by Paul Doherty
I became a student skilled in the hieratic and hieroglyphic writing, the preparation of papyrus, and the use of calculations, especially the nilometer. With the rest I studied the glories of Tomery and, of course, theology – the worship of the gods and the cults of the temple. All things centred around Amun-Ra, the silent God of Thebes who, over the years, had become associated with the Sun God and was now the dominant deity of Egypt. We were instructed in the mysteries of the Osirian rites, of the journey through the Underworld, the Am-Duat, as well as the difference between the Ka and the Ba, the soul and the spirit. It all meant nothing to me. The gods were as dry and dusty as the calculations for assessing a kite of gold or a deben of copper. Women, though, were a different matter.
The years had passed, our bodies had changed. We no longer played skittles, or jump the goose or tug of war, but became more interested in stick fighting, wrestling, boxing – anything to dissipate the energy which seethed within us. Weni, of course, noted the changes and turned a blind eye to our sweaty forays beneath trees and in bushes with kitchen girls and maids, those who crossed our courtyard carrying pots or jars, swaying their hips and glancing sly-eyed at us. Of course Weni tried to give advice, but his attitude on women could be summed up in that proverb he lugubriously repeated: ‘Instructing a woman is like holding a sack of sand whose sides have split open’. Weni’s experiences with women had not been happy ones! He certainly never had the honour, or blood-freezing experience, of meeting women such as Tiye, Nefertiti and Ankhesenamun. I once repeated Weni’s advice to Nefertiti, at which she bubbled with laughter, and pithily replied, ‘You don’t have to instruct a woman, Mahu. She is already knowledgable.’
One word of advice Weni gave us which Sobeck later ignored to his peril. ‘Have nothing,’ Weni roared at us, one stubby finger punching the air, ‘have nothing to do with the Per Khe Nret, the Royal Harem, whoever they are, wherever they come from! They are the Sacred Ornaments of the Magnificent One!’
I listened bemused. The Magnificent One was encroaching more and more into our daily lessons, not only his name and titles but his power, whilst Prince Tuthmosis was finding his feet and wielding authority amongst the young men of the Kap. I, in turn, was becoming more curious about my surroundings. Years away from Aunt Isithia, I now began to crawl out of my shell or nest, the House of Instruction, and my first foray formed one of those threads which would later bind my entire life. I had been out with a kitchen servant, a sweet girl with beaded head-band and pretty gorget. We had gone deep into the orchards, then she left whispering how she would be missed and flitted away like a shadow through the trees.
I lay for a while staring up at the branches and listening to the early morning call of the birds. It was one of those inauspicious days, decreed by the Priests of the Calendar to be touched by Seth the Red-Haired God. Accordingly, there would be no instruction, no school, nothing but boredom from dawn to dusk. I had stolen out, met the girl and now wondered if I should go back. Instead I decided to explore the orchard and, for the first time, approached the Silent Pavilion. I had heard of this place from chatter in the dormitory and the drill ground but had paid it no attention. It lay some distance from the Residence. It wasn’t really a pavilion but a two-storeyed house peeping above a high, whitewashed wall. From my vantage point I could glimpse date palms, sycamore trees and terebrinths. A canal from the Nile had been dug in to water the grass, gardens and herbs. I crept closer, moving silently amongst the trees, and discovered that the Pavilion had only one entrance – a spiked double gate of heavy wood painted a gleaming black.
I approached the gate but froze. It was guarded by Kushite mercenaries, in fringed leather kilts, copper-studded baldrics across their chests; there were at least a dozen of them, some armed with the khopesh thrust through their sash, others with spears and shields bearing the insignia of the Isis and Ptah Regiments. A few archers also patrolled the area, heavy composite bows in their hands, quivers of cruel barbed arrows slung across their backs. They all wore the imperial blue and gold head-dress which stretched from their forehead down to the nape of their neck, each warrior displaying the Gold Collar of Bravery and the Silver Bees of Valour. Yet, even from where I crouched, I noticed they were all disfigured: one had an eye missing, another had suffered a deep scar which ran across his face and down into his neck: a third had his left cheek shrivelled, the eye pulled down as if he had escaped from some hideous fire.
The sun had risen though a faint mist still clung to the trees. I had just decided to withdraw when I heard a shout, that of a boy playing in the courtyard beyond. I also noticed the heavy rutted tracks of a cart marking the entrance to the gate. Mystified, I crouched back and listened more intently. Again the shout. Memories flooded back of Aunt Isithia’s house. Was this a similar situation? A boy playing by himself, guarded by adults?
I returned to the Residence. When I questioned my companions they were equally mystified, though Rameses smirked slyly, rubbing that beaked nose as if he knew a secret but was unwilling to share it. Huy whispered something about being careful, how the Silent Pavilion was forbidden territory. I went to see Weni, who was sunning himself against a wall, a jug of dark beer in his lap – an increasingly common sight. We had begun to lose our fears of him. He was slower; sometimes his speech was slurred, whilst he depended more and more on his subordinates. Since the incident of the goose he had shown me a little more respect. When I asked him about the Silent Pavilion, he sat up, slurped from the beer jug, opened his mouth to bellow at me but then shrugged.
‘Sooner or later,’ he mumbled.
‘Sooner or later what?’
Weni stared slack-jawed.
‘Who’s there?’ I asked.
Weni blinked and swallowed hard. He gazed round the courtyard then tapped his nose. ‘The Veiled One,’ he slurred.
‘Why is he veiled?’
‘Because he’s ugly like you!’
‘Who is he?’ I asked.
Weni smiled drunkenly and waved me away.
I was intrigued. A boy living all by himself, kept away because he was ugly? And why those cart tracks? And the disfigured guards? Early the next morning, long before dawn, it must have been the eighteenth or nineteenth day of the Inundation, I stole out of the dormitory and took up my position near the Silent Pavilion. The guards were easily distinguishable in the glaring light of fiery pitch torches dug into the ground. The dancing flames illuminated the spiked gates as well as the grotesque wounds of those who guarded it. I waited.
The north wind, the cooling breath of Amun, began to subside. At the first gash of sunlight a conch horn wailed from beyond the gate, a harsh braying sound which sent the birds all a-flutter. The torches had now burned out. I was moving to ease my cramp when the conch horn wailed again. I recalled hearing it on a number of occasions in the House of Instruction but had always dismissed it as just another eerie sound of the palace. The double gates opened and a covered cart, pulled by four red-and-white oxen, garlands between their horns, lumbered out. Two Kushite archers led these, another sat on the seat guiding the beasts through the gate. On the cart stood what looked like a naos, a tabernacle. I could make out a wooden frame and a shape beneath hidden by drapes of the finest gauze linen. Pots of incense in the cart glowed and sent up perfumed clouds. The cart, followed by its escort, turned east towards the river. I followed. It entered a small glade and drew to one side.
The day was already bright with the glowing rays of the rising sun. Steps were brought to the tail of the cart and the veil lifted. A figure emerged, head and face hidden by a linen mask. A roll of similar material hung over a long, unnaturally thin body, the legs and arms strangely elongated. Whoever it was wore no ornamentation except for a red arm guard embossed with silver studs. I glimpsed sagging breasts and a protruding stomach. As the figure clambered down, his legs and arms, as well as the fingers of the thin hands appeared almost spidery. He wore no sandals, exposing long slim feet, with toes like that of a monkey. So this was the Veiled O
ne?
The figure turned its back on me and went to squat cross-legged on blood-red cushions the guard had already laid out, two pots of burning incense placed either side of him. He sat, head down, towards the rising sun. A low, melodious voice began to chant a hymn which would one day ring through Egypt and shatter its gods.
‘Oh you, who come beautiful above the Horizon.
Oh you, whose rays kiss the earth and bring it to life!
All glory to you!
A million jubilees, Greatest and Only!’
I crouched transfixed. The rest of the retinue were now squatting in a semi-circle behind this figure; his appearance might be strange but the voice was strong, rich. I had heard hymns and poetry chanted before, but not with the passion which suffused these lines. Was he a worshipper of the Aten, the Sun Disc, a cult gaining popularity amongst the wealthy nobles of Thebes?
The face veil was now pushed back. Leaving my position, I stole quietly through the trees to outflank the guards and obtain a better view. I settled beneath a holm oak. The figure seated on the cushions lifted his head; revealing a face with elongated chin, narrow eyes, and a sharp nose above thick full red lips, his high cheekbones emphasising the narrowness of the eyes. And yet, although the face was strange, it possessed a singular beauty. Again the head went down and the hymn was resumed.
‘Oh you who come from a
Million, Million Years.
Who sustains all life on the earth
Who hears the petals break and smells the lotus,
All praise to you.’
The hymn was taken up by the escort, a low, melodious chant followed by silence. The young man had something in his lap, a blue water lotus. I moved closer. The Veiled One turned to his left, beckoning to the Captain of his escort who hurried forward. A few whispers and the Veiled One returned to his meditations. The sun was now rising fast, bathing the glade with shifting light. I was about to withdraw when I felt a sharp point digging into my neck. I whirled round. A Kushite, one eye missing, stood holding his spear, its point only inches from my face. On either side of him were two archers, arrows to their bows, the cords pulled back tight and taut. They gazed impassively down at me. I couldn’t speak. I was frightened both of them and of breaking the silence.
The Kushite leaned down, grabbed me by the shoulder and pulled me to my feet. I was dressed only in a loincloth, a linen shawl across my shoulders. He pulled this away, whispering to his companions in a tongue I couldn’t understand. My loincloth was felt.
‘I have no weapons,’ I stammered.
‘Bring him with you.’
The Veiled One was already moving back to the carts. He took his seat, the steps were removed, the cushions and incense pots placed back and that strange procession returned to the Silent Pavilion. I had no choice but to follow. One of the Kushites had tied a rope around my neck. He didn’t treat me cruelly, but held it lightly as one would walking a pet dog or monkey. The black gates opened and I entered a square, brick courtyard cut by the canal; a small fountain splashed in the middle. There was no garden plot but an abundance of flower baskets, full of fresh cuttings, their fragrance already filling the air and attracting the hunting bees. The front of the house was like any wealthy nobleman’s, porticoed and columned with Lebanese cedar, brilliantly emblazoned with different insignia and approached by well-cut steps. The cart stopped in front of these. The Veiled One got down and, escorted by his strange retinue, swept into the house. He moved more freely now, not so ungainly but with a natural grace and dignity as if, aware of his disabilities, he was determined to emphasise these rather than hide them. My guard stared down at me.
‘Shall we crucify you now?’ His voice was guttural.
Despite his grotesque wounds and the fierce glare of his one eye, the harsh mouth was smiling.
‘What shall we do with you, Monkey-Boy?’
I hid my fear and glared back.
‘Monkeys,’ he leaned down, ‘can stay in trees.’
‘A monkey can look at a king!’ I retorted.
The Kushite laughed and cuffed me gently on the ear. He undid the rope and pushed me towards the steps. The inside of the house was cool, its walls limewashed a faint green, no paintings except for the richly ornamented borders at top and bottom. Servants clustered there: men and women, about four or five in all. They, too, were disfigured. In Thebes they would have been dismissed as Rhinoceri, men and women who had lost their noses and ears as a penalty for some crime. Usually they would be banished to a dusty village or commune or even exiled to an oasis, some rocky culvert in the Red Lands. These, however, looked well fed and clothed and were welcoming enough. My shawl and loincloth were removed. A servant brought a jug of water. My body was carefully washed and anointed, lips and hands lightly coated with stoups of salted water. I was being purified as a priest would be before entering the Inner Sanctuary of a temple. A fresh loincloth was bound around me, a linen robe, cool and crisp, draped over my shoulders, and strange long sandals fastened to my feet. I was then taken into the inner hall – a beautiful elegant room, its roof supported by four pillars painted green and red. Here the walls were finely decorated but, as I waited in the shadows just beyond the doorway, I realised the paintings were like nothing I had seen in the Temple of Anubis. There was no formal stylisation; here the raging lion was lifelike as if ready to leap from the wall. The birds in their brilliant plumage were about to fly. Everywhere were symbols of the Sun Disc, either in full glory or just rising above a dark-blue horizon. Sometimes they were winged, sometimes not. A fireplace stood in the centre of the room; at the far end was a daïs protected by a grey curtain. Someone propelled me forward, the curtain was dragged back. The Veiled One sat on cushions with his back to the wall, a small table in front of him. I was pushed to my knees and nosed the ground before the daïs.
‘There is no need for that. There is no need for that.’
The words came slowly, the voice low. ‘Let my guest join me.’
I went up the steps. The Veiled One lifted his head, revealing his strange elongated eyes, yet their stare was entrancing, and it distracted my fears. I was no longer aware of the spidery fingers, the long hands on the breast or stomach bulging against the embroidered linen robe. Just those eyes, full of passion as if the Veiled One was going to chant one of those hymns as he had in the glade. His sensuous lips were parted: his tongue sticking out slightly as he studied me closely, like a judge weighing what I was worth, trying to discover in one glance who I really was. He smiled, slightly lopsidedly, a graceful movement of those long fingers gesturing at the cushions on the other side of the table.
‘You’d best sit down, hadn’t you?’
The cushions were thick and soft. The table was of beautiful acacia inlaid with ebony and silver whilst the pots and jars were of the finest quality, containing small chunks of crisp duck, sauces, herbs, and bread cut into thin strips. The cups held wine not beer. When I tasted it I coughed and drew back. The Veiled One laughed softly.
‘The best,’ he murmured. ‘From the rich land of Canaan. They say the earth is black there, so rich you gather two crops in one year. Come, come, eat!’
He gestured at the fresh reed basket before him. I was not frightened but wary. He served me himself, delicately wiping his fingers on a napkin.
‘You are purified and cleansed.’ He leaned across the table and I became aware of the Veiled One’s true features. He wore a blue and gold head-dress, a silver pearl dangled from one earlobe and a flowered pectoral hung about his neck. On his left hand glittered a ring bearing the symbol of the Sun Disc.
‘You are too shy,’ he murmured, eyes squinting as if he was short-sighted. ‘But not shy enough not to pry.’
‘I wasn’t prying.’ I swallowed quickly.
‘Then what were you doing?’
‘I was curious.’
‘Do you know who I am?’
‘The Veiled One.’
‘And why am I veiled?’
‘Because they s
ay you are ugly.’
‘Do you think I am ugly?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Do you know who I am?’
I shook my head.
‘My name is Amenhotep. I am the second son of the Magnificent One and his beloved wife, the Lady of the House, Queen Tiye.’
I hid my nervousness by lifting the wine cup and gulping noisily.
‘You’ve never heard of me? I was born like this,’ he continued evenly, ‘kept in the Royal Nursery away from the Kap. Do you think I am strange? I have no real name. I am simply the Veiled One – he who lurks in the shadows.’ He broke from his reverie. ‘And who are you?’
‘I am Mahu, son of Seostris, the Baboon of the South. I, too, am called the Ugly One.’
I spoke louder than I intended. I heard a sound from behind the veil; the Kushite archers were still there armed and ready. The Veiled One, however, just lifted those long fingers, palm upwards in the sign of peace. He stared at me for a while, that long, solemn face, the unblinking eyes and then he began to laugh. At first it was a sound deep in his throat, then throwing his head back, he laughed loudly, clapping his hands softly together.
‘Mahu the Ugly One, the Baboon from the South!’