An Evil Spirit Out of the West (Ancient Egyptian Mysteries)

by Paul Doherty

  ‘What?’

  ‘I came across a police report. A few scribbles. Isithia truly hated your mother. She may not have supplied the best medicine for her, when she was recovering from your birth.’

  ‘I …’

  ‘Can’t you speak, Mahu?’

  In truth I felt a hideous coldness, a clenching in my stomach.

  ‘But, but my father would have … ?’

  ‘Your father never suspected. Many women don’t survive childbirth. When Aunt Isithia was in the cells she was baited with this.’

  ‘Why wasn’t the matter pursued?’

  ‘It was nothing much. Information laid anonymously to the House of Secrets, the tittle-tattle of servants, studied and filed away.’

  I recalled Dedi and her whispered hoarse comments in that darkened garden so many years ago.

  ‘Well, well, Mahu, will you take revenge? If you do,’ he urged, ‘do not take it now.’

  I had drunk many goblets of wine yet I felt sober. I wanted to run away, leave the palace and go out to Aunt Isithia’s house, clutch her scrawny throat and confront her.

  ‘Not now, Mahu.’ Maya clutched my wrist. ‘You have learned well. Hide your face, hide your feelings, hide your hand. Strike when you must. Wait for your day. Stay now,’ he urged, ‘and I’ll tell you more.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Tell Ay to be careful.’

  ‘Of whom? Spies?’

  ‘No, assassins.’ Maya peered up at me. ‘Ay is seen as Queen Tiye’s principal adviser and now as your master’s.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘Oh, Mahu,’ Maya smiled, ‘assassins don’t wear proclamations round their necks. They don’t send you pretty little letters telling you they are coming.’

  I grasped him by the shoulders and pulled him close.

  ‘Why are you telling me this, Maya? How do I know you are not just dirtying the pool? You have a talent for mischief.’

  ‘Sobeck.’

  ‘Oh come!’ I snarled, pressing more heavily on his shoulders.

  ‘Sobeck’s gone.’

  ‘No.’ I withdrew my hands.

  ‘He escaped.’ Maya looked quickly to the left and right. ‘You know how it is, Mahu, out in those prison cages. They are chained, they exist on water, food that’s grown there, anything their guards may hunt as well as the charity of Sand Dwellers and Desert Wanderers. If they can escape, what can they take with them? Anyway, Sobeck took his chances. He went out in the Red Lands. They found his corpse, the skeleton picked dry. They only recognised him by the manacles still round his wrists and the clay tablet lying nearby. He had stolen a knife and a water bottle; both were gone. The back of his head was stoved in.’

  I groaned and turned away. ‘Poor Sobeck!’

  ‘Nonsense.’ Maya came up behind me. I whirled round. ‘Think, Mahu, Sobeck was a warrior. He’d escape with a dagger and a water bottle. Libyans don’t creep up and smash you on the back of the head. They stand far away and pick you off with a barbed arrow. No such arrow was found nearby. Don’t you see, Mahu? Sobeck killed someone, took his clothing, the water bottle and knife, then put the manacles round his victim, together with the prison clay tablet. He’s escaped.’

  I heard a bird screech. I walked over to a bush, plucked the flower growing there and sniffed its fragrance. My mind teemed with thoughts, images and memories.

  ‘Sobeck will return to Thebes,’ Maya continued, following me across. ‘You know he will, Mahu. He’ll come back to the city. He’ll look for his friends: the only one he can trust is you. If he survives the desert he will contact you. He will ask for your help. This is the price you pay for what I have told you. Say to Sobeck that Maya had nothing to do with this treachery, that Maya loved him, still does and always will.’ He clasped my wrist and sauntered off into the night.

  I went and sat by the Pool of Purity: the blue lotus blossoms were now open, the air sweet with their perfume. I couldn’t believe what Maya had said about Aunt Isithia, Sobeck, and Tuthmosis. I wanted to make sense of it, put it all together. I heard a footfall, but didn’t turn.

  ‘You learned a lot, Mahu?’ Ay squatted down beside me.

  ‘A great deal.’ I told him about everything except Sobeck. Ay, of course, was not fooled.

  ‘Why should that little bag of secrets confide in you?’

  ‘We once had a friend in common.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were that way inclined, Mahu.’

  ‘I am not but he is.’

  ‘What will you do about Isithia?’ Ay asked.

  ‘What do you advise?’

  ‘Wait!’ Ay got up and gestured at me to follow. ‘Wait, Mahu, as I will. So our enemies have turned to murder: do you know who the assassin could be?’ I shook my head. ‘I do.’ Ay grinned in the darkness. ‘But he, too, will have to wait.’

  He looped his arm through mine. ‘I love going down to the Nile, and watching the black and white kingfishers dive and swoop. They move so fast, you have to concentrate. Sometimes I don’t see any at all and I wonder where they have gone. So, when they return, I am even more curious.’

  ‘Have you come,’ I asked, ‘to talk about kingfishers in the dead of night?’

  ‘The party is ending.’ Ay turned towards where the light could be glimpsed pouring through the windows of the palace. ‘Your friends have eaten and drunk more than they should. They are being helped out by their servants. Horemheb, however, marched off as if he was on the parade ground. We will have to watch him, Mahu, him and Rameses. Two hearts that beat as one, and cunning hearts at that.’

  ‘The kingfisher?’ I queried.

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Ay whistled under his breath. ‘The great scribe Huy brought an invitation. In a few days’ time, as you know, the Divine One celebrates the Festival of Opet where he moves from the Temple of Amun-Ra at Karnak down to Luxor. A glorious, triumphant procession as Pharaoh communes with the gods.’

  ‘The Kingfisher?’ I asked again, though I half-expected Ay’s reply.

  ‘The Divine One has moved as swiftly. He has graciously invited his second son to take part in the official festivities.’

  ‘And has our master accepted?’

  Ay clapped me on the shoulder.

  ‘He has no choice, Mahu, and neither do we.’

  The great sweeping avenue, lined either side by golden-headed sphinxes, marked the great processional route linking the temples of Karnak and Luxor. On that particular occasion, the last day of Opet, it was flanked by a living, thick hedge of people. Thebes had emptied itself of its inhabitants and the crowds were swollen by visitors from every city in the kingdom as well as beyond on this glorious, sunfilled day when Pharaoh showed his face to his subjects who revelled in the glory and might of Egypt.

  The royal procession was led by the principal War-Chariot Squadron: the electrum silver and gold of their carriages dazzling in the light. The horses, milk-white Syrians, handpicked from the royal stables, were gorgeously apparelled: dark blue plumes nodded between their ears, their black harness embossed with glittering silver and gold medallions vied with the blue, red and silver of the javelin sheaths and arrow quivers strapped to the chariots. The horses moved slowly, almost like dancers, their drivers, the most skilled in Egypt, guiding them carefully, all moving in harmony with each other. Between the chariots marched the Standard Bearers holding the insignia of that particular squadron, the lustrous jewel-encrusted ram’s head of Amun-Ra. Behind the chariots, in solemn march, came the high officials of the army and court; garbed in white robes, they wore plaited wigs on their heads to which ostrich feathers, dyed a myriad of colours, had been attached. Each of these highranking notables carried their symbol of office: a gold-embossed fan. Ranks of infantry followed these, veterans from every part of the Empire marching in unison dressed in blue and gold head-dresses and white waistcloths. They carried spears and ceremonial shields also emblazoned with the insignia of Amun and were flanked by lines of archers, quivers on their backs, bows in their hands.


  The sound of that massed march almost deafened the music of the pipes, the rattling of the long war drums, the clash of cymbals and the blast from the trumpets and conch horns of the military band. Clouds of fragrance billowed up as the shaven heads, the priests of every rank, garbed in their white robes, shoulders draped with jaguar and leopard skins, walked slowly backwards, faces toward the royal palanquins bearing Pharaoh Amenhotep the Magnificent and his Great Queen and Wife Tiye. Hundreds of these priests scented the air with gusts of pure incense as the temple girls, visions of beauty in their long, voluptuous wigs and diaphanous robes, danced to the rattle of the sistra whilst others sent thousands of scented flower petals whirling through the air.

  In the most gorgeous of palanquins, its curtain pulled aside, slouched the Magnificent One on a throne of gold made more beautiful by the inlaid jewels along its arms and sides. Amenhotep was garbed in the robes of glory: these still couldn’t hide his corpulent body with its sagging breasts and paunch. He wore the Red and White Crowns of Upper and Lower Egypt, the flail and rod in his hands held against the Nenes, the precious holy tunic beneath his Robe of Glory. He sat, one elbow on the arm of the throne, glaring sternly before him as his subjects cheered, the more devout falling to their knees to press their foreheads against the ground. Pharaoh was moving in all his glory. Around his brow was coiled the Uraeus, the lunging cobra, the protector of Egypt and the defender of Pharaoh; the snake symbolised the fire and force Egypt might loose against any who troubled her. On either side of the imperial palanquin walked the highranking officers – those who were allowed into the private chambers of Pharaoh. Each carried a huge, pink-dyed ostrich plume drenched in cassia, myrrh and frankincense to keep the air sweet as well as to waft away the dust and flies, not to mention the sweat and smells of the massed cheering crowds kept in line by stern-faced foot soldiers.

  Slightly behind Amenhotep came Queen Tiye in her palanquin, her perfumed body drenched with sweat between the robe of feathers which covered her from head to toe. The robe was fashioned from the glowing plumage of exotic birds. Beneath the heavy crown displaying the horns and plumes of Hathor, Tiye’s face was smiling and sweet. Unlike her husband, the Queen turned every so often to the left and right to acknowledge the cheering crowds. Next walked Crown Prince Tuthmosis, Akhenaten slightly behind him. Both wore crown-like rounded hats, jewel-studded with silver tassels hanging down the back. They were dressed alike in pleated linen robes, resplendent in glorious necklaces, pendants, bracelets and rings, their faces painted, eyes ringed with dark green kohl. Each Prince was ringed by fan-bearers, flunkies and incense-waving priests. Tuthmosis carried a staff, its gilded top carved in the shape of a falcon. Akhenaten rested on a cane inlaid with ebony and silver, a personal gift from Ay. They both walked barefoot, imperial sandal-carriers trotting behind, holding their footwear for whenever they needed it.

  Tuthmosis was greeted with fresh bursts of cheering but, as I walked, well behind the legion of shaven heads, I caught the murmur of the crowds as they noticed Akhenaten, the King’s other son, paraded for the first time in front of Pharaoh’s people. Exclamations of surprise, cries of wonderment, as well as mocking laughter were audible across the avenue. Whoever had arranged the procession had been very clever. Tuthmosis walked so Akhenaten, too, had to overcome his disability and process under the blazing sun with as much dignity as he could muster. Nefertiti had not been invited – a subtle insult. She would have certainly distracted and pleased the crowds, but the invitation, carrying the personal cartouche of Amenhotep, had made no mention of her so she was compelled to stay at the Palace of the Aten. She’d disguised her anger behind smiles whilst she carefully instructed Akhenaten on how he was to walk and bear himself.

  ‘The sun will be hot,’ she had warned, ‘try not to wear sandals. Shift your weight to the cane Ay will give you. Neither look to the left nor the right. But be careful – do not react.’

  ‘To what?’ Akhenaten asked softly.

  Nefertiti glanced away. ‘To whatever happens,’ she murmured.

  She had taken me aside out in the gardens, walking up and down, that beautiful body tense with fury. She reminded me of the Goddess Bastet, the Cat Goddess who walks alone. Nefertiti strode backwards and forwards; now and again she would unfold her arms, fingers moving, the hennaed nails glittering like the claws of an angry cheetah. I could tell from her breathing how the anger seethed within her. At last she calmed herself and stood over me as I sat by the edge of a pool. She pressed a perfumed finger against my lips, moving it up so the nail dug into the end of my nose, blue eyes ice-cold.

  ‘Take great care, Mahu. My Beloved is in your hands.’

  I had done my best or at least tried to. The Festival of Opet had been a long exhausting procession of public festivities as the God Amun-Ra, his wife Mut and their son Khonsu were taken from their darkened shrines at Karnak and carried the one and a half miles to the riverside Temple of Luxor and back. Processions by road, processions by river. The imperial barges, resplendent in their paintwork, prows carved in the shape of hawks’ heads, moved slowly up and down the river surrounded by a myriad of craft. At night banquets and receptions by torchlight and oil lamps took place, sacrifices offered amidst clouds of incense. The array of troops and the solemn parade of priests and officials seemed endless. It was a feast of colour, song, music, dancing, eating and drinking, which exhausted even the most experienced courtier.

  If Akhenaten was meant to tire, to appear gauche or clumsy, he’d survived the test well. He always walked carefully, his ungainly body poised, his face set in a permanent smile. Nefertiti had taught him well. Both Ay and myself were always nearby. Court officials and flunkies, their rudeness hidden under cold politeness, tried to separate us whenever they could. During the evening feasts, Akhenaten was placed close to his father – but the Magnificent One seemed to be unaware of his existence, not even exchanging glances, never mind a word. Tuthmosis and his sisters, however, were fussed, touched and even anointed by their father, particularly the dark-eyed, pretty-faced Sitamun, Amenhotep’s fourteen-year-old daughter, a luscious little thing in her tight-fitting sheath dress and braided perfumed wig. During one feast she was even allowed to sit on her father’s lap, head resting against his chest as he fed her sweetmeats from the table.

  Akhenaten never complained. In fact, he hardly spoke either to us or anyone else, but accepted his lot with a faint smile and a twist of his lips. At night we often tried to draw him into conversation but again the smile, the shake of the head. Only once did he reveal his feelings with a quotation from a poem:

  ‘Why sit morose amidst the doom and dark?

  As you drink life’s bitter dregs,

  Smile across the cup.’

  Akhenaten had drunk the dregs, now the festival was ending with that solemn procession from Luxor to Karnak. Eventually we left the avenue with its long line of impenetrable sphinxes and went into the temple concourse.

  We passed the glittering lakes and crossed a courtyard with its hundreds of black granite statues of Sekhmet, the lion-headed goddess who had devoured the first men. We were now about to enter the heart of the great Temple of Karnak. Trumpets and horns sounded, the blue, white and gold pennants tied on flagpoles above the gates danced and fluttered like pinioned birds. More trumpets and horns brayed and the huge bronze-coloured doors of Lebanese cedar swung slowly open on their brass pivots. We entered the sacred precincts of Amun-Ra, a vast forest of granite and stone, comprising temples, colonnades, statues and columns. More crowds were gathered here: notables and diplomats were given preferential treatment and so it was in the different squares and courtyards we passed.

  In the central courtyard the procession came to a halt. The imperial palanquin was lowered amidst a swarm of shaven heads. The priests of Amun-Ra, divine fathers, priests of the secrets, lectors, stewards, chapel priests and their host of helpers clustered about. Trumpets sounded, drums were beaten and flower petals whirled through the air, mixing with the clouds of
incense and the fragrance from the myriad baskets of flowers placed around the courtyard. A group of musicians and dancers came down the steps leading from the temple proper, a moving mass of music and revelry to greet the Divine One’s arrival. Amenhotep remained in his palanquin, as did Queen Tiye, whilst the lead singer of the choir intoned a paean of glory to him:

  ‘The gods rejoice because you have increased their

  offerings.

  The children rejoice for you have set up their

  boundaries.

  All of Egypt rejoices for you have protected their

  ancient rites.’

  The rest of the hymn was taken up by the chorus.

  ‘How great is the Lord in his city.

  Alone he leads millions:

  Other men are small!

  He is shade and spring,

  A cold bath in summer.

  He is the One who saves the fearful man from his

  enemies.

  He has come to us.

  He has given life to Egypt and done away with her

  sufferings.

  He has given life to men and made the

  throats of the dead to breathe.

  He has allowed us to raise our children and bury

  our dead.

  You have crushed those who are in the lands of

  Mitanni,

  They tremble under thy terror.

  Your Majesty is like a young bull,

  Strong of heart with sharp horns,

  Whom none can withstand.

  Your Majesty is like a crocodile,

  The Lord of Terrors in the midst of the water,

  Whom none can approach.

  Your Majesty is like a glaring lion.

  The corpses of your enemy litter the valley.

  You are the Hawk Lord on the wing.

  You are the Jackal of the South.

  You are the Lord of Quickness, who runs over the Two

  Lands.’

  Once the hymn was ended Amenhotep was to make the formal reply. Only this time he turned and whispered to a fan-bearer, his herald. The man stepped forward. I heard a low hum and, glancing back at the steps, saw Shishnak the High Priest of Amun come slowly down and process across the courtyard. A thin, angular man with bloodless lips and dark penetrating eyes, Shishnak was used to the drama of the temple liturgy and able to exploit it for his own purposes. Either side of him walked two acolyte priests swinging golden censers and, behind them, a Standard Bearer. The latter carried a large ornamental fan, shaped like a half-moon at the top of a long golden pole, displaying the insignia of the temple – a ram’s head with golden horns, jewels as its eyes, the face and muzzle of cobalt blue.