The Season of the Hyaena (Ancient Egyptian Mysteries) (19 page)

BOOK: The Season of the Hyaena (Ancient Egyptian Mysteries)

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I shall never forget that afternoon. A rain storm, frequent in that area, came sweeping in, low dark clouds splattering rain to soak us to the skin and turn the ground into slippery mud. We were forced to shelter beneath a tree. Usurek, still congratulating us on our chariot skill, asked further questions about our experiences. I was glad that Sobeck and I had agreed to use our proper names. The questions came so thick and fast, a mere slip would have alerted this man’s suspicions. Sobeck had made a wise choice. Usurek conceded they had more chariots than men and, when we asked why, turned away, hawked and spat.

At last the rains ceased. Escorted by Shardana, we crossed to the far side of the fortress and that sinister Mastaba hiding behind its palisade. The guards at the gate let us into what truly was the Plain of Horror. The Mastaba, with its pyramid top, stood at the far end. Its processional way, chapel and priest houses had long decayed. The causeway leading up to the ramp of the Mastaba had been repaired, as had its door, now closely guarded. The approach to the pyramid was dominated by a granite statue of Sekhmet the Destroyer, and ugly, obscene carving covered in lichen and spattered with dry blood. A slab of stone before it served as an altar bearing the sacred things, the
Tchesert
, probably looted from some nearby temple: a holy water stoup, incense holder and sprinkling rod. The ground on either side proved to be the true horror: a great expanse of scorched earth with its own hideous crop, row after row of blackened stakes each bearing the remains of an impaled man or woman. It was impossible to tell either sex or race from those gruesome black shapes.

‘Traitors and rebels,’ Usurek murmured, avoiding my gaze. ‘They are impaled and then burned. When more space is needed, new stakes are planted and the old removed.’

Sobeck was used to the cruelties of Eastern Thebes. I could only stare open-mouthed.

‘How long?’ I whispered.

Usurek, chewing on the corner of his mouth, kept staring up at the Mastaba. ‘Two or three months,’ he murmured. ‘Our masters have struck terror into the local inhabitants. For those troops who wouldn’t submit, as well as spies, speculators, traitors, it is either this …’ he gestured at the stakes, then nodded at the Mastaba, ‘or the House of Darkness.’

Never had I experienced such a place of terror, of abomination, a truly unholy pit: silent, sinister and threatening. I knew this usurper was not Akenhaten. Every ruler, my old master included, has a streak of cruelty, but Akenhaten only inflicted death if he had to, secretly, in some hidden place. This sickening sight was not Egyptian. The reek of decay and charred flesh was like some invisible cloak that muffled the mouth and nose and threatened to choke off your life-breath.

‘I have seen worse.’ Usurek sounded apologetic. ‘Out in the Red Lands and in North Canaan.’

‘Hittite work?’ I asked

He pulled a face. ‘You could say that, or Prince Aziru of Byblos. He claims descent from the ancient Hyskos princes who were driven from Sile hundreds of years ago. Such terror works.’ He sighed. ‘That’s why you are to take the oath here. If you falter, if you fail, if it is proved that you are not what you claim to be, this place is where you will die.’

I gazed around. No bird flew over that sacrilegious plot. No blade of green sprouted. Imagine, if you can, row after row of blackened corpses, gruesome shapes impaled above the burnt earth, and brooding over all of it the eerie tomb of a long-dead prince and the gruesome statute of the Destroyer. The Shardana who had escorted us were also uneasy, muttering under their breath, making signs with their fingers and thumbs against the Evil One.

Usurek was about to lead us over to the altar when the gates swung open and the black-masked guards pushed two prisoners through. They were naked except for loincloths, their bodies covered in blood. They were forced to move at a trot, moaning and groaning, hurrying to stay up with their macabre escort, who held their chains, the other end hooked into the lower lip of each prisoner.

‘Fraudsters,’ Usurek whispered. ‘They were tried by a military court yesterday evening.’

This hideous procession of death hurried past by the statue and up the ramp leading to the Mastaba. Guards appeared from the shadows wearing death masks similar to those of the soldiers who guarded the gates. One of the guards moved a stool across and pulled down the top part of the door as if it was a trap door. One prisoner was lifted up and thrown through, followed by the next, and the trap door was quickly replaced; even from where I stood I could hear their screams, followed by the hideous roaring of a lion.

‘By all that’s dark,’ Sobeck whispered. ‘What is happening?’

‘They were given a choice,’ Usurek declared. ‘The Field of Fire or the House of Darkness. When our masters came here they discovered that two lions had moved in from the Red Lands, man-eaters, preying on villagers or lonely travellers. Both beasts were caught, and the Mastaba became their cave. Their food? Well …’ Usurek gave a lop-sided grin.

I tried not to flinch at the heart-chilling screams of terror and the bestial roars which echoed across. All the time Usurek studied us carefully, refusing to move until the screams stopped and the death escort came trooping back down to the gate. The Shardana clustered together; fighting men, they were still terrified by what they had seen and heard. Usurek led us towards the altar.

‘I have never seen such good charioteers,’ he murmured. He kept us close as if fearful that the very statue could hear his words. ‘Our masters gave us a choice to join or to leave. Many of the Egyptian officers, after a while, refused to accept orders from either Aziru or his Hittite colleagues. When Pharaoh arrived,’ a shift in his eyes showed that Usurek no more recognised the usurper to be the true Pharaoh than I did, ‘the officers tried to leave immediately. They died here. So, continue to be good charioteers,’ he whispered, one finger tracing the scar on his cheek. ‘Follow orders. Never moan or complain and, as the old proverb says, “we all might live to see pay day”.’

We sprinkled the incense, took the oath, beginning with the words: ‘All homage to thee …’ and left that sanctuary of desolation.

So began our days with the usurper. We sold the donkey, bought a tent near the chariot park and tried to become one of the crowd. Usurek sought us out, eager to use our skills to train others, as well as to talk about what might happen. At first I thought he was suspicious of us, until I realised it was our company that he sought. We were often invited to his camp fire to share food and a jug of beer. From him we learned about the advance across the Sinai, how Avaris and Sile had been seized and Akenhaten had re-emerged, issuing decrees and demanding the allegiance of local garrisons. Hittite advisers and Canaanite mercenaries had bolstered his force, and the usurper’s presence had expanded like a cloud. One thing we quickly learnt: entrance to the fortress was strictly forbidden without a special pass. Usurek had permission to come and go as he pleased, but the likes of us were told to keep our distance.

Sobeck and I decided to become in all things professional mercenaries, careful in our talk, prudent in our actions, despite Usurek’s best efforts to make us drunk. Time and again we proved our skill on the drill ground. Some of the recruits were born charioteers; others could never handle a horse if they lived for a million years. Usurek decided to put us in charge of a squadron, giving us each a silver necklace as a badge of office.

Six weeks after our arrival in the camp, he woke us just before dawn, inviting us out to the meagre camp fire which one of his escort was trying to build up. He had brought some bread and meat; he shared it out and clapped us both on the shoulder.

‘You offered to serve for three months and take a percentage of the spoils?’

‘We have already agreed to that,’ Sobeck replied harshly. I was more cautious, wondering what was behind our rough awakening.

‘As squadron leaders,’ Usurek continued, ‘you will also be paid certain debens of silver from the war chest, but I have done better for you. You have both been raised to the rank of Nesus, bodyguards.’ He handed us small tablets of clay. ‘You will be allowed to enter the fortress. So come, we might as well begin today!’

We seized our passes, each hung on a copper chain, put these over our heads, grabbed our cloaks and followed Usurek up the causeway. A captain of the guard rigorously checked us, searching for any concealed weapons, taking our names, studying us closely in the pool of torchlight. I grinned and joked with Sobeck to hide my nervousness. The inquisitive captain was a Hittite, perhaps some relation to the one Colonel Nebamun had tortured in the cellars of his house. We were allowed to pass. One gate was pulled slightly open, and we slipped through into that grim fortress. It was like entering a small city. A great avenue ran north to south, another east to west, quartering the camp precisely. Tents and bothies were erected in neat lines. At the centre of the camp stood a second ramp and palisade which housed the pavilions of the usurper, his advisers, altars and standards. Usurek found us a place in the eastern quarter: a tent made out of camel skin with some crude bowls, jugs and a cooking pot. Once he was satisfied, we returned to our old place and collected our baggage.

Our duties were not radically changed. We spent our days drilling the recruits, but at night we were expected to do a tour of duty either along the picket lines outside the gates or on the towers or ramparts. I was eager to catch sight of the usurper, but the Sacred Enclosure was closely guarded. Three days later, however, my wish was satisfied. The False Pharaoh decided to ride in glory through the camp to show his face to his faithful followers, a glorious procession preceded by standard-bearers and surrounded by officers and flunkeys. The usurper wore the blue war crown of Egypt, the sacred nenes cloak about his shoulders and a beautiful war kilt girded around his middle, its jaguar tails hanging behind. He drove a splendid chariot of state of blue gold and silver electrum, pulled by pure white Syrian mares, proceeding along the broad avenues of the camp to receive the cheers and acclamations of the soldiers. One glance proved he was a usurper: a tall, angular man with bony body, sharp face and cruel eyes. Of course I had to nose the ground as his chariot passed. I, who had looked upon the face of Akenhaten, could only seethe in anger at the impudent insolence of this pretender. The woman behind him was no better. She was beautiful in a garish sort of way, dressed in white gauffered robes, a crown upon her head. Just for a few seconds, with the swirl of red hair, you thought you might be looking upon Nefertiti, but she too was as false as her husband. Oh, she was beautiful enough, though rather small, plump, lacking any of the beauty or grace of the woman who had haunted my heart, still did and always would.

More interesting were those who followed in the chariots behind. Aziru, Prince of Byblos, resplendent in his jewellery and collars of silver and gold, was dressed as a priest in his long white robe, a striped red and blue cloak about his shoulders. There was a man who reminded me of the Lord Ay, with his long, narrow face and expressive dark eyes. In the chariot beside him were two men I did recognise, the priests Khufu and Djoser, shaven-headed, of medium height, faces heavily oiled, eyes ringed with black kohl, full lips carmined. I had met them in the City of the Aten and always regarded them as two fat priests eager for a profit. Now their plump beringed fingers clutched the chariot rail as they beamed out across the cheering soldiers like Lords of Creation. The cavalcade proved the true source of the usurper’s strength. Apart from the priests, the rest were Canaanites or high-ranking Hittite officers.

Sobeck and I cheered with the rest, and that evening we joined the feasting, filling our cups with spiced wine, our platters heavy with roasted meat. From the Sacred Enclosure drifted the sound of music. Sobeck and I, acting drunkenly, watched as the trays of delicacies – shellfish, fried lotus sprinkled with spices, antelope, hare, partridges, wild calf, as well as bowls of grapes, melons, figs and pomegranates – were taken into the Royal Pavilion where the usurper feasted with his officers.

‘What’s the occasion?’ Sobeck blearily asked Usurek.

‘I have told you not to ask questions,’ the mercenary replied, waving a finger drunkenly. ‘But today is an auspicious day, sacred to the Weather God of the Hittites, and if our master says we feast and celebrate, then we shall feast and celebrate.’

Sobeck and I pretended to be as drunk as the others. We each found a dancing girl and joined in the festivities. Sobeck even agreed to entertain the rest by showing how he could dance on fiery coals without burning his feet. At last the wine had its effect. The music died, the flame torches and fire faded, though even then I noticed that order was strictly maintained. Hittite guards patrolled the camp, sentries were checked, gates reinforced. It must have been in the early hours when Sobeck and I, throwing aside all pretence of drunkenness and gaiety, left our companions in their stupor and found a lonely part of the camp.

‘What can we do?’ Sobeck asked.

‘We can kill the usurper,’ I whispered. ‘The next time he decides to show his face, a well-placed arrow to the throat?’

‘And we receive a nice sharp stake through our arse. Mahu, there is nothing we can do. The usurper and his woman are mere puppets. Kill them and they’ll find someone else.’

Despite my best efforts, I had drunk a lot of wine. I felt sleepy and heavy-eyed.

‘We have to go,’ Sobeck whispered. ‘There’s nothing we can do here. Every day increases the danger. We have the information we need.’

BOOK: The Season of the Hyaena (Ancient Egyptian Mysteries)

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