The Season of the Hyaena (Ancient Egyptian Mysteries) (7 page)

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Authors: Paul Doherty

BOOK: The Season of the Hyaena (Ancient Egyptian Mysteries)
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I hurried across with the rest. The courtyard resounded with cries and shouts, the clatter of drawn weapons. Meryre and his group clustered around Rahmose. He lay twisted, one arm going backwards and forwards like the wing of a pinioned bird, heels drumming on the ground. Pentju the physician, who had remained silent throughout the entire council meeting, was crouching beside the fallen man. He could do little. Rahmose’s eyes were already glazing over in death, mouth spluttering blood, fingers trying to stem the jagged cuts to his neck, throat and chest. He was a dead man in all but name. I glanced across. The assassin lay slumped in a bloody heap. I went and turned the body over. A young man, smooth-faced, head shaven like that of a priest, but the palms of his hands were coarse and his arms criss-crossed with scars.
‘A soldier?’ Maya asked. ‘Disguised as a priest? He was holding this.’ The Treasurer handed over a scarab displaying the throne names of Akenhaten. It was crudely done, the clumsy hieroglyphs painted white on the hardened black stone. Ay, surrounded by his guards, inspected both corpses and shrugged.
‘Mahu,’ he demanded, ‘find out what happened.’
‘I might as well try and get a stone to sing,’ I shouted back. I crouched by the corpse of the assassin. The scars on his wrists and arms were superficial, and beneath the blood-soaked robe I could detect no other mark or wound, but on the hardened soles of his feet I glimpsed what I considered to be green dye.
‘Grass,’ I declared, staring at Pentju. ‘He was a man used to walking on grass, and those scars on his wrists and arms? I suspect he was a gardener. Meryre!’ I shouted.
‘My lord?’
‘This man was not one of yours?’
The little priest’s eyes were hard black buttons, mouth all prim and proper. He looked too composed for a man unused to blood.
‘He’s not one of mine,’ he snapped. ‘Though one of our company is missing.’
I immediately ordered a search of the palace grounds. The body of Rahmose was removed to the House of the Embalmers in the Temple of Amun, whilst I ordered the assassin’s corpse to be hung in chains by the heels from the Wall of Death, a grim grey stretch of stone, part of an ancient fort which overlooked one of the palace quaysides. The rest of the Royal Circle left as quickly as they could. The courtyard fell silent. Meryre came back.
‘That man,’ he insisted, ‘is not one of mine, but a lector priest is missing.’
‘No one knows where he is?’ I asked.
Meryre shook his head and waddled off in a show of dignity. I sat in the shade of one of the crouching lions. Pentju came and squatted beside me, staring at the bloodstains on the paving stones. The flies were already gathering in small black clouds.
‘You were silent in the Royal Circle,’ I said.
‘You are very calm,’ he replied. ‘Rahmose was wearing your robe. Perhaps it was you the assassin was seeking?’
I swallowed hard, rubbing my hands together to hide my own unease. The same thought had occurred to me, but there again, Rahmose was slight, with a balding head, a complete contrast to my own appearance. What did Nefertiti call me? A handsome baboon, with a heavy mouth, snub nose and shock of black hair.
‘Redeemed, my dear baboon,’ she would say as she pressed a finger against my lips, ‘by those large dark eyes.’
‘You seem unconcerned.’ Pentju broke my reverie. ‘I said Rahmose was wearing your robe.’
I waved my hand. ‘Don’t agitate me, Pentju. You are a physician.’ I smiled at him. ‘Don’t they teach in the House of Life not to be misled by the first symptoms?’
Pentju laughed drily, picked up the water skin between his feet, took a slurp, then offered it to me. I refused.
‘If you go north,’ he put the water skin back, ‘our young Prince will be left unprotected.’
‘Oh no he won’t,’ I replied. ‘Djarka will guard him, whilst you know that everyone in the Royal Circle needs Tutankhamun’s protection. He may be the son of the Heretic Pharaoh, but he is also the grandson of the Magnificent One, the last male heir of the Tuthmosid line. The greatest threat to our young Prince was Nefertiti, and she’s gone. Now, tell me, Physician, why were you so silent?’
‘That impostor who has appeared in the Delta.’ Pentju sucked on his lips. ‘It’s not Akenhaten. In the last months before his disappearance he often talked to me, Mahu, especially about his son. He entrusted him to me and instructed me that if anything happened to him, you were to be the boy’s official guardian. He said you were different from the rest, Mahu, on three points: you had little ambition, you were loyal and you were searching for your soul.’
I glanced away: that was the old Akenhaten, the Veiled One, the Grotesque. I had befriended him when we were both boys, mere strangers in this great palace.
‘I tell you,’ Pentju continued in a hurried whisper, ‘Akenhaten believed that he too had lost his soul. He said he would never find it in the City of the Aten, that he would withdraw into the Red Lands and wait for his God to come.’
‘And you think he did that?’
‘I know he did.’
‘So, do you think he is still alive?’
‘He may be.’
‘So why shouldn’t he emerge to reclaim his throne and once again wear the double crown of Egypt?’
‘Akenhaten believed he had found the One True God. People think,’ Pentju chose his words carefully, ‘that he’d slipped into madness, convinced he was the One God himself, but that’s not true. If Akenhaten saw God in anyone, it wasn’t really himself, but Nefertiti. He adored her. He loved her. He was infatuated with her. You know that, Mahu. Then the truth about Nefertiti emerged: her arrogance, her pride, the relationship between herself and her father Ay, her persecution of Khiya, Tutankhamun’s mother, secretly feeding her potions and powders so she would never conceive. That was the truth which drove him away.’ Pentju added bitterly, ‘That’s what sent Akenhaten out into the Red Lands to find what he had lost.’
‘And his treasure?’ I asked.
‘At the time of his disappearance the City of the Aten was in chaos. The plague was raging like Sekhmet the Destroyer. You saw it, Mahu, streets littered with corpses, the funeral pyres on the cliffs above the city turning the sky black with their smoke. I suspect Akenhaten and a group of his priests, donkeys laden with the treasure they might need, slipped out of the city.’
‘Would they go north?’ I asked. ‘To Canaan?’
‘That’s possible. Akenhaten’s mother, Queen Tiye, and all her kin from Akhmin were once Shemsu. They wandered from Canaan, across Sinai into Egypt. They made Egypt’s Gods their own but they never forgot their own God, the God of Canaan, all-seeing, all-powerful, not to be worshipped in idols or statues. They regarded the Sun Disc, the Aten, as His symbol.’ Pentju shrugged. ‘You know this as well as I do.’
I did, but I was trying to make sense of what we had been told.
‘I kept quiet,’ Pentju sighed, ‘because I know the truth. The creature at Avaris is an impostor, possibly one of the priests.’
‘But still a danger to us?’
Pentju clapped me on the shoulder. ‘Mahu, it was dangerous as soon as we became Children of the Kap, the Royal Nursery.’ He picked up his water skin and walked away. I dozed for a while in the shadow of the crouched lion.
‘Sir?’
I woke with a start, hand going to my knife. My captain of mercenaries stretched forward his right hand, caked with blood.
‘We found a corpse, my lord, a priest, naked and trussed like a chicken for the pot, throat slashed from ear to ear, his body concealed beneath a bramble bush between a clump of persea trees. One of my lord Meryre’s entourage has identified him. The assassin must have lured him there and killed him.’ He lifted an eyebrow.
‘And taken his robes,’ I finished. ‘One priest amongst many, eh, Captain?’
‘Like flies on a turd, my lord.’
‘And the assassin?’ I asked.
‘A gardener, a rose-tender from the inner garden. My lord, General Rahmose was wearing your cloak, the striped one.’
‘I know he was wearing my cloak, Captain, and it is one which is eye-catching, a gift from a friend. But,’ I got to my feet and clapped the man on the shoulder, ‘we’ll have to wait and see if the hunter returns for a second try.’
I wanted to confront Ay, Meryre and the rest, but hot temper is ill suited to the search for the truth, so I went to my own quarters. The young Prince was already in the House of Adoration, a small suite of chambers I had set aside for him. I checked the windows and doors, as I always did, ensuring that, despite the heat, they were shuttered and closed. Every entrance was guarded by at least three mercenaries, with the strictest instructions that they were to allow no one in except myself, Djarka or Sobeck, and that they were never to leave unless two others were on guard. I handed my own dagger to the sentries and went through into the antechamber, which smelt of cassia and frankincense. In the small bedchamber beyond, Tutankhamun was already lying beneath the sheets on his bed. The headrest, a brilliant blue and gold, glinted in the lamplight, the post at each end carved in the shape of Bes the Dwarf God, so beloved of children. Between the posts, at both top and bottom, a line of Uraei, spitting cobras, the protectors of Egypt’s rulers. I pushed aside the linen hangings, and the little boy pulled himself up, face crumpled with sleep, his wide dark eyes making him seem like a little owl awakening in its nest.
‘Uncle Mahu!’
‘I have come to check the oil lamps, Your Highness.’
‘I am afraid.’ The boy knelt on the bed, hands clasped together.
‘You are not afraid.’ I sat down beside him and felt his forehead. It was cool. ‘You are telling me stories,’ I smiled, ‘to make me stay.’ I picked up the goblet of green faience on the nearby table, sniffed and tasted the pure water. ‘Djarka will come and sleep in your chamber,’ I murmured. I pointed to the small gong hanging from one of the bedposts. ‘What do you do if you are really frightened?’
Again that beautiful smile, and his little hands stole beneath the headrest and pulled out a small hammer, which he shook vigorously.
‘I hit it, Uncle Mahu, I hit it hard!’
‘Good.’ I cupped his cheek in one hand. ‘And remember, Your Highness,’ I kissed him gently on the forehead, ‘I am not your uncle.’
‘Yes, Uncle Mahu. Have you come to tell me a story?’
‘Not tonight.’ I grinned. ‘But perhaps in the morning I’ll tell you about the brave deeds of Ahmose, your ancestor, who drove the Hyksos from Egypt with fire and sword.’
‘I know all his deeds.’
‘Do you now? And can you count? Do you remember your numbers? How many are in a shet?’
‘One hundred, Uncle Mahu.’ The boy clapped his hands.
‘And how many shets in a kha?’
‘Er …’ His face was all screwed up. ‘A kha is a thousand, so there must be ten.’
‘And the God Shu? What is the hieroglyph for him?’
‘A man with a plume on his head, or sometimes a man with the head of a lion.’
‘Good! Good!’ I whispered.
‘Do you love me, Uncle Mahu?’
‘Of course I do. Why shouldn’t I?’
‘Ankhes …’ Tutankhamun always stumbled over his half-sister’s name, so he had taken to using the shortened form. ‘Ankhes says you love nobody.’
I stared at the little boy dressed in his shift, head slightly to one side, waiting eagerly for my reply. I kissed him on the forehead.
‘Sometimes, Your Highness, I find it difficult to love, but you are different.’
‘Did you love my father?’
‘Of course.’
‘And my mother?’
I recalled the small, black-eyed Khiya, the Mitanni princess whom Nefertiti had nicknamed the Monkey.
‘A great lady, Your Highness, and one I loved.’
‘Ankhes says you do not speak with true voice.’
‘That is so of everyone except yourself, Your Highness. Nevertheless, I swear that when I speak to you it will always be with true voice.’
Tutankhamun flung his arms round my neck.
‘Ankhes,’ he whispered in my ear, ‘does say you are the best of all.’
‘The best of what, Your Highness?’
‘The best amongst the hyaenas!’ he whispered.
I felt cold, and slowly withdrew. The little fellow smiled up at me, face eager for my reply. His innocence disturbed me. I stared around. I had done my best to make the chamber comfortable. The walls had been washed and repainted with country scenes: a fowler out with his nets, birds and insects, including a locust of pinkish-yellow hue resting on a light papyrus stem. Above this, birds flew with widespread gorgeous wings against a dark green sky. A dove with bulging throat cooed over a golden nest containing a silver egg. Next to it, a group of pelicans, father, mother and brood of young, advanced unknowing towards the fowler’s net. I felt a surge of depression. I had tried to make this chamber pleasant for the boy, with its countless niches for oil lamps in coloured glass which would glow all night. Nevertheless, the sight of those pelicans advancing unsuspecting towards the net held by the fowler, with his unshaven face and red-ochre skin, now seemed sinister. I recalled the assassin.

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