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Authors: Paul Doherty

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BOOK: The Season of the Hyaena (Ancient Egyptian Mysteries)
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‘It will be hot along the Horus Road. I am taking sixty chariots and a change of horses; some of the chariots will carry water and food as well as extra archers. We are leaving within the hour. Oh, by the way, you look dreadful. But,’ he squinted at me, ‘as Lord Horemheb has reminded me, you are a member of the Royal Circle, Lord Mahu. I am to take my orders from you.’
I was too exhausted to engage in any banter and was relieved when we left the camp, following the broad Horus Road out of the Delta and into the deserts of Sinai. Sobeck drove the chariot, that precious leather bag tied securely to a clasp near his feet. I hung grimly to the rail, watching the broad sandy road beneath us change colour under the strengthening sun. The heat became so intense that each chariot used a parasol or awning against the glare of the sun. They say the demons live in the Sinai; I can well believe it. Nothing but a broad stretch of rock and hillock, all burning under a fiery sun. No breeze, and when one did rise, it brought clouds of dust and sand. We passed the occasional oasis, its palm trees black against the sky. The heat so oppressed the eye that by midday the blinding whiteness played tricks with your sight. The road was deserted. There’s nothing like the clash of armies to make merchants and traders decide to shelter wherever they can and hide till the crisis has passed.
We stopped at some lonely oasis to fill our water skins, sitting on the walls the Great Pharaoh, Tuthmosis IV, had built around the precious well. At first I thought Horemheb had made a mistake, until we found evidence of the usurper’s flight: discarded boxes, coffers and weapons. Two of their entourage must have been wounded, for their corpses, half eaten by night prowlers, lay in the shade of some rocks. We sheltered from the noonday heat and continued our pursuit. Nebamun reasoned that our horses were fresh and well provisioned. The usurper, however, despite his hours’ start, was totally dependent on what he had taken from the battlefield and his fortress. A group of sand-dwellers told us how they had caught sight of Egyptians but had not drawn too close.
We rested that night in an oasis, Nebamun sending out scouts. For the first time since I had found the records in the usurper’s tent, I was able to scrutinise the contents of that sack. The more I read, the more my heart glowed. Meryre and his faction were traitors, hand in glove with the usurper, Prince Aziru and his confederates, not to mention the Hittite court. There were other items, which I vowed to keep close to my heart. One of these did fascinate me: a piece of gold, thin and delicate, showing Pharaoh Akenhaten receiving the rays of the sun. Akenhaten, dressed in the Royal regalia, had his face turned towards the sun, hands welcoming the life-giving rays. At first I thought it was a brooch or some form of pendant, though I could find no hole or clasp. I took it closer to the fire. I am an expert on the work of goldsmiths, and in calmer days loved to go down to their workshops in Thebes or the City of the Aten and watch them work. Each craftsman has his own sign, his own way of working, yet the more I studied this piece, the more intrigued I became.
‘When would you say this was made?’ I handed it to Sobeck, who had been squatting on the other side of the fire, half watching me whilst keeping an eye on Nebamun’s men lest anyone approached too close. He took the piece of gold, turning it over and over.
‘I’d say it might be Egyptian,’ he remarked. ‘Have you noticed it’s the same on either side? It’s not a pendant or brooch. It could be a gift.’
‘And?’ I asked.
‘The carving is singular. The gold is very thin. I am not too sure if it
is
Egyptian. I have seen similar gold work,’ he grinned, ‘being sold rather secretly in the markets of Eastern Thebes. I’d say it was Canaanite made to look as if it’s Egyptian. Canaanite work is thinner, not as elaborate or as thick as the workshops of Thebes or Memphis.’
He handed the gold back. I placed it in the sack, tying its neck securely.
‘If something should happen to me …’
‘You don’t trust General Horemheb?’ Sobeck demanded.
‘If something should happen to me,’ I continued, ‘keep this leather sack, Sobeck. Share its contents with Djarka. He’ll know how to use it, as will you, to protect the Prince.’
I gazed up at the stars and listened to the roars of the hyaenas and the other stalkers of the night, drawn to our camp fire by the smells.
‘You found something which interests you?’
‘Well, of course, but what really intrigues me,’ I tapped the sack, ‘is that these documents make constant reference to one member of the Royal Circle I had almost forgotten about. Oh, Horemheb and Rameses are mentioned, naturally; they are soldiers. Nakhtimin and Ay? Well, I’ll deal with these later; the same goes for Maya and Huy. However, Meryre makes one constant reference which is picked up by the priests, Khufu and Djoser.’
‘About what?’ Sobeck asked impatiently.
‘Think of the Children of the Kap, Sobeck. You were raised with us. Who keeps in the shadows? Quiet during meetings, away from the hustle and bustle of the court?’
Sobeck stared back in puzzlement.
‘Pentju,’ I whispered. ‘Pentju, Royal Physician to Akenhaten. Friend of the Lady Khiya, Tutankhamun’s mother. Guardian of the Prince as a child before he handed him over to me. Pentju was never a politician; the great physician was more concerned with his wealthy patients and his treasure hoard.’
‘He is the Quiet One,’ Sobeck agreed. ‘We know his beloved wife and children all died during the plague or shortly afterwards. In fact, scarcely any member of his family remains. Well, what does Meryre say about him?’
‘He says he’d love to have Pentju with him in this embassy. He promised to do his level best to include Pentju in our journey north. Now, that’s something I never knew.’
‘Does he see him as an ally?’ Sobeck asked.
‘I have to study the documents more closely,’ I replied. ‘However, the impression I get is that Pentju is important because of what he knows rather than what he does. Isn’t that strange? I wonder what our noble physician knows that is so valuable?’
Two days later we caught up with the fleeing rebels. They had left a trail of corpses, abandoned goods and weapons and soon realised their pursuers were closing on them. The Sinai is a bleak wilderness; leave the Horus Road and the well-beaten tracks and you would die in the desert heat. Of course they resisted. They fortified an outcrop of rocks but they were short of water and weapons. Nebamun’s men loosed one shaft after another, distracting the rebels whilst others moved up behind, gaining the higher ground. Our chariot squadron watched and waited below. The rebels survived that afternoon and the following night but the noonday heat forced them to ask for terms. Nebamun was uncompromising: unconditional surrender or he would simply lay siege until, as he put it, their hearts fried and their bodies were reduced to dry skin. They threw their weapons down and came out of the rocks, no longer the power and the glory but a pathetic group of dirty, dishevelled men and women.
‘What shall we do?’ Nebamun whispered.
‘You have your orders,’ I replied. ‘Carry them out!’
The Hittite officers were promptly executed, as were the captains of the mercenaries. I immediately seized the impostor and his woman, together with their chaplain Khufu, and Prince Aziru. I went searching for Djoser and found him in a small gully beyond the rocky outcrop, face grey, eyes awaiting death, clutching the arrow wound in his chest.
‘Who are you?’ His tongue was clasped between dry lips. ‘Water?’ he begged.
I allowed him to sip from the skin I carried.
‘Who
are
you?’ he repeated.
‘Don’t you remember, Djoser? Mahu, Chief of Police in the City of the Aten!’
He coughed, a bloody froth staining his lips.
‘Well, well. Once upon a time, Mahu, we all basked in the sun, didn’t we? Lords of the earth.’
‘Why?’ I asked. ‘Why did you do it?’
‘Why not?’ he taunted back. ‘Better that than bend the knee to the Akhmin gang, or that burly peasant Horemheb.’ He coughed and spluttered.
I made him more comfortable. From below I could hear the screams of the women.
‘I am glad I’m dying,’ Djoser whispered. ‘I don’t want to be part of Horemheb’s victory parade.’ He clutched the water skin again and took another slurp, splashing it over his face.
‘Did the Lord Akenhaten die?’ I demanded.
‘I don’t know.’ Djoser coughed.
‘And his treasure?’
‘Meryre knows about that. Some in Egypt, most taken away.’
‘Who is behind this?’ I asked. ‘The cause, the fount and origin?’
‘Cause, fount, origin?’ Djoser leaned his head back and, pulling himself up, broke the shaft of the arrow and tossed the broken end away. ‘It doesn’t ease the pain,’ he grated, ‘but at least it’s something to do.’
‘Are you all right, sir?’ I waved away the soldier who had come up behind me to see if all was well.
‘The cause?’ I asked.
‘Meryre. He had dreams of becoming Pharaoh’s First Minister, Grand Vizier or, who knows, Pharaoh himself. He thought you might join him. He certainly wanted Pentju; he prayed for that.’
‘But you all supported the usurper?’
Djoser leaned forward. ‘Usurper? And what are you supporting, Lord Mahu?’ He coughed and gagged on his blood, then the light in his eyes dimmed and he fell back with a sigh.
I left the corpse amongst the rocks and joined the chariot squadron. Nebamun had executed the officers but decided that the rest, nothing more than common foot soldiers and mercenaries, together with their women, should be given water skins. He pointed into the distance, where the heat haze shifted and buckled and the dust devils blew clouds up against the sky.
‘Walk!’ he ordered. ‘And if the Gods are with you, you will live!’
His men drove them off; I turned to the other four prisoners. Aziru had tried to disguise himself, hiding his oily hair and fat body under a coarse striped robe. He, like the rest, was now tied by his hands to my chariot wheel. Sobeck, crouching beside them, drank his water but offered them none.
‘I am a prince.’ Aziru tried to rise; Sobeck punched him in the ribs. ‘I am a prince.’ Aziru lowered his head to remove the hair from his eyes. ‘I was once Egypt’s ally.’
‘You are a rebel and a traitor.’ I smiled down at him. ‘You have fomented trouble and rebellion. You take to mischief as a fish to swimming.’
I looked at the other prisoners. The woman’s face was concealed by flaming red hair. Next to her, bereft of all his finery, the usurper looked what he really was, a pathetic pretender with not even a passing resemblance to my great lord. Khufu was blubbering like a child; the lower part of his tunic was wet with urine. I cut his bonds and pulled him up.
‘Do you know who I am?’ I pushed him towards Nebamun’s curious charioteers, who’d been watching the mercenaries trudging off into the distance. Now they hoped I would provide further sport.
‘Lord Mahu.’ Khufu’s soft, round face creased into a suppliant smile. ‘My lord Mahu, you remember me? I was a chapel priest in the Great Temple of the Aten. I served in the Holy of Holies.’
‘And now you serve a rebel!’ I pulled him by his coarse robe. ‘Colonel Nebamun, have you found any treasure?’ I called over.
‘Nothing much,’ he replied. ‘Trinkets, personal possessions.’
‘The treasure?’ I demanded of Khufu. ‘My great lord’s treasure, it was pillaged and taken out of the City of the Aten.’
‘I truly don’t know.’ Khufu raised his hands. ‘My lord, I did not leave the City of the Aten immediately but joined the rest much later. Undoubtedly,’ he gabbled on, ‘the treasure was taken. They say it was divided and is now in Canaan.’
‘What?’ I pushed him out of earshot. ‘Do you want to die, Khufu? Do you want me to peg you out like a lion skin on the desert floor?’
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.’
BOOK: The Season of the Hyaena (Ancient Egyptian Mysteries)
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