The Season of the Hyaena (Ancient Egyptian Mysteries)

by Paul Doherty

  I reflected on how Ay had tried to drive me from the Royal Circle and I knew why I had resisted. First, my loyalty to the Prince, the living clasp between myself and what had gone before. Secondly – yes, there was another reason, one I’ve told my own interrogators, so simple, so lucid, almost childlike. True, I had nowhere to go and nothing else to do, but that was not all. The true reason was that I was curious. I was like a man who wanders into a marketplace and watches the most dramatic quarrel take place. Insults fly, secrets are revealed, grudges surface, and although it has nothing to do with you, you are still caught up in the drama; you want to stay and see what happens.

  I finished my palm wine and, clutching my cudgel, walked out of the city through the great gateway dominated by carved figures of Ptah, arms crossed, his unseeing eyes staring out over the Black Lands. Many of the peasants were leaving now the markets were closed. They were sleepy after their wine and beer, hearts full of wonderment at the doings of the Great Ones of the land. I listened to their chatter, the rumours that Akenhaten had returned. The Great Heretic would not leave them alone! They talked of him as if he were some evil spirit out of the west, a sombre ghost. I smiled to myself. The legends and stories were already being born, the truth slowly being twisted.

  I approached Nebamun’s country mansion, that elegant house perched on the banks of the Nile yet shielded from it by long grass, bushes and clumps of trees. Now it lay all serene, but I recalled the frenzied attack by the usurper’s mercenaries, how close they had come to victory. Nebamun certainly had not forgotten it. Members of his regiment camped amongst the trees, as did my mercenaries round their camp fires, still celebrating the day’s events. Their captain rose to greet me, aggrieved that I had wandered into the city alone, remonstrating that it wasn’t safe. I agreed with him. He pointed to the two great pillars leading into the courtyard. At the base of each Nebamun had placed a skull, a grisly reminder of what had happened. I told the man to keep close watch and wandered into the courtyard, where more of my men sprawled in the shade. The captain came running after me, saying how members of Ay’s retinue had brought the Prince back. I found him and Djarka in their old quarters. Colonel Nebamun was still absent at the victory banquet and his chamberlain fussed about me till I snapped at him to leave me alone. Tutankhamun came to greet me, dancing from foot to foot, little arms held high. Djarka still looked downcast and apologetic. I told him that the matter was finished.

  ‘You could not have opposed the Lord Ay,’ I reassured him. ‘Perhaps I should not have left you, but there again, I had no choice. Now come, something to eat and drink?’

  Djarka went down to the kitchens and brought back food and wine, with apple juice for the Prince. I sat and listened to Tutankhamun’s chatter, his constant stream of questions. How many had I killed in the Great Battle? Was I a Great Warrior? Could I show him how the battle went?

  I arranged his toy soldiers and chariots and gave him the most vivid description, whilst he sat round-eyed, sipping at the juice and nibbling at sesame cake. I took Djarka aside and asked him if there had been recurrences of that trance-like state when the Prince seemed not to recognise anything or anyone. Djarka shook his head. I asked him to bring up the box of shets, the small tortoises which fascinated both me and Tutankhamun, I had brought these from Thebes. The boy loved them. I had painted their shells different colours. We shared a secret. Each tortoise was named after a member of the Royal Circle: Horemheb, Rameses, Meryre, Tutu, Huy and Maya. The last was the fattest. Tutankhamun thought this was amusing, and often giggled behind his fingers. I watched the little things crawl over the floor.

  ‘My lord?’

  ‘Yes, Uncle Mahu?’

  ‘Where are Meryre and Tutu? You have two missing.’

  ‘I drowned them.’ Tutankhamun stood, hands hanging by his sides. He must have caught my look, for his lower lip came out and began to quiver. ‘They were traitors,’ he declared. ‘They were no longer members of the Royal Circle, so I drowned them in a pool and buried them in the garden.’

  I glanced sharply at Djarka, who just shook his head.

  ‘Did I do wrong, Uncle Mahu?’

  I was going to say yes, when I thought of all the men I had killed in battle or executed silently and swiftly in the darkness of the night. I stretched out my arms. He ran towards me.

  ‘They were only tortoises,’ I whispered.

  ‘They were traitors,’ he declared fiercely. ‘They would have killed you, Uncle Mahu.’

  Whilst the tortoises crawled about, I arranged the board and pieces for a game of Senet and played until the Prince’s eyes grew heavy. Djarka scooped him up and took him to bed, and I went along to the other side of the house. Nebamun’s chamberlain assured me that Khufu’s room was closely guarded. The prisoner hadn’t been troubled, but had been given food and drink, which the chamberlain had tasted first. I opened the door and peered in. Khufu lay on his bed, snoring like a pig.

  Nebamun returned slightly drunk, a floral collar about his neck, a lotus behind his ear, whilst the cone of perfume bestowed on every banquet guest had melted so he reeked like a temple girl. He was assisted by two of his staff officers, who helped him into the hall where, perched drunkenly on a stool, he bawled for a jug of light beer. He opened the small casket he was holding.

  ‘Look, Mahu.’ The old soldier swayed dangerously. ‘Look what they have given me.’

  It was a gold-bejewelled collar of bravery, which proclaimed Nebamun as ‘Great of Valour’. He put this back into the casket and demanded that I join him in a drink. Once again he recounted his version of the battle, the glories of Horemheb’s victory, and my, as he put it, major part in it. Nebamun was a true soldier, a veritable treasure house of funny stories which mocked both himself and his superiors. He chattered about the banquet too: I gathered the rest were still feasting.

  ‘But,’ Nebamun tapped the side of his nose, ‘they are not as drunk as they pretend. They want you to join them tomorrow, just before dawn, for a hunting party. Now why should they want to go hunting?’

  ‘Because that’s what we always do, that’s what we have always done, the Children of the Kap, the Royal Circle: we go out in the desert where there are no ears, no eyes, no scribes.’

  ‘I thought as much,’ Nebamun drunkenly agreed. ‘They want to discuss the saati, the usurper.’

  ‘They say you saw the True Pharaoh?’

  ‘I didn’t call him the True Pharaoh.’ Nebamun sobered up. ‘He was not my True Pharaoh. I glimpsed Akenhaten and I spoke with true voice.’ He waved his finger at me and recounted the same story Nakhtimin had told me.

  ‘But are you sure?’

  ‘A mere chance,’ he slurred. ‘You know how it is, Mahu. You see something, at first you don’t recognise or don’t realise what’s happening. It was only afterwards.’ He shook his head. ‘I hadn’t been drinking. I know what I saw. Tall he was, angular, chest sticking out, his belly like a pouch, the wide hips, but above all those spindly fingers, those eyes, the line of his face, the long jaw. He was fingering a circle of turquoise beads. I once stood near him in Thebes.’ He smiled. ‘Or rather I nosed the ground before him. I took my opportunity to study the man who was busy turning everything on its head. I remember faces. I would remember his. I wish I had captured him, but …’ He shrugged.

  ‘You could have been mistaken?’

  Nebamun smiled. ‘No, no, my lord. Ay has already been busy searching for the truth. The usurper and his accomplices, including some of the mercenary captains, have been taken to the Kheb-t and put to the torture.’

  ‘My lord Ay is impatient.’

  ‘He brought his own torturer with him,’ Nebamun replied. ‘The Usernu.’

  I recognised the title for the Chief Torturer from the Temple of Osiris. He was one of Ay’s minions, who governed the hideous dungeons and chambers beneath the House of Secrets.

  ‘I thought you’d know,’ Nebamun drawled. ‘Isn’t the House of Secrets in your care?’

  ‘It�
�s supposed to be,’ I agreed. ‘A minor bone of contention between myself and Lord Ay, but we have reached a pact. I don’t interfere with him and he certainly doesn’t interfere with me. So, what have these torturers learnt?’

  Nebamun held up a forefinger and thumb, as if measuring something small. ‘Tiny nuggets,’ he murmured. ‘But one thing is certain. According to everything Ay has learnt – and he’s already telling this to the Royal Circle, making no secret of it – Akenhaten has been seen in Canaan. They believe he is still there. Now, what do you think of that?’

  ‘It could be true,’ I agreed. ‘But if Meryre can play with impostors, so can Lord Ay.’

  The old colonel drew his brows together.

  ‘I trust you, Colonel.’

  He leaned over and patted me affectionately on the knee.

  ‘And you are not a bad fellow either, Mahu, for a policeman.’

  ‘What if,’ I continued, ‘Ay has decided to play the same game? To spread rumours that Akenhaten is still alive. It will bind the Royal Circle together to face a common enemy.’

  Nebamun scratched his head. ‘I am only a soldier, Mahu. No, that’s just an excuse. I see your point. If Egypt is strong, united, the likes of myself will kill its enemies.’

  ‘After I left here,’ I asked, changing the subject, ‘how was Meryre?’

  ‘Very quiet.’ Nebamun blinked. ‘Yes, very quiet, rather subdued. I made sure his armed retainers were kept well away, though I allowed him to meet with his gaggle of priests. He was …’ Nebamun blew his lips out, ‘you’d think he was waiting or listening for something. He asked my permission to look at the per-met cha.’

  ‘You have a library?’ I asked.

  ‘Just a small one. Documents, books, items I have picked up. I like to read, Lord Mahu. I understand you are a poet.’

  ‘And what did Meryre want?’

  ‘He said he was interested in the Amnett, the Land of the Dead. I asked him again. He replied the same. He wanted to see the Land of the Dead.’

  ‘Do you know what he meant?’

  Nebamun shrugged. ‘You know these priests. They babble on about this and that. I saw no harm in it. The library is a small chamber at the back of the house. It’s dark and dry, suitable for manuscripts. The only ones to go in are myself and the cat; it lives there to keep the mice down.’

  ‘And Meryre’s escape?’

  Nebamun pulled a face. ‘You know how it is, my lord Mahu. God’s Father Ay arrived, all-important, but by then I had left. We had received our orders to march and I was ready to go. One night Meryre and his companions were here, the next they were gone.’

  ‘Do you think Lord Ay arranged their escape?’

  ‘The thought has occurred to me, as well as to Lord Horemheb.’ Nebamun grinned. ‘Perhaps Lord Ay did not wish Meryre to be put to torture? After all …’ Nebamun got to his feet, dropping his beer jug, which I caught and put on the table. ‘Thank you. After all,’ he walked to the door, ‘it would be highly embarrassing to execute members of the Royal Circle, not to mention a high priest of the Aten cult. Anyway, I am to bed.’

  I waited for a while, then went down across the house to the small chamber on the second floor which served as Nebamun’s library. I asked the chamberlain to bring oil lamps. I lit these. The cat, sleeping in a corner, sprang to its feet and padded silently around its kingdom. It was a typical soldier’s room, everything neatly filed and ordered. Scrolls were kept in baskets of thick stiffened reeds. The puffs of dust when I lifted the lid showed these had not been disturbed for weeks. I crossed to the shelves where other papyrus rolls had been placed in their niches, each carefully labelled. Again the polished sycamore wood was covered with a fine layer of dust. Carrying a lamp, I checked every ledge until I found where the dust had been disturbed. I pulled out the document. It had been rolled up in a rather haphazard way; this was the document Meryre had looked at. I laid it out on the table and was rather disappointed, for it was only a map. The hieroglyphs across the top proclaimed it to be the property of the Aauaaul-Shet Aiu, the Gods of the Secret Doors and Ways, a rather pompous label for nothing more than a crude map of Egypt, Sinai and Canaan. The Nile was clearly delineated, as were the various cities, the Great Green to the north, the lands of the Hittites and Mitanni, the Sinai peninsula and the Horus Road. Moving an oil lamp, I realised Meryre had marked where the City of the Aten stood.

  ‘Why did he do that?’ I whispered.

  I searched the library again, but could find nothing else. I went down to the kitchen and told the sleepy-eyed cooks to bring a light meal of beef grilled over charcoal and sprinkled with herbs, fresh bread and a jug of wine to the eating hall. I went and kicked Khufu awake. He was drowsy, rather slurred, but I told him to wash and meet me for something to eat. A short while later we dined in the light of oil lamps. Khufu was ravenous, eating quickly, drinking the wine so deeply I told him to be careful. He stopped, his mouth full of juice.

  ‘You will keep your word, Lord Mahu?’

  ‘Your life, limb and security are guaranteed,’ I replied. ‘I swear that by earth and sky. You will be given money, provisions and turned out to make your own way in the world. Now, tell me, Khufu, when that happens, where will you go?’

  He swallowed hard.

  ‘Or let me be more blunt. If you wished to follow Meryre, where would you go?’

  He stared at the wine cup. ‘If,’ he slurred, ‘if I had to go, I’d travel to one of the villages in the Eastern Desert.’

  I recalled the map Meryre had been studying.

  ‘And then you’d travel north?’

  Khufu nodded his agreement. ‘Go east, then north to avoid the Medjay, across the desert and into Canaan; that’s the safest place for the likes of us. We’d still find refuge at the Hittite court but it would be perilous. There are bound to be rewards posted, whilst Prince Aziru is a broken reed. However, I will not join them.’ He gazed bleakly at me. ‘When you release me, Lord Mahu, I shall journey south to Kush. Find some small temple town and end my days in peace.’

  ‘What would Meryre mean by the Land of the Dead? He wasn’t talking about the Far Horizon?’

  ‘I heard him talk about the Sea of the Dead, a passing reference, a great inland lake in northern Canaan. The water is so salted it contains no life and lies surrounded by harsh deserts. Local wanderers claim that two great cities, Sodom and Gomorrah, once stood there before they were destroyed by fire from heaven which scorched the land and turned the water to poison.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  Khufu shook his head.

  ‘And these rumours about Akenhaten being seen in Canaan?’

  ‘As you say, my lord Mahu, they were rumours. A search was made …’

  I leaned across the table, my knife held only inches from his eyes.

  ‘My lord Mahu, I tell the truth. Why should I lie? Prince Aziru searched but could find nothing; that’s why the impostor emerged.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘I was excluded from the War Council, as was Djoser. I suspect they hoped that if they were successful the real Akenhaten would emerge later. My task was to proclaim that the usurper was the True Pharaoh, nothing more, nothing less.’

  ‘Tell me.’ I withdrew the knife. ‘Djoser was killed out along the Horus Road, but before he died, he babbled about the physician Pentju, how Meryre was very keen to draw this physician into his plotting. Now Pentju is a very powerful man, a great physician, but why would the conspirators be so interested in him?’

  ‘He was another member of the Royal Circle?’ Khufu stammered. ‘He had been guardian of the Prince Tutankhamun, a friend of his mother?’

  I caught it, the shift of fear in his eyes. My only regret is that I never forced him then.

  ‘I want you to tell me.’ I put down the knife and pointed across the chamber to where I’d placed a writing palette with papyrus pens and inkpot. ‘I want you to go over there and write down everything you know, from the moment the City of the Aten began to crumble.’ I seized his wrists. ‘I want
to know everything. You have slept well. Your hunger has been satisfied and your belly has taken enough wine. I shall wait.’

  Khufu rose to his feet and scampered across.

  I have the document still. I have kept it close: let Khufu tell his own story.

  heri-sesh

  (Ancient Egyptian for ‘chief scribe’)

  Chapter 11

  Khufu’s Tale

  I have taken a great oath upon my life to tell the truth, or what I can, about the Pharaoh Akenhaten, He-who-is-pleasing-to-the-Aten. I am Khufu, son of Iputy, a priest of Isis in the city of Thebes. I studied at the House of Life and later moved to a small temple of Aten in the Malkata Palace, where I was noted for my industry and my skill, my dedication to letters and my submission to the will of the Divine One. I am a priest who has studied the sacred writings of Thoth but one who came to recognise his error that all such Gods are shadows, phantasms of men’s imaginations. They are the darkness which comes before the dawn and the rising of the Aten, the Sun Disc, above the horizon. I revered the symbol of the All-Seeing, All-Knowing Invisible God, who has commanded us not to make an image of Him but has chosen to reveal Himself in our hearts through His son Akenhaten. I renounced my errors in the presence of the Divine One and his Great Queen Nefertiti, the beautiful woman, She-who-is-pleasing-to-the-Aten. I confessed the mistakes of my life and dedicated myself to the adoration and service of the All-Seeing God.