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Authors: Paul Doherty

The Season of the Hyaena (Ancient Egyptian Mysteries) (36 page)

BOOK: The Season of the Hyaena (Ancient Egyptian Mysteries)
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‘And you forced the door?’ I asked.
Djarka, sitting on the divan in the corner, nodded. I gazed down at Khufu’s face: ugly, contorted in death. According to all the evidence he had committed suicide, taken a rope from the storerooms and returned to his chamber. He had used that stout hook in the ceiling beam, fashioned a noose, stood on the stool and kicked it away. A suicide, the death of a man with no hope. Yet even then, such an explanation didn’t ring true. What had Khufu to fear? I had promised him life, security, exile in some obscure town, but his fate had been far better than others who had been paraded through Memphis in chains. So who would want him dead? The other hyaenas of the Royal Circle? But they had been out with me, hunting in the western desert.
‘Did any strangers call at the house?’
Nebamun’s chamberlain shook his head.
‘I was quite explicit on that.’ Colonel Nebamun spoke up. ‘I gave orders that no one, unless they carried the authority of the Royal Circle, was to be admitted to the upper courtyard.’
Pentju knelt beside the corpse, loosening the rope around the neck, allowing the air to escape from the belly. The dead man’s legs jerked, a macabre scene, as if his Ka was trying to revive the heart. Nebamun cursed quietly under his breath. I asked Pentju to check the corpse carefully. He too looked for injuries, feeling the back of the head and neck, turning the corpse over, pulling up the robe to scrutinise arms and wrists, carefully examining the fingernails for hairs from the rope.
‘Was he drugged?’ I asked.
Pentju smelled the man’s mouth and shook his head.
‘He had drunk some wine but only enough to make him comfortable, hence in his death throes his bladder relaxed.’
‘How long did he take to die?’
Pentju felt the man’s neck and throat. ‘Not long really. He wouldn’t fight against the rope, perhaps a little in his death throes. The life force would be cut off. He would fall into a swoon and death would follow immediately.’
‘And how long has he been dead?’
‘Perhaps three to four hours. His flesh is growing clammy and cold, the muscles hardening.’
A knock on the door, and Nebamun’s chapel priest entered, a small, wizened man. He knelt by the corpse and began to intone the sacred text recited for a man who’d taken his own life: ‘Go back now, you fiery friends from the pit. Go back now, you shadows deeper than the rest. Go back to the Devourer, Fire-eater, Scavenger of Souls …’
I waited for the priest to finish his babbling, and once he had left, asked Nebamun to provide a cart.
‘Have it taken down to the House of Embalming at the Temple of Ptah,’ I ordered. ‘Tell the priest to send all bills, whatever the cost, to the Lord Maya.’
‘Why not throw him into a crocodile pool?’ the old colonel barked. ‘Or better still, I’ll have my men take his body out to the scavengers in the Red Lands.’
‘I promised him life and limb,’ I replied. ‘As a suicide he should fall into the power of the God of the Fiery Hands. So, let his body be embalmed, the chapel priest pray, the hymns be sung, the incense burnt. Find him a tomb in the Necropolis. If you do that, Colonel Nebamun, I have discharged my debt.’
‘He was a traitor.’ Djarka spoke up, using the old Egyptian word,
ut-en
, to describe a violent man.
‘He was a suicide,’ Nebamun’s chamberlain added. ‘Perhaps his heart should be removed and burnt.’
I gazed at all their faces and realised my mistake. I had forgotten that here in this house, Khufu had been surrounded by his enemies. Good men had been killed in the Delta, members of Nebamun’s squadron, not to mention others.
‘What’s the matter, my lord?’ Djarka asked.
I bit back my reply. I would have to wait. However, standing in that chamber, that gruesome corpse sprawled on the floor, I was as certain as I was that I had two hands and feet that Khufu had been murdered, though by whom, how and why remained a mystery.
I asked Djarka to return to the Prince. Nebamun and his people left. Servants came up with linen sheets to wrap Khufu’s corpse and take it away. Once they had gone I conducted a thorough search. The coffers and chests were empty. Khufu had been dependent upon me for the robes and sandals he wore; all his other property had been declared the spoils of war. I went and stood by the window, staring through the small gaps. The sole way into this chamber was through that trellis, but it could only be removed from the inside. Khufu had been suspicious and wary; he would not allow anyone into his chamber. I went outside and examined the ground beneath the window. It was damp, and looking up, I realised that someone in the chamber above had emptied out a pot of dirty water. There was no sign of anyone standing here; the ground was slightly disturbed, but that could be due to anything.
I returned to the chamber, pulling the bed aside, taking off the sheets. It was then that I found it, a piece of coarse parchment, crumpled and thrown away. I unrolled it; it was in Khufu’s hand. In the centre of this scrap of parchment he had printed the Prince’s name, in its Aten version: ‘Tutankhaten’. Above that, ‘Akenhaten, Nefertiti, Pentju’, and beneath it ‘
Budge net ut – Net er ai – en – Hotep
’.
‘What did you mean by that?’ I whispered. I racked my memory: Hotep was the son of the God Ptah, the third member of the Memphis triad.
I folded the parchment, put it in my purse and left the chamber. I walked round the house, out across the courtyards and into the musty storerooms. I caught sight of the coils of rope and paused. Surely, I reflected, if Khufu had removed the rope and taken it to his chamber, someone must have seen it? Or had he taken a sheet from his bed and bundled up the rope in that, as if he was carrying a load of dirty linen? I picked up a coil of rope. It was thick and rough, but easy to carry. I sat down on a battered chest and ruefully conceded that I had made a mistake. According to all the evidence, Khufu had committed suicide. It was understandable enough. He might have mistrusted my promises and guarantees for the future. Yet I knew he had been murdered, and this made me admit to a second mistake. Khufu had known more than he had told me. Perhaps he was biding his time before making a full confession about other mysteries, such as why Meryre and his fellow conspirators placed so much importance on Pentju. Did that learned physician also know more than he had ever told us? About what? The Prince’s health? I got to my feet. Was that it? Did Pentju know something as a doctor? After all, I had seen Tutankhamun experience that eerie trance when he seemed unable to hear, see or be aware of anyone around him. How old was the Prince now? Between seven and eight? Akenhaten had been disturbed in both body and mind, and although Princess Khiya, Tutankhamun’s mother, had been a friend, I knew nothing about her ailments.
I left the storeroom and, absorbed in my thoughts, returned to my own chamber, where I washed and changed, turning the problem over and over in my mind like a piece of meat on a spit. I oiled and perfumed my face and hands and went along to the Prince’s chamber. He had the small tortoises out, laughing at how slowly they walked, urging Djarka to join him, but his Protector just sat on a stool, lost in his own thoughts. Tutankhamun jumped to his feet and threw himself at me, burrowing his face in my robe. I crouched down.
‘Your Highness, you look well.’
‘He slept very late,’ Djarka replied. ‘He heard you leave for the hunt and then went back to bed.’
I held the Prince’s face between my hands, beautiful, oval-shaped, those great lustrous dark eyes watching me intently, trying to anticipate my mood. Sometimes he had a look of Akenhaten, a stare full of innocence yet, as with his father, that could be a pretence, a mask concealing the emotions seething within. Of course Khiya was the same. When she first came to Akenhaten’s court she would sit at my feet and stare adoringly up as a disciple would at his master.
‘Uncle Mahu, what is wrong?’
‘Are you well, Your Highness?’
‘I am always well, Uncle Mahu. Is it true what Colonel Nebamun said? Did you kill a bull today?’
‘With my own hands, Your Highness.’ I got to my feet, spreading out my arms. ‘I chased after him in my chariot, the Lord Pentju driving it as fast as a storm cloud. We drew alongside. I leapt from the chariot on to the bull’s back, seized its horns and twisted its neck.’
Tutankhamun stared at me open-mouthed.
‘I wrestled it to the ground,’ I continued, watching him intently, fear pricking at my heart. Was the Prince a simpleton? Or just so full of hero-worship he truly believed my ridiculous story? ‘The bull crashed beneath me,’ I continued. ‘I drew my dagger and slit its throat, then another one charged me.’
Tutankhamun broke from his reverie; he threw his head back and laughed, a beautiful, soul-catching sound.
‘You lie, Uncle Mahu, you are telling me stories.’
‘How did you know?’ I picked him up, hugging him close. ‘How did you know that I was telling a story? Are you saying,’ I kept my face stern, ‘that I am not strong enough to wrestle a bull to the ground? That I am not fleet of foot, strong of arm, cunning of mind?’ I pressed my face close to him. ‘You are my prisoner,’ I continued, squeezing him. ‘I’ll hold you fast till you answer.’
Tutankhamun loved the game, squealing with delight.
‘I’ll confess. I’ll confess.’
I placed him on the floor.
‘You couldn’t do that,’ he said. ‘Not because
you
can’t, but the Lord Pentju cannot control horses. Djarka has told me. An ox can pull a cart faster.’
I beamed at the little fellow.
‘How is his schooling going?’
Djarka gestured at the writing tray, stacks of parchment and clay tablets scattered on a nearby table.
‘He can write and count.’
‘He can write and count,’ Tutankhamun abruptly mimicked. I caught his stare, the first time I had ever seen it; his quick glance at Djarka was full of imperiousness, or was it resentment? When he looked back at me, that dazzling smile had returned. ‘Next time you hunt, Uncle Mahu, can I come with you?’
I promised him he could, kissed him absent-mindedly on the forehead and left. I went up on the roof to catch the cool evening breeze. Nebamun’s chamberlain brought me some fruit and a jug of chilled beer. He was still full of regret at Khufu’s death. I asked if he had seen anything untoward.
‘If I had, my lord, I would have told you.’ And mumbling under his breath, he left me to my own thoughts.
Ankhesenamun, together with Amedeta and other members of the Princess’ retinue, arrived just after dark. She was garbed in perfume, eyes kohl-ringed, all flirtatious, seizing my hands, kissing me on either cheek, allowing me to smell her beautiful fragrance.
‘The great hero,’ she teased. ‘You will, Uncle Mahu,’ she mimicked Tutankhamun’s favourite name for me, ‘tell me about your exploits. After the battle, did you seize the maidens of the usurper and take them roughly,’ her eyelids fluttered, ‘amidst the corpses of their menfolk?’
‘You should have been a storyteller, my lady.’
Still grasping her hand, I led her deeper into the house.
‘A storyteller, Uncle Mahu?’
I looked over my shoulder. Amedeta and the other maids were now being greeted by Colonel Nebamun, Pentju and the rest. I pulled her into the shadows.
‘My lord!’ The smile disappeared from her face.
‘That story you told me,’ I hissed. ‘One lie amongst many! You claimed that your sister Meritaten said your father was poisoned.’
‘That’s what she said to me, but you know Meritaten.’ Ankhesenamun’s beautiful eyes sparkled with life. ‘She was a greater storyteller than I.’
‘Did your mother,’ I asked, ‘ever tell you what happened?’
‘Why should she? Mother disliked me. She saw me as a usurper. The same for Meritaten. If she had survived, I doubt I would have.’ She withdrew her hand. ‘I do not know what happened to my father. I do not know what thoughts filled my mother’s heart. Now they are gone, yet I remain. Think about that, Lord Mahu. Our little Prince grows. One day I shall introduce him to the pleasures of the bed. I shall be Egypt’s Great Queen.’ She brushed by me, walking stately down to join the rest, lovely robes billowing about her.
Pentju must have noticed our altercation, because he came hurrying up. Now I thought, for even in the poor light Pentju was obviously agitated, here’s a man who hides something in his heart.
‘My lord, there is something wrong? You look troubled.’ Pentju took me by the elbow and led me away. ‘I grew up with you, I was a Child of the Kap. I know you.’
‘Do you, my lord?’ I replied frostily. ‘Then you are a better man than I.’
Pentju led me into a small courtyard.
‘What is this, Mahu? We are friends.’
‘Are we?’
Pentju made a gesture of annoyance, walked away but came back. ‘What are you so suspicious about, Mahu? You don’t believe Khufu committed suicide, do you?’
‘No, I think he was murdered.’
‘But by whom? Why?’
‘I asked the same question myself. I also wonder why my lord Meryre was so eager for you to join him.’ I took out my purse and drew out the scrap of parchment, unfolded it and held it before Pentju’s eyes. ‘Why should Khufu write that?’
BOOK: The Season of the Hyaena (Ancient Egyptian Mysteries)
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