaft. The other chariots ringed the bull as, confused, it turned to face the new danger. Arrows whistled through the air. The bull went down, losing the power of its hindquarters as barb after barb scored its flanks and withers, cutting muscle and sinew. At last it lay quiet, flanks quivering, eyes glowing, blood pumping out of its nostrils and mouth. Horemheb climbed down from his chariot and stood astride its thick muscular neck. He raised his hands towards the sky, the knife in his right hand dazzling in the sun as the great general recited a hymn to Horus. We all joined in the chorus, then Horemheb sliced the animal’s throat and cut off a tuft of hair between the horns. He took us over to the fire a huntsman had quickly built and sprinkled the hairs, followed by a handful of incense. The scented smoke rose against the blue sky. Horemheb stood, eyes tightly closed, quietly communicating with his God.
‘Who,’ Maya hissed spitefully, ‘Horemheb truly believed guided his every action at the great victory in the Delta.’
Once the sacrifice was finished, the huntsmen closed in. They slit the belly, drained the blood and quartered and pickled the various joints. The air turned sour with the smell of tumbling intestines and gushing blood. The hunting party moved on, reaching the edge of the grassland, where the soil became sparse and the only water lay in stagnant pools ringed by coarse, dirty weeds. We moved cautiously through the thickets of brambles and robe-rending gorse. We were on the edge of the desert, where the night prowlers lurked. We surprised an old lion, a tawny beast with a jet-black mane. Disturbed and alarmed, it turned on our dogs, savaging two, till it was dispatched with arrows and a lance in the mouth by Horemheb. The sun rose higher in the heavens, the heat draining the strength of man, dog and horse.
We reached the Oasis of Sweet Grass and pitched our camp, unhitching the chariots and establishing horse lines. Cooking fires were built; food and wine baskets unloaded and brought out. The stinking quarry we’d killed was taken downwind and piled in carts, sprinkled with salt and covered with a leather awning. At last everything was ready. Horemheb, very much the soldier, insisted that we were not out of danger yet, and that even on a hunting trip we should act as if we were on the march. Huy and Maya raised their eyes heavenwards. On reflection, we were the fiercest beasts in the desert: the hunters, the hyaenas of the Royal Court. The real business of the day was about to begin. We washed and cleaned in the oasis pool, gratefully accepting the chilled wine offered by servants. Once they had withdrawn, we sat on our cushions and Lord Ay, tapping his long nails against his goblet, brought us to order with a stark question.
‘Is he still alive?’
All eyes turned to me.
‘You do have the prisoner Khufu?’ Ay cheekily remarked. ‘As well as the records of the Usurper? Indeed, my lord Mahu, we are surprised that you have not handed both over to the Royal Circle!’
‘We should not be surprised,’ I retorted. ‘You know, my Lord Ay, I was considering retiring from the Royal Circle. If that had been the case I would have paraded the truth before you and provided you with a copy of everything I had found.’
Ay smiled dreamily back at me. Huy and Maya lowered their heads. Rameses hid his smile behind his cup.
‘If you had resigned, Lord Mahu,’ Ay murmured, ‘we would all have been distraught. Your support and your strength, particularly in this crisis, are deeply appreciated. I know you will speak with true voice!’
‘How would you know what a true voice is?’ I jibed.
‘The truth,’ Ay demanded. ‘My lord Mahu, you are Chief of Police, Overseer of the House of Secrets.’
‘And you have brought your torturer with you,’ I declared. ‘The usurper and the other captives have been put to the question.’
‘Nothing but babbling,’ Rameses declared. ‘Nothing much at all. Vague rumours, fanciful stories.’
‘I believe he is alive.’ I cut across Rameses’ voice. ‘I think he fled from the City of the Aten.’ I narrowed my eyes, peering at the heat haze across the desert. ‘He was given help and sheltered in southern Canaan. I think we know as much as Meryre did: the rest he concocted to help the Hittites and Prince Aziru.’
‘Then Colonel Nebamun is wrong?’ Horemheb asked.
‘No, I believe he spoke the truth. I trust the Colonel implicitly. One of the few men I do.’
Horemheb allowed himself a smile.
‘Akenhaten may be living in south Canaan, but you have seen the roads, the boats and barges on the river. Sooner or later all the world comes to Egypt. Akenhaten may have returned one last time, perhaps for a glimpse of his son, as well as to see justice done. What we have here is, perhaps, something none of us are acquainted with. On this matter we must not put our trust in Pharaoh,’ I quoted the proverb, ‘or place our confidence in the war chariots of Egypt.’
‘What do you mean?’ Rameses demanded.
‘We deal in power,’ I replied. ‘We are the lords, the masters; my lord Horemheb raises his hands and chariot squadrons, whole hosts of men, march to his command. I send out a writ to my subordinates, the mayors of Eastern and Western Thebes,’ I added, ‘and unless my lord Ay interferes, my orders will be carried out. But this is not about power. Akenhaten drank deep of power and it made him sick. In the City of the Aten he vomited, he purged himself. Now he wants to be at peace. It is about ideals, about conversion.’
‘So what do we do?’ Rameses asked.
‘For the glory of Egypt,’ Horemheb retorted, ‘kill him.’
‘I agree.’ Ay spoke up. ‘For the sake of Egypt, for the protection of his son, in order that we can establish true Ma’at, harmony throughout the kingdom of the Two Lands, we must kill him.’
BOOK: The Season of the Hyaena (Ancient Egyptian Mysteries)
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