The Season of the Hyaena (Ancient Egyptian Mysteries) (46 page)

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

Authors: Paul Doherty

BOOK: The Season of the Hyaena (Ancient Egyptian Mysteries)
9.99Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
‘Why can’t we return to Thebes?’
‘Because I have direct custody of the Prince. We shall go when it is right.’ I rose, bowed and walked away.
‘Uncle Mahu! Uncle Mahu!’
I turned. Tutankhamun came hurrying across the grass, arms out. I crouched and he flung himself at me. I could feel his hands on the back of my neck, his hot cheek pressed against mine.
‘I am sorry, Uncle Mahu.’
I pulled him away. ‘Why did you do that?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know.’ His eyes had that dreamy gaze. ‘I don’t know, Uncle Mahu. I feel as if the blood bubbles within me. I remember who I am.’
‘Does Ankhesenamun …’ I gazed across at the beautiful cobra still curled beneath the tree, smiling serenely across. ‘Does Ankhesenamun tell you who you are?’
‘She tells me everything,’ Tutankhamun whispered. ‘She says we will be a great king and queen. I shall be Horus in the South. My name and power shall reach the ends of the earth. She lies beside me in bed, strokes my body and whispers all sorts of sweet things to me.’
‘I am sure she does.’ I disengaged his arms. ‘Remember, my lord, you are a prince. You are like a soldier in training. That servant, you should not have beaten him!’
‘But he was dirty.’ The anger reappeared. ‘He was defiled. He cannot commit such acts in our presence.’
‘How old are you, my lord?’
‘Soon I shall be eight.’
‘Soon you will be eight.’ I went to cup his face in my hands, but Tutankhamun stepped back, gave a cursory bow and returned to his sister.
By now Pentju had moved back into the palace. I wanted him there as guardian when I left for the eastern desert. I asked him to examine the Prince carefully. Pentju had been accustomed to do this, but increasingly, Ankhesenamun had begun to interfere with glib excuses or protest that the time was not right. On this occasion, however, I had the Prince brought to my quarters. For an entire afternoon the physician talked to him, making him run and jump, touching his body, asking him questions. He asked me to be absent, as Tutankhamun did not like to be examined by anyone in the presence of others, the only exception being Ankhesenamun. In the evening Pentju dined alone with me on duck and goose, delicately roasted and grilled, a favourite dish ever since our time as Children of the Kap. On that evening, I noticed how he had aged: he was more flabby, the veins in his cheeks and nose quite marked. I clinked my goblet against his.
‘Physician, heal thyself. You are drinking too much.’
‘I do heal myself!’ he quipped back. ‘The wine makes me forget the past, Mahu. It drives away the ghosts which cluster in the corners. My wife, my children, my kinsmen, Princess Khiya.’ He bit his lip.
‘And the Prince?’ I asked.
Pentju stared back into the chamber. We were sitting on a balcony, a place I loved to dine; it was closely guarded against eavesdroppers.
‘Is the Prince sick?’ I asked.
‘No more so than his father.’ Pentju sipped at his wine. ‘His limbs ache and he has inherited his father’s condition. As he matures,’ Pentju gestured with his hands, ‘his shoulders will grow broader, but so will his hips. He’ll have a protuberant belly and the same chest as his father; his hands, fingers and toes will be longer than the average man’s.’
‘Like his father?’ I interrupted.
‘Like his father,’ Pentju agreed, ‘but not as pronounced or marked.’
‘And his moods?’
Pentju laughed quietly. ‘Mahu, I can tell you, as I’ve said before, how the heart beats, what causes a worm in the intestine or the symptoms of some disease. But a man’s soul? Even harder, a child’s! He is the son of Khiya; he has inherited her gentleness. He’s also Akenhaten’s son.’ He picked up a piece of firm cheese made from pressed, salted curds and sniffed at it. ‘Very tasty,’ he mused. He cut a slice.
‘He is his father’s son?’ I insisted.
‘Ever the policeman …’ Pentju sighed. ‘Always the question. Yes, he is Akenhaten’s son. He suffers what my learned colleagues would call rushes of blood, and changes of mood, when he can become violent. As he grows older he may even suffer from fits, the falling sickness.’
‘Could he beget an heir?’
‘The boy is only eight.’ Pentju grimaced. ‘His penis, his manhood are a matter for the future. I don’t see why he shouldn’t.’
‘Could he ever,’ I demanded, ‘be like his father?’
‘No one else could be like Akenhaten.’ Pentju laughed softly. ‘A great deal depends on the next few years. It is time he returned to Thebes; he must forget everything there is about the Aten.’
‘And Ankhesenamun?’ I asked.
‘Ah, there’s a game you’ve lost, Mahu.’ The physician leaned across the table, cleaning his teeth with his tongue. ‘As the boy grows older, her influence will grow. There’s nothing you can do about that, except, perhaps, kill Ankhesenamun!’
I often wonder now: should I have listened more carefully to Pentju’s diagnosis? What would have happened if Ankhesenamun had died and Tutankhamun married another? Yet she was protected by the brooding shadow of her grandfather and others of the Akhmin gang. Ankhesenamun was certainly mischievous enough for anything. She’d taken Mert under her wing, and that young woman had emerged as an exquisite beauty. Ankhesenamun and Amedeta, being the sly bitches they were, soon realised Djarka’s interest in this lovely young woman. They refused her nothing, often braiding her black hair in a net of multi-coloured glasswork bordered by half-circles of pearls. Gold anklets and bracelets shimmered on Mert’s legs and wrists; a gorgeous gorget of cornelian emphasised her neck; her beautiful body was adorned in the purest linen robes; a purple-fringed shawl hung about her shoulders and silver-thonged sandals were on her feet. They taught her how to paint her face, using green kohl to accentuate her eyes, and gave her presents of the costliest perfumes. They would often invite us to supper, where those two minxes would sit and watch as Djarka and I competed for Mert’s attention. In the end the contest was unequal. Mert remained silent but she could talk with her eyes. Djarka was the chosen one. In the weeks leading up to the military expeditions they grew closer. Djarka coaxed her to speak. I often found them chatting in their own tongue, though never once would she describe what had happened in the Valley of the Grey Dawn. Instead she would simply fall silent, shaking her head, withdrawing into her own private nightmares.
‘Is there nothing else she can tell us?’ I asked.
Djarka swore solemnly that she could not. ‘She remembers her life before the massacre, and what happened afterwards, but if I question her,’ he shrugged, ‘she knows nothing; her eyes go vacant. She remembers her father and her brothers going out to the valley. They took her with them; they were to act as guides and be heavily rewarded.’
‘Guides to where?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Djarka confessed. ‘She remembers her journey out; after that, what she calls the blackness falls.’
In the end I had to let such matters rest.
On the day before we left, Nebamun and Djarka made one final attempt to change my mind. I refused. I did not inform them about my most recent letter from the Lord Ay. I kept that to myself. Ay had couched his request in courteous terms, yet he made it very clear that he disapproved of my expedition. Moreover, he added, if I thought the situation dangerous, I should immediately withdraw the Royal Household to Thebes. I dispatched a courier back saying the crisis had passed and I would consider his request.
On the morning of the eighth day in the second month of Peret, our expedition left the City of the Aten: forty chariots, a train of carts and a corps of three hundred mercenaries. Djarka and Mert were also included, as were the three sand-dwellers, now confident that they basked in high favour. They were well fed, and plump after their long stay as guests in the palace. The journey proved to be a nightmare. The further east we travelled, the more desolate and arid the Red Lands became. The heat turned oppressive. Sand storms blasted us during the day; freezing blackness cloaked us at night. Bands of marauders hung on our flanks ready to exploit any weakness. At times we had to hunt for fresh meat, and on one occasion we clashed with these fierce nomads. During the day we moved like a military convoy; at night we formed the carts and chariots into a protective ring. I had thought the journey would take three weeks in all, following a circuitous route which led from one oasis to another. In the end it took a month. I knew we were approaching the valley when the undulating desert began to peter out; through the shifting heat haze I glimpsed gorse, dry trees and rocky outcrops. The shrubs and trees led towards the oasis at the entrance to the Valley of the Grey Dawn. An eerie place, its rocks and cliffs seemed to sprout from the desert floor, shifting in colour, a dull grey at dawn, a fiery red in the full heat of the day, becoming paler as the day wore on.
We approached the oasis lying just within the valley mouth as the sun, that fiery burst of colour, the tormentor of our days, slipped beneath the far horizon. The darkness spread its wings to be greeted by the raucous cries of the night prowlers. The Red Lands had always oppressed me; that fearsome valley was a nightmare: its rocky cliffs rose out of the sands, whirling clouds of dust covered desiccated bushes, gorse and dried-out trees, casting them black against the sky. The ground grew hard underfoot, easier for our carts and chariots. The tree-fringed oasis was a pleasant contrast, shimmering green with its long grass, fresh bushes and groves of sturdy palm trees. The source of all this freshness was an underground spring. The smell of fresh water and wild flowers was as welcome to us as the most fragrant perfume.
We camped for the night. Carts and chariots were pulled into a ring, horse lines protected by rows of small fires to drive back the predators which circled the oasis from dusk till dawn. Even as we arrived and set up our tents and pavilions, we discovered fearsome signs of the massacre: bones, skulls, entire skeletons, arrowheads, javelin points, a broken dagger and small pieces of chewed leather. Everywhere we looked, beneath bushes, in the shade of the trees or the rocky outcrop around the pools, such remains reminded us we were in a place of ghosts where spirits burned and the dead flamed in a darkness beyond ours. Mert was subdued. She clung to Djarka, muttering under her breath. Beyond the perimeters of our camp echoed the ugly coughing roars of lions and the heart-chilling growl of hyaenas.
The captain of the guard interrupted my evening meal, asking me to join him at the makeshift gate in our line of carts and chariots. He was a Nubian, a foot soldier who had cursed every wheeled vehicle throughout the entire expedition; now he tapped the wheels of a chariot and loudly thanked the Gods for such defence. He shouted at the archers on the top of the wagons to loose fire arrows. ‘I’ll show you why, my lord. You must see this before you retire.’
The fire arrows were loosed, the archers concentrating on one spot. Those eerie growls from the darkness increased. In the light of the falling arrows I glimpsed the prowlers: monstrous hyaenas with great heavy heads, long snouts and powerful jaws; glaring red eyes, their ruffed manes like collars of darkness around their necks.
‘They recognise this as a place of slaughter,’ the mercenary whispered. ‘My lord, they are more dangerous than the lions if they attack in a pack.’
‘Why should they?’
‘They have been brought here by the corpses,’ he muttered. ‘We also ring the only source of fresh water for miles. They have smelled our food from the camp fires as well as the fresh flesh of our horses and donkeys, my lord Mahu.’ His face twisted in anxiety. ‘We should not stay here too long.’
I stayed at the gate, staring out into the darkness, the sweat chilling on the nape of my neck. I had heard about these hyaenas, striped and powerful, and more dangerous than their cousins who prowled the edge of town or slunk into the City of the Dead in search of some morsel. These creatures were ruthless hunters, as well as scavengers. I recalled stories told by desert scouts: how once these beasts smelt blood they’d track an injured man for days, whilst camp fires and weapons, palisades and fences sometimes proved no deterrent. I ordered the horses and pack ponies to be brought closer into the camp and redoubled the guard. I offered rewards to any man who could devise a better way of defending the camp. The only suggestions were to increase the lines of small fires and issue strict instructions how the perimeter was not to be crossed at night. People were to sleep in groups, whilst, even during the day, no patrols should be fewer than three men, one of whom must be a bowman.
The next morning we began the grisly task of collecting the remains. I sent scouts and carts far into the valley, and they returned carrying baskets piled high with bones and skulls as well as scraps of clothing, leather and weaponry. We burned them as an act of purification as well as reverence. We began work before dawn, resting during the midday heat and continuing until darkness fell. The valley was long and steep-sided; caves lay on each side, concealed behind clumps of gorse and bush, each containing the remains of survivors, men, women and children, as well as the bones of their animals. It was a hideous, heart-searing task. One scout brought in a basket of skulls, all belonging to children, as well as the pathetic remains of their toys. The funeral fires were kept burning not just to purify that place of abomination; the flames and smoke also kept back the hyaenas, who, during the day, would watch from afar. Now and again they’d close in, heads down, almost nosing the ground, loping along before bursting into a full, stretched run, only to be driven back by a hail of arrows or burning cloths soaked in oil. At night they became bolder, drawing closer; on the third night they attacked one of the carts, snatching off a guard, dragging him screaming into the darkness. There was nothing we could do to help but stand and listen to his horrific screams, the yelping of the prowlers, and the sound of their powerful jaws tearing him apart. We lit fires on the far side of the carts; archers were instructed to fire the occasional volley of flaring arrows into the night.

Other books

Fractured by Kate Watterson
Désirée by Annemarie Selinko
The Railway by Hamid Ismailov
Pieces of My Heart by Jamie Canosa
Swamp Sniper by Jana DeLeon
Call Nurse Jenny by Maggie Ford
Tidewater Inn by Colleen Coble
Continental Drift by Russell Banks