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Authors: Paul Doherty

The Season of the Hyaena (Ancient Egyptian Mysteries) (52 page)

BOOK: The Season of the Hyaena (Ancient Egyptian Mysteries)
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‘The thieves came after the treasure, you see,’ Sobeck explained as he sipped his wine. ‘The robber gangs know all about the treasures brought from the City of the Aten. I’m just sorry I missed my share.’ Sobeck laughed. ‘Oh, I see you still have the two statues.’
‘Ah, yes,’ I replied. ‘Pentju received them as a gift from the palace for his care of the young Pharaoh, the only present he was given. He placed them at the entrance to our Hall of Columns. By the way, what did happen to the rest of the treasure?’
‘Let me put it this way, you will find no beggars in Thebes, Mahu. Nakhtimin marched them into the Valley of the Kings to do hard labour, quarrying new caves and tombs. Men, women and children, they were all dead in a month.’
‘Why new caves and tombs?’
‘The Aten treasures were first placed in temporary storage in the tombs and burial temples of former Pharaohs. Now Ay is moving them to places known only to himself, Nakhtimin and others of their gang.’
Sobeck fell silent for a while.
‘He has his uses,’ he murmured eventually. ‘I mean General Nakhtimin. The assassinations have stopped. I hunted high and low without sight or sign of Meryre and his coven – they have disappeared like a puff of smoke on a summer’s day.’
‘Massacred, wiped out?’
‘No.’ Sobeck sighed. ‘They have fled, but I don’t know where, probably out across the Sinai, which brings me to another matter.’ Sobeck pointed across the garden: Djarka and Mert sat next to the Pool of Purity, watching their baby son Imhotep crawl like a little beetle. I leaned forward.
‘Are they in danger?’
‘Not at the moment,’ Sobeck replied. ‘But they did stay loyal to you. Djarka could have left. I would have found him a post, some office at court or temple. Moreover, let’s not forget, both know about the massacre.’ Sobeck tapped his goblet with his fingernails. ‘I do wonder why they supported you.’
‘Haven’t you heard of devotion, friendship?’
Sobeck just rubbed his earlobe; a common habit when he was suspicious.
‘I think Djarka is here to watch you, Mahu, though I don’t know the reason.’
‘Why are you concerned about him now?’
‘Oh, I’m not concerned about them. However, I’m sure General Rameses would like to question them, and I am going to show you why.’
Four days later Sobeck returned after dark. I was writing my journal, describing the coolness of the evening, the scent of the garden where the light from the coloured oil lamps glowed and danced like fireflies. From the river echoed various sounds, the bellowing of the hippopotami almost drowning the fading calls of the birds and the harsh chorus of the frogs. I was sitting on the roof of the house, staring up at the
akhakha
, as the poets call the stars, the ‘flowers of heaven’, blossoming brilliantly against the night. Such harmony was disturbed by the news of Sobeck’s arrival. I went down to greet him. He slipped through the gate, paused, then whistled into the night. An old man dressed in a thick robe, a tasselled shawl around his shoulders, shuffled through, his papyrus reed sandals slapping on the ground. He was small and bony, his wizened face like a dried-out nut, though he was alert and bright-eyed as any boy.
‘This is Seenu.’ Sobeck introduced my visitor as we took our seats in what I called my Blue Lotus Pavilion. We sat in silence for a while, until the servants, who, I am sure, included Lord Ay’s spies, served us sesame seed cake and chilled white wine. From across the garden, cutting through the noises of the night, came the raucous sound of Pentju bawling out a song we’d all learnt as Children of the Kap. The old man laughed.
‘A fitting lullaby,’ he whispered.
I did not reply. I just hoped Pentju would get drunk, fall asleep and not make a nuisance of himself. Once the servants had left, I closed the door.
‘Who are you?’ I asked, sitting back on the cushions.
‘Seenu was once a scribe of the execution stake where prisoners are questioned,’ Sobeck explained. ‘He is proficient in tongues. He later became Chief Scribe of the Anubis shrine.’
‘That was a thousand jubilees ago,’ Seenu chuckled, ‘when the Great House of a Million Years was ruled by the Mighty Bull, Magnificent of Forms, and I wore the jackal-headed collar. Oh yes, many, many Pharaohs ago.’ He closed his eyes and rocked backwards and forwards. ‘I should be with the sleepers.’ His voice was hardly above a whisper. ‘I should walk with death.’ He opened his eyes. ‘I have passed my eightieth year. I owe my own life to the patronage of the Great God Buto. I am old now …’
He chattered on. Sobeck warned me with his eyes to keep silent.
‘Once my loins were fresh and fertile, my seed came pouring out. I used to sleep the four quarters of the night with slave women on either side.’
Again I made to interrupt, but Sobeck gestured to keep silent.
‘I was scribe of the Execution House, the recorder of the Slaughter Yard in the House of Chains. I answered directly to Pharaoh, but even then I was growing old.’
‘Which Pharaoh?’ I asked.
‘Tuthmosis, father of Amenhotep the Magnificent. Now, as you know, Amenhotep fell in love with a beautiful young girl from the city of Akhmin. She was of the Apiru tribe. Oh, I got to know them all well,’ he sighed. ‘Tiye and her brother Ay. I learned all about the legends of her people: how they came from Canaan; how they look forward to a great leader to take them back; how they were special in the eyes of God. I read their records. I even saw the paintings out in the Valley of the Grey Dawn. I also learned about the Aten, the One God. I visited Canaan. I have studied the Apiru more carefully than any scholar in Egypt.’
‘And then what?’
‘I reported all to Tuthmosis. He was very alarmed. He tried to warn his son, who then was no more than a boy. Amenhotep met Tiye when they were both Children of the Kap.’ The old man held his hand with two fingers wrapped together. ‘They were inseparable, one of those love matches which begin even before the loins are excited. Tuthmosis was advised by his priests against the marriage.’
‘But Tuthmosis died suddenly,’ I interrupted, ‘a mysterious death. Wasn’t he in his late twenties?’ The old man agreed. He stuffed sesame cake in his mouth and slurped wine.
‘Did you keep any record?’ Sobeck asked. Seenu, his mouth full, shook his head.
Sobeck, poking me in the arm, led me out into the garden, telling our visitor to eat and drink as much as he could.
‘Why have you brought him?’ I asked. ‘I know about these legends, you know that I know.’
I heard a sound behind me and whirled round. Nothing, though I was sure someone was there.
‘Seenu tells me nothing new,’ I continued.
‘He lives in Western Thebes.’ Sobeck measured his words carefully. ‘A week ago he was overheard boasting in a beer shop how General Rameses wished to see him.’ I felt a chill, brought on more by fear than the night breeze.
‘I had him arrested,’ Sobeck continued.
‘Who, Rameses?’ I asked.
‘Don’t joke, Mahu. The old man. I gave him a comfortable chamber in one of my houses. I hired a temple girl to keep him warm at night and made sure his belly remained full. He is greedy and lecherous as an old goat. I wanted to know why Rameses was looking for him. He told me about the Apiru. It took some time to get the whole story. Ten years ago people would have dismissed it as the babblings of an old scribe, only too willing to bore you to death for a drop of ale. I also listened to other reports. Rameses has sent spies into Canaan. He has scribes searching the records. He is looking for Akenhaten. He believes he is still alive. He is also hunting for Meryre and growing more knowledgeable about the origins of Akenhaten and the legends of the Apiru. To put it bluntly …’ Sobeck paused. ‘If Rameses had his way, a savage persecution would be launched. They would not only wipe out any member of the Aten, but anyone who has anything to do with the tribe of Apiru. That includes Djarka, Mert and their child.’
‘So what do you propose?’
Sobeck paused, as if listening to a bird fluttering in the tree.
‘I intend to kill the old man.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘I have no choice. He will die peacefully in his sleep and I will hand his corpse over to be embalmed.’
Sobeck walked back to the pavilion.
‘Best be warned.’ He raised his voice. ‘The hunters are out.’
The months turned into seasons, the seasons into years. Six years passed. I grew a little plumper. Djarka and Mert had another child, a girl they called Miriam, a companion for her elder brother Imhotep. Djarka now led his own life. He came and went as he pleased. We very rarely discussed the glory days when we had plotted, conspired and fought, either on the battlefield or amongst that brood of conspirators at the imperial court. Djarka seemed infatuated with his wife and children. A husband and father first, rather than a soldier. We grew apart, like the gap that divides a father from his son when the latter moves away to be with his own family. I was still deeply attracted to Mert, but she had eyes only for her husband. It was a true love match. Oh, we reminisced and, when the wine flowed like water, became nostalgic. Djarka warned me not to discuss what had happened in the Valley of the Grey Dawn, and when Mert was present, Lord Ay’s name was never to be mentioned. Their two children were beautiful and delightful. I made up nicknames for them, ‘balls of fluff’, or ‘pots of sweet honey’. If I became bored with my garden, writing in my journal or Pentju’s drunken mutterings, I’d always go looking for them. I did so reluctantly at first, not because I didn’t like children, but because I felt unclean in their presence. I had blood on my hands. I had killed and killed again. I felt like a jackal put in charge of baby ducks. When I described my feelings to Djarka, his face broke into a smile and he punched me playfully on the shoulder.
‘More like a guard dog,’ he replied.
I felt better after that. Perhaps it was the children’s innocence which frightened me. Somehow or other they might recognise a soul which reeked of sin. They didn’t. They enjoyed my games, especially when I pretended to be a lion. I discovered I had a gift for woodwork and would love to carve a giraffe or antelope or fashion a wooden sword or shield. Imhotep, as he grew older, would often seek me out; even when I was squatting like a scribe, he nestled close to me. He regarded me as a great warrior. I was touched and flattered, for this was how Djarka described me. Ah well, it was better that than being called an assassin.
Sobeck’s lovely wife gave birth to twin boys. She too visited our mansion, bringing the children together with an army of wet nurses and servants. I grew to enjoy the long evenings, the feasting and the chatter. Sobeck now heeded my warnings, and did everything he could to pose as Ay’s faithful retainer.
‘There’s nothing like children,’ he once remarked, ‘to make you prudent and careful.’
He also brought news of how the restoration of Egypt’s fortune was growing apace. Nowhere more than Thebes, where new buildings of marble and white granite dazzled the eye. Rivers of treasure flowed in from north, south, east and west. Egypt’s enemies, the people of the Nine Bows trembled, frightened of Egypt’s powerful regiments and teeming squadrons of war chariots. Imperial war barges patrolled the Nile and the shores of the Delta, high-beaked and powerful, crammed with archers and spearmen. They fought off pirates and invaders from the Great Green. I often glimpsed such barges from my rooftop, patrolling the river, standards displayed, great sails billowing out.
People exclaimed how the marvellous days of Amenhotep the Magnificent had returned. Envoys from other nations, even the long-haired Hittites, hastened to pay lip service at least to the Great House, the Palace of a Million Years.
Such reports never disturbed me. I mellowed and remained patient, like a man lost in a dream. I seduced the maids. When I wished to be alone, I put on a broad-brimmed peasant’s hat and tended my gardens. I grew rather bored with flowers and cultivated new types of vegetables and herbs, including an original onion. I became expert in growing capers, not so fleshy but still rich in oil. I wrote a learned paper on this and sent it by way of Sobeck to the House of Life at the Temple of Horus. It was well received. I also specialised in poisons, mixing the juice of ivy with fat berries and other ingredients. My strain was virtually tasteless, or so Pentju told me. He examined it carefully whilst I hopped from foot to foot. Sometimes my physician friend was so drunk, he’d eat or sip anything placed before him.
Pentju showed little interest in Sobeck’s visits, except on one matter. At first I thought he was keen to learn news about Canaan when he remained sober and questioned Sobeck carefully. After a while, I realised he was more interested in the doings of the House of Envoys, which controlled Egypt’s foreign affairs. The generals’ desire for war had been constantly frustrated, even though everybody was becoming alarmed at the growing power of the Hittites. Lord Ay, supported by Maya and Huy, had developed a different policy: they turned to the other great powers, particularly the Mitanni, to check the Hittites. Pentju became more alert than ever over this and questioned Sobeck about Ay’s furious attempts to win over Tushratta, King of the Mitanni.
‘Ay has done everything in his power,’ Sobeck reported on one occasion. ‘He sends envoys to the Mitanni with costly gifts: kites of gold and silver to raise mercenaries.’
BOOK: The Season of the Hyaena (Ancient Egyptian Mysteries)
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