The Season of the Hyaena (Ancient Egyptian Mysteries)

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Your sacrifices?’ I asked.

  ‘We sacrifice animals, just as the sun sets.’

  ‘Have you ever been there?’

  Djarka shook his head. ‘I have heard the stories. It lies directly east. Draw a line from the City of the Aten towards the Great Green, follow that line and you’ll reach this place of slaughter.’

  ‘A place of slaughter,’ I repeated. ‘You know, Djarka, and so do I, that that’s where Meryre and his people died, those who fled Memphis and Thebes as well as the great fortress at Buhen.’

  ‘I agree.’ Djarka tapped the map. ‘I suspect Tutu and Meryre, probably helped by their own people, the Apiru, went north to the oasis near the Valley of the Grey Dawn. They may have been given an escort, which turned on them, or a force was already waiting for them.’

  ‘Horemheb?’ I asked.

  Djarka sucked on his lips, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his forearms. ‘Mert is one of my people, probably a daughter of one of the guides. Whoever is responsible for the massacre committed treachery. They wouldn’t trust Horemheb or Rameses. The killers posed as friends and allies.’

  ‘Ay,’ I breathed. ‘He’s the only one who could do that. He could command his brother Nakhtimin.’ I beat a tattoo on the map with my finger. ‘What I think happened is that Ay allowed Meryre to escape from Memphis, at the same time giving Tutu safe conduct to the Valley of the Grey Dawn. Once there, they were massacred. Ay demands Akenhaten’s memory be forgotten. He doesn’t want the Atenists fleeing into Canaan and stirring up more trouble, so he decided to wipe them out, root and branch. That’s my theory. Your people still consider Ay one of them?’

  ‘My lord Ay.’ Djarka smiled sourly. ‘My Lord Ay is whatever he wishes to be. Of Apiru descent, certainly of the tribe of Israar, but more Egyptian than the Egyptians. He is not interested in legends, or Gods, only in power.’

  I returned to studying the map.

  ‘But Ay’s a politician,’ I continued. ‘If you know the legends and stories of your people, so does he.’

  ‘Before Ay left Ahkmin,’ Djarka gestured round the muniment room, ‘he had all the records of our people destroyed. I suspect that he had the same done in the libraries, record offices and archives of Thebes.’

  I rolled the map up and sat on a stool, staring at the floor. Ay would cover his tracks carefully. He had to assure Horemheb, the priests and generals of Thebes that the days of Akenhaten were finished, that a new Pharaoh would rule Egypt. Horemheb would accept that. I recalled Rameses’ cold, cruel face, his shrewd eyes. If I was following this path about the true source of Akenhaten’s Great Heresy, then it was only a matter of time before Rameses stumbled upon it himself.

  ‘When I questioned Khufu, yes,’ I beat the map against the floor, ‘when I questioned Khufu, he talked of Akenhaten’s prophecies. How Pharaoh wrote down his visions, and entrusted them to the mysterious Watchers. So there are records left. But where, Djarka?’

  My lieutenant remained stony-faced and cold-eyed.

  ‘Do you know anything?’ I snapped.

  ‘Master, if I did,’ Djarka replied, ‘I assure you, you’d be the first to know.’

  I caught the sarcasm in his voice, and standing up, thrust the map back into his hands.

  ‘You, Djarka, represent the danger. Rameses would regard you as much of a threat to the power of Egypt as Akenhaten. You only tell me what you have to. What do you think will really happen, Djarka?’ I stepped closer. ‘Tell me now, in this room, dark and empty; our only witnesses are the oil lamps and the mice which scurry about. Tell me now, not as my servant or my lieutenant but as my friend. I ask you to speak with true voice.’

  Djarka opened his mouth to reply.

  ‘The truth.’ I caught him by the wrist. ‘Tell me the truth, Djarka. Be the good archer you are, hit the mark full in the centre. You have not told me everything, have you?’

  ‘My lord, I have told you what I can.’

  ‘My name is Mahu. I am not your lord. I am asking you as one friend to another.’

  Djarka gave a great sigh and slumped down on the stool I had vacated.

  ‘What I believe is that one day the prophecies will come true. My people will become a great power in Egypt. One day we will leave the banks of the Nile for the lands promised in Canaan. But when and where? The times and seasons? Only our nameless god knows that.’ He shook his head. ‘More than this I cannot, will not say.’

  I left Djarka in the muniment room and wandered the palace. Undoubtedly, Meryre and all his people had died in a hideous massacre. Ay was attempting to close the door on the past, lock and seal it, but the likes of Djarka proved the roots were still there. It was only a matter of time before fresh shoots appeared. I became so agitated I decided to go into the city, carried on a litter, its curtains half-drawn. I would visit one of the pleasure houses. As I journeyed, I listened to the sounds of the city, glimpsing the passing scenes through a gap in the curtains. I tried to calm my mind, half watching the greenery, the sycamore and acacia as they jutted above whitewashed walls which gleamed in the sunlight. The heat of the day was gone. The avenue had been washed by slaves carrying large goatskins of water from the canal and strewn with rose petals. Settling back on the cushions, soothed by the rhythm of my bearers, I recalled the story of the sand-dwellers. How many men, women and children had died in that massacre? I could imagine them grouped round the oasis as Nakhtimin’s war chariots, supported by foot soldiers and archers, swept in at dawn, or dusk, to wreak bloody havoc. In such a desolate place very few would have escaped. Some would have tried to flee up the valley, but Ay had chosen his place well. I wondered about Mert. She must have hidden and, shocked by what she had seen and heard, lost her wits. Mert disturbed me. Something about her reminded me of Nefertiti. I pulled close the litter curtains and returned to a question nagging at my heart. Should I go out to the Valley of the Grey Dawn and see what had happened? Yet that would mean leaving the Prince.

  I was still turning the matter over in my mind when we arrived at the pleasure house, with its shaded gardens and flower-filled courtyard, its doors decorated with gold and silver and encrusted with lapis lazuli. The Place of Soothing, as the beautiful handmaids who worked there called it. It was not just a pleasure of the flesh which took me there. Its chambers of delight were an oasis of calm, where small boys wafted ostrich plumes soaked in the most precious of perfumes. Wine as sweet as honey was served in silver-chased goblets. I was always a welcome guest. Even as I stepped out of my litter, the beautiful, gold-skinned handmaids were waiting, dressed only in their white-fringed kilts, soft golden flesh glittering with jewellery, heavy curled wigs drenched in khiphye shading their lovely faces, sloe-eyes ringed with green kohl sparkling with excitement. Cool fingers, their nails hennaed a deep purple, stretched out to touch me. Lips, as red as the ripest cherries, were eager to kiss. I had promised myself an evening of indolence. Nevertheless, that pleasure house was also a place of business where I could listen to the rumours and gossip of the city, the chatter of the marketplace, the grumbles of the merchants who flocked there after the labours of the day. The handmaids, chattering like beautiful birds, would, as they served me silver platters of date cakes or dishes of the ripest grapes, tell me about this and that. On that particular evening I caught a refrain I had heard before in reports received from my spies. News about the emptying of the tombs had spread; people were openly wondering what future, if any, lay in store for this most splendid city.

  Of course, if the handmaids spied for me, they also spied for others, so my reply was always the same: the City of the Aten would last for a thousand years. Yet even as I spoke, I realised that I was lying, and the handmaids themselves sensed that.

  On that particular evening I left the pleasure house late. Darkness had fallen, the stars were bright in a black sky. I was slightly drunk as I climbed into my litter. Around me I heard the chatter of my mercenary escort, the overseer of the bearers rapping out orders. I lay back on the c
ushions. We crossed the cobbled courtyard and debouched out into the street, bathed in the light of torches burning fiercely on long poles driven into the ground. The litter stopped. Raucous shouting shattered the night. I pulled back the curtains. A peasant’s cart had overturned, blocking the route we were to take down towards the main avenue of the city. I was careless. I ordered my bearers to place the litter down and clambered out. A crowd had gathered, eager to join in the argument or just watch one of the Great Ones being inconvenienced. My mercenary escort was shouting for the driver of the cart. The donkey had been unhitched, and glancing round, I couldn’t see its owner, only the cart lying on its side, heavy wooden wheels still spinning. My mercenaries were attempting to move it, offering to pay onlookers if they would help. The wine fumes were still heavy. My wits were slow. Only the creaking wheel of that overturned cart alerted me. No peasant ever unhitched his donkey and left his cart, whatever it contained.

  My bearers were standing helplessly. I moved back into the litter, hand going beneath the cushion looking for my knife, even as I heard the strident yell. One of my bearers went down, a dagger thrust through his neck. He had fallen blocking the path of the other assassins, dark-bearded men, faces and bodies hidden by cloaks and cowls. I sprang from the litter. One of the assassins, knocking a bearer aside, came lunging, knife hand back. I ducked, thrusting in my own dagger, aware of an attacker closing in from my right. My mercenaries were now alerted. One of them threw his own sword and, more out of luck than skill, caught the assassin in the leg, bringing him crashing down. I gazed around. The onlookers were scattering. One mercenary was still struggling with an attacker; a second assailant was screaming in pain, clutching at the knife even as he choked on his own blood. A third was trying to crawl away. A mercenary ran up, sword ready to finish him off, but I shouted at him to stop. The cart now forgotten, the mercenaries formed a protective half-ring. Were there any more assassins?

  The streets emptied, dark shapes flitting up the alleyways into the night. I glimpsed one face, changed from the last time I had seen him, darkened by the sun, black hair straggling down to his shoulders with a thick moustache and beard. I recognised those eyes, that hateful glance. Atenists may have died out in the Valley of the Grey Dawn; High Priest Meryre had not. For a moment, the measure of a few heartbeats, my gaze met his, but before I could speak he was gone.

  The assassin who had taken my knife in his throat now lay silent, blood gushing from the gaping wound, as well as seeping out of his mouth and nostrils. The one struggling with the bearers had been dragged away, arms pinioned behind his back. The other was still screaming at the deep sword cut to his leg. The blade had severed the tendon behind the knee. I stood over him, prodding his shoulder with my walking cane taken from the litter. The man’s eyes were already glazing over, his lips were blood-smattered and his death rattle had begun. I sliced his throat. I had my prisoner, and that was enough.

  By the time I returned to the palace, entering through a side gate, I was sober enough, though shaken at how close the assassin had come. I cursed my own ineptitude and carelessness. I had always thought the danger was in Thebes. I asked for another bowl of wine, summoned my captain of the mercenaries and had the prisoner taken to the House of Chains. He was spread-eagled on the floor, ankles and wrists manacled. I knelt down, grasped his hair and pulled his head back.

  ‘Speak! Speak!’

  The man spat at me. I drove my knee into his face, crushing his nose.

  ‘Speak!’ I repeated.

  Again the man tried to spit, but this time his lips only spluttered blood. I withdrew. My mercenary captain began to skin him alive, beginning with his arms. The man shook and screamed. I returned and stood over him.

  ‘Speak,’ I urged, ‘and death will come swiftly. Stay silent or lie and each day my captain will strip part of your skin.’

  Another hour passed before the man broke. Gabbling and stuttering, he could tell me very little. Once he had been a soldier, a veteran in the regiment of the Aten, and later body servant to the Lord Meryre. He had not gone to Buhen and was surprised by the reappearance of Meryre and others of his circle who had crept back in disguise into the City of the Aten. They brought a hideous tale. A bloody massacre had occurred out in the eastern desert: Lord Tutu and hundreds of their followers had been killed on the orders of Lord Ay, who had sent chariot squadrons and troops of mercenaries allegedly to provide protection and safe passage through the desert and across Sinai. According to our prisoner, Meryre and about a dozen soldiers had escaped by fleeing across the desert away from the oasis. Using what wealth remained, they had travelled back into the Delta before moving to the City of the Aten, sheltering in the slums south of the city.

  I immediately ordered my police and mercenaries to search there, but they returned empty-handed; they had found nothing except deserted hovels, whilst those who lived nearby had heard and seen nothing at all. The prisoner was only a soldier, paid by the Atenists to carry out my assassination.

  ‘Why me?’ I asked. ‘Why did Lord Meryre return here? I had no hand in the massacre.’

  ‘He holds you responsible,’ the assassin replied. ‘He thought it would be easier here. He has a blood feud with you, blood for blood.’

  For two days I questioned that prisoner. I didn’t even allow Djarka to approach him. I alerted Nebamun and his chariot squadrons on the clifftops. Meryre, however, proved too cunning and slipped away.

  Eventually I was satisfied. I ordered my captain to cut the prisoner’s throat to give him speedy release and immediately made the decision. Urgent letters were drawn up and dispatched to the Lord Ay in Thebes. My chief messengers were entrusted with the task. Ay should be warned that his massacre was now well known. I closed one letter reminding him that he might well reap what he had sown. I also decided to go out to the eastern desert to visit the Valley of the Grey Dawn for myself. Colonel Nebamun objected, as did Djarka, but I was insistent. The Prince would be moved into the care of Pentju, whose residence would be ringed by every available soldier. They would guard the Prince and Ankhesenamun whilst Djarka, myself and Mert, together with the sand-dwellers, would visit the Valley of the Grey Dawn. I demanded twenty of Nebamun’s chariots and the best guides and scouts he could provide to accompany half my mercenary corps. Nebamun reluctantly accepted my orders, though Djarka was full of protests.

  ‘If you leave this city,’ he objected, ‘something might happen. These rumours,’ he protested, ‘about the City of the Aten being deserted. They have turned ugly.’

  ‘Do you think they are connected with Meryre’s return?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course! We should forget the Valley of the Grey Dawn.’ Djarka stepped closer. ‘We should forget this city. It is time, my lord, you returned to Thebes.’

  I shook my head. ‘Time enough,’ I whispered. ‘I must visit that valley.’

  ‘Why?’ Djarka insisted.

  ‘I don’t really know.’ I smiled. ‘But when I do,’ I clapped him on the shoulder, ‘you will be the first to know.’

  an-cc-kek

  (Ancient Egyptian for ‘dark valley’)

  Chapter 16

  Preparations for our expedition dominated the next few weeks. We would have to face the savage heat in an arduous journey across arid sands, where wells and springs were scarce and jealously guarded by fierce tribes of desert wanderers. Laden with bribes, envoys were sent out to treat with these. Safe passage was assured, expert scouts hired, sturdy donkeys bought, water skins and provisions carefully assembled.

  Only veterans used to the searing heat and desert warfare were selected. Colonel Nebamun promised to supervise everything whilst I concentrated on the reports coming in from my spies in the city, who all chanted the same hymn, of a growing disquiet, a grumbling malice against the palace as well as the Royal Circle in Thebes. Powerful merchants and nobles were hiring retinues, whilst our patrols along the river often discovered arms being brought in, yet for every dagger found, five remained untraced. None of my s
cribes could discover the source of this growing unrest. Meryre’s agents had spread fear, moving like shadows in the dead of night. They had sown their crop and left us to reap the harvest. The news of the hideous massacre somewhere out in the eastern desert was openly discussed in the beer shops and marketplace. Ugly rumour drifted like curls of black smoke, yet there was little I could do to prevent it. Chariot squadrons were brought into the city. The palace was fortified. Masons and builders strengthened its walls and gateways. Watchtowers were set up. All roads leading to the palace, as well as its inner precincts and courtyards, were heavily patrolled, both day and night. No one was admitted unless they carried a document sealed with my own cartouche and knew the password for that particular watch.

  Nebamun, Djarka and I pored over maps of the city, organising how, if necessary, the palace could be evacuated, and the Royal Household safely escorted down to the war barges; their captains were already under orders to leave at a moment’s notice. Nebamun wanted to send messengers to Memphis and Thebes asking for reinforcements, even permission to withdraw. I told him I would take responsibility, leaving the grizzled veteran to glower angrily back. Journeys into the city were no longer pleasant excursions. The Royal Household was confined to the palace gardens and courtyards. If I, or any of my officials, left the palace, we were always accompanied by a military escort. The Prince seemed unperturbed by these preparations; I would invite him for a game of Senet or, early in the morning, take him down to the courtyard to practise archery.

  Tutankhamun was playful and vigorous enough, though he constantly favoured his left side; at times he complained about aches in his legs and arms. Occasionally, he would sit as if drugged, a dreamy look in those doe-like eyes, a smile on his half-open lips, as if he were savouring some secret joke or could see something I couldn’t. My suspicions that he was simple, of vacuous wit, would re-emerge, only to be rudely shattered by an abrupt change in mood. Like a scribe learning the law, Tutankhamun would crouch before me and closely question me about his father, the city we lived in, and above all, the worship of the Aten. He was aware of the Apiru and the stories of the people of Israar, and I began to regret Djarka’s influence over him. Tutankhamun also became sensitive to my moods. If he believed he was annoying me, he would swiftly change the topic. I found him quick-witted, with a ready humour. I called him Asht-Heru, Many-Face, because he proved to be such an able mimic. I would roar with laughter as Tutankhamun imitated Colonel Nebamun and strode up the room, shoulders back, chin tucked into his chest, glaring at me from under his eyebrows, shouting in a deep voice. Abruptly he’d change, becoming a lady of the court. Only once did such mimicry cause a ripple of fear. Tutankhamun seemed to have little love for the priests, the Rem-Prieta, or Men of God. He could mimic their pious looks, their sanctimonious walk, their love of being seen to pray publicly, and the way they sang, more like a whine through their nose. On this occasion he must have caught my sad glance because he came running up.