by Paul Doherty
‘You are the worst liar I have ever met, Amerotke! It’s serious, isn’t it? It will be a time for drawn swords. And you will be part of it.’
He had nodded.
‘Don’t send me away.’ She came closer, her face beseeching. ‘Don’t send me away, Amerotke.’
‘My little fighting cat.’ He smiled. ‘But what about the boys? If the mob runs riot they’ll spill out of Thebes.’
‘Troops are in the city?’
‘The troops will act on orders and there might be no one to give them. Even worse, they may join in.’ He grasped her hands. ‘Promise me one thing. If the worst happens, do exactly what Shufoy tells you.’
‘Shufoy!’ she exclaimed.
‘Shufoy could take blood out of a rock,’ Amerotke replied. ‘And there’s not a hole he can’t clamber out of. He’ll be worth a regiment of soldiers. He will have you out of here to a place of safety.’
Norfret gave him her word and returned to her bedchamber. Amerotke visited his writing room and went up on the roof of the house to watch the sun rise. He had purified his face and hands with water, his mouth and lips with salt. As the sun rose he knelt, hands extended, eyes closed, praying for both wisdom and protection for his family. He then turned to his left, gazing north, feeling the cool breezes, the breath of Amun. Afterwards he went down and joined the children scampering around the banqueting room while the servants tried to make them eat and drink before they went out to play. Amerotke absentmindedly replied to their questions and returned to his writing desk at the top of the house.
The sun had now risen, greeted by the temple trumpeters in the city, their shrill blasts carried on the breeze as the sun’s rays caught the gold-topped obelisks in shimmering circles of light. Amerotke sat and worked, going through the accounts of the temple of Ma’at: provisions bought, flowers planted, the profits of his share in the incense trade with the land of Punt. Shufoy now joined the children, chasing them round the garden then lecturing them solemnly on treating him with more dignity. Amerotke had decided not to interfere with his servant’s trade in amulets and scarabs. He knew it would be impossible to stop and Shufoy, when he wanted, would listen obediently while his mind and ears remained firmly closed.
‘Mock not the blind, nor deride the dwarf!’ Shufoy bellowed at the two imps. ‘Don’t tease a man made ill by a god!’
‘There’s nothing wrong with you,’ Amerotke said to himself.
Norfret came and sat with him for a while. They talked about their eldest entering the House of Life as a scribe. Norfret could see Amerotke was distracted so she kissed him on the brow and went downstairs.
Prenhoe arrived and, forewarned, ruefully confessed to being Shufoy’s accomplice.
‘We share a deep interest in dreams,’ he explained plaintively. ‘And the trade in amulets,’ his eyes held those of his kinsman, ‘supplements the rather meagre income of a scribe.’
‘You are well paid, Prenhoe,’ Amerotke said. He opened a small coffer and threw across a leather purse. ‘That’s for you.’ He smiled. ‘Prenhoe, you are a very good scribe. You are sharp, incisive. I watch your hand move across the scroll. Your summary of the court is one of the best I read.’
Prenhoe’s face beamed with satisfaction.
‘I thought this day would be fortunate. I dreamed last night that I ate the flesh of a crocodile …’
‘Yes, yes,’ Amerotke broke in. ‘But at least that’s better than Shufoy. He dreamed he was copulating with his sister.’
‘But he hasn’t got one!’
‘I know,’ Amerotke said despairingly. ‘Now, listen, Prenhoe, write up the account of Meneloto’s trial, have it with me as soon as possible.’
The next visitor was a woebegone Asural. He walked into the house like a god of war in his leather kilt, cuirass and rather ridiculous helmet held under his arm. Amerotke quietly gave thanks that the children were not present, otherwise Asural would have had to draw his sword and display for the millionth time how he had fought single-handed against a Libyan champion. The chief of temple police eased himself down in a camp chair and gratefully accepted a cup of beer.
‘More robberies?’ the chief judge asked.
‘Aye. Figurines, small objects. You know the sort. Perfume jars, needle-boxes, small cups and plates.’
Amerotke thought of the story he was telling his children.
‘And the doors were undisturbed?’
‘The doors are always undisturbed! It’s only when they open the tomb to place another corpse that the thefts are discovered. There are no other secret entrances or tunnels, only very small air vents.’ Asural shifted in his seat. ‘Oh, by the way, before I left, one of the junior priests from the temple said this had been delivered for you.’
He handed across a scroll. Amerotke undid it.
‘It’s from Labda!’ Amerotke exclaimed. He looked up. ‘He wants to see me, just before dusk, at the snake goddess’s shrine in the Valley of the Kings. He says he cannot come to me and begs my indulgence.’
‘It’s a lonely place,’ Asural said. ‘On the edge of the desert; you should be careful. Why does he want to see you?’
Amerotke looked at the cursive writing, the professional hand of a scribe.
‘He claims to have information about divine Pharaoh’s death, something he has learned.’
‘Oh, I’ve also come to congratulate you,’ Asural teased. ‘On your promotion to high office, a member of the royal circle …’
‘And what else?’ Amerotke asked.
‘It’s beginning to happen.’
‘For truth’s sake, Asural, what are you talking about?’
‘Refugees have arrived in the city, a few merchants from Memphis and other towns to the north. It’s only gossip, the Vizier’s men took them away, but there’s rumours that a large army has moved across the Sinai and is raiding the Delta.’
Amerotke went cold. As a boy he had heard about the Hyksos, fierce charioteers, who had swept into Egypt spreading famine, war, plague and devastation. His father used to whisper about their cruelty and Amerotke knew enough about military strategy to realise the terrible danger now unfolding. If the hostile army seized control of the Delta, then the northern towns, it would divide Egypt in two.
‘Perhaps it’s just gossip,’ he countered.
‘I don’t think so. You should go into the city, Amerotke. Discover what is really happening!’
‘There’ll be time enough for that,’ Amerotke replied. ‘If refugees come flooding in, the House of Secrets will take over. They won’t want any panic to spread, not while the royal circle is divided.’ He could have bitten his tongue at the quickening in Asural’s eyes.
‘So, there is division?’ the chief of police whispered. ‘The stories are true?’
‘Go back to the temple, the Hall of Truths,’ Amerotke told him. ‘Have the guard doubled, the doors locked. The court will not sit for a few days, no pressing case awaits us.’
Asural got to his feet.
‘Any news of Meneloto?’
Asural turned at the door and shook his head.
‘Like incense smoke.’ He smiled. ‘There’s a fragrance left but, of Meneloto, neither sight nor sound.’
Amerotke listened to Asural’s heavy footsteps down the stairs. He felt a tremor of stomach-clenching panic but he was determined not to give way to it. He must keep occupied. He pulled across a newly cut sheet of papyrus and spread it out. He opened the pallet box containing brushes, inks and styli from which he picked out a stylus, dipped it into the red ink and wrote quickly from right to left, using the script he had learned in the House of Scribes. He closed his ears to the distant cries of his children playing among the tamarind and sycamore trees, frightening the black-tipped hoopoe birds which always clustered round the ornamental lake. When he finished the introduction, he picked up a small knife and sharpened another stylus. What sense could he make of all this?
Amerotke made the sign for Tuthmosis II, divine Pharaoh, mystic, epileptic.
A brave general and a clever strategist. He had marched north and brought Egypt’s enemies under the whip. All had been well. His chief officers were with him while his half-sister and wife Hatusu stayed at home and governed Thebes. Amerotke drew a pyramid. Divine Pharaoh then returned south. He’d stopped at Sakkara, visiting the great pyramids and mortuary temples of his long-dead ancestors. Tuthmosis had left the royal barge with Commander Ipuwer, Captain Meneloto and the priest Amenhotep. He’d visited the pyramids, secretly, by night. Amerotke wrote the word ‘why?’ and stared up at the sunlight pouring through a window.
‘Why?’ he muttered.
Because Pharaoh had received a letter from that old priest Neroupe? He continued with his writing. What did that message contain? Why was it so important? Had Pharaoh discovered something there? Had he shared a secret with Amenhotep? Was it a question of faith? Tuthmosis had always been the most devout of men. He had continued with his prayers and offerings but privately, not visiting any temples, while Amenhotep appeared to lose all purpose in life or any belief in the gods. Why did Amenhotep scrawl the hieroglyphics for one and ten? Amerotke recalled from his own learning that those were sacred numbers for the essence of God and the climax of all things.
Finally, the murders. How had divine Pharaoh died? Undoubtedly he had been bitten by a snake. But was that the real cause of death? All the evidence demonstrated it was not. And why use a snake? Amerotke drew the hieroglyphic for a viper. Was there some ritual significance in the weapon the assassin used? Was the snake supposed to represent the great leviathan of the underworld, Apep the lord of chaos and eternal night, who constantly struggled against the lord Amun-Ra and the forces of light? Or did the snake represent Uraeus, the spitting cobra, the diadem on Pharaoh’s helmet, the symbol of resistance to all of Egypt’s enemies? Or was it just an easy tool to use for murder? The assassin definitely knew a great deal about snakes. If handled properly, and Amerotke had seen the snake charmers in the markets, serpents could be easily controlled, carried about with no real harm to their owner. Amerotke smiled grimly. In a sense Ipuwer was an easy victim. During the busy council meeting, or rather during its adjournment, someone simply had exchanged bags. To thrust a hand close to a viper would bring instant death.
And poor Amenhotep? He must have gone out to meet someone he knew, someone he trusted. The fat old priest would be an easy victim. He had been lured to that derelict temple on the banks of the Nile, killed, his head severed then delivered to Rahimere by some paid assassin. The only description was that they were dressed in black. Amerotke put his stylus down.
‘The Amemets!’ he exclaimed.
Were the clay figurines delivered by them? Was it part of their ritual, to break the harmony of their victims? Amerotke always dreamed that one day those sinister killers would be captured and brought before him in the Hall of Two Truths. He would relish that. He would love to put them to the question and discover the true litany of their crimes. Yet that would be as easy as trapping sunbeams or catching the divine breath of Amun-Ra. So who was the assassin?
Amerotke went back to his writing. Was it Hatusu? Her lieutenant Senenmut? Or Rahimere with his coterie of sycophants? And what was the purpose? Revenge? To conceal a secret? Or simply to cause chaos and mayhem? Amerotke sighed and pushed the parchment away. The task was frustrating. No one would tell the truth. Divine Pharaoh’s wife could say more but kept her own counsel. He was only being used as a sop, a public gesture for the deaths which had occurred. Amerotke rose and stretched. The day was drawing on. Silence from the garden. He went and lay down on his bed, his mind seething with pictures and memories. He heard Norfret calling but his eyes were growing heavy. Then he was shaken awake by Shufoy. The dwarf grinned down at him.
‘The burdens of high office, eh, master?’
Amerotke got up and swung his legs off the bed. He took the cup of cold beer Shufoy pushed into his hand and saw the platter of newly baked bread and strips of roast goose on the table.
‘You should join us in the garden.’ Shufoy studied his master carefully. ‘The sun is beginning to dip, it’s cool and refreshing under the sycamore trees.’
‘I must go out,’ Amerotke said. He went to the table and picked up the plate.
‘Why?’ Shufoy asked.
‘Because I have to,’ Amerotke replied evasively. ‘Business of the royal circle.’
‘I met Asural,’ Shufoy said. ‘So, set your heart upon hearing my words, oh master. You will find them profitable.’
‘My heart is sick of taking your advice,’ Amerotke quipped, quoting another proverb.
‘You are like a sandpiper,’ Shufoy jibed. ‘One of those birds which, when the crocodile suns itself on a mud bank, and opens its jaws, hops in to pick at whatever morsels lie between the crocodile’s teeth.’ Shufoy drew closer. ‘The crocodile may close its mouth and the sandpiper itself becomes a juicy morsel.’
‘And who is this crocodile?’ Amerotke asked, wishing to keep the conversation light.
‘Go into the House of a Million Years,’ Shufoy answered. ‘The place swarms with crocodiles all hungry for blood.’
Amerotke grinned and finished what he was eating.
‘There’s another story, Shufoy, about crocodiles. When they sun themselves on a mud bank, their great jaws open, a mongoose can slip between the jaws, go down into the crocodile’s stomach, then kill the beast by gnawing its way out.’
‘Some mongoose!’
Laughing, Amerotke went to wash his hands and face and put on his robe. He took from a chest a thick woollen military cloak and a bronze-studded war belt, slipping sword and dagger into the sheaths.
‘Tell the lady Norfret I’ll be back soon. Don’t disturb her.’
And, ignoring Shufoy’s warning looks and the litany of proverbs he was about to mutter, Amerotke went down the stairs. He paused at the bottom, savouring the sweet fragrance of the flowers from the garden where Norfret was teaching the two boys to write.
‘I’d love to stay,’ Amerotke thought.
Yet the old priest might be able to tell him something. Amerotke considered taking a chariot but such a dramatic departure would only alarm Norfret and incite the boys to their interminable questioning. He slipped out of a side entrance. The trackway was fairly deserted. A procession came towards him, a group of junior priests escorting a bullock, garlanded and flowered, straining at its embroidered harness. He bowed as the priests passed and looked quickly into the cart. He said a quick prayer to Ma’at that Shufoy or Prenhoe weren’t with him. The cart was full of bones, a sure token of ill luck as these priests took the contents of their slaughterhouse into the desert to be buried.
Amerotke was soon within the city gates, making his way along the trackways past the mud-packed houses of the artisans and peasants down towards the quayside. He saw none of the tension Asural had warned him of. The markets and booths were still doing a roaring trade. The air was sharp with the smell of natron which the traders used to coat their stalls against the myriads of flies. A pedlar seized Amerotke’s hand.
‘Cat fat for sale!’ he said. ‘Daub this on the lintel of your house and you’ll never see a mouse or rat!’
‘Not the rats and mice I fear!’ Amerotke retorted.
He shook the pedlar off and made his way further along the riverside. The sun was beginning to dip. Amerotke paused at a stall to buy a water gourd and slung it over his shoulder. He had left in such haste but now he recalled previous journeys into the Valley of the Kings where the heat and dust soon clogged the mouth and throat.
Amerotke hurried on past young boys dancing around, fencing with papyrus sticks. Others were picking up animal dung, covering it with straw, to be laid on the roofs of their houses and baked into hard cakes which could be used as fuel when winter came.
A group of Hesets, singing girls in the service of Hathor the goddess of love, had drawn a large crowd and blocked the path. Amerotke paused to watch. The girls were dressed provocatively in long, oiled wigs in which coloured s
trands had been woven. Around their necks hung lotus blossom, while earrings of the same colour danced and flickered at their every movement. Their bodies were bare, only their groins covered by thick linen kilts which moved enticingly as the singers, clapping their hands, moved in a shuffling, sensuous dance.
‘How delightful, my beloved!
To go down with you to the river.
I look forward to the moment
When you ask me to bathe before your eyes.
I shall sink into the water and come up
Holding a red fish.
It will lie happy in my fingers.
It shall lie between my breasts.
Come with me, my beloved!’
This provocative dance, and even more provocative song, attracted the attention of sailors who roared back the words and eagerly accepted the small scraps of papyrus the accompanying musicians distributed, displaying crude but erotic love scenes. A group of Nubians in pantherskins were taken by the tempo of the fluting music and eagerly joined the Hesets. The market police arrived and, in the consequent confusion, Amerotke slipped round the crowd, following the path overlooking the busy quayside where ships, boats and barges clustered. Merchants, sailors, pimps, prostitutes and the myriad visitors thronged the beer shops and wine stores exchanging gossip, bartering or just enjoying the last few hours of trading but Amerotke avoided these, walking further on past the docks and wharves until the warehouses and houses gave way to a muddy trackway which wound through the great papyrus thickets. Amerotke paused and gazed across at the Necropolis, above which the curiously coloured granite and limestone cliffs fringed the Valley of the Kings. He closed his eyes and played with the ring of Ma’at. He sensed danger; the snake priest might hold valuable information and he had to go, but nevertheless he prayed that Ma’at would bring him safely back.