by Paul Doherty
Amerotke pinched his nostrils at the sour vegetable smells from the kitchens.
‘He wouldn’t let me clean,’ she wailed. ‘He dismissed his servants and slaves. Even the young girls who used to dance and entertain him.’
‘And his death?’ Amerotke glanced over his shoulder. Shufoy hadn’t entered the house. Amerotke hoped his manservant wasn’t getting up to any mischief in the darkening garden beyond.
‘A messenger came,’ the woman replied. ‘I didn’t like the look of him. Well, I didn’t see much of him, he was swathed in black like one of those desert wanderers. He claimed to have a message for my master. I took it off him and he disappeared.’
‘When was this?’ Amerotke asked.
‘Earlier today. I took it up to the pure one’s room.’ The old woman used the title often given to a high-ranking priest. ‘He opened it and, well, he became agitated. He waved his hand at me to go. He was muttering to himself. He had a sour temper, did the pure one. He’d thrown things at me. Ever since divine Pharaoh’s death he became a recluse.’ She peered up. ‘You are lord Amerotke, aren’t you, the judge? You’ve been sent here to investigate?’
Amerotke nodded. ‘And you didn’t know, well, what changed your master’s mood?’ he enquired.
‘At first I thought it was divine Pharaoh’s death but he never talked to me. He never talked to anyone. Come, I’ll show you.’
She led him through the darkened house, out across a courtyard where a fountain splashed and the air was sweeter with the fragrance from the flower pots. They went down a corridor. The old woman shuffled ahead carrying the oil lamp, a moving shadow in a pool of light. She stopped at a door and Amerotke recognised a small chapel, very similar to one in his own house. Inside, the chapel was as shabby and as dirty as the rest of the house. Pictures of Amun-Ra, arms outstretched, accepting the worship of his priests adorned the walls. Beside him was represented the hawk-headed god Horus bearing a plate of offerings. The cupboard of the Naos, containing the shrine, hung open; the small statue within seemed rather pathetic and beneath it lay a plate of offerings which looked as if it had been there for days. The sand strewed across the floor was scuffed and disturbed, the incense holder cold, the resin within hard and black. The situla of holy water, which the priest would use to purify himself, lay cracked upon the floor. In any other circumstances Amerotke would have thought the shrine had been desecrated. In the flickering light of the lamp it seemed as if Amenhotep had either forsaken his gods or believed those gods had forsaken him.
The old woman had gone back to the door and was standing there peering out at the night. Amerotke went across.
‘Amenhotep said nothing to you?’
‘Nothing at all, my lord. He ate little, drank a lot of wine, sometimes he slept; other times he would just sit in his room muttering to himself.’
Amerotke recalled the severed head delivered to Rahimere at the banquet. The head was not shaven, the cheeks and chin were covered in stubble. Amenhotep had not even bothered to purify himself, the first duty of every priest.
‘And he read that message?’ Amerotke persisted.
‘He read it.’ The old woman’s voice quavered. ‘Then he went across and I saw him drop it into one of the oil lamps. Later in the afternoon he took a cloak, his walking cane and left without a word.’
‘Let me see his chamber?’ Amerotke asked.
She took him back into the house and up the stairs. Amenhotep’s private rooms were dirty and smelt rank as if the priest had not even bothered to use the latrine but urinated in the corners. The bedchamber was littered with scraps of food. Amerotke grimaced as two rats, perched on a cushioned stool, scurried off. He waited while the old woman lit more oil lamps. Amenhotep in his prime had certainly enjoyed a luxurious way of life. The bed was of pure sycamore with a gold-encrusted headrest. Chairs and stools covered in precious stuffs inlaid with ivory and ebony were plentiful. Gold and silver cups stood on tables and shelves. Pure woollen rugs covered the floor; tapestries hung on the bare walls. Amerotke opened a small coffer full of turquoise and precious stones from the mines in Sinai. Another held debens of silver and gold, bracelets, armlets, pectorals and necklaces containing precious stones.
‘This all meant nothing to him,’ the old woman lamented. ‘Nothing at all. He used to go down to the Lake of Purity. It’s in the garden. He would wash and bathe three times a day. In the days before his death, however, he wouldn’t even change his robes.’
Amerotke picked up a papyrus roll and undid the clasp. It was a beautifully copied version of the Book of the Dead which every priest knew and studied carefully. It contained the prayers and preparation a soul would need as it journeyed through the chambers of the underworld to be judged by Osiris and the other gods. It was written in beautiful hieroglyphics, the ‘Medu Netfer’, the language of the gods. Amenhotep had apparently taken a stylus, splattering red and green ink, disfiguring the symbols and exquisitely depicted paintings. Time and again he’d scrawled in the margin the hieroglyphics for the numbers one and ten.
Amerotke threw the roll back on the bed and went across to the window. He moved carefully, watching the floor; a chamber such as this, littered with scraps of food, attracted snakes and other dangers. He stared out at the night sky. What had caused this transformation, he wondered? Had Amenhotep’s mind become unhinged? It would appear so. But why should a rich, arrogant priest turn in on himself? Give up even the most superficial of rites, neglect the gods and his temple duties? Was it because of Pharaoh’s death? Or something else? Something which had happened while the Pharaoh had journeyed down from Sakkara? He looked over his shoulder. The old woman had picked up a jewelled-edged gold plate and was poking disdainfully at the scraps of food.
‘And this change, it occurred after his arrival back in Thebes?’
‘Yes. And I don’t know the reason.’ She sniffed. ‘He would only eat mutton and onions, you know.’
‘But that’s forbidden to priests. It taints them, renders them impure.’
‘I told Amenhotep that but he just laughed. He said he wanted to fill his belly with mutton and onions and eat nothing else.’ She lifted her tear-stained face. ‘Why did he die, my lord? Oh, he was a braggart,’ she added. ‘But he could be kind. He brought me presents.’
‘Did he receive any visitors?’ Amerotke asked.
‘Just one. No, no.’ She dropped the plate. ‘Where is it?’ She went over to a darkened corner. ‘Early this morning. I sleep very little and I love to watch the sun rise. It is glorious to see the lord Ra in his boat begin his journey across the skies.’
‘You found something?’ Amerotke intervened.
‘Yes, I went to the gate. I opened it to see if anything had been left there: fresh food, provisions, especially wine. My master always insisted that his cup be full. I found a linen cloth tied with red twine.’ Her voice sounded hollow as she stooped and searched in the shadows. ‘I brought it to my master, he opened it. Yes, here it is!’
She came over and thrust the wax figurine, the hands and feet tied with red twine, into Amerotke’s hands.
‘You don’t know what this is?’ Amerotke asked.
The old woman narrowed her eyes in the poor light.
‘It’s a doll. A child’s plaything.’
Amerotke put it down on the table.
‘Yes,’ he sighed. ‘It’s a plaything.’ He tapped the old woman on the shoulder. ‘But burn it,’ he said quietly. ‘Clear this chamber and burn that!’
He went downstairs and out into the garden. Shufoy was crouched by the gate, clutching his precious bundle.
‘A man’s heart is purified by waiting in patience,’ the dwarf intoned.
‘As it is,’ Amerotke retorted, ‘by a good night’s sleep. Come, Shufoy.’
His manservant opened the gate and followed him out. Shufoy kept his head down. He didn’t want his master to notice he was distressed by what had happened. Shufoy had intended to look round the garden, see if there was anything wor
th picking up. He had heard a knock at the gate and scrambled back, fearful for the bundle he had left there. The person waiting on the other side was clothed in black. He’d thrust a small linen parcel into Shufoy’s hands.
‘For your master!’ the voice had hissed through the darkness.
Then the figure had disappeared. Shufoy, curious, had loosened the red cord and stared in horror at the figure it contained, the ankles and wrists tied like a prisoner being led to sacrifice. Shufoy had recognised it immediately for what it was, a threat: a token of the god Seth. His master was marked down for destruction! Shufoy had ground it under his heel. As the Book of Proverbs said: ‘Curiosity cannot be explained’ and ‘It is not a servant’s duty to shatter the harmony of his master’s heart.’
In the great, yawning cavern which lay at the far end of the Valley of the Kings overlooking the dusty, crumbling wadi, the assassin, the devotee of Seth, sat cross-legged, staring out into the night. The cavern was an ancient one, its walls covered in strange signs. It was known as a shrine to the goddess Meretseger, the ancient snake goddess, but now it was empty. The old priest, the one who had spoken so clearly before Amerotke, lay in a corner, his throat cut, his head stoved in, the blood gushing in thick, sticky pools around his thin, dusty corpse. The assassin built up the fire, piling on pieces of dried dung. He would have to keep the fire strong because beyond the rocky outcrop stretched the great Red Lands, the haunt of lions, jackals and the great ruffed hyenas whose howls now seared the night. He looked at the spear, horn bow and quiver of arrows beside him. The fire might keep the hyenas away but the arrows were extra surety, protection against these voracious killers of the night.
The assassin shuffled a little closer to the fire and stared up at the stars beyond the cave mouth. He bit into a piece of water melon and stared at the corpse. He had made his sacrifice, a heron sacred to Horus and now this old priest. The assassin closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. He called on those grotesques of the underworld: the blood drinker from the slaughterhouse; the devourers by the scales; the great strider; the swallower of shades, the breaker of bones, the eater of blood, the announcer of combat. He prayed that Sekhmet, the lion goddess, and Seth the god of darkness, death and destruction, would hear his prayers and send their demons to his assistance.
Beyond the old priest’s body sprawled the corpses of the two baboons also sacrificed by the assassin to the killers in the shadows. He recited a list of enemies, begging that these would be inscribed in that scroll held by the gods of the underworld listing those who would die before the year was out. He had to do this. If he did not, Egypt would not be saved, the gods would not be protected. What matter if a little chaos was caused? Yet he had to be cunning as well as ruthless. Especially with Amerotke! No sudden snake bite for him! The assassin gazed round at his destruction and bowed his head in thanks. He listened to the yapping bark of the hyenas. It was an answer to his prayer, how to destroy the righteous, ever-inquisitive chief judge from the Hall of Two Truths!
Osiris: principal god of Egypt; husband of Isis. Died but resurrected due to her; depicted as a man dressed in a tight-fitting white garment, grasping the crook and flail.
CHAPTER 10
Hatusu rolled over and stared round her private bedchamber. The guttering flames of the oil lamps made the shadows jump and the figures depicted on the walls come to sudden life. She picked up an ostrich fan and gently wafted it, feeling the perfumed coolness against her face and neck. The sheets of the ebony-inlaid bed were tumbled and sweat-stained. She kicked them away and swung her long legs off the bed. She pushed back the cups of gold, the wine jar of blue porcelain. The floor was strewn with tunics sewn with gold, robes embellished with thousands of rosettes. Her eye caught an unguent perfume jar. Hatusu smiled at the inscription written in gold around its rim: ‘Live for a million years, oh darling of Thebes! With your face towards the north and your eyes filled with love.’
Hatusu took off her wig bound with a jewelled diadem necklace, the lapis lazuli gorget, the gilded castanets. She looked over her shoulder to where Senenmut lay stretched out on the bed fast asleep, his strong, thick body coated in sweat. He had proved to be a veritable bull of a lover, potent and strong. They had drunk wine from gold vessels and she had danced for him, wearing the jewels and robes of Pharaoh’s wife. Afterwards, Senenmut had taken her roughly, cruelly, twisting her on to her front, stretching her out, thrusting in as if he wished to fill her body with his seed. She rolled back on the bed and gently touched Senenmut’s nose with the tip of her finger. Did he love her? Was that why he had taken her time and time again? Or was it because she was a princess of the royal blood, Pharaoh’s former wife, so, in conquering her, he had seized Egypt, possessed its lands and status, all this ambitious, wily courtier hungered for? And could he be trusted? Was he the blackmailer? Was he the one who had left the small scrolls of sealed papyrus with their threats, warnings and clear instructions? If it was … Hatusu leaned closer and ran her finger across Senenmut’s throat. If this man ever betrayed her, she would dance for him, fill him with good foods and costly wines, fight like a cat beneath him and, when he was asleep, cut his throat! Hatusu smiled at such dramatic thoughts. She remembered the slaughter of the prisoners on divine Pharaoh’s return from the Delta. She felt as if she were going to swoon yet now she would walk through a sea of blood to grasp what was hers. She would take the heads of Rahimere, Omendap and the rest and place them in the House of Skulls.
Hatusu rolled over on her back and stared up at the star-spangled ceiling. What had caused the change? Was it the threat? Was it being alone? Was it the prospect of being thrust into the House of Women, the House of Seclusion? To grow fat and watch the years roll by while she painted or embroidered and listened to the scurrilous gossip of the court? Or was it something else? Was she a man in a woman’s body? She recalled the slave girl she had been friendly with, close and intimate in those years before her marriage to Tuthmosis. Or was it because she really believed she was Egypt? That’s what her father had called her. That gruff old warrior would scoop her up, hug her close and call her his Little Egypt.
‘For you represent,’ he would tell her, ‘all its glory, its beauty and its grandeur!’
Hatusu waved the ostrich fan. But that was all in the past. Father, husband all gone into the west, to the House of Eternity, and she was alone. And what were the threats? Who was this blackmailer? How, in the name of all the gods, could he have learned the secret her mother had whispered to her when she lay racked with fever on her death bed! And why was the threat being posed now? Just as Tuthmosis returned to Thebes, the warnings had begun. Did the blackmailer wish to control her and, in time, control Egypt? Or was it to drive her deeper into the shadows? Was this the work of Rahimere, Bayletos and those smiling, sanctimonious priests who gathered in the secret chambers of their temples and plotted treason? Or could it be the soldiers led by Omendap? Divine Pharaoh always had a weakness for soldier boys. And what would happen now? It was like a game of chess. Each side had moved its pieces. She controlled the palaces, Rahimere controlled the temples while the soldiers refused to move.
Hatusu put the fan down. It was like waiting for a storm to loose, those sudden violent rains when the clouds boiled black over Thebes. Senenmut here had told her what was happening. Spies and scouts were coming in; Libyan horsemen had been seen out in the Red Lands much further east than they had ever been glimpsed. The Viceroy of Kush had complained how the Nubians no longer sent tribute, that the castles and fortifications beyond the First Cataract were becoming isolated. Patrols were being ambushed but was there worse? Senenmut kept talking of the north from where his spies and scouts had not returned. He had described, in clear, succinct phrases, the real dangers facing Egypt. The Ethiopians, Libyans and Nubians were an irritation, vexatious like the flies which now buzzed around the oil lamps. But the Mitanni, the great Asiatic power which lusted after the rich fields of Canaan. What happened if they moved west? Sending an army across Sinai, captu
ring the mines which provided Egypt with its gold, silver, turquoise and other precious stones. If they moved fast they could reach the Delta, then ravish the northern cities. And what would happen then? Senenmut had smoothed out the piece of papyrus on which he had drawn a crude map.
‘Rahimere will demand an army to be sent north or south. Its commander, of course, will be Omendap but he will insist that you go.’
‘And what then?’ she had asked.
‘What do you think?’ he jibed.
‘I’ll be defeated! Either a prisoner of the Mitanni or come sloping back to Thebes like a beaten dog.’
‘Bitch,’ Senenmut joked. ‘Like a beaten bitch ready to be led off to the kennels.’
‘And while I am gone,’ Hatusu prompted him.
‘While you are gone, his mercenaries will get closer and closer to the palace. His officials will find constant excuses to visit your stepson.’
Hatusu sighed and rolled over on to her side. Was that why the murders were occurring? But they didn’t make sense. Ipuwer was a good commander but he could be replaced. Amenhotep, so important in life, who would mourn him? She thought of Amerotke. Could he be trusted? Hatusu closed her eyes. She should tell someone about that dreadful evening when she had knelt beside her husband’s corpse and found the message rolled up in a piece of red twine. She had to break free! She had to trust someone. She leaned over and blew gently on Senenmut’s face.
Amerotke had risen long before dawn and, in doing so, had roused Norfret. She had come out of her chamber, her eyes heavy with sleep, her mouth full of questions. Amerotke had embraced her, feeling her smoothness, her exquisite fragrance. She had asked him about the previous evening and he had told her what he thought he should. Norfret had stepped away, her eyes bright with laughter.