An Evil Spirit Out of the West (Ancient Egyptian Mysteries) (24 page)

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

Authors: Paul Doherty

BOOK: An Evil Spirit Out of the West (Ancient Egyptian Mysteries)
4.42Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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.
Shishnak stopped in front of the imperial palanquin and gave the sketchiest of bows. Amenhotep returned this, a slight movement of the head but a gesture which spoke eloquently of the power and wealth of this High Priest, this supreme arbiter of religious affairs. Both priest and Pharaoh remained motionless. The herald was about to turn when I heard a gasp and looked up. Three black crows, birds of ill-omen, circled the courtyard. One came down to perch on the head of a statue, the other two joined it on the ground nearby, malevolent-looking with their cruel beaks and raucous cawing. A priest ran up waving a fan and the birds flew off, splitting the air with their hideous squawking. Ay, beside me, was all tense. He muttered something under his breath. The herald, however, unperturbed by what had happened, loudly proclaimed, ‘His Majesty is pleased to enter the sacred precincts of his Father’s temple. His speech of thanks will be delivered by his dearest son Prince Amenhotep.’
That was the only time my master’s name had been proclaimed officially. The herald’s declaration was greeted with gasps of surprise. Ay was cursing under his breath: ‘First the birds of ill-omen and now this. He is unprepared – he will stutter, falter.’
I made to go forward but Ay seized my arm. ‘Don’t be a fool; we are only here by grace and favour,’ he hissed.
The Magnificent One had plotted and trapped his son. He had been paraded in public, his entry to the temple arranged to coincide with those birds of ill-omen and now, untrained and inexperienced, either in public office or public speaking, he had to deliver a speech in the presence of Pharaoh and all the might of Egypt. Akhenaten leaned on his cane. I could tell from his posture how tense he had become but then he turned and looked up at the sun. His face was calm and he smiled, that dazzling smile which could captivate and disarm you.
‘We are waiting.’ The High Priest’s voice carried like a drumroll across the courtyard. ‘We are waiting for the son of the Magnificent One. All ears listen! All hearts rejoice at the great favour shown this son of Pharaoh!’
He had hardly finished when my master’s voice answered, clear and carrying, thrilling like a trumpet through the air.
‘Oh Father, Eternal One,
All the lands are under your sway
Your name is high, mighty and strong.
The Euphrates and the ocean of the Great Green
Tremble before you.
Your power rules the region
From here to the ends of the earth!
The people of Punt adore you
And in the East Land, where the spice trees grow,
the trees are fresh for the love of you!
You bring their perfumes to make the air sweet
in their temples on feast days!
The birds of the air fly because of you!
The creatures on the ground
Eat and live because of you!
All creatures visible and invisible
Stand in awe before you,
Oh glorious Father,
Eternal Aten!
My master paused and, completely oblivious to the gasps and exclamations this had caused, continued his paean of praise.
‘Magnificent is thy name!
You bind the lotus and the papyrus!
You are true of voice,
Your eye is all-seeing!
What is done in secret is clear to you.
What is whispered is heard by you.
You have established your majesty upon the mountains.
How beautiful is your coming.
My Father, I give you thanks for this day!’
My master fell silent. The priests of Amun were a joy to behold, mouths gaping in sagging faces, hands flailing. Even Shishnak stood as if stricken. A hurried conversation took place between the Pharaoh and the herald. Trumpets blared and Pharaoh, helped by two of his assistants, left the throne. Accompanied by Queen Tiye and the High Priest, Amenhotep the Magnificent marched across the courtyard and up the steps into the sacred place. Only then, in private, could he commune with his gods and vent his rage at the impudence of his son, the Grotesque, who, in the very heart of Amun-Ra’s Temple, had dared to intone a paean of praise to his strange god Aten. The rest of the Assembly had to wait patiently.
I glanced quickly at Ay; his face was impassive but his eyes were bright with amusement. Other officials started talking amongst themselves whilst my master stood leaning on his cane, smiling beatifically up at the sun.

Other books

The World Beyond by Sangeeta Bhargava
Blood Rules by John Trenhaile
Blame It on Paris by Jennifer Greene
Wrong Side Of Dead by Meding, Kelly
Darkness Visible by William Golding
The Streetbird by Janwillem Van De Wetering