The Season of the Hyaena (Ancient Egyptian Mysteries) (26 page)

Read The Season of the Hyaena (Ancient Egyptian Mysteries) Online

Authors: Paul Doherty

BOOK: The Season of the Hyaena (Ancient Egyptian Mysteries)
4.03Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
The steersman sang the famous song as our barges, festooned with streamers and garlands, nosed their way towards the quayside of Memphis. The White-Walled City’s famous docks, wharves and shipyards were known as Nereu Nefer, the Place of the Beautiful Sailing. We had passed the greenery of the city’s surrounding fields, with the pyramids in the far distance glowing pink-gold in the sunlight. Trumpets blared, cymbals clashed and the crowds along the shoreline caught the words of the steersmen and sang them back. A rain of flowers descended on our barges and the marshy odour was hidden beneath the smell of frankincense, cassia and incense. On the principal quayside, Ay, Maya, Huy and others of the Royal Circle clustered to greet us under a gold-red fringed canopy. Just before I disembarked I looked back. The host of other war barges, like great fat water beetles, were taking up their positions ready to move in.
As I climbed the steps behind the rest, I glimpsed Pentju, rather lonely; he stood at an angle, as if to keep the Prince Tutankhamun in view. The heir of Egypt’s glory stood under his own little parasol, his hand held by God’s Father, Ay. Tutankhamun was dressed in a snow-white tunic, gold-embossed sandals, silver armlets on his thin arms and a necklace of cornelian, which I thought too heavy, around his neck. Ankhesenamun, in her thick wig, a gold gorget around her throat, gauffered linen robes billowing about her, looked as beautiful as a goddess. She stood on Ay’s left, holding her grandfather’s hand, the other busy with a red and blue fan. She caught my eye and winked impishly.
Ay hadn’t changed. Gold necklaces shimmered at his throat, his dark saturnine face watchful. He gave me the kiss of greeting amidst a gust of perfume, clasping my arms with his beringed fingers. I immediately suspected what was happening. Ay was surrounded by fan-bearers and flunkeys, set apart from the rest of the Royal Circle, emphasising his own power and dignity by holding the hands of the boy and the young woman who were to be Egypt’s king and queen. He was reminding everyone that these were his offspring. I looked over Ay’s shoulder. Djarka stood at the back of the crowd, fearful of meeting my eyes. I moved on to greet the rest: Huy, then Maya, who almost pushed me aside to grasp Sobeck’s hand. Of course, Horemheb was the hero of the day. Ay greeted him formally, bestowing upon him the gold collar of bravery and the silver bees of valour. The rest of the Royal Circle gathered around to offer their own personal congratulations whilst the ceremonial chariots were prepared. Once they were ready, we solemnly processed through the city to the Temple of Hathor of the Southern Sycamore, through the
ankh-tay
, the holy district, past the Temples of the King, the Pool of Pedjest-she, then round to visit the Temple of the Lady Neith of the White Walls and down to the central Temple of Ptah.
The entire city had turned out to throw flowers and greenery, lift bowls of smoking incense and intone the paean of praise. They gathered along the avenues before racing across the green fields of wheat and barley and through the palm groves to greet the victorious general yet again. We passed granaries full of barley and corn, open so each citizen could receive a free cup, whilst tables had been set up to offer cheap wine and beer to slake the throats of the excited citizens. Ay had done well. He wanted to show one of the greatest cities of Egypt that Ma’at had returned. Peace had been established. Harmony reigned.
Ay rode in the first chariot, pulled by jet-black Syrian mares. Horemheb processed slightly to his right. These were followed by chariots bearing other of Horemheb’s high-ranking officers, as well as members of the Royal Circle. After them came line after line of prisoners. The usurper and his woman had been virtually stripped naked, smeared with dung and placed on a farmer’s cart pulled by oxen. Around their necks were placards proclaiming their crimes. As they passed, the mob’s cheers turned to howls of protest: rocks, rotting fruit, anything the crowd could lay their hands on were thrown at them. Both prisoners sat in a huddle whilst behind them tramped line after line of captives, necks yoked, hands and feet manacled. We processed past the great blue enamelled doors of the Holy Places, their copper-plated gates being opened to the sound of gongs and cymbals.
At the Temple of Ptah, Horemheb, amidst a sea of scented petals and puffs of incense, smashed the skull of the woman who had pretended to be Nefertiti, and a number of enemy captains selected for that occasion. The rest of the prisoners, the usurper included, were forced to kneel and watch whilst heralds proclaimed that similar executions would be carried out at Thebes and other cities. The corpses were dragged away by their heels, to be hung from the walls by chains. Horemheb and Ay sacrificed to Ptah, Amun-Ra and the other great gods of Egypt before receiving the final acclamations of the crowd and retiring to the domain of Ankheperkere, the old rambling palace of Pharaoh Tuthmosis III, its towered walls ornamented with carved lions, some black with red manes, others red with black manes. I shivered as I recalled those man-eating beasts in the House of Darkness near the usurper’s camp.
When we had passed through the lofty gates, the formal celebrations came to an end. I immediately went to greet the young Prince, who seemed delighted at my return. Forgetting all dignity, he leapt into my arms and clasped my face in his little hands, squeezing my cheeks and kissing the end of my nose. He asked if I had brought him a present. Of course I hadn’t, but I said I had and winked quickly at Sobeck to find something appropriate. Ankhesenamun was all flirtatious, gently mocking me with sarcastic comments about the returning hero and did I want her to leap into my arms? Ay broke off from his discussions with Horemheb and gestured at me to approach. I ignored him, shouting for Djarka to take care of the young Prince and keep him out of the sun. Djarka, still looking rather dejected, forced his way through the throng, but Ay and Nakhtimin came between him and the Prince.
‘I do not think so, my lord.’ Ay opened his silver filigree fan, shaking it vigorously before his face.
‘My lord,’ I retorted, ‘I am the Prince’s protector and guardian. I have now returned to his sacred presence. His safety and security, as you know, are my concern.’
Ay sighed and stepped closer. ‘There have been changes whilst you have been gone, my lord Mahu; perhaps it’s best if we discuss them away from here.’
I was going to object, but there again, the courtyard was full of Nakhtimin’s men, foot soldiers in their leather armour and red and white striped head-dresses. They weren’t Neferu, raw recruits, but grizzled veterans whom Nakhtimin must have bribed to leave their fields and return to the ranks.
‘Things have certainly changed, God’s Father Ay.’ I smiled. ‘Djarka, follow the Prince wherever he is taken whilst God’s Father Ay has a word with me.’
That mongoose of a man, that cobra in human flesh, took me through a side door of the palace, along the corridors, the walls on either side decorated from top to bottom with lurid scenes extolling the exploits of Tuthmosis I.
‘Very warlike,’ Ay drawled over his shoulder. ‘A great boaster.’
‘The way of all flesh,’ I replied.
Ay walked deeper into the palace. Sometimes I must give the impression that Mahu, the Baboon of the South, is sly and cunning in all things. I am an old man now and I reflect. I have made foolish mistakes, and I did that morning. The ancient palace was full of Ay’s and Nakhtimin’s soldiers. They thronged the courtyards, guarded every entrance and lined the passageways. Ay was preparing to arrest me. By the time we reached the small writing chamber I must have passed at least three hundred well-armed soldiers. Once inside the chamber, Ay was all courteous and hospitable, gesturing that I sit on a camp stool whilst he offered sliced fruits from a silver bowl and filled the goblets of wine himself. He didn’t sit down, but stood over me, staring down rather sadly.
‘A great victory, Mahu,’ he murmured. ‘The usurper’s woman has been sacrificed! Her corpse and that of others, dangling over walls or above gates, will send a powerful message to those who wish to plot against the Royal Circle.’
‘Will Meryre join her?’ I toasted him with the wine.
‘Unfortunately, no.’ Ay ran a finger round the rim of the goblet. ‘About four days after I arrived here,’ he continued, ‘Meryre and his entourage escaped from Colonel Nebamun’s house, seized a barge and disappeared.’
‘Are you organising a manhunt?’
‘I tried to, but …’ Ay smiled apologetically. ‘We have other things to do than chase will-o’-the-wisps across the desert.’
‘And I suppose Lord Tutu and the other Atenists,’ I asked, ‘have also disappeared from the fortress of Buhen?’
‘Very clever, my lord Mahu. How on earth did you guess that? Yes, they fled, but they are no real danger. They are exposed as traitors, their armies defeated, their allies in Canaan nothing more than broken reeds.’
‘Or a blinded one.’
‘Oh yes.’ Ay’s face grew sadder. ‘My lord Aziru has been sent back to Canaan as a warning to other princes. Rebels against Egypt will be crushed. He can sit in his tawdry palace like a blind beggar at the gates. He can dream and plot, but he’ll never be a danger again.’
‘These changes?’ I asked. ‘Carried out during my absence, when I was working for the good of all?’
‘We all do that, my lord Mahu. But I have discussed this with the rest.’ He continued briskly, ‘The Royal Circle is too large. We need to be more businesslike, more united, with a clear chain of command.’
‘And so you are going to ask me to retire? You will take the Prince under your protection?’
Ay placed his wine cup down on the table, steepling his fingers together. ‘You look leaner, Mahu, more sharp-faced. Your foray north has made you more sensitive. Yes, you are correct. Perhaps it’s time, my lord Mahu, that you retired. An opulent mansion? Fertile estates?’ He leaned down. ‘Perhaps you will take a young wife, have a family? Forget the affairs of state?’ Ay lifted the wine cup.
‘And Huy and Maya agree with this?’
‘They see what has to be done in Egypt.’
‘And has the matter been raised with Lord Horemheb?’
‘In time, in time.’
‘Isn’t it rather dangerous?’ I asked. ‘I am being asked to retire, resign. Who will it be next year? Huy? Or why not Pentju? He’s only a physician.’
Ay gazed dreamily at me.
‘And if I don’t,’ I continued, ‘what will happen then, my lord Ay? Will I be placed under house arrest? Or perhaps there will be an accident? I’ll eat or drink something disagreeable to me.’
Ay shook his head, tutting under his breath.
‘The Royal Circle is not united!’ I snarled back, getting to my feet. ‘It’s dividing into two: Horemheb and the northern army; Lord Ay and the army of the south under his ghost-like brother General Nakhtimin, ably supported by the lords Huy and Maya. Two scales equally balanced, but if Mahu goes into the dark and you have custody of the young Prince Tutankhamun, then the balance tilts very heavily in your favour. Of course,’ I mimicked Ay’s gestures, ‘I will not be retiring, resigning, abdicating, farming or anything else. I will leave this chamber and I shall take the Prince into my care.’
Ay made to protest, moving towards the door.
‘I wouldn’t call the captain of your guard, my lord. I was prepared to sacrifice my life for the safety of our Prince and the well-being of the Two Lands. I entered the enemy camp. Both Sobeck and I gathered information which was of great use to Lord Horemheb.’
‘And we are grateful for that,’ Ay purred. ‘Truly we are.’
‘I also discovered the usurper’s archives. Or should I say those of Prince Aziru?’
That faint smile disappeared from Ay’s face. He now leaned against the door, arms behind him, head tilted back. In some ways he reminded me of Nefertiti, his daughter: watchful, careful.
‘In the course of a battle,’ I continued, ‘such records could easily be destroyed, but I found them. They are still in my possession. Ah, my lord Ay, General Horemheb hasn’t told you that, has he? But that’s because he doesn’t really know what this leather sack contains. I discovered a letter from you to the usurper. It carries your seal. How does it go? You say that you are writing on behalf of the Royal Circle, that you are sending envoys to meet with him, that I will be leaving Thebes by barge and that the messenger who took this letter will provide other necessary details. You close with the sentence, yes, that’s how it goes: “The message is important but the messenger isn’t.” Whom did you send, my lord Ay? Some hapless scribe, some luckless merchant? Or was it one of your mercenaries, armed with a pass and carrying a secret letter which was also his death warrant?’
‘I wrote on behalf of the Royal Circle!’ he snapped.
‘By whose authority?’ I retorted. ‘We’ll gather the rest and ask when you were given such powers!’
‘But the letter was innocuous. It simply declared what was going to happen.’
‘I don’t think so, my lord Ay. Your messenger also took details about our journey up the Nile, how we were taking the Prince Tutankhamun to the City of the Aten. Perhaps because of your letter, that attack was launched.’
‘I didn’t tell them that. I didn’t want that. I wouldn’t hand my grandson over to a usurper.’
‘No, I don’t think you would, but you were, how can I put it, showing the usurper and his chief adviser Prince Aziru where your sympathies lay. Your envoy also carried verbal messages which would sound meaningless to him but very meaningful to Prince Aziru and those advising the usurper. Perhaps an indication that, at a given time, after certain events, you might shift your allegiance. That’s why the messenger was executed: what he carried was more important than his person.’

Other books

Back From Hell by Shiloh Walker
Something Wicked by Michelle Rowen
Odessa by Frederick Forsyth
2007 - The Dead Pool by Sue Walker, Prefers to remain anonymous
Clockwork Souls by Phyllis Irene Radford, Brenda W. Clough
Response by Paul Volponi
Falling Sky by Rajan Khanna