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Authors: Paul Doherty

The Season of the Hyaena (Ancient Egyptian Mysteries) (43 page)

BOOK: The Season of the Hyaena (Ancient Egyptian Mysteries)
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Tutankhamun kept walking around the statues, staring beneath their kilts, touching their legs. On one occasion he pressed his little face against one of their arms.
‘I like them,’ he declared proudly. ‘My father had them made to protect me. Djarka is right. Where I go, they shall follow. When I enter the House of Eternity, they shall guard me. They shall be Shabtis in my tomb outside Thebes …’
‘May that not happen for a million years!’ the craftsman quickly intoned, head down, bowing towards the Prince.
‘When shall we go to Thebes, Uncle Mahu? Ankhesenamun says …’
‘What does Ankhesenamun say?’
I whirled round. The Princess, dressed in gauffered robes, stood in the doorway, fanning herself lightly. In the shadows behind her was Amedeta, eyes bright with mischief.
‘Well?’ Ankhesenamun approached me, hiding her face behind the fan.
‘We are talking about returning to Thebes, Your Highness, but I am sure,’ I smiled, ‘you and your grandfather will decide on the best time.’
‘What our grandfather decides,’ Ankhesenamun grasped Tutankhamun’s hand, ‘is what Grandfather decides. But come, little Prince.’ She crouched down. ‘I want to show you the carp, and some new frogs have appeared.’
They left in a patter of feet and gusts of perfume.
Amedeta, as she passed Djarka, flirtingly trailed her fingers along his arm.
‘When will we return to Thebes?’ Djarka walked over, indicating that we move out of earshot of the craftsmen.
‘Why the hurry?’ I asked. ‘We have Colonel Nebamun’s brave squadrons guarding us on the clifftops. The Prince is safer here than in Thebes.’
‘It’s this city,’ Djarka whispered. He pulled a face. ‘Murmurs of discontent. People are beginning to ask about Meryre’s whereabouts. They know he escaped from Memphis.’
‘What you are implying,’ I retorted, ‘is that Meryre’s followers here in the City of the Aten have not heard from their master.’
‘They must be concerned,’ Djarka agreed, ‘as well as about what might happen in the future. They have seen the coffins and treasure leave on the barges.’
‘In which case, Djarka, we all have a great deal in common, and—’
‘My lord?’ I turned. My captain of mercenaries, lower lip jutting out, stood in the doorway glaring at me. ‘My lord, the prisoners?’
‘What prisoners?’ I shouted. I recalled the report the previous day, and his attempts to see me earlier that morning. I walked to the great window and stared down. Tutankhamun was standing next to the pool; he was beginning to favour his left side, as if his right leg or ankle gave him discomfort. On either side of him were the two women, Amedeta standing, Ankhesenamun crouching. They were sniffing the lotus blossoms, allowing the Prince to see what they were pointing out. Tutankhamun stamped with excitement, his hand resting on Ankhesenamun’s shoulder. I decided that Pentju and the other physicians must examine the young Prince again. Amedeta looked directly at me over her shoulder, as if she had known all the time I was staring at her.
‘Amedeta seems very fond of you, Djarka.’
‘She flirts with everyone, my lord.’ Djarka’s voice was devoid of any humour. ‘My lord, I think the captain of your guard,’ he forced a smile, ‘has business to do.’
‘Ah yes.’ I rubbed my hand. ‘You captured some sand-wanderers. Now why should they concern you or me? Are they smugglers, outlaws?’
‘I think you should see for yourself. It is not so much them, my lord, but what we found with them.’
I followed him down to the great courtyard. The sand-wanderers were chained in one corner, squatting in the shade against the fierce sun. The smell from them was like that of a jackal den. In another corner crouched a young woman, olive-skinned, hair black as a raven’s wing falling over her face. She sat with her arms across her chest, knees up, as if to protect her modesty from the sand-wanderers and those who guarded them. I went across, knelt before her and picked up a wooden bowl.
‘Do you want a drink?’ I asked.
Delicate fingers moved the black hair. She lifted her head, and even though her face was bruised and dirty, I was astonished by her beauty. That was the first time I met Mert; no wonder she was called ‘Lovely of Face’. She was tall and elegant, her features perfectly formed, full-lipped, smooth-cheeked, but most surprising was the colour of her sloe-shaped eyes, blue as a rain-washed sky. Her skin looked like it had been dusted with gold, and even though her nails were dirty and her lips chapped and cut, I could see why my captain of mercenaries had been intrigued. I took her hand and felt the soft skin of her palm.
‘She is not a sand-wanderer,’ Djarka harshly intervened. ‘Her skin is too fair.’
‘And her eyes are blue, just like yours, Djarka. Is she a member of your people?’
Djarka was glaring at the captain of the mercenaries, angry that he had not been informed immediately.
‘She could well be,’ he murmured.
‘What is your name?’ I turned back to the girl; she must have been about fifteen or sixteen summers old. ‘What is your name?’
She opened her mouth. ‘Aataru!’ She spat the word out. The name for the blood-drinking serpent. ‘Aataru,’ she repeated, pointing at the sand-dwellers.
‘That’s all she’ll say, my lord.’ My captain squatted down next to me. ‘We were out with some of Colonel Nebamun’s squadron, hunting fresh meat. The eastern deserts are empty and we came across these.’ He gestured towards the sand-dwellers. ‘Four in all, with two pack ponies. We decided to investigate as they were taking the path away from the city. They claimed to be acrobats, dancers,
tchapqa
.’ The Kushite stumbled over the term. ‘Their guild name is “The Drowning Men”, that’s what they call themselves. We would have let them pass; they smelled like a midden heap. We thought she was one of their women. We were about to turn away when she started screaming, the same word, “
Aataru
.” The sand-dwellers tried to silence her. One of them drew a dagger, so I drew mine. Now the Drowning Men are three, not four. We brought them in here. I thought you’d be interested in their story.’
I thrust the water bowl into the girl’s hand and walked across to the sand-dwellers, who crouched together, staring fearfully up at me. They were bedraggled, dirty hair reeking of cheap oil, faces darkened by the sun. I pinched my nostrils and crouched before them.
‘So you are the Drowning Men.’ I smiled.
‘Your Supreme Excellency.’ Their leader, a middle-aged man, tugged at his beard. ‘Your Excellency has it correct. I praise your wisdom. My lord,’ he whined, ‘we are simple actors, mummers, we dance.’
‘What are you doing out in the desert?’
‘We had been entertaining the villagers, the caravans, the merchants who pass. We earn a little for a crust and some wine.’
‘Show me,’ I demanded.
The sand-dwellers got to their feet and picked up some moth-eaten lion skins, the fly-bitten heads serving as masks. Two of them put these on, whilst the third, searching amongst his bundle, brought out a reed flute. The two actors pretended to be lions. At first their shambling gait provoked laughter from the mercenaries, but the reed player began to tell a story about two lions called the Devourers who lived out in the desert and hunted human kind. As he talked, his voice rising and falling, his two companions acted out their parts. Now and again the storyteller would return to his reedy music. The mercenaries stopped their laughter; the sand-dwellers were good. We forgot these were two men in shabby skins; against the background of their companion’s voice and the haunting reedy music, they became savage predators, provoking memories of that hideous Mastaba in the Delta.
‘Very good, very good.’ I interrupted the performance. The Drowning Men took off their masks, smiling from ear to ear. ‘I accept your story, you are entertainers.’
‘Aataru! Aataru!’ The young woman jumped to her feet, coming out of the corner, gesturing at the sand-dwellers.
‘We are not blood-drinkers,’ the leader whined, wiping the sweat from his face. ‘Once we were four, now we are three.’ He glared at my captain, then gestured at the girl. ‘She has brought us nothing but ill luck. She’s a witch!’
I grabbed the man by the beard. ‘What were you doing with her?’
‘We bought her,’ the man yelped, straining to break free. ‘We bought her from other desert wanderers. We were going to sell her as a slave. She’s comely enough for a pleasure house.’
‘Have you had your pleasure?’ I demanded. ‘She’s Egyptian. You know the law. She cannot be a slave.’ I tugged his beard again. ‘Now, tell me the truth, or where there were four there will now be two. You didn’t buy the girl, did you?’
The sand-dweller shook his head, tears of pain in his eyes. I released my grip.
‘We became lost in the eastern desert,’ he gabbled. ‘We wandered far and reached an oasis, the Place of Dry Water. Well, that’s what they call it. We found her there, sheltering under the trees. She had survived on dates and whatever water the oasis could produce. She wouldn’t tell us what had happened or how she came to be there, but kept pointing further east. One of my companions,’ he went on, ‘the one who was killed, tried to pleasure her but she fought like a wild cat and kept pointing further east. We thought she might be the survivor of some massacre but we wondered what caravan, what merchants would be travelling so deep in the desert. We told her to take us back there. On the way we picked up a local guide, a nomad, who told us a fearful story about a massacre which had taken place further east. Eventually, after two days’ travelling, we reached what’s called the Valley of the Grey Dawn. At the mouth of the valley stands an oasis, an island of green with a sweet-water spring.’
‘What was there?’ I demanded.
‘My lord, you should see for yourself. They call it the Valley of the Grey Dawn; I’d say it’s the Valley of Bones. Skeletons of men, women and children whitening under the sun, picked clean of all flesh. Here or there, a bracelet or a ring.’
‘Massacred?’ I asked.
‘We found arrow shafts, broken javelins, but nothing else.’
‘How many people?’
‘My lord, we counted at least four score, but darkness was falling and the night prowlers, huge hyaena packs, haunt the valley. We searched for any treasure, anything that might tell us what happened, but we could find nothing. The young woman was screaming, gesturing with her hands, so we left, putting as much distance between ourselves and that evil place as possible.’
I watched his two companions as he spoke. They were nodding in agreement, whispering to each other. I walked back across the courtyard. The girl still stood defiantly.
‘Aataru,’ she repeated.
‘What is your name?’ I asked. ‘Where are you from?’
She looked, puzzled, at me.
‘Your name? My name is Mahu.’
She shook her head.
‘Mahu,’ I repeated. ‘What is your name?’
‘Mert,’ she replied.
‘Ah, lovely of face.’ I smiled.
I returned to the sand-dwellers. ‘This place of slaughter? What did you find?’
‘A horrifying dark place,’ the leader replied, ‘full of howling hyeanas. The air was always noisy with the rustle of wings, vultures black against the sky. A fearful place, my lord, that haunting, long valley where the wind whistles and the dust devils blow. The oasis lies at the mouth. Our guide said it was sacred.’
I listened to the man even as I watched Djarka’s face. He was ignoring the sand-dweller, but his face had become pale and sweaty as if he had been too long in the sun.
‘Do you know this place, Djarka?’
He refused to answer. I turned back to the sand-dweller. ‘You will be our prisoners. No, no.’ I lifted my hand in the sign of peace. ‘You will also be highly rewarded, compensated for the death of your companion, provided you tell us the truth and, if necessary, lead us back to this place.’
In answer the man knelt down and searched amongst his tawdry possessions. He brought out a ring, a dark red ruby, the silver clasp engraved with the sign of the Aten. Then he handed us a scarab, a dark blue sunstone showing the sun rising between the Sacred Peaks.
‘We found those, my lord.’ He glanced fearfully at me. ‘Some of the skeletons of the women still had their hair, even though scorched by the sun and wind.’ He let his words hang in the air.
‘People of the court?’ I whispered.
The man nodded. ‘People unused to the desert, master. They had either been journeying there or had gone to meet someone. Every one of them was massacred.’
Behind me, Mert began to sob. I stared at that pathetic scarab and the ring, once the property of some noble-woman.
‘That is all, master.’
‘The remains?’ I asked. ‘The skeletons?’
‘Most of them are grouped round the oasis,’ the man replied. ‘But others were found closer to the valley mouth, as if they had fled only to be hunted down. We were fearful of going in.’
‘What else did you find?’ Djarka asked sharply, pushing his way forward. His hand went to grasp the sand-dweller’s beard, but I knocked it away.
BOOK: The Season of the Hyaena (Ancient Egyptian Mysteries)
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