The Mask of Ra

by Paul Doherty

Amerotke heard a cheer and broke from his reverie. He looked along the column. Hatusu in her chariot thundered out of a cloud of dust. The troops clashed their arms, the chariot slowed down as Hatusu accepted the plaudits of her troops. The chariot’s huge wheels on the back made it quick and easy to manoeuvre. At the front rose a great standard displaying the vulture goddess, Hatusu’s personal emblem. On the sides hung a blue-gold quiver, a large horn bow and throwing spears.

  The two black horses were the finest from Pharaoh’s stables. Caparisoned in white linen cloths, they strained at their harness, the great white ostrich plumes between their ears dancing with every movement. Amerotke recognised the horses, the Glory of Hathor and the Power of Anubis, two of the fastest chariot horses in the entire four regiments. Their driver was Senenmut, dressed in a white kilt covered with leather straps. Across his naked chest hung a bronze-studded war belt. Hatusu, standing beside him, had her hair bound back in a fillet. She was dressed in body armour, small bronze plates riveted to a linen tunic which fell below her knees. In her belt she carried a narrow-bladed dagger. All around clustered other chariots bearing Hatusu’s personal bodyguard.

  Between the chariots loped the well-armed Nakhtuaa or ‘strong-arm boys’, tough veterans from different regiments in their stiffened red and white headdresses. They were armed with rounded, bronzed bucklers, swords and daggers, their bodies protected by linen-padded armour with large oval groin guards.

  The royal chariot approached and stopped. Hatusu leaned over the side. Amerotke considered her more beautiful now than when she’d been clad in all her glorious court robes. She was vibrant, her face and eyes full of passion as if revelling in the glory, the might and the power of Egypt’s massed armies.

  ‘Your feet are calloused, Amerotke?’

  ‘A little harder, your highness, than they were in Thebes.’

  Hatusu laughed deep in her throat and rested her hand on Senenmut’s sweat-glistening arm, squeezing it before climbing down from the chariot. The troops marching by gazed appreciatively at her as she walked with a slight swagger towards their commander. She was so slender, so well composed; despite the heat, no sweat glistened on her brow or face. She offered Amerotke a wineskin.

  ‘Just a sip,’ she warned. ‘It sweetens the tongue and gladdens the heart.’

  Amerotke obeyed.

  ‘Keep your face straight,’ she murmured, taking the wineskin back, ‘but the Mitanni are closer than we think. We camp tonight near the oasis at Selina, there’s grass for fodder, water and shade for some of us. Tomorrow we’ll know the worst.’

  She walked back to the chariot and climbed in. Senenmut bowed, picked up the reins and both chariot and escort went further down the column.

  Amerotke watched it go. Omendap, not Hatusu, was technically commander-in-chief, and he carried the field marshal’s baton. At first the troops had regarded Hatusu simply as a symbol. They even called her the ‘soldiers’ mascot’ and quietly mocked but, since they had left Thebes, Hatusu’s influence and power had grown. She had shown no weakness, asked for no favours. She openly demonstrated that she was a soldier’s daughter used to the rigours of camp life. She was constantly on the move, stopping and talking to the men, learning their names and never forgetting. On one occasion one of the strong-arm boys, a large, fat man, had openly jibed at her breasts and how comfortably they sat under the thin padded armour. Hatusu had heard the remark but, instead of striking the man or consigning him to some field punishment, she had pointed to his bare, heavily muscled chest.

  ‘One of the reasons I like talking to you lads,’ she cracked back, ‘is that I am secretly jealous. If I had tits as big as yours I wouldn’t have to wear armour!’

  The remark had created surprised delight and guffaws of laughter. Hatusu was seen as one of them, a soldier who did not insist on ceremony, who shared their difficulties and hardships. Increasingly, as the army camped at night, Hatusu and Senenmut would visit the different battalions. Her speech was the same wherever she went: they were going to seek out Egypt’s enemies, break their necks, smash their heads, teach them a lesson they would never forget. Those Mitanni who could return home would limp all the way and take back tales of the terrible fury and vengeance of Pharaoh.

  In the war council Hatusu increasingly exerted her influence; Omendap, who appreciated her shrewd judgement, always conceded her point of view. Hatusu insisted the army stay together. It was to keep to the Nile and bring the Mitanni to battle on ground of their choosing. Amerotke secretly hoped that Hatusu’s judgement would prove effective.

  ‘Are you sun-struck?’

  Amerotke started and looked up, shielding his eyes against the sun, to see Sethos, astride a horse. The eyes and ears of the King looked fit, untroubled by the heat or dust. Amerotke smiled.

  ‘No chariot for you, my lord Sethos?’

  The royal prosecutor was known as a good horseman, one of the few nobles of Egypt who preferred to ride bareback than in a chariot. Sethos surveyed the column.

  ‘Hatusu is showing the flag again,’ he murmured.

  Amerotke caught the horse’s reins and followed his companion’s gaze.

  ‘She mentioned a surprise.’

  ‘I think we are all going to be surprised,’ Sethos said. He leaned down and patted Amerotke on the shoulder. ‘The Mitanni are much closer. Perhaps, within days, this matter will be decided once and for all. And the other matter,’ Sethos continued, ‘divine Pharaoh’s death, the murder of Amenhotep?’

  ‘It will have to wait. As you say, my lord Sethos, within a week we may all be past caring.’

  ‘When we passed Sakkara,’ Sethos said as he stroked his horse’s neck, ‘you glimpsed the pyramids?’

  Amerotke nodded.

  ‘It brought it all back,’ Sethos went on. ‘Divine Pharaoh’s visit and what has happened since he returned and died before the statue of Amun-Ra. Ah well!’ He gathered up the reins. ‘Tonight, Amerotke, we’ll share a cup of wine, yes?’

  And, before the judge could answer, Sethos kicked in his heels and galloped after the royal cortège.

  They reached the oasis late in the afternoon. The sergeants and drill masters soon had the troops digging a defensive ditch, setting up a makeshift palisade which was reinforced with the shields of the foot soldiers. At first chaos reigned. Horse lines had to be established, water skins filled, latrines dug. Each corps was given a corner of the huge camp. At the far end lay the royal enclosure, defended by another palisade and hand-picked men from the regiments. Inside this stood Hatusu’s pavilion as well as those of Omendap and the other senior generals, all clustered round the shrine to Amun-Ra which the priests had set up; their incense-laden offerings already sent a sweet fragrance back into the camp.

  Amerotke was always surprised at how quickly the chaos was resolved and order restored. Chariot squadrons were sent out to ensure that the enemy did not launch a surprise attack. The quartermasters soon had large pots of water filled from the springs and irrigation canals which snaked out from the Nile. Camp fires were lit, food distributed; foraging parties went out to nearby villages to requisition stores, animals, anything the army could need.

  Amerotke’s small tent was set up just within the royal enclosure. It consisted of nothing more than a few poles driven into the ground and covered with sheets to protect him against the night air. He drew rations from the common pot and ate like the rest, cross-legged on the ground. Afterwards he retired, washed and changed and knelt before the small shrine of Ma’ at which he had brought. Outside the noise of the camp subsided as darkness fell, broken by the sound of the armourers, the neigh of horses, the shouts and yells of the officers and the ever-present hum from around the camp fires. Amerotke extinguished the oil lamp and went out through the enclosure.

  He visited his own chariot squadron. The officer assured him that the horses were well watered and fed, dried off and ready for battle at a moment’s notice. Amerotke then crouched under a palm tree. Nearby a physician was cleaning cuts and wounds,
distributing small pots of ointment for those soldiers complaining of injuries to their feet or shins after the long, hurried march. Somewhere in the dark a flute started to play. Camp followers swarmed about, the great raggle-taggle which followed the army: whores, tinkers, pedlars. Some had been with them from Thebes; others they had collected on the long march. Long trumpet blasts gave out the hours and passing of the night. Each corps made ready for the dawn sacrifice. Shadows slipped in and out of the camp – lovers, male and female, searching for some quiet place so they could lie in hot, lusty embrace, forget the hardships of the day and the possible threat of tomorrow. Heralds moved through the camp, issuing the orders of march and fresh instructions; scouts crept in and out, carts were wheeled up.

  Amerotke wondered what was happening in Thebes. Were Norfret and the boys safe? Had Shufoy followed his instructions? A staff officer approached, announcing that General Omendap sent his good favour and would all members of the war council now approach the royal enclosure. Amerotke sighed and got to his feet. He threaded his way through the camp. Inside Omendap’s tent the rest of the war council had gathered, seated on camp stools with small tables before them. Hatusu looked unruffled as ever, seated between Senenmut and the general. The others included Sethos, the principal scribes from the House of War and the commanders of the mercenaries and royal regiments. Clerks distributed rolled sheets of papyrus, covered in calculations of food, water and the line of march. The conversation was desultory. Once the clerks left, Hatusu, picking up Omendap’s silver axe, tapped the table.

  ‘The Mitanni,’ she declared, ‘are much closer than we think.’

  ‘So,’ Sethos put in, ‘we can’t go on marching to the sea.’

  ‘It’s not what we expected!’ Omendap protested. ‘Tushratta is proving as sly and as slippery as a mongoose. We expected to encounter raiding parties, perhaps chariot attacks on our line of march. Nothing has happened. Scouts we sent out have failed to return. One did and said he saw no sign of the Mitanni but he had encountered a group of sand-wanderers. They talked of a great army somewhere to the northeast, thousands of chariots, foot soldiers and archers.’

  Amerotke felt the hair on the nape of his neck grow cold. He understood what Omendap was saying. This was no petty raid, the Mitanni were here in force. They intended to bring the Egyptian army to battle and have a settling of accounts.

  ‘So, what can we do?’ one of the regiment commanders asked.

  ‘That’s the good news,’ Senenmut joked. ‘We have four regiments. Twenty thousand men, plus perhaps two to three thousand mercenaries, though some of those cannot be trusted. Of that twenty thousand, five thousand are chariots.’ He shifted a papyrus roll on the table before him and rubbed his face in his hands.

  Amerotke caught his unease.

  ‘The Mitanni may well be twice that number,’ he said. ‘Twice?’ Sethos pressed him. ‘If our knowledge is so scarce, why not three times, four times?’

  Senenmut just stared at him.

  ‘You may well be right.’ Hatusu spoke up. ‘Tushratta and the Mitanni will have attracted mercenaries, those who resent Pharaoh’s rule. If we keep advancing north we may reach the Great Sea and have no other choice but to turn back. If we leave the Nile and strike northeast we enter the Red Lands where water and provisions are scarce. We could go blundering about for monts. Tushratta could fall on us, or worse, simply march round us.’

  ‘And while we are in the north,’ Amerotke finished the sentence, ‘Tushratta is marching on Thebes.’

  ‘We know they are close,’ Hatusu said. ‘Undoubtedly our scouts have been killed.’

  ‘Or gone over to the enemy?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning,’ Hatusu continued, ‘we will send out three chariot squadrons. Each will travel as far as they can and sweep back in an arc. More importantly,’ she pointed down the table at Amerotke, ‘the Anubis regiment has still not caught up with us. Four thousand men and another five hundred chariots. You, my lord Amerotke, must ride back and tell its commander to hasten on.’

  ‘Easier said than done,’ Sethos observed, his head bowed.

  Nobody challenged him yet all in the tent recognised the unspoken threat. The commander of the Anubis regiment, Nebanum, was a member of Rahimere’s circle, his loyalty and reliability highly suspect. He had left Thebes after the royal army but had persisted in staying two or three days’ march behind them. Hatusu got to her feet.

  ‘Until we know more,’ she concluded as she handed Omendap his silver axe, ‘the army will stay here.’ She bowed slightly. ‘My lords, gentlemen, I bid you good night.’

  Amerotke stayed to discuss matters with the others and accepted Sethos’ judgement that they were like dogs chasing their own tails. Afterwards, he walked back to his own tent, lit an oil lamp and squatted on the camp bed, staring out at the night. What would happen when he went back to Nebanum? If the commander refused to march any faster? Amerotke lay down on the bed, wrapping his cloak around him, closed his eyes and murmured a prayer to Ma’at.

  In another part of the camp, well away from the royal enclosure, the Amemet leader was also making a prayer to his own dreadful god. All around him sprawled members of his gang, weapons piled beside them. The Amemet leader did not care about the Mitanni or the threatened prospect of battle. This was not the first time he had followed in an army’s wake. Where armies went, plunder and easy pickings were always available. If it came to hard knocks or any real danger, he and his troop of killers would simply disappear into the night. True, he had accepted the small cask of gold and silver, the little leather sack of pearls and the commission which went with it. He was to follow the royal army and, at a given time, receive instructions on what to do.

  The Amemet leader sighed. So far the journey had been uneventful and uncomfortable. His men had stolen from the villages, swindled the soldiers and lived on the fat of the land. If the rumours were true and the Mitanni were close? The Amemet leader looked at the stars then closed his eyes. Well, he’d wait no longer but disappear into the shadows. After all, he reasoned as he lay down, he was a craftsman and could only work with the materials given.

  Anubis: god of the dead depicted as a jackal-headed man.

  CHAPTER 13

  ‘Amerotke! Amerotke! Wake up!’

  Senenmut was shaking him by the shoulder.

  ‘Quietly!’ Senenmut ordered. ‘Follow me!’

  Amerotke grabbed his cloak, pushed his feet into sandals and followed Hatusu’s confidant out of the tent. The night air was harsh and cold. The camp had settled for the night, the silence broken only by the cries of sentries and neighs of horses. Camp fires had dulled, giving way to the darkness. Amerotke followed Senenmut across to Omendap’s tent where Hatusu and Sethos were standing by the palm-leaf bed. Omendap lay on his side, blankets pushed back; the cup on the small table beside the camp bed had been knocked over. A physician was trying to force a cup between Omendap’s lips. The general groaned, rolling over on his back, his face pallid and sweat-soaked.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Hatusu hissed.

  ‘My lady, I’m giving him mandrake, fleabane and sulphur with a dash of opium. His stomach must be cleansed.’

  The physician pressed on. Omendap rolled back and vomited violently into the bowl the physician held to his lips. Time and again the general was made to drink, time and again he vomited. Occasionally, the physician gave the ailing general a sip from a water gourd. Senenmut picked up a small wine flask and passed it to Amerotke.

  ‘It’s Charou,’ Senenmut said.

  Amerotke read the inscription around the neck. It came from Omendap’s own cellars and, according to the date stamp, had been sealed some five years previously. He sniffed and caught the acrid smell.

  ‘He’s been poisoned!’ Hatusu whispered. ‘He took that jar from his own cellar. We’ve examined others. Some are good, others tainted.’

  She walked up and down playing with the ring on her fingers. Hatusu was dressed in a plain white nightshift, the sandals on he
r feet unbuckled and loose. She looked to Amerotke like a frightened young girl.

  ‘Was it done here?’ Amerotke asked.

  ‘Here or Thebes,’ Senenmut replied. ‘The general drew from his own cellars. It would be easy to slip in flasks of tainted wine. The inscription’s probably false, the seal forged. Omendap was weary, he wouldn’t even bother to look. This could have happened tonight, tomorrow or a week ago. It all depended on which flask Omendap picked.’

  ‘Will he live?’ Hatusu demanded.

  ‘I cannot tell you, my lady,’ the physician replied, opening Omendap’s mouth. ‘The general is strong, of good physique.’

  ‘How did you discover it?’ Amerotke asked.

  ‘Our spies brought in the survivor of a Mitanni patrol. They still have him beyond the horse lines. I didn’t want the camp roused. I came to tell Omendap and found him in agony, slipping in and out of consciousness. I woke the lady Hatusu, my lord Sethos and called the physician.’

  ‘We’ve done all we can,’ Hatusu said firmly. She grasped the physician by the shoulder. ‘This is to be kept secret, you understand?’ She squeezed harder. ‘Or, I swear, your head will leave your shoulders!’

  The physician, a narrow-faced old man, glared back.

  ‘I understand you, my lady. If Omendap’s sickness is known to the camp …’

  ‘Senenmut!’ Hatusu clicked her fingers. ‘Order some of your strong-arm boys to guard the tent. Everyone, and I mean everyone, is to be turned away. Physician, if Omendap dies, you die. If he lives, I’ll cram the cup you are using full of pure gold.’

  They followed her out, across into her own tent. Amerotke was surprised at its sparseness: a simple cot bed, some costly chests, a small table with wine cups and a jug of water. Clothes lay tossed on the ground. On a stand was her body armour, the blue war crown of Egypt and at its foot a rounded shield and a war belt with curving sword and dagger. Hatusu sat down on a stool and put her face in her hands. The rest, without a word, crouched cross-legged on the ground around her.