by Paul Doherty
This dirty, unshaven, smelly priest began to shake so violently I though he was having a fit. I slapped him on the face and roared at one of Nebamun’s men to bring a wine skin. I forced open Khufu’s mouth and made him take two or three gulps. His trembling stopped.
‘I can tell you more, my lord,’ he blinked, ‘but not here. I am a priest. If I was given consideration …’
‘I’ll tell you what.’ I clicked my fingers and demanded a parasol to protect me from the sun. ‘You, Khufu, shall be my prisoner. I’ll keep you safe. I’ll even arrange for your release. Exile to some pleasant little village.’
Hope flared in those greedy little eyes.
‘On one condition: you tell me what I want to know.’
Khufu fell to his knees, clutching at my ankles, head banging against my legs as he promised to be my devoted slave. I kicked him aside and turned to the impostors. The woman was no beauty despite her resplendent hair so reminiscent of Nefertiti, the haunter of my heart: a rather coarse face beneath the paint, with slanted green eyes and full voluptuous lips now cracked and bleeding. Nebamun’s men had been poking and prodding her, and she’d screamed back; now she was not so defiant. I crouched down between her and the usurper.
‘It is finished,’ I whispered. ‘You know it is. So you had best tell me who you really are and why you are here.’
The woman, casting hateful glances at Aziru, began to chatter. I told her to shut up and forced back the man’s head. He was balding, with high cheekbones and lightly sunken cheeks; his bony, angular body was now stripped of all its finery. I noticed tattoo marks on his arms and chest.
‘You’re Babylonian?’
The man nodded, his small, dark eyes fearful; he had a slight cast in one. He and his so-called Queen were easy to break, both gabbling together, wanting to please, hoping to be shown some mercy. Now and again Aziru tried to protest, but I slapped him quiet and listened intently to the usurper. Both he and his Queen were Babylonians by birth, wandering musicians and actors who had come to the attention of Prince Aziru. They had been drawn into his plot, given the dress and ornaments of Pharaoh and schooled in the ways of the imperial Egyptian court. After that they had become the standard around which all the rest of the rebels had gathered, being visited by Hittite dignitaries and envoys. I learned that the rebel army had been financed by Aziru’s allies in Canaan with gold and silver bullion dispatched by the Hittite court. In truth, the pair were nothing more than puppets, who had revelled in their moment of glory and power. The more they chattered and gabbled, the more I became aware of how Aziru, now bound silently beside them, was the moving spirit behind all that had happened. A man who dreamed of throwing off Egyptian rule and proclaiming himself king in Canaan. He wanted to bind its tribes together with a vision of being one kingdom, Egypt’s peer and equal, playing off one great power against another: the Babylonians, the Hittites, the Mitanni, the Egyptians. It also became apparent that, apart from their charades, this precious pair knew very little. I handed them over to Nebamun’s men to guard and pushed Aziru into my chariot, binding his wrist to the rails. The squadron reformed, and leaving the dead to rot under the sun, we made our way back to the camp.
Sobeck rode in the chariot beside me, Khufu crouching at his feet, hands and feet bound. Aziru was different. He showed no fear, and in return for petty courtesies, such as the occasional mouthful of wine or water, he talked seriously about what had happened. Despite the heat and dust, the numbing sense of weakness and exhaustion from the events of the last two days, I was fascinated by his confession.
‘Did you plan the attack on Memphis?’ I asked.
Aziru nodded.
‘Did Meryre know of it?’
‘No, no.’ Aziru steadied himself as the chariot lurched. ‘That was my decision. We knew you were coming north and would leave the Prince at the City of the Aten. So I sent bargeloads of mercenaries to lie in wait. It was easy enough. The captains were provided with false letters of commission. They were to pretend they were mercenaries journeying to Thebes to reinforce some garrison along the Nile.’
‘You know the attack failed?’
Aziru glanced at me and smiled.
‘Yes, yes. Our men were told to watch your flotilla carefully and seize their chance. Apparently you did not stop at the City of the Aten but journeyed direct to the outskirts of Memphis. The commander of our flotilla must have thought there was a chance of achieving his task, though if I had been there I would have counselled against it. Memphis is a garrison city, isn’t it? Too dangerous, far too dangerous. Ah well!’
‘And these letters and proclamations?’ I asked. ‘You were in possession of Pharaoh Akenhaten’s seal, his cartouche?’
‘We had the contents of his writing office.’ Aziru laughed. ‘Some of his scribes, when they fled the City of the Aten, took everything they could lay their hands on. It was they who gave me the idea, one I shared with the Hittite court.’ He threw his head back and laughed. ‘And now you see the results.’
‘Did Meryre tell you that we were coming north?’ I asked.
‘Meryre? No.’ Aziru shook his head. ‘Your friend Sobeck informed me of how you had seized our records during the battle. You must know, my lord Mahu, who truly informed us that you were coming.’
‘Did that person tell you directly?’
Aziru’s smile faded and he shook his head. ‘Find out for yourself,’ he muttered. ‘But at some time or other, my lord Mahu, as well you know, everybody in the city of Thebes dispatched letters north to me. Some were defiant, others, how can I put it, more diplomatic and probing. You wouldn’t say they were traitors.’ He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. ‘But you could see they were thinking about it.’
‘And what was your plan?’
‘To hold the Delta and advance south. The only reason we didn’t is that we were fearful of the garrison at Memphis. Khufu and Djoser had described Horemheb; that’s where we made our mistake.’ He added bitterly, ‘Do tell the good general, if I had my way we would have assassinated him and his dark shadow, Rameses.’
‘You’ll expect no mercy?’ I asked.
Aziru shrugged. ‘I have thrown the dice and I have lost. I’ll try to bargain for my life, but there again, I won’t beg. I am not like Khufu the priest. I won’t wet myself and spoil your chariot.’
‘And the treasure?’ I asked. ‘Rumours abound that Pharaoh Akenhaten’s treasure, or at least part of it, disappeared from the City of the Aten.’
‘I know nothing of that,’ Aziru declared. ‘But I’ll tell you what I did. I sat in my palace, I watched and listened. I learned how the Great Pharaoh of Egypt was lost in his own religious dreams, how he would not send troops across the Sinai, so I thought I’d pipe a tune for all of us to dance to. It wasn’t hard playing one chief off against another, one petty prince being drawn into a blood feud with his neighbour. The Hittites, too, became interested. Like men watching a dog fight, they drew closer and eventually wanted to place wagers. Matters quickened. We heard your Pharaoh was dead, buried in his strange city; how his wife had attempted a coup but failed. I was joined by Khufu and Djoser; others drifted to my court. Meryre in Egypt assured us of his support.’ He shrugged. ‘And the rest you know. If Fortune had not been so fickle, you would have been in my chariot bound hand and foot, the heads of Horemheb and Nebamun perched on poles. But as for your Pharaoh and his treasure?’ He shook his head. ‘I know nothing of them.’
He chattered on as if we were old comrades discussing tactics. He laughed when I told him how Sobeck and I had entered his camp as mercenaries and fooled Captain Usurek.
‘You were lucky,’ he replied. ‘If I had known about that, I would have questioned you more closely.’
I was intrigued by Aziru: small and fat, to all intents and appearances an effete Canaan prince, with his curled hair and beard still smelling faintly of perfume and oil, his plump cheeks, small black eyes and woman’s mouth. Yet he was tougher than he looked, his heart as sly as any
I had met. He was also curious, asking questions about the Prince Tutankhamum and the Princess Ankhesenamun; these two had created divisions between Aziru and his Egyptian allies.
‘What we intended,’ he confessed, ‘was to humiliate the power of Egypt. To defeat its armies in open battle, sack its cities, plunder its temples.’ He smiled thinly. ‘Or at least some of them. Teach the land of Egypt a lesson it would never forget. Stir up rebellion in Kush. Draw in the Libyans.’
‘And then?’ I asked.
‘Demand that Egypt withdraw completely from Canaan and recognise our right to determine our own future; to make alliances and treaties with whomever we please. To be free of tribute and taxes, of sending hostages and goods into the ever-full belly of Thebes.’
‘And in Egypt itself?’ I asked.
‘That did not concern us. There was no visible heir except for the young boy. The Hittites hoped for civil war, that Egypt would divide from within.’
I reined in the chariot. ‘So you had no ambition about who would wear the Two Crowns?’
‘What did it matter to us?’ Aziru sneered. ‘We’d support the temple dancers as long as they were useful. Meryre nursed a great dream. Isn’t it true in the history of your people,’ he stared directly at me, ‘that a high priest became Pharaoh? Meryre had visions of marrying the Princess Ankhesenamun!’
‘And Tutankhamun?’ I asked.
Aziru steadied himself with his hands. ‘Mahu, cut my bonds! I am not going to jump down.’
I slowed the horses and slashed the coarse ropes which bound his wrists. He thanked me with his eyes, rubbed his arms and picked up the wine skin.
‘The Prince Tutankhamun?’ I repeated.
‘Now that, my lord, is debatable. The likes of Meryre and Khufu had their own plans about what would happen once they had seized power in Egypt. Djoser regarded Tutankhamun as a pretender.’ He smiled at my surprise.
‘But he was Akenhaten’s son.’
‘Djoser dismissed him as a by-blow of the Mitanni monkey.’
‘The Lady Khiya?’ I murmured.
I recalled Djoser’s dying words, and quietly vowed that Meryre would pay for his treason. If Aziru was telling the truth, and I suspected he was, Meryre would have shown little mercy to that young boy. I questioned him again, but Aziru had told me all he had learned. He turned to other matters, grudgingly praising Horemheb’s speed and military skill.
‘I never imagined,’ he admitted, ‘we’d be attacked so fast. Now, my lord Mahu, what will happen to me? Trial for treason?’
His question was answered as soon as we reached Horemheb’s camp. Rameses had now arrived, bringing a whole host of mercenaries with him, as well as units of regiments he had collected on the way. I was pleased to see some of the soldiers I had left at Memphis; they greeted me, toasting me with their cups, hailing me as one of the great heroes. Of course they were drunk, enjoying the spoils of victory. They, like the inhabitants of Sile, were now sightseers to the battlefield, which Horemheb had turned into a plain of desolation, a sea of black ash; all grass, trees and vegetation were burnt. Apart from mounds and cracked masonry, nothing was left of the usurper’s camp or that hideous Mastaba where he had tortured his prisoners. The army had pulled back close to the Nile, taking advantage of the greenery and shade. Some troops had already been dispatched south. Other units fanned out across the Delta, searching for any fugitives.
I received an invitation to join Horemheb and Rameses in their pavilion. I told Sobeck to keep the leather sack and Khufu under strict watch, to wait till my men sobered up and then move away from the camp, where both those precious records and my prisoner would be safer.
Horemheb was still basking in his triumph, Rameses lavishing flattery after flattery upon him. They were both in their cups, staggering to their feet to grasp my hand. I told them that Khufu was my prisoner. Rameses made to object, but Horemheb nodded his agreement. They also questioned Aziru. Despite my protest, Rameses punched him in the face and chest, similar indignities being inflicted upon the usurper and his woman. Rameses forced the latter to kneel, pushing his groin into her face before he tired of the game and ordered both to be shackled to the standards outside the General’s tent.
‘My lord Aziru.’ Horemheb clapped the Canaanite on the shoulder and tugged viciously at his beard. ‘The Royal Circle have made a decision regarding you.’
‘I am to die.’ Aziru had conducted himself with dignity throughout Rameses’ insults.
‘No, no, my lord.’ Horemheb, still tugging at his beard, forced him to turn. ‘The Lord Ay has made known the judgement of the Royal Circle. It is as I thought. Hittite prisoners and chieftains are to be summarily executed, as are mercenary captains. Their followers are to be sent to the mines, and the usurper is to be loaded with chains. But you, my lord, you may return to Canaan, without your eyes.’
The blinding took place an hour later. Despite all my protests, a glowing red-hot knife was held to Aziru’s eyes. Afterward he sat, face all bandaged. He was still fighting back the sobs of pain as he was loaded into a cart with wine, water and provisions, given an escort of his own mercenaries and, to a chorus of catcalls, sent on his way.
Apiabu
(Ancient Egyptian for ‘the Counter of Hearts’)
Chapter 9
We travelled downstream, harps and lutes in hand,
We are bound for the white walls of Memphis.
I’ll say to Ptah, lord of the light,
Grant me my beloved tonight.
The river is as wide,
Ptah is its reed thicket,
The Lady Neith its bouquet.
She is a dew goddess adorned with lotus buds.
The Golden Goddess who rejoices!
The land grows bright with her beauty,
Memphis is a gold bowl of fruits
Set before Ptah of the pleasant face.
The steersman sang the famous song as our barges, festooned with streamers and garlands, nosed their way towards the quayside of Memphis. The White-Walled City’s famous docks, wharves and shipyards were known as Nereu Nefer, the Place of the Beautiful Sailing. We had passed the greenery of the city’s surrounding fields, with the pyramids in the far distance glowing pink-gold in the sunlight. Trumpets blared, cymbals clashed and the crowds along the shoreline caught the words of the steersmen and sang them back. A rain of flowers descended on our barges and the marshy odour was hidden beneath the smell of frankincense, cassia and incense. On the principal quayside, Ay, Maya, Huy and others of the Royal Circle clustered to greet us under a gold-red fringed canopy. Just before I disembarked I looked back. The host of other war barges, like great fat water beetles, were taking up their positions ready to move in.
As I climbed the steps behind the rest, I glimpsed Pentju, rather lonely; he stood at an angle, as if to keep the Prince Tutankhamun in view. The heir of Egypt’s glory stood under his own little parasol, his hand held by God’s Father, Ay. Tutankhamun was dressed in a snow-white tunic, gold-embossed sandals, silver armlets on his thin arms and a necklace of cornelian, which I thought too heavy, around his neck. Ankhesenamun, in her thick wig, a gold gorget around her throat, gauffered linen robes billowing about her, looked as beautiful as a goddess. She stood on Ay’s left, holding her grandfather’s hand, the other busy with a red and blue fan. She caught my eye and winked impishly.
Ay hadn’t changed. Gold necklaces shimmered at his throat, his dark saturnine face watchful. He gave me the kiss of greeting amidst a gust of perfume, clasping my arms with his beringed fingers. I immediately suspected what was happening. Ay was surrounded by fan-bearers and flunkeys, set apart from the rest of the Royal Circle, emphasising his own power and dignity by holding the hands of the boy and the young woman who were to be Egypt’s king and queen. He was reminding everyone that these were his offspring. I looked over Ay’s shoulder. Djarka stood at the back of the crowd, fearful of meeting my eyes. I moved on to greet the rest: Huy, then Maya, who almost pushed me aside to grasp Sobeck’s ha
nd. Of course, Horemheb was the hero of the day. Ay greeted him formally, bestowing upon him the gold collar of bravery and the silver bees of valour. The rest of the Royal Circle gathered around to offer their own personal congratulations whilst the ceremonial chariots were prepared. Once they were ready, we solemnly processed through the city to the Temple of Hathor of the Southern Sycamore, through the ankh-tay, the holy district, past the Temples of the King, the Pool of Pedjest-she, then round to visit the Temple of the Lady Neith of the White Walls and down to the central Temple of Ptah.
The entire city had turned out to throw flowers and greenery, lift bowls of smoking incense and intone the paean of praise. They gathered along the avenues before racing across the green fields of wheat and barley and through the palm groves to greet the victorious general yet again. We passed granaries full of barley and corn, open so each citizen could receive a free cup, whilst tables had been set up to offer cheap wine and beer to slake the throats of the excited citizens. Ay had done well. He wanted to show one of the greatest cities of Egypt that Ma’at had returned. Peace had been established. Harmony reigned.
Ay rode in the first chariot, pulled by jet-black Syrian mares. Horemheb processed slightly to his right. These were followed by chariots bearing other of Horemheb’s high-ranking officers, as well as members of the Royal Circle. After them came line after line of prisoners. The usurper and his woman had been virtually stripped naked, smeared with dung and placed on a farmer’s cart pulled by oxen. Around their necks were placards proclaiming their crimes. As they passed, the mob’s cheers turned to howls of protest: rocks, rotting fruit, anything the crowd could lay their hands on were thrown at them. Both prisoners sat in a huddle whilst behind them tramped line after line of captives, necks yoked, hands and feet manacled. We processed past the great blue enamelled doors of the Holy Places, their copper-plated gates being opened to the sound of gongs and cymbals.