An Evil Spirit Out of the West (Ancient Egyptian Mysteries)
Page 32
The banquet ended, as all such occasions did, in drunken toasts and bouts of false bonhomie. Nevertheless, we all knew it was a time of waiting, though waiting for what, had not yet been revealed. For the Magnificent One to journey to the Far Horizon? For Akhenaten to reveal his face publicly to the people? To confront those forces so implacably opposed to him in both court and temple? It was a busy time for me as I took my new duties seriously. Unrest and uncertainty seethed beneath the surface of the elegant colourful life of the court.
My alliance with Sobeck was formalised and strengthened. He now proclaimed himself as Lord of the Am-Duat, King of the Underworld, that hidden Thebes, a city of thieves, pickpockets, charlatans, vicious gangs, assassins, pimps and prostitutes. I would not interfere with him but he would help me whilst taking care not to cross the boundaries I had drawn.
I inherited two deputies in East and West Thebes, but soon replaced these with merchants, friends of Sobeck, bitter opponents of Rahimere the Mayor of Thebes and High Priest Shishnak. They reported to me constantly, a flood of petty information from servants, peddlers, workers in the Necropolis, merchants and spies, as well as the Medjay, the desert scouts and river guards. All the chatter and gossip of Thebes came into my office. Sobeck supplemented this and I soon won a reputation for ruthless efficiency. Visitors coming in from the Eastern and Western Deserts were greeted by a line of stakes bearing the impaled corpses of outlaws, bandits, river pirates and tomb-robbers. House-breakers, burglars and market thieves received swift justice in the courts, and brandings, floggings and executions were carried out in public, usually at the scene of the crime. Stolen goods were quickly recovered. Sobeck received a reward for these as well as the bounty posted on the heads of such malefactors. He celebrated my appointment by telling me to drink wine on a certain evening on the highest roof of the palace overlooking the city. I did so and sipped the richest wine from my cellar as I watched the fire flare and Aunt Isithia’s house go up in flames. I toasted and cheered the fierce red glow in the sky. Sobeck also sent information about the temple priests, that gaggle of hypocrites of whitewashed sepulchres. The shaven heads, led by Shishnak, were buying weapons and armour, increasing their guards and hiring mercenaries from as far afield as the Islands in the Great Green. Of course, they kept these out of Thebes and quartered them on their extensive estates along the Nile. I warned Ay. He just shrugged – ‘Mahu, the race hasn’t yet begun’ – and returned to the reports from his spies detailing the great wealth of Amun.
In the palace Akhenaten proved to be a doting father and loving husband. A certain distance, even coolness, had grown up between us but that was due to Ay’s influence as well as the distraction of his wives and family. At first Ay, as he’d confessed, had been opposed to me securing the post of Chief of Police. He’d wanted the office to go to another member of the Akhmin gang.
‘It wasn’t personal, dear boy,’ Ay whispered, ‘but in life, blood always comes first.’
In other areas Ay didn’t fail. Members of the far-flung Akhmin gang were appointed to posts whenever they fell vacant; if the Magnificent One tried to object, Queen Tiye always smoothed things over.
Nonetheless, I was not completely ignored. Akhenaten would sometimes go walking with me. He talked volubly or, indeed, lectured me about the Aten, his closeness to the Godhead and the truth of his destiny. I sensed he was holding back, due to the influence of Ay and Nefertiti, though sometimes the truth came out. He’d talk of dreams and visions of being visited by the Aten, or how he had flown on eagle’s wings beyond the Far Horizon.
‘I soared above the Eternal Green, Mahu.’ Akhenaten would stand, hands clasped, eyes half-closed. ‘I have looked on the face of the everlasting vision.’
At other times he’d not be so forthcoming, curt in his speech, stumbling in his walk, slow of thought, even indecisive in all his movements. I wondered how much of his mystical experiences, as well as his bouts of depression, were the result of Nefertiti’s potions and powders. In the two years following my appointment as Chief of Police, Nefertiti became pregnant twice again – a matter on which Akhenaten preened himself, hoping desperately for a son but hiding his disappointment at the birth of a third and fourth daughter.
Nefertiti became caught up in her role as wife and mother though she would also be constantly closeted with Akhenaten and her father as they dreamed and talked about change and revolution in Egypt. Oh, she was, and remained, always lovely, ever alluring, fair of form, gracious and good. Nevertheless, she did change, imperceptibly at first, this change expressing itself in a certain haughtiness in look, gesture and speech. She could be openly dismissive of Great Queen Tiye while the Magnificent One’s growing obsession with his eldest daughter became a constant subject for her mockery and salacious jokes. On state occasions the tables were now turned. There was no longer any laughter or giggling whispers about the Grotesque but bold mockery of Sitamun, who revelled in her status as the Great Wife of her own father. Tiye seemed to have given up any attempt to oppose her, being more content to hide in the shadows and wield what secret power she could. Sometimes, when Sitamun’s name was mentioned at a banquet or a meeting of the Royal Circle, Tiye would catch my eye, invoking memories of the night I’d peered into the House of Love whilst listening to her hissed instructions of what was to happen if Sitamun ever conceived a child. I would stare coldly back, quietly hoping that Tiye would, with her potions and powers, do her part to ensure her eldest daughter’s womb remained barren.
Of course neither Nefertiti nor Akhenaten had forgotten Shishnak, the High Priest; their support for the Aten was growing more visible. The Chapel of the Aten continued to be built at Karnak and both Akhenaten and Nefertiti often visited it, parading majestically past the shaven heads, stopping to comment how inscriptions to the Aten could be inscribed on that doorway, this pillar, that wall or pylon. It was all a mockery. Akhenaten had his own sun altar within his palace grounds. He also went out into the Western Red Lands to a place called the Valley of the Shadows in order to worship his god. Sometimes I accompanied him there. I always felt uneasy, as if what was about to happen there somehow stretched back from the future to touch my soul and warn my heart. The valley itself was narrow and sombre, steep-sided, its flank strewn with boulders, rough gorse, brambles and shifting shale. It had only one entrance, a narrow pass which fell steeply down to a snake-like track which curved and twisted, ending in an impasse of sheer rocks over which the Sun Disc would rise.
I always considered the valley to be a haunt of ghosts with its many caves and hollows on either side. Akhenaten saw it as a sacred place. He built a small altar at the far end, at the foot of the sheer cliffs, in order to sacrifice bread and wine to the Aten. He’d go out in his chariot, a few palace guards with Snefru’s retinue trotting behind him. They’d seal the entrance whilst Akhenaten went ahead with myself, Nefertiti, and sometimes Ay, along the floor of the valley to what he called ‘his sanctuary before the Sun Disc’. Such visits were a sinister experience conducted in that ghostly light which separates night from day. The bushes and boulders became skulking monsters or the hiding-place of some secret enemy. I had the entire valley investigated. The Medjay reported how witches and warlocks often met in its caves to practise their midnight rites. I could well believe it. One morning I smelt smoke and later that day I despatched Snefru to investigate and report back with true voice. Snefru confessed he was frightened, not so much by the human remains they had found in one cave, as they must have been years old. He claimed the hidden menace of the valley could be sensed even in the bright light of day. I advised Akhenaten to find a different place. He lost his temper, screaming at me that I was thick-headed and dull-witted. Later he apologised sweetly, saying how was I to know where the veil between him and his god became so thin?
Khiya was never taken on such pilgrimages even though she was deeply curious about her new husband’s religion. She’d often come tripping along the garden path, eyes all innocent in her round pretty face, a litany o
f questions about the gods and temples of Egypt.
‘Who is Mut?’ she’d ask. ‘What is her relationship with Amun, and is Khonsu their son? Do they rank higher than the Earth God Geb? Is the Sun Disc a god or just a symbol?’
Despite her puzzled looks and open eagerness to learn I was wary of her, yet Khiya stayed close to me, sending me gifts at New Year and on festival days. She always singled Karnak out for fussing as he grew from a mewling pup into a muscular, brown-haired hunting dog with swift legs, a strong jaw and fierce eyes. He followed me everywhere.
Khiya also developed a special fondness for Djarka, ‘my second shadow’ as Snefru jealously described him. Djarka’s added attraction to Khiya was a profound knowledge about herbs and a love of gardens as intense as Nefertiti’s. Khiya and her maid would insist that Djarka lecture them on the names and properties of different flowers and herbs. Khiya remained ever-smiling even though Nefertiti grew more haughty and distant, keen to emphasise her status and rights as Great Queen. Khiya submitted to all this, accepting the snubs, more concerned with her herbs or improving her knowledge of the Egyptian tongue. She was deeply interested in love poetry which she liked to declaim as the Orchestra of the Sun played softly in the background. Nefertiti resented such occasions for then Khiya, who had a beautiful voice, would come into her own. I can still recall certain lines which always charmed my heart.
What a heaven it might be
If our heart’s true wishes became real
To care only for you,
An eternal jubilee!
Sometimes Khiya’s mask slipped and she suffered the consequences. She once showed me angry bruises on her arms and shoulders, results of Nefertiti’s violent outbursts which intensified as her pregnancies advanced. On another occasion Khiya came and sat on a small stool watching me draft a proclamation.
‘What’s that?’ She pointed to the hieroglyphs of waving grass.
‘That’s seket – it stands for field.’
‘And heb?’
‘An alabaster bowl to drink from.’
‘Would you get me something to drink, Mahu?’ She placed soft fingers on my wrist. ‘No, not wine,’ she smiled. ‘Not now. The juice of the poppy which comes from the island of the daydream so I, too, can fly on eagle’s wings.’
I withdrew my hand. I recalled the Magnificent One with his stodgy thighs, dropping arse and fat-caked back, lumbering to meet that mysterious woman in the shadows. Was that Khiya? Had she come seeking the precious opiate which the Magnificent One loved so much?
‘Your Excellency,’ I replied formally, ‘if I had such a juice I, too, would have eagle’s wings.’
Khiya never referred to the matter again. I asked Djarka what he thought.
‘Like you, my lord,’ the title was always tinged with mockery, ‘Khiya is a spectator caught up in the whirl of this frenetic dance.’
‘Don’t talk riddles.’
‘I am not, my lord Mahu. Haven’t you ever wished to be a gentleman of ease living the simple but good life with a wife and family?’
‘I don’t know if I could. As the tree is planted,’ I quoted the proverb I had used with Sobeck, ‘so it grows.’
‘We are not trees, Lord Mahu, but souls who make choices, decisions.’
‘In which case I have made mine. Or had them made for me. I cannot, I will not, leave the dance.’
‘Never?’
‘No, no, no. Never.’
I often thought of that reply but Djarka spoke the truth. Despite my best efforts I was a spectator, a watcher, as when I peered through that secret flap into the Magnificent One’s House of Love. Would I spend my life peering out at the likes of Akhenaten and Nefertiti? Or be part of their lives even as I watched? I concluded both were true and often discussed this with Djarka. He soon proved his worth, a good companion who warmed my heart and eased the bitter cold in my soul: he was the younger brother I would have loved or the son I might have had. Oh, he was ruthless too, of course, and could kill in the blink of an eye. My gratitude to him for rescuing me from the assassin on the Nile was boundless yet there was more to Djarka than being a good soldier, a good retainer with a truthful heart and clever wits. He became my body servant, a trusted steward, faithful envoy and the nearest thing I ever had to a family. Djarka had a dry sense of humour, a wry attitude to the world. He trusted no one, not even himself, yet he was honest about it. Unlike me, he believed in an afterlife and an ever-seeing, ever-present God, a concept I never understood or accepted. He soon learned that theology bored me and would turn swiftly to other matters, being a superb archer and skilled slinger though he was hopeless with horses.
Akhenaten would sometimes journey up the Nile on the barge The Glory of Aten to visit the sacred place as he had done years earlier. I was never invited along. Only Ay, Nefertiti and their children, protected by Nakhtimin’s palace guards who were never allowed to land, accompanied them. During such absences I’d take a chariot out with Djarka as my companion. We’d gallop across the fringes of the desert, Karnak bounding behind us, trying to keep up and not be lost in a cloud of dust. I would put the chariot into a furious war charge, wheels rattling, carriage swaying, horses galloping full out. We’d hurtle across the hard ground until the horses became exhausted. Afterwards we’d eat and drink and discuss the affairs of the court. On other occasions we’d hunt gazelle or antelope, me guiding the chariot, Djarka standing beside me, feet apart, his great Syrian bow strung, Karnak loping alongside ready to bring down our wounded quarry. I loved the hunt for the sake of the chase but we could also talk, well away from walls and windows, free of servants and the lurking eavesdropper. Djarka was full of praise for Great Queen Tiye whom he worshipped. On Akhenaten he would not comment except to make an observation very similar to Sobeck’s.
‘He has a destiny. Our Prince has a vision for Egypt better than what has gone before but he must remember he is not that vision, only its prophet.’
As our friendship grew Djarka became more scathing about Ay and Nefertiti. He was aware of my infatuation with the Princess but trusted me, not hesitating to dismiss them both as ‘thieves from the Underworld’. I’d argue back but I could never change his mind.
‘They are opportunists,’ he told me, ‘infatuated with power along with the whole Akhmin gang.’
‘You are prejudiced.’
‘And you are infatuated, Mahu – a dangerous thing for a Chief of Police. Little Khiya knows the truth,’ he added, ‘that’s why she stares so empty-headed. Why do you think they trust you? Because they know they control you; you are their property, body and soul.’
Such arguments would become intense, but in the end Djarka would just laugh.
‘When all is said and done,’ he’d conclude, ‘it will be Akhenaten who decides.’
On other occasions we’d discuss the growing tensions in Thebes, a dull ache which never went away. Djarka was always solemn about that. ‘I agree with Queen Tiye,’ he’d murmur. ‘Whatever we do, it will end in blood.’
Month had followed month, season had followed season, year had followed year, full of rumour and gossip. I had become accustomed to it. When the bloodletting finally came, it began so softly, indistinct, like the rains do when a mere cloud, the size of a man’s hand, appears in the brilliant blue sky. In the second month of Peret, in the Season of the Sowing, our cloud appeared. A message came from Sobeck to meet him out at the Oasis of Strangers in the Western Red Lands. He was waiting for me and Djarka, his scorpion men all about him, armed to the teeth, guarding the oasis, its palm trees dying as the well which once served it slowly dried up. Sobeck escorted me deeper into the oasis while Djarka unhitched the horses and led them into the shade. Sobeck’s scorpion men drifted across to chat as well as to admire our harness and carriage.
‘Listen to this, Mahu.’ Sobeck put an arm across my shoulder. ‘One of my acquaintances, a merchant, trades in animal skins with the Libyans. He brought me a strange rumour that one of their most powerful tribes is moving South.’
Sobeck held up a hand. ‘These are buying up weapons, chariots and warhorses and they are not using animal skins to barter with, but this.’ He opened his left hand; the small six-sided ingot of gold winked in the sunlight. I plucked it up and weighed it in my hand.
‘Pure gold,’ Sobeck confirmed. ‘Freshly minted, unmarked. The Libyans are using that to buy arms from mercenaries along the coast of the Great Green.’
‘This comes from Egypt. Is it possible,’ I replied, ‘that only a few are being used?’
‘My merchant friend says the Libyans have plenty – and there is more.’ Sobeck gestured to the distant heat haze. ‘My friend became very curious, even more so, when this tribe or clan – well, at least its warriors, about five hundred in all – completely disappeared from their usual hunting grounds. Well now!’ He played with the ring in his earlobe. ‘My spies eventually learned from the womenfolk that, ten days ago, these warriors moved across into the Eastern Desert. They are still out there, a war-party with weapons and provisions.’
‘What about our scouts and patrols?’
‘How far do they go, Mahu – twenty, thirty miles at the most? The Libyans are further out.’
‘The Eastern Desert Lands are quiet.’
‘Precisely. You don’t expect to find a Libyan army across the Nile.’ Sobeck grinned. ‘Moreover, they’ve probably broken up into small cohorts. Oh well.’ He patted his flat stomach, brushing away the sweat. ‘I have also brought you a present – two, in fact.’
He called across the oasis. A scorpion man hurried over, placed two leather buckets at Sobeck’s feet and threw back the flaps. I flinched at the stench of corruption from the two severed heads; flies, whirling black dots, came buzzing out.
‘I think you have been introduced.’ Sobeck lifted the face of the old man, the Jackal’s assassin. I had told Sobeck the tale and ordered him to wipe out the entire clan.