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Authors: Paul Doherty

The Season of the Hyaena (Ancient Egyptian Mysteries) (54 page)

BOOK: The Season of the Hyaena (Ancient Egyptian Mysteries)
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The weeks passed. Pentju, deprived of his wine, grew stronger. I teased him: he was a Child of the Kap, he had been trained as a soldier, so despite his fat, he should be as strong as an ox. He was physician enough to diagnose his own condition. He likened it to the shock of a mother who has received the sudden news that her beloved son has died in battle. He cursed all physicians.
‘If you want me to stay healthy,’ he bawled at me, ‘keep those bastards away.’
I was mystified by his comparison of himself to a mother losing her favourite son; I questioned him. One evening Pentju decided to confess, to escape the
Tchat
, the guilt which soured his spirit. We’d finished a meal: strips of roast antelope, tenderised and spiced. He abruptly pushed his food away and started to cry. For a while I let him sob, then he said I must be his chapel priest.
‘You do remember,’ he began, ‘the scurrilous stories that Tutankhamun was my son, not Akenhaten’s?’
‘Yes, but you assured me he was the Pharaoh’s true heir.’
‘I spoke with a true voice: he was and is.’ Pentju sighed. ‘Khiya gave birth to him.’
‘You told me that.’
‘I truly loved her, Mahu, even though I was married. I purged her beautiful body of the poisons Nefertiti kept giving her.’ He paused, sipping at the watered wine. ‘You know how it was in the City of the Aten. Nefertiti ruled like Queen Bee of the hive; her sting was nasty. I had managed to persuade Akenhaten to give Khiya her own house. We were in the city for three years before Akenhaten, tired of Nefertiti’s arrogance, began to show more than a passing interest in his second wife, the little Mitanni princess. Well.’ Pentju blinked. ‘I committed treason. I had intercourse with the Lady Khiya. She became pregnant, she was terrified, so was I. How could we explain it away? She pretended to be ill and withdrew to her own chambers. Only I, the Lady Tahana and her husband knew the truth. The child, a boy, came out of the egg prematurely, sometime between the sixth and seventh month. Nevertheless, he was strong. We hired a wet nurse whom we could trust.’ He paused. ‘Are you surprised?’
‘Yes and no,’ I confessed.
‘It was well known that Khiya and the Lady Tahana were very close. We were terrified. I knew what had happened to Sobeck when he had seduced a concubine, a Royal Ornament, of Amenhotep the Magnificent. He was lucky to be branded and sent to a prison oasis; the concubine was put into a cage and torn to pieces by a wild animal.’ Pentju wiped the spittle from the corner of his mouth. ‘Khiya was terrified for the child and ourselves. She feared Akenhaten’s anger and Nefertiti’s murderous rages even more. She made special sacrifices to Hathor the Golden One and any other God or Goddess she could think of. In the end her prayer was answered. The Lady Tahana concocted a plan: she would adopt the child as her own and return to the land of the Mitanni. They were not Egyptian subjects; they would not need Akenhaten’s permission. She and her husband left when the child was three months old. Khiya’s first pregnancy remained a secret. You know how it was in the City of the Aten. Akenhaten and Nefertiti were bound up with their own affairs. On three occasions whilst Khiya was pregnant, Akenhaten visited her. On the first, her monthly courses had just stopped; that was no problem. On the other two, she feigned sickness, a fever.’ Pentju pulled a face. ‘Being a physician, I could help with the symptoms.’
‘And after the Mitanni took the child away?’
‘Khiya and I were relieved. We took a vow it would never happen again. Her first pregnancy made her even more fertile, so when Akenhaten lay with her she conceived again. I often wondered about the first child, but it was too dangerous to enquire.’
‘So how did Ay find out?’
‘That serpent may have heard something, from a servant, a guide; someone must have talked. It would have been easy for Ay to go through the archives and find out why the Lady Tahana had left so abruptly with a child. At first he was probably too busy because of other crises, but Ay’s a mongoose. He would not rest until he knew the truth. He must have bribed the Mitanni to hand the young man over.’
‘How old must he be?’
‘Somewhere between his eighteenth and nineteenth year. The Mitanni, desperate for Egyptian money and supplies, must have been persuaded. Only the Gods know what story Ay peddled. Perhaps he insinuated that this mysterious individual was his own illegitimate child.’
‘And why would Ay want him?’
‘You know as well as I do, Mahu: the blood feud. Khiya produced an illegitimate child but also gave Pharaoh a living male heir. Nefertiti failed to do that. Worse, the birth of that male heir led to the fatal rift between Akenhaten and Nefertiti. Ay would want vengeance. Khiya had destroyed his beloved daughter; she was the cause of that great Queen’s downfall.’
I sat reflecting on what I’d learned.
‘You don’t have to tell me, Mahu.’ Pentju broke into my reverie. ‘Ay has killed him. Oh, he will give some excuse to the Mitanni about a fever, an illness. Ay knows poison as well as you and I.’ Pentju’s voice broke, and he put his face into his hands. ‘He has killed my son,’ he sobbed. ‘He has murdered the Beloved.’
As Pentju slowly recovered, I could only wonder what to do until the Gods, or the demons, intervened.
During the last few days of the final month of the year, we were summoned to the palace. A royal messenger, carrying his silver wand of office, arrived at our mansion accompanied by six armed Nesu, the bodyguard of Pharaoh. The messenger carried a scroll sealed with the imperial cartouche; he kissed it and broke the seal. The invitation was short and blunt: the Lords Mahu and Pentju were to come before the Tau-Retui, Pharaoh and his Royal Circle, on the sixteenth day of the first month in the season of the sowing. So we did, and it was good to be back in the heart of Thebes, to leave the quayside and move through the suburbs of the poor, past their shabby cottages, avoiding the infected pools and the heaps of reeking rubbish. After the loneliness of exile, even the legions of red-eyed beggars seemed welcoming.
The growing wealth of Thebes had brought in peasants, traders and labourers from outlying villages. They’d built their ramshackle houses on every plot of land. Some were successful, most were not and so drowned their sorrows in cups of cheap brandy. Everyone, however, was busy. Women in soiled smocks squatted at dark doorways, grinding their precious portions of corn between pestle and stone. Along the street their children hunted and fought over the dung of livestock, which they would dry to use as fuel and so turn the air foul with its acrid smell. Further up we passed the traders’ stalls, displaying jewellery from Canaan, leatherwork from Libya, oil and embroideries from Babylon. Confectioners were busy driving away the flies, whilst offering preserved dates, syrups, and pastries made of honey and spices. Nearby, their apprentices pounded almonds and nuts in a mortar to make delicious brews. Butchers, their stall flowing with blood, hacked at the quarters of geese and oxen, as little boys and girls, naked as they were born, ran around with flywhisks to drive off the insects. Shoemakers offered everything from delicate slippers to marching boots. Customers with pouches of electrum, gold and silver queued in front of the goldsmiths.
After the silence of my mansion, I revelled in the noise and changing colours of the sea of people milling about. The shouts and screams, the conflicting aromas of fresh blood, cooking meats and drying leather mingling with those of burnt honey, spices and perfumes. Songwriters, storytellers, musicians and dancers of various nationalities touted for custom. Prostitutes plied their trade at the mouth of alleyways, pulling their clients towards them, using the hard brick wall as a mattress or kneeling down before them without a care in the world. Further along, near the gateway to the barracks, women screamed and rolled in the dust as the military scribes from the House of War enrolled their menfolk in the army. I kept drinking in the sights, but Pentju walked slumped, head down like a man sentenced to the stake. The Nubian mercenaries in their leopard kilts, silver chains and nodding white plumes kept us clear of the crowds, their great oval shields displaying the ram’s head of Amun creating a wall around us.
Eventually we reached the Avenue of the Golden Falcon, leading down to the Malkata Palace, its white and red stone walls refurbished and gleaming like a beacon. The huge copper-plated gates opened into finely laid-out gardens. I wanted to stop and inspect some of the new plants, but the captain of our escort shook his head and so we passed on. They left us in an antechamber, its walls decorated with silver antelopes leaping against a light green background above fields of gold. On either side of them ran an ochre frieze embellished with silver palms. I tried to interest Pentju in the painting, but he sat gazing at the floor. I had taken his reluctant oath that he would do nothing stupid or dangerous. A chamberlain served us iced fruit drinks, and I insisted that he tested them first. He was surprised and shocked, but agreed.
A short while later he returned and we were taken into the Dolphin Room, the great council chamber where the Royal Circle would meet. On its cobalt-blue walls silver dolphins leaped above golden waves. Its floor of polished stone reflected the mosaic in the ceiling of more dolphins and other beasts of the sea. At the far end of the chamber, on a raised hooded dais, stood three gold-plated thrones: their backs and arms were decorated with gold leaf, their legs studded with gems; the carved feet rested on polished black footstools inlaid with ebony and silver. The smaller thrones lacked the majesty of the imperial one, but their message was clear enough.
‘A throne fit for a Pharaoh,’ Pentju whispered. ‘But still, one for Ay and one for Ankhesenamun.’ The thrones were faced by a semi-circle of silver-topped tables and cushioned seats, where members of the Royal Circle would squat. I counted ten in all. Three similar tables stood in the centre for the scribes with their writing palettes, reed pens, papyrus rolls and pots of red and black ink.
We had hardly arrived when trumpets blew, cymbals clashed and the great double doors to the council chamber were flung open. Two stole priests entered, swinging pots of incense, flanked by imperial fan-bearers. These took up their positions as the Royal Bodyguard marched in, victorious warriors who displayed the insignia for taking an enemy’s head in battle. The bodyguard formed an avenue for more officials. The council chamber began to fill. More cymbals clashed, trumpets blew, and a herald entered and cried out Pharaoh’s names.
‘He of the Two Lands, the Dynamic of Laws, the Golden Falcon who wears the regalia. He who pleases the Gods, King of Upper and Lower Egypt. The Lordly Manifestation of Ra. The Living Image of Amun …’
We prostrated ourselves, nosing the ground. I stole a glance at Tutankhamun as he entered, garbed in his state costume, his head covered by a pure white head-dress and bound by the golden Uraeus. He wore drawers of pleated linen, ornamented at the back by a jackal’s tail and at the front by an overlapping stiffened apron of encrusted gold and enamel. Over all this hung a long sleeveless robe of snow-white linen, open at the throat to reveal a brilliant pectoral displaying Nekhbet, the Vulture Goddess; a dazzling piece of craftsmanship of precious stones. On his feet were silver-chased peak sandals. Tutankhamun walked slowly, rather ungainly, resting on a walking stick, the head of which was carved in the shape of a panther. He had that same innocent, boyish look, almost feminine: pouched cheeks, slightly parted lips, his almond eyes ringed with black kohl. He was smiling, looking over his shoulder at his Queen Ankhesenamun, who was a stunning vision of voluptuous beauty. Oh, she had changed! A thick, richly braided wig framed her sensuous face, her lustrous dark eyes were emphasised by green kohl, her dusted skin made more eye-catching by glittering jewellery at her throat, wrists, fingers and ankles. She wore a sleeveless glittering robe fashioned in layers and bound by a brilliant red sash, and she moved daintily on thick-soled sandals. She carried a sky-blue fan, edged with silver, and used this to hide her face but not her eyes.
Ay followed behind, head shaven, his falcon-like face gleaming with oil. He wore all the regalia of high office and clutched a beautiful pair of red gloves, a sign of Pharaoh’s personal favour. The other lords followed: Nakhtimin, Huy, Maya, Horemheb, Rameses, Anen, Chief Priest of Amun; all the great masters of Egypt. Their costly robes, gold-edged walking sticks, gorgeous fans and oiled, perfumed faces exuded power and wealth. Maya looked more like a woman than ever, with his thick glossy black wig, painted face and high-heeled shoes. As he turned his head I glimpsed his pearl earrings, and I wondered again about this brilliant man who so desperately wanted to be a woman. The relationship between him and Sobeck had cooled since the latter’s marriage. Rumour had it that Maya now enjoyed a harem of beautiful young men.
Tutankhamun sat down on his throne whilst a stole priest chanted the hymn.
Oh Amun,
Watcher in silence,
Whose wisdom cannot be fathomed …
Afterwards, the chamber was cleared of soldiers and officials. Ay and Ankhesenamun took their seats, and the rest followed, whilst the scribes squatted in the middle. Pentju and I remained kneeling until Ay imperiously indicated that we should take our seats at the remaining two tables. Ay had prepared the tablet of business; Pentju and I were at the top of the list.
‘Due to the great favour of Pharaoh,’ Ay proclaimed, ‘the Divine One has decided to reveal his face to them and smile at them. Accordingly …’
BOOK: The Season of the Hyaena (Ancient Egyptian Mysteries)
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