by Paul Doherty
‘My lord Amerotke.’
The judge, startled, noticed Omendap standing in the shadows almost hidden by a column.
‘I didn’t think you were a cat, my lord general,’ Amerotke said as he bowed mockingly, ‘to watch stealthfully from the shadows. What are you doing? Waiting for me or a quiet word with the lady Hatusu?’
Omendap held the silver axe of office nervously, passing it from one hand to another. He grasped Amerotke’s elbow, pushing him gently towards the door.
‘You have decided which faction to support, my lord Amerotke?’
‘No, I have not. I am here to investigate deaths, including that of one of your senior officers.’
At the door Omendap stopped. ‘We are safe here,’ he whispered. He tapped the door. ‘The wood’s thick and we are well away from any spy on the balcony or in the garden below.’
‘What have you to tell me?’
‘Your words about the divine Pharaoh’s journey to Sakkara. He went there for about three days. You know that, don’t you? Well,’ he hurried on, ‘I asked Ipuwer on his return what had happened. Ipuwer said nothing except that Pharaoh had gone out at night. Ipuwer stayed, only Amenhotep and Meneloto accompanied him.’
‘Did Meneloto’s or Ipuwer’s behaviour change after Pharaoh’s return?’
Omendap shook his head. ‘I speak to you man to man, Amerotke. Divine Pharaoh suffered from the falling sickness. He had visions and dreams. I am a soldier. I fight his enemies and he can do what he wants. If he wishes to go out at night to sacrifice or pray to the stars that is his business.’
‘So why should Ipuwer die?’
‘I don’t know. And that’s why I’m here. He was one of my officers. Brave as a lion. Loyal and big-hearted.’ Tears started in Omendap’s eyes. ‘He should have died with a sword in his hand, not bitten like some old woman in a council chamber!’
‘And is that all you have to tell me?’ Amerotke asked, wary of being drawn into any treasonable conversation.
‘No, I’ve come to tell you two things.’ Omendap sucked in his lips. ‘Or rather three.’ He drew so close Amerotke could smell the beer on his breath. ‘And, before I do, my lord Amerotke, let me make it clear, my loyalty and that of my officers is still divided. However, if I discover who slew Ipuwer, that will decide us. And, if it comes to blood-letting,’ Omendap tapped the silver axe against Amerotke’s chest, ‘no high office, no pleasant conversations at dinner parties will save anyone.’
‘You said you had two things to tell me,’ Amerotke replied coolly. ‘Then you changed it to three. My lord general, I am in a hurry.’
‘I didn’t mean to threaten.’
‘I didn’t think you did. The three things?’
‘First, Ipuwer did not change after his visit to Sakkara but Amenhotep did. He rarely attended the meetings of the royal circle. When he did he was unwashed, dishevelled. On one occasion I even thought he was drunk. Secondly, Ipuwer reported nothing except this.’
Omendap opened the small leather bag which hung from his sash. He took out a small red figurine and handed it to Amerotke. The judge took it over to one of the alabaster lamps to study it more carefully. It was no more than a fingerspan high. A figure of a man, of a prisoner with his hands tied behind his back with red twine and the same around the clay ankles.
‘The red ribbons of the war god Montu,’ he observed.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ Omendap replied. ‘As when the priests bind the ankles and wrists of captives before they are slaughtered.’
‘Witchcraft. The work of a scorpionman or amulet-seller.’
‘It’s a token,’ Omendap explained. ‘A warning from the red-haired Seth, the god of destruction. It’s not just clay. It’s probably mud taken from a grave, mixed with menstrual blood and fly-dung. An offering to a demon.’
‘And Ipuwer received this?’
‘No, something like it!’ Omendap snatched the figurine back. ‘That’s the third matter! As I entered the palace tonight, this obscenity was thrust into my hand!’
‘Do you know why it was sent?’
‘No.’ Omendap put the figurine away. ‘I’ll have it destroyed over a sacred fire. Much good that will do.’ He swallowed hard. ‘It’s a curse as ancient as Egypt, a summons by the angel of death!’
Isis: principal goddess of Egypt, often depicted as a young woman with the hieroglyph for a throne.
CHAPTER 9
Amerotke left Omendap and went out of the hall, down into the great courtyard before the palace. Here mercenaries milled about, dressed in their distinctive armour. The Shardana with their lean, sharp faces under horn helmets; the Dakkari in their striped headdresses, round shields slung on their backs; the Radu in long cloaks and embroidered belts, earrings and necklaces glittering in the torchlight, their dark skins covered with blue tattoos; Shiries, in caps, armed with short horn bows; Nubians black as the night in their leopardskin kilts and feathered headdresses. All these lounged in porticoes or beside the walls, weapons piled beside them. They looked surly-eyed as Amerotke pushed his way by them but he smiled politely, excusing himself. The mercenaries glimpsed the pectoral and ring of office and reluctantly stood aside.
The tension was tangible. The regular troops were under Omendap, and would march when he gave them the sign. However, these mercenaries were controlled by Rahimere and he was slyly pushing them forward, placing them closer to the palace. While the regular troops remained loyal, the guards regiments and the chariot squadrons, these auxiliaries, who fought only for profit, would not lift a finger.
Amerotke reached the gates and gazed back. If Rahimere struck, he reasoned, the palace would be overrun. The revolt would spread. The poor would swarm out of their hovels down by the quayside. And what would he do? No justice would be dispensed and the mob would certainly attack the villas and mansions outside the city. No sanctuary would be safe. Amerotke thought of friends in Memphis, or even garrison commanders further down the Nile; he must make plans.
Amerotke left the palace and entered the great concourse which stretched before it. Blazing torches, lashed to poles, drove back the darkness, enhancing the light of the full moon which hung like a silver disc in the blue-black night sky. He sensed no tension here. The midnight crowds, as usual, were more concerned with bartering and trading, taking advantage of the good weather and the rich harvest it promised. A group of white-robed priests went by, the standard of Amun-Ra borne before them. They were escorted by some of the mercenaries. Amerotke paused to let by a funeral procession. A family who had lost their household cat had, as custom dictated, shaved their eyebrows and were now taking the mummified animal in a casket down to the river Nile for transport to the cat necropolis of Bubastis. The family had hired professional mourners who sprinkled ashes on their heads and went before the funeral procession, digging up clouds of dust and throwing it over them. These wailed incessantly at their sad loss and prayed to the gods that the cat would journey to the west and eventually be reunited in paradise with its owners.
Amerotke looked about, searching for Shufoy. He was distracted by a group of slaves clustered under an olive tree: recently purchased by their owner, they were now being branded on the forehead, with black powder rubbed into each open wound. The slaves were held fast. Their owner ignored the screams; the powder ensured that the scars never healed and so they were marked as his property for life. Amerotke glanced away. He hated such sights. There was no need for it, not when you looked at poor Shufoy’s disfigured face. A group of whores sauntered by, red paint rubbed in their cheeks, their eyes made more lustrous by rings of green and black kohl. They wore filmy white gowns which left little to the imagination and their braided, oil-soaked wigs swung provocatively. One of them caught Amerotke’s eye and stopped. She made an obscene movement with her hands, beckoning him towards her, but Amerotke shook his head. The whores would have persisted in their bartering but a group of young men, probably priests, their bald heads now disguised by straw hats, ambled up and drew them into c
onversation. The whores turned away with high-pitched squeals and noisy giggles as they bargained for a night’s entertainment at some house of joy.
The great marketplace was busy with traders and hucksters, sailors from the ships, officials from the Nomachs coming up to render their accounts. A cooking stall had been opened. Fresh gazelle and ibex, bought from the hunters, had been gutted and cleaned and were now being packed into strips on a grill over glowing charcoal. The sweet smell seeped through the night air, hiding the more distasteful odours from the public latrines and the beggars who sat in their own dirt, sightless eyes gazing around, bony fingers stretching out for sustenance and alms. A group of singers from a temple’s House of Song wound their way through, practising a hymn to a god Amerotke had never even heard of. Their singing was rudely interrupted by a furious quarrel between a snake charmer and a purveyor of songbirds. Apparently a cobra had escaped from its basket, slipped up to one of the cages and, sticking its long tongue through the bars, had killed a bird and had dragged it out without the owner noticing until it was too late. Both men started to push each other. One was sent sprawling, knocking into one of the singers; a fight would have broken out if the market police had not appeared, beating about with their staffs.
Amerotke, cursing quietly, moved on looking for Shufoy. Revellers appeared, drunk. They were moving from one house to another carrying before them a mummy casket belonging to a former friend whom they wished to commemorate. They espied Amerotke and tried to entice him into their revelry but the chief judge ignored them. One of them became raucous, staggering towards Amerotke, slack mouth drooling, fists clenched. A policeman, who had noticed Amerotke’s seal of office, came between them, and gently pushed the man back among his companions.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ The policeman came back, tapping his staff against his bare leg. He narrowed his eyes. ‘You are lord Amerotke? Chief judge in the Hall of Two Truths?’ He bowed his head. ‘You shouldn’t be here, sir. This is a night of revelry.’ He glimpsed the puzzled look on Amerotke’s face. ‘A feast of the god Osiris,’ the policeman explained.
Amerotke sighed. ‘Yes, yes,’ he apologised. ‘I forgot. I’m looking for …’ He paused. ‘Well, my manservant. He’s a dwarf. Shufoy. He has a disfigured face. He …’
‘He has no nose.’ The young policeman grinned. ‘An amulet man?’ He pointed to the far corner of the marketplace. ‘He’s over there doing a roaring trade!’
Amerotke thanked him and pushed his way through the crowd. There were more trees in this part of the marketplace: a few acacias, some olive, the rest palm trees, their outstretched branches providing comfort and shade during the day and a useful meeting place at night. Shufoy was under one of these, a cloak spread out on the ground before him. The little man was standing on a barrel proclaiming himself to be a great scorpionman, a seller of true amulets which would provide sure protection against demons and witches as well as the spells and magic of enemies and rivals.
Amerotke stared in astonishment. Shufoy’s stall was full of merchandise. Small statues of the dwarf god Bes, carved scarab seals, amulets covered in magic hieroglyphics such as the eye of Horus; ankhs, wooden crosses looped over the top; small stelae of the goddess Taweret with ears round the rim, a sure sign that this goddess would listen to any prayers. Shufoy was holding these up, bellowing at the open-mouthed crowd.
‘I have journeyed across the Black Lands and the Red Lands!’ the dwarf’s powerful voice boomed. ‘I bring you luck and good fortune! Amulets and scarabs! Shrines and statues, all tokens of good luck and sure protection against the demons. I have sacred wax.’ He crouched down, his grotesque face pulled in a grimace. ‘Put this in your ear at night,’ he told one gaping peasant, ‘and it will prevent a demon ejaculating in your ear. All these,’ he intoned, standing up again, ‘will protect you against the arrows of Sekhmet, the spear of Thoth, the curse of Isis, the blindness caused by Osiris or the madness inflicted by Anubis!’
Amerotke moved closer. ‘And will it protect you,’ Amerotke shouted, ‘from the lies and tricks of charlatans?’
The transformation in Shufoy was wonderful to behold. He jumped down from the barrel and, in the twinkling of an eye, the amulets, scarabs and all his curios were wrapped up in a great blanket while he shooed the crowd away. He then sat on the barrel and looked plaintively up at his master.
‘I thought you’d gone home,’ he moaned. ‘Taken your chariot and left poor Shufoy to his own devices. A man has to work. A man must labour,’ Shufoy quoted one of the sayings of the scribes, ‘from dawn to dusk and earn a crust by the sweat of his brow.’ He sighed. ‘My face is pale, my belly is empty. My purse is thin and full of dust.’
‘Shut up!’ Amerotke crouched down before him. ‘Shufoy, you have your own chamber in my house. You eat and drink like a scribe. You have fine clothes.’ He grasped the dwarf’s threadbare cloak. ‘But you insist on dressing like a Syrian, found wandering in the desert.’
Shufoy’s eyes gleamed at Amerotke’s quoting of a famous proverb.
‘Aye, you can remember that one as well,’ Amerotke observed. ‘But it does not hide the truth. Why all this?’ He tapped the makeshift bag of amulets. ‘You are not a wizard, a scorpionman!’
‘How did the council meeting go?’ Shufoy asked, head to one side, a dreamy look in his eyes.
‘Don’t change the subject!’ Amerotke rasped. ‘Where did you get all this rubbish? Where do you hide it? And where do you put all the profits?’
‘I dreamed last night,’ Shufoy said as he rocked backwards and forwards. ‘I dreamed last night that I captured a hippopotamus and was carving it up for a meal. That means you and I will dine in palaces. I later dreamed I was copulating with my sister.’
‘You haven’t got one,’ Amerotke broke in.
‘Yes, but if I did, she would be like the girl I dreamed of; that means my wealth will grow. I also dreamed, master, that your penis became large and you were given a golden bow: a sure sign your possessions will multiply and you will hold high office.’
‘Prenhoe!’ Amerotke got to his feet and dragged Shufoy to his. ‘That’s the first time you’ve talked about dreams. You’ve been talking to Prenhoe, haven’t you? That’s where you keep your sack, in his house! And you divide the profits. I wondered why I had never caught you. Because when Prenhoe goes home he tells you I’m coming and you hide all this or he takes it with him.’
Shufoy scratched his ragged beard. ‘It’s a good trade, master. We do no one any harm and we do live in sore times.’
‘What do you mean?’ Amerotke asked.
‘I may have no nose, master, but I’ve got ears, eyes and a brain which curls like a snake. It’s all over the city. War is coming, isn’t it?’ He looked expectantly upwards. ‘But the heart is violent; plague will stalk through the land and blood splash everywhere. Dead men will be buried in the river,’ Shufoy continued sonorously. ‘And the crocodiles will be glutted with what they have carried off.’
‘Have you been drinking?’ Amerotke asked sharply.
‘Just a little beer, master.’
Amerotke sighed. ‘I will look after your bag of trinkets. Go and find where the priest Amenhotep lived.’
Shufoy scurried off, only too eager for a diversion. He came back a short while later, picked up the sack and heaved it over his shoulder.
‘Come with me, master.’
He led Amerotke out of the marketplace and down the winding streets. On either side stood the mud-walled cottages of peasants and workers, their small, unshuttered windows and doors flung open, men, women and children squatted outside around the cooking fires. They rose as Amerotke passed, eager to sell trinkets. Shufoy loudly announced who Amerotke was and the shadows slunk away. They crossed another open stretch of ground and went along a narrow, dark alleyway. Here the houses were more spacious, surrounded by high walls protected by bronze-studded gates. Shufoy stopped at one of these and hammered. Amerotke stepped back and looked over the wall. The shutters of the thr
ee-storeyed house were closed and he could see no light.
‘Who is it?’ a woman’s voice whined.
‘Lord Amerotke, chief judge in the Hall of Two Truths! Friend of divine Pharaoh!’ Shufoy thundered. ‘Open up!’
The gates swung open. An old woman carrying a small oil lamp in an alabaster jar peered out at them, her grimy, seamed face wet with tears.
‘Have you no respect?’ she moaned. ‘My master is dead! Foully murdered!’
‘That’s why we are here.’
Amerotke pushed by Shufoy and stepped through the gate. He took the old woman by the elbow and gently led her back through the acacia trees to the main house. He smelt the fragrance of the flowers, the sweetness from the wine press, the odour of newly baked bread and the tang of fruit and cooked meats.
‘Your master was a wealthy man?’
‘He was a priest in the temple of Amun-Ra,’ the old woman quavered. ‘Personal chaplain to divine Pharaoh.’ She dabbed the tears which stained her painted face.
‘What happened?’ Amerotke asked.
They walked into the entrance hall. The walls and pillars were freshly painted, depicting hunting scenes and the life of the gods, yet the floor was unwashed. The air smelt dank and sour. Potted plants in the corner had been allowed to wither, their leaves turning yellow-black. A dish of food lay on a chair, flies buzzing above it. The room had been shuttered and the whine of the mosquitoes, as they danced round the oil lamps, was irritating, heightening the sense of desolation and despair. It was almost as if Amenhotep had known he was going to die and had lost all care for living.
‘Your master was well?’
‘No.’ The old woman shook her head. She let the embroidered robe round her shoulders fall to the floor. The linen sheath dress beneath was shabby and hung loose, exposing flaccid breasts and a scrawny throat. ‘He just stopped everything.’ Her voice became sad. ‘Kept to his chamber. Sometimes he’d eat and drink. Oh yes, he’d drink all right! I warned him it was wrong, strong wine on an empty stomach, but he never went out, either to the palaces or the temples. He received no visitors.’