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Authors: Paul Doherty

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BOOK: The Season of the Hyaena (Ancient Egyptian Mysteries)
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‘Go to sleep, little one,’ I whispered. I made the boy lie down and pulled up the sheets.
‘Will you tell me a story?’ Tutankhamun asked sleepily. ‘Ankhes says you are a hunter, the Striped Hyaena.’
A shiver, as if some evil spirit crawled over my shoulder, made me start. I gently pressed his hand.
‘Is that what she calls me, Your Highness, the Striped Hyaena?’
‘Of course, Uncle Mahu, because of your cloak.’
I recalled Rahmose all a-sweat, the kohl rings round his eyes running in dark rivulets, my cloak about him, striding across the courtyard, the assassin streaking like a flame to kill him. Tutankhamun was asking me more questions, but I gently chided him and began to hum a song Djarka had taught me, a lullaby shepherds would sing to their flocks.
I waited until the boy was asleep, then left looking for Djarka and Sobeck. They were sitting with our men in a nearby courtyard. A Nubian mercenary was entertaining them, dancing to the eerie sound of the flute and tambourine, arms moving rhythmically, body swaying in fluttering steps. He was dressed in a loincloth beneath a thin linen robe. In the light from the torches he too looked threatening, with his cropped head, huge earrings, necklace and beads, a leopard skin hanging about his arms: a spirit of the night dancing round the pools of light! The shadows fluttered as if the ghosts of the dead had come back to mimic the actions of the dancer. I felt uneasy, and sharply asked Sobeck and Djarka to accompany me back to the House of Adoration. My own chamber lay next to the Prince’s; its windows were unshuttered to allow in the fragrance of the gardens, braziers and oil lamps glowed warmly against the cold night air. Djarka scrutinised the wine jug and filled three goblets, a sweet-tasting white wine from the imperial vineyards to the north.
‘You have eaten, my lord?’ He squatted next to Sobeck. I leaned back against the cushions.
‘My belly is full because my heart aches.’
‘Poetry?’ Sobeck teased.
‘The truth,’ I replied. I told them what had happened in the council chamber; the threats posed by the usurper, now crowing like a cock on his dunghill at Avaris. As I spoke, I watched Sobeck. He lived closer to the crocodile pool than I; he was often the first to pick up rumours and gossip. Yet he too was surprised. He sat, face tight, eyes narrowed, whistling under his breath as he shook his head at the news.
‘Could it be Akenhaten?’ he demanded.
‘What do you think?’ I turned to Djarka.
Perhaps it was talking to the young Prince, feeling his soft cheek, yet I noticed that evening how my friend, my servant, had aged. Furrows marked his mouth, his eyes were tired, there was an ashy tinge to his night-black hair. Djarka had not forgotten. He had never truly reconciled himself to the death of his beloved a few years earlier.
‘Djarka, you are of the Shemsu? Those who wander the desert.’
‘As is Ay.’ Djarka smiled. ‘As was his sister, Great Queen Tiye. All those who come from the town of Akhmin were once wanderers from Canaan.’
‘And my question …’
‘I know your question, master.’ Djarka’s voice was sardonic. ‘Did Akenhaten go out into the desert to meet these people? Did they spirit him away?’
‘And the treasure?’
‘I certainly remember the priests, Khufu and Djoser.’ Djarka sipped at his wine. ‘And the other chapel priests. They were fanatics, true servants of Aten. They may have taken the treasure and followed their master.’
‘But why?’ Sobeck asked. ‘Why leave the power and the glory of Egypt for some village in Canaan? It’s more likely Akenhaten became a recluse, or his own priests murdered him!’
‘And you have heard nothing about this impostor?’ I asked.
‘I am a Lord of the Darkness,’ Sobeck retorted. ‘My kingdom is not your kingdom, Mahu. However, I drink your wine – so don’t distrust me, Baboon of the South. I stand and fall with you. I knew nothing of this! So, what will happen now?’
I told them what I had suggested. Djarka and Sobeck objected, remonstrating angrily.
‘A foolish move,’ Djarka snapped. ‘If you go north you’ll be killed!’
‘If we stay here and dither,’ I objected, ‘the same will happen. We haven’t the wealth or troops to fight a war in the north, or against Thebes or against any other enemy which may emerge.’
‘No, no.’ Djarka lifted his hand. ‘I agree you must go north, but go with Meryre. This impostor and his army must be linked to the Atenists. If Meryre goes first, he may well spend the time plotting your death. Insist that you go with him, that you too are protected by the power of the Aten. Stay close to him, as a friend. Act as if he is your ally rather than your enemy. If you go in the company of a high priest, your life too is sacred.’
‘Do that,’ Sobeck offered, ‘and I will go with you. What about the young Prince?’
‘He’ll be safe,’ Djarka declared. ‘I’ll see to that. If there’s one person who keeps the Royal Circle united against all enemies it’s Prince Tutankhamun, so the sooner he is crowned the better.’ He paused as the captain of my guard came in, knelt and nosed the ground before me.
‘The assassin, my lord. We searched his quarters.’ He straightened up and stretched out his hand. I took the small yet brilliant ruby glowing like a fire. ‘That’s all we found.’
I dismissed the captain. Sobeck plucked the ruby from my hand and held it up against the light.
‘I have heard of similar stones,’ he murmured, ‘being on sale in Eastern Thebes.’
‘The Shabtis of Akenhaten?’ I asked.
‘Can I have this?’ Sobeck grinned.
‘It’s yours.’
‘I have told you before,’ Sobeck continued, ‘the narrow streets and alleyways of Eastern Thebes have nothing to do with the dreams of a God. What you must ask yourself, my dear Mahu, is who told the assassin that you were wearing a striped robe?’ He turned and grinned. ‘Oh, by the way, the door the assassin tried to escape through, unlike many in this palace, was jammed shut by a thick wedge of wood.’
The frieze on my wine cup, a Libyan being chased by Saluki hounds, seemed to come to life in the flickering light of the oil lamps.
‘A gardener,’ I mused, ‘who owns a precious ruby, kills a priest to take his place. How do you think he inveigled that priest away from the rest?’
‘Some of the shaven heads have exotic tastes,’ Sobeck retorted. ‘But whoever bought him – I mean the gardener – was quite prepared to sacrifice him. I suspect,’ Sobeck popped the ruby into his leather pouch, ‘that given time, the real assassin would have had the gardener disposed of and the ruby taken back. I mean, once the wearer of the striped robe was killed.’
‘Who,’ Djarka asked, ‘is this real assassin?’
‘Ankhesenamun calls me the Striped Hyaena,’ I whispered.
‘Beware of the woman from outside,’ Sobeck intoned a maxim of the scribe Ani, ‘who is not known in the city. She is a water deep and boundless.’ He wagged a finger in my face. ‘Beware of such a woman.’
‘Many thanks for the advice. Oh, by the way, Djarka, the painting of the pelicans in the House of Adoration? Have it changed tomorrow; remove the scene of the fowler and his net.’
mesu-hesui
(Ancient Egyptian for ‘terror-stricken beings’)
Chapter 3
I went along a painted corridor deep into the palace. The windows on either side overlooked the gardens, but these had been ill-tended and the stench of corrupt vegetation blended with the fragrance of the flowers. Nakhtimin’s mercenaries stood on guard in alcoves and recesses. From the courtyard below I heard a servant recite the curse against crocodiles; these river beasts sometimes followed the irrigation canals into the palace, where they’d lurk amongst the bushes and shrubbery. The chilling, ominous prayer wafted up:
Stop crocodile, son of Seth!
Do not swim with your tail,
Nor move your legs any more,
May the well of water become a well
of fire before you
Stop crocodile, son of Seth.
I crossed a courtyard blazing with light; guards stood aside, copper-plated doors swung open. I entered the women’s quarters, at the centre of which lay Ankhesenamun’s chambers, with their red and yellow lotus pillars, floors of polished tile and walls decorated with the most vivid paintings. Flunkies, servants and officials lounged about: the Director of Her Highness’ Nail-Doers, Chief of the Scented Oils and Perfumes, Holder of the Imperial Sandals, Keeper of the Jewellery, Master of the Cloths, all eunuchs with the bulging belly and breasts of pregnant women. They gossiped and moved around in a swirl of perfume, all officious, pretending to be busy. A cat chased a black and white monkey, which scampered up a pillar screeching in annoyance. A blind harpist, dead-eyed, plucked at strings. Dancing girls and acrobats in beaded, fringed loincloths, bodies coated in perfumed sweat, hair piled high in bound cord, were trying to clear a space to practise their skill, whilst flirting with the burly mercenary officers.
I went through more doorways, their lintels and pillars carved with lacework inscriptions, into a small room which served as a chapel where a group of shaven-headed priests garbed in panther skins lit bowls of incense before a statue of the Pharaoh Tuthmosis. This was once the heart of the Great Palace of Amenhotep the Magnificent, Ankhesenamun’s grandfather, who loved to collect pottery and vases of cobalt blue and delighted in covering the walls with the symbol of every deity of Egypt: the goose of Amun, the bull of Ptah, the goat of Osiris, the ram of Khnum. The air was sweet from fat drenched in perfume and the scent of countless flower baskets, as well as the incense smoke from the small thuribles glowing in the corners. A chamberlain stopped me outside the Painted Chamber. He knocked and led me in. I flinched at the heady perfume whilst my bare feet felt the lapis lazuli dust strewn on the floor. Caskets and coffers lay about, lids open. Lamps and candles glowed, glittering on the robes piled in a heap. A pet goose screeched whilst a monkey squatting on a table devoured a plum, its juices dribbling down on to the floor. On either side of the curtain were two black wooden busts of Akenhaten, their eyes of jasper peering sightlessly into the darkness, a reminder of his presence which caused a shift amongst the shadows in my soul. The carved face, in the light of the oil lamps glowing beneath, exuded an eerie life of its own, as if still possessed by the power of that mysterious Pharaoh.
The chamberlain bowed towards the busts, then pulled the curtains aside. Ankhesenamun was sitting on a high stool circled by oil lamps. She was naked except for a loincloth, a see-through veil thrown across her shoulders. She was being anointed on her face and head by her friend and constant companion Amedeta, who served as her principal lady-in-waiting. In looks, they were almost similar. Amedeta was slightly older, yet she had the same sensuous face, sloe eyes and pretty mouth. She was dressed in a diaphanous robe and floated around Ankhesenamun grasping an unguent jar carved in the shape of two chickens trussed for sacrifice. She moved silently, body swaying beneath the robe, the heavy tresses of her perfumed wig almost shrouding her face, around her throat a silver necklace. She and Ankhesenamun were murmuring to each other. As I approached, they began to recite a love poem aloud, beautiful lilting voices mouthing the words together:
I am your most beloved sister.
I am to you as the field in which
I have grown flowers,
All kinds of fragrant herbs flourish there.
Delightful water channels cool me and you,
A lovely place to walk with your hand in mine.
Our voices thrilling, our hearts full of pleasure to be
walking together.
I lived by being close to see you,
To see you again is better to me than
meat and drink.
When they had finished the poem, Amedeta continued her anointing whilst Ankhesenamun stared out through the window as if listening to the sounds of the night. I heard the rattle of a chain and glanced to the corner; it was only her trained cheetah stirring in its sleep. I coughed and stepped forward. Ankhesenamun turned. I had to remind myself that she was only a girl between fourteen and fifteen summers, for in the oil lamp she looked a beautiful, sensuous woman with those heavy-lidded eyes, her lips parted.
BOOK: The Season of the Hyaena (Ancient Egyptian Mysteries)
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