The Mask of Ra

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Come on!’ he urged.

  The group continued. They reached the foot of the low sloping hill and gazed up at the porticoed entrance of the unfinished tomb of Tuthmosis. The leader chose two of his companions. All three crawled upwards on their bellies like snakes. They reached the top and paused. Three guards in all, lounging against the pillars, bronze helmets off, weapons laid in a pile. The men were talking, the beer jugs scattered around their feet. The assassin leader gestured back. The witch was left while the rest scrambled forward to the top of the hill. A sack was opened, horn bows and arrows distributed. Three of the assassins knelt up. One of the guards, sharper than the rest, heard the sound and, plucking a torch from the wall, ran forward. He was the first to die as the barbed, feathered arrow took him deep in the throat. His two companions jumped up and, in doing so, made themselves clear targets against the torchlight. Again the whir of arrows. Both guards died, legs kicking, coughing on their blood. The assassins raced forward. They paused at the entrance to the tomb. Men of no morals, who believed in none of the stories or the preaching of the priests, they were still fearful. After all, this was supposed to be a sacred place where Tuthmosis the Pharaoh, when his time had come, would rest in glory, his Ka be transformed as he travelled to join the gods over the edge of the far horizon.

  ‘Go on!’ their leader urged.

  He thrust his way through, padding along the gloomy passageways, then turned a corner and almost crashed into the sleepy-eyed young officer. The assassin pulled his dagger and thrust it into the man’s unprotected stomach; the officer fell. The assassin took a club from beneath his cloak and smashed the man’s head, dashing his brains to the ground. He continued on but found no other guards so he returned to the entrance.

  ‘Bring up the witch!’

  A short while later the woman of the night, armed with her small brush and her pot of human paint, daubed the entrance with the magical words cursing the Pharaoh both now and in death. The assassin leader watched, intrigued by the signs she made, her deft movements. He marvelled that a woman with no sight could draw so expertly, summoning up the curses, the powers of the evil one.

  Waiting for her to finish, he wondered at the truth behind what was happening. He and his group were often hired for this task or that, but to curse a Pharaoh’s tomb? To malign his name? Perhaps even to block his journey into the west? What would cause this? What had happened to allow such hate and malice to spill out? The Amemet leader had no knowledge of the person who had hired him and the witch. The message had come in the usual way and he had replied as custom dictated, accepting the time, the place and the task to be carried out.

  He went back to inspect the corpses in the porchway, and by the time he had returned, the witch was finished. She was crouched beneath the strange markings and, hands uplifted, was praying in a foreign tongue. The Amemet leader recalled the rumours among his men, how the witch was not Egyptian but came from the coastline of Phoenicia with her powers and amulets. Her prayer ended. She staggered to her feet.

  ‘We are finished,’ she whispered.

  ‘Truly, Mother, we are!’

  The Amemet leader stepped behind her and, seizing her by the hair, yanked her head back and cut her throat.

  Ma’at: the Egyptian goddess of truth, depicted as a young woman with an ostrich plume in her hair.

  CHAPTER 1

  Tuthmosis, beloved of Amun-Ra, the Incarnation of Horus, Ruler of the Black Land, King of Upper and Lower Egypt, leaned back in his gold-encrusted throne and stared through the open-sided cabin of his royal barge. He closed his eyes and smiled. He was coming home! They would turn the bend of the river and see Thebes in all its glory. On its eastern banks, the walls, columns and pylons of the city and, on the west, the honeycombed hills of the Necropolis. Tuthmosis spread his gold-sandalled feet as the barge pitched slightly in its change of course; its prow, formed in the shape of a screaming falcon’s head, still cut through the river even as the great, broad-brimmed sail billowed slightly but then subsided. Shouts rang out. The sail was lowered and the barge regained speed as the barebacked rowers bent over their oars, heaving under the orders of the steersmen standing in the stern, managing the great rudders. The leading helmsman began a chant, a muted hymn of praise to their Pharaoh:

  ‘He has shattered his enemies, he is lord of the skies.

  He has swooped on his foe, great is his name!

  Health and length of years will only add to his glory!

  He is the golden hawk! He is the king of kings!

  The beloved of the gods!’

  The chant was taken up by the soldiers and marines who manned the prow watching for any treacherous sand bank. The oars rose and dipped, the sun dazzling the splash of water.

  Tuthmosis, his face impassive under his blue war crown, stared at his soldiers clustered in the stern: Rahimere his Vizier, Sethos, the royal prosecutor, Omendap his general and Bayletos his chief scribe had gone ahead to Thebes. Now, only Meneloto, the captain of the guard, remained. He sat with his officers, discussing their impending return to Thebes, the tasks and onerous duties awaiting them. Above the Pharaoh great, feathery, perfumed ostrich plumes created a scented breeze, waves of coolness as the day was proving hot and the sunlight was strong, despite the silver-embroidered canopy above him. Tuthmosis listened to his glories being expounded but what did they really matter? What did he care? He had visited the Great Pyramid at Sakkara. He had read the secrets on the sacred stela. He had stumbled upon mysteries, yet had he? Had not the word of God simply spoken to him? Had not these mysteries been revealed because he was holy and chosen?

  ‘Gold are your limbs, lapis lazuli your hands!’ The royal poet squatting to the Pharaoh’s left echoed the praises of the sailors and oarsmen. ‘Beautiful of face are you, oh Pharaoh! Mighty of arm! Just and noble in peace! Terrible in war!’

  The recipient of these ornate phrases blinked. What did such flattery matter? Or the treasure hoards contained in the holds of the imperial war galleys which went before and after him as he journeyed along the Nile? Such wealth was passing.

  Pharaoh moved his head. He gazed through the heat haze at the banks on either side where he glimpsed the coloured standards of his squadrons of war chariots which escorted and protected him on his sacred journey to Thebes. Such power was illusory! The weapons of war, his crack regiments, named after the gods, the Horus, the Apis, the Ibis and the Anubis, these were nothing more than dust under heaven. Tuthmosis knew the secret of secrets. He had written as much to his beloved, noble wife Hatusu and, on his return, he would tell her what he had discovered. She would believe him as would his friend the high priest, Sethos, the keeper of the Pharaoh’s secrets, the ‘eyes and ears of the King’. Tuthmosis sighed and put down his insignia, the flail and the crook. He touched the glowing pectoral around his neck and moved his legs, the gold-encrusted kilt clinking at his every movement.

  ‘I am thirsty!’

  His cup-bearer, on the far side of the silk cabin wall, raised the ivory chalice. He sipped the sweetened wine and passed it to his master. Tuthmosis drank and handed it back. At that moment the watcher in the prow shouted out. Tuthmosis looked to his right. They were rounding the bend, Thebes was near! The barge swung closer to the bank. In the reeds alongside the river, a hippopotamus, frightened by the noise, crashed about sending huge flocks of geese flying up above the thick papyrus marshes. The chariot squadrons on the east bank had grown indistinct. They were preparing to lead off, to join the other troops massed outside the city. Tuthmosis sighed in pleasure. He was home! Hatusu his Queen would be waiting. He would rest in Thebes!

  On the portico of the temple of Amun-Ra, a group of young women stood in the shadows of the soaring pillars. Heavy black wigs of curled, shining hair hung down to their shoulders; pleated robes of fine, semi-transparent linen covered their bodies from neck to their silver-sandalled feet. Fingers and toenails were dyed deeply in henna. Their beringed hands clutched the sistra, loops of metal attached to a wooden han
dle. When shaken together, these instruments gave an eerie jangling sound. Now they hung silent. Soon they would ring out, welcoming the return of their god. They were the priestesses of Amun-Ra, gathered round Hatusu, the Pharaoh’s Queen. She, also, was dressed in exquisite white linen. On her headdress of gold rested the vulture crown of the Queens of Egypt and in her hands the sceptre and rod of office. Hatusu heard the priestesses giggle but she did not move her kohl-rimmed eyes. She stood impassive as a statue, staring down at the sun-bright courtyard below where ranks of shaven, white-robed priests awaited the return of her husband. A breeze soothed the heat and stirred the banners and pennants which hung from the massive stone pylons around her. Looking over the heads of the priests, Hatusu glimpsed the people massed in the second courtyard, officials and administrators ranged in order of rank and marshalled by officers armed with their wands of office. Beyond this courtyard stretched the Sacred Way down into the city where its citizens lined the Avenue of Sphinxes, massed between the huge black granite statues of crouching beasts with human heads and the bodies of lions.

  Faintly on the breeze Hatusu heard the sound of music, the bray of trumpets. She caught the sparkle of armour and glimpsed the lines of troops marching in from the Sacred Way. The Egyptian royal guard, Negroes from the Sudan and the Shardana, foreign auxiliaries in their ornate horn helmets. Tuthmosis was coming home! Hatusu should be pleased but she was fearful. She had scrutinised that scroll most carefully and wondered if its mysterious writer would dare share such secrets with her half-brother and husband. Hatusu lifted her head. The massed choirs had begun their hymn of praise.

  ‘He has stretched out his fist!

  He has scattered his enemies with the power of his arm!

  The earth, in all its length and breadth, is subject to him!

  He tramples his enemies like grapes under his feet!

  He is glorious in his majesty!’

  The singing was drowned by a great roar of triumph. The Pharaoh had reached the Sacred Way. He would soon be in the temple. In the inner courtyards the great officials and masked ranks of priests ceased whispering and stood in nervous silence. Their Pharaoh was returning in triumph, Amun-Ra had glorified his majesty but there would also be a reckoning. The books would be opened, the accounts scrutinised, the judges and scribes summoned to the royal presence. In the whispered words of one of them, ‘The royal cat was returning to its basket’.

  Hatusu moved to the top of the steps, the priestesses fanning out behind her. All now looked towards the great bronze doors which sealed the inner courtyards of the temple. They heard the shouts, ‘Life! Prosperity! Health!’ A trumpet blast, harsh and braying, imposed silence. The voice of a herald rang out: ‘How splendid is our lord who returns in victory!’

  The great bronze doors opened, the cavalcade entered: the priests in white robes, officers of the royal bodyguard with their high-plumed headdresses, their golden torques and arm rings shimmering with light, their spear tips stretching up. Hatusu glimpsed members of her husband’s council. The cortege stopped. Another blast of trumpets and the Pharaoh entered. Preceded by his standard bearers and banners, Tuthmosis was borne along in a gold and silver palanquin carried on the shoulders of twelve noblemen. The palanquin stopped and everyone prostrated themselves. Again the trumpet blast. Hatusu gracefully rose to her feet while the priestesses swirled past her down the steps, shaking their sistra and singing the hymn of welcome. The palanquin was lowered. Royal officials clustered around and Tuthmosis was helped down from his throne. The priests gathered round, shielding him as he rearranged his robes and prepared to climb the steps. Hatusu went down on both knees, hands joined before her. She watched her husband’s shadow slowly climb the steps. She closed her eyes. If only she could feel the joy she should! If only she could tell her husband how the Ahket, the rising of the river Nile, had been the most fruitful for a long time! How the reports from the Nomachs, the provincial governors, had been nothing but good …

  When she opened her eyes, the shadow was over her. Hatusu bowed her head but her husband’s hand touched her under the chin and she stared up. Tuthmosis smiled; but his face, beneath the ceremonial paint, looked pale and haggard. The black kohl around his eyes only emphasised his weariness. The Queen was seized by a wild thought. Here was her husband, beloved of the gods, conqueror of his enemies, yet he looked as if he had crossed the river of death and found nothing but dust. Tuthmosis bent his head slightly, his eyes crinkled in pleasure. He quietly mouthed, ‘I have missed you! I love you!’, then opened his hand to reveal a golden lotus flower, studded with precious stones, on the end of a silver chain. He placed this round her neck and helped Hatusu to her feet. The Pharaoh of Egypt and his Queen turned, hands extended, to receive the acclamation and roars of the crowd.

  The trumpets brayed, cymbals clashed, great gusts of incense billowed into the sky, sweetening the air and purifying all assembled. The Pharaoh would not speak: his mouth was too sacred, his words too precious. He had yet to commune with the gods. Another trumpet blast brayed. Members of the royal bodyguard hurried forward to create an avenue. Up this stumbled the Pharaoh’s principal prisoners of war, dark-haired, copper-skinned captives stripped of all their finery and armour, hands bound above their heads. They were made to kneel at the foot of the steps. Hatusu closed her eyes. She knew what was about to happen. The Pharaoh made a cutting movement with his hands. The royal executioners stepped forward. The prisoners, gagged as well as bound, could make no protest as their throats were slashed. Their blood-soaked corpses were scattered in the open area before the gods of Egypt and the power of Pharaoh.

  ‘It is over,’ Tuthmosis whispered.

  Hatusu opened her eyes. She dare not look down. The air had a different stench, of death and the iron tang of blood. She just hoped her husband would not tarry but walk on into the temple, to the great statue of Amun-Ra, and sprinkle incense. She sighed with relief as Tuthmosis turned and, with the roar of the crowd ringing in their ears, they walked into the coolness of the colonnade, along the marble floor, past the rows of painted columns. The great statue of Amun-Ra, seated in glory, loomed up before them. The Pharaoh paused, staring at the flickering flames in the great vase before the statue. A priest came forward, a golden bowl in his hand. Eyes down, he held the bowl and the silver spoon towards his Pharaoh. Tuthmosis paused. Hatusu looked expectantly at him. What was the matter? she thought. He had won great victories to the north and now, like their father, he must give thanks. Or did he know already? Had some whisperer been sent north to his camp? Tuthmosis sighed, stepped forward and sprinkled the incense. Hatusu, walking one pace behind him, waited for Tuthmosis to kneel on the scarlet, gold-tasselled cushions but he didn’t. He just stood staring up at the black granite face of the god. He raised his hands, palms facing outwards as if intoning a prayer, but wearily dropped them, as if the effort was too much.

  ‘My lord, your majesty!’ Hatusu hissed. ‘What is the matter?’

  Tuthmosis was staring back down towards the courtyard. The cheering had stopped. It had been replaced by a low murmur of discontent, of angry protest. A priest came hurrying in. He prostrated himself.

  ‘What is it?’ Tuthmosis asked.

  ‘An omen, your majesty. A dove flew over the courtyard.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Its body was wounded, he spattered all below him with blood before falling dead from the skies!’

  Tuthmosis swayed, his chin began to quiver, his jaw moved sideways, his hand went to his throat. His head went back, the great double red and white crown fell off. Hatusu screamed and caught him as he fell, trying to control the frightening convulsions as Tuthmosis writhed in her arms. She lowered him gently to the floor, his body rigid, eyes rolling back in his head. Flecks of spittle appeared on the corner of his carmine-painted lips.

  ‘My beloved!’ Hatusu whispered.

  Tuthmosis went slack in her arms, then his head came up, his eyes opened.

  ‘It’s only a mask!’ he gasped.

>   Hatusu leaned down to listen to his whispers before Tuthmosis, beloved of Ra, gave one last shudder and died.

  During the month of Mechir, in the season of the planting, after the official mourning following the sudden death of Pharaoh Tuthmosis II, Amerotke, chief judge of Thebes, delivered sentence in the Hall of Two Truths at the temple of Ma’at, the lady of divine words, the divine teller of truth. Amerotke sat on a low cushioned chair made out of acacia wood. The cushion was of sacred fabric and embroidered with hieroglyphics extolling the wonders of the goddess Ma’at. On the walls around the hall were carvings of the forty-two daemons, strange creatures with the heads of snakes, hawks, vultures and rams. Each of these held a knife. Beneath them, their titles were given in brilliant red ochre: ‘dyer of blood’, ‘eater of shadows’, ‘wry head’, ‘eye of flame’, ‘breaker of bones’, ‘breath of flame’, ‘leg of fire’, ‘white tooth’. These creatures dwelt in the halls of the gods, ready to devour souls who were weighed in the sacred scales of divine justice and found wanting. Before Amerotke stood the cedarwood tables bearing the laws of Egypt and the decrees of Pharaoh. Behind him loomed large, black granite statues of the god Osiris holding the scales of life or eternal death, and Horus, the ever-watchful.

  The hall was colonnaded, the columns painted brilliant colours, and, through them on one side, Amerotke if he so wished could glimpse the gardens of Ma’at: fresh green lawns where the flocks of the goddess grazed near shady trees and gaily coloured birds whirled round fountains which splashed into ornamental pools. Amerotke, however, sat cross-legged, studying the papyrus parchments on the floor before him. The rest of the court waited in hushed silence. Down one side squatted the scribes dressed in white robes, their shaven heads bent over small desks. These bore their writing instruments: pallets of red and black ink, water pots, and a cluster of styli, hollow reeds sharpened at one end, brushes, pumice stones, jars of glue and little sharp knives for cutting the papyrus.