by Paul Doherty
‘Neither of these things has anything to do with you. Meneloto was a capable soldier. He has escaped and can take care of himself.’
He had studied her face for any sign of upset or consternation. Norfret had gazed icily back.
‘You know the truth,’ she had added firmly. ‘The gods know the truth. If we know the truth, Amerotke, why care what others say?’
In the end, as always, she had her way. Amerotke was flattered and gratified by his wife’s quiet ambition. True, Norfret admitted, she loved her visits to court, the dinner parties where she could listen to the gossip, an occasion not to be missed. Amerotke had kissed her on the forehead.
‘You remind me of a beautiful shadow,’ he had declared, grasping her hands.
‘A shadow!’ she had mocked and, putting her lovely arms round his neck, stood on tiptoe and kissed him on his nose.
‘You like to go on such occasions, but not to be seen. You love to sit, listen and watch.’
‘That’s how I found you.’
‘And that’s how I found you. Remember? We spent that evening watching each other.’
Norfret had laughed and hurried away, calling out over her shoulder that he should dress in his finest.
Amerotke, the reins of the chariot wrapped round his wrist, glanced sideways. He’d put on a new pleated robe, and his ring of office; as always, he refused to wear a wig. He recalled how, when he had served in the chariot squadron, the soldiers used to ridicule the popinjay officers who tried to maintain the height of fashion even when patrolling the Red Lands. Norfret, however, as usual looked as lovely as the night. She was dressed in a spotless robe of goffered linen, her long black wig shot through with strands of gold and silver. Rings of amethyst hung from her ear lobes, a beautiful gorget of lapis lazuli circled her throat. She was busy leaning over, talking to Shufoy who followed the chariot, a parasol in one hand, his walking cane in the other.
‘You are welcome to join us, Shufoy,’ she teased. ‘There is room here.’ She tapped the wooden wickerwork. ‘It’s not a war chariot so the horses are geldings without a spot of fire in them.’
‘I don’t like chariots,’ the dwarf answered. ‘I don’t like feasts and banquets. People always stare at my face and ask ridiculous questions like, “Where has your nose gone?” I always want to reply, “Up your bum!”’
Norfret laughed and turned away.
Amerotke grabbed the reins. He watched the crimson plumes of his horses rise and fall and looked about him. The quayside and the banks of the Nile were always busy, whatever the hour. Beer shops were open. The alleyways thronged with sailors and soldiers visiting the pleasure houses or staggering about, cups in their hands, eyeing the girls and shouting good-natured abuse at each other. Of course they glimpsed Norfret but one look at Amerotke, not to mention the two soldiers who were escorting him down to the palace, and they went looking for easier prey.
A scorpionman ran up, a self-confessed magician, offering amulets and magic sticks against ill-fortune. Shufoy, nimble as a monkey, drove him off.
At last they reached the causeway which led into the palace. The crowds, eager to see the comings and goings, thronged here, held back by archers and foot soldiers from the Isis regiment. Amerotke rattled the reins and the horses moved a little faster. They swept through the gates and into the broad, well-watered gardens of the palace, a beautiful paradise with shaded walks, ornamental pools and great open lawns where trained gazelles and sheep grazed. The guards led them round. Amerotke helped Norfret out of the chariot, while issuing instructions to the grooms to unhitch the horses, dry them off and feed them before they were stabled. They were escorted through the main door, past huge paintings on the walls depicting the glories of Pharaohs in battle, along the hall of columns while squads of soldiers guarded the entrance to the House of Adoration, the private quarters of the young Pharaoh. At last they reached the great banqueting hall, a great lofty chamber where the columns were painted dark red, their capitals shaped like golden lotus buds. Pure alabaster lamps, painted different colours, provided soft light which shimmered across the frescoes which adorned the walls: trees, beautiful birds of plumage, flowers, butterflies all drawn on the smooth plaster in a gorgeous array of colours. Above them the rafters were painted with hieroglyphics which promised health, life and prosperity to those who congregated below.
Amerotke gazed round at the throng of bare-shouldered women and dark, heavily wigged men. He recognised some: Sethos, Rahimere, General Omendap. As each caught his eye they nodded imperceptibly and turned back to their companions. Servant girls, wearing practically nothing except wisps of fabric about their loins, moved round the guests offering a lotus flower in welcome as well as small dishes of dainties and jewelled cups of wine or beer. Norfret took one of these cups and walked away to greet an acquaintance. Amerotke stayed near the doorway. The babble of conversation died as the far doors swung open and Hatusu entered the room. Amerotke was surprised at how Hatusu had changed during the period of mourning since her husband’s death. He had always regarded her as a woman of the shadows, but now she walked majestically, hands clasped before her, a vision of beauty in a clinging robe of almost transparent linen. Her long, glossy wig shimmered with oil and was bound round her forehead by a coronet displaying the vulture goddess, a reminder to all that she was a Queen of Egypt. A silver pectoral about her neck bore the same design, while broad gold bands, ornamented with a spitting cobra, clasped her wrists. Her finger and toenails were dyed a rich henna and those dark sloe eyes were made even larger, more elongated, by the striking green-blue eye paint she had applied.
She caught Amerotke’s stare and smiled faintly. Others came up but she politely gestured with her fingers and came across to greet him. On her bare left shoulder a tattoo had been delicately drawn, depicting Sekhmet, the lion goddess, the wreaker of vengeance. She dresses as a princess, Amerotke thought, but she gives a warning like a warrior. She stopped before him and extended her hand. Amerotke would have gone down on one knee as courtesy dictated but Hatusu shook her head slightly, her eyes full of impish good humour.
‘My lord Amerotke.’ The voice was low, rather deep. ‘How many years is it now? Ten, twelve, since you left my father’s court?’
‘I believe twelve, my lady.’
‘Then welcome back to it.’
Amerotke gazed over her shoulder. The other officials, commanders and scribes pretended to be locked in deep conversation but they were watching intently. Further down the hall, near a column, Sethos was holding Norfret’s hand, chattering to her, making some joke. Norfret’s head came back and her laugh echoed around the chamber.
‘I watched you arrive,’ Hatusu continued. ‘The lady Norfret is as beautiful as ever.’
‘In which case, beauty beheld beauty,’ Amerotke replied.
Hatusu sighed. Amerotke wondered if she was laughing at him, as her carmine-painted lips tightened. She lowered her head flirtatiously.
‘You’ll never make a courtier, Amerotke. Your flattery is so obvious.’
‘I am a judge,’ Amerotke replied. ‘Flattery comes hard.’
‘With you it always did, Amerotke.’ She gazed at him softly. ‘Are you still madly in love with the lady Norfret? I saw you standing here, just glowering at everyone.’ She laughed behind her hand. ‘Ah, Senenmut.’
The overseer of the royal works came up. Amerotke was surprised how familiar he was, standing beside Hatusu as if he were a member of the royal kin, a prince of the palace. Amerotke clasped the outstretched hand.
‘I am sorry,’ Senenmut apologised, ‘that I did not stay long this morning. I thought you might refuse and that would be embarrassing for everyone.’
He produced a small embroidered leather pouch. Hatusu opened it and shook the gold ring into the palm of her hand then, grasping Amerotke’s finger, slipped the ring on. Amerotke studied it. The broad band of gold was engraved with hieroglyphics which proclaimed to the world that he was now one of ‘Pharaoh’s friends’, a member
of the royal circle with a seat on the council and a duty to advise Pharaoh.
‘It’s not a bribe,’ Hatusu whispered, her eyes cold and hard. ‘I need you, Amerotke. I need your powers of reflection, your good counsel. And, I’ll be honest, your commonsense.’
Amerotke wanted to ask her why but the servants were already setting out the cushions and matting before the small tables arranged for the royal supper. Hatusu touched Amerotke lightly on the hand and moved away.
Slave girls came up. One put a wreath of flowers round his neck. Another offered him a cake of perfume. Amerotke refused this but those who wore wigs took the cakes and placed them on top. In a little while it would grow hot and these would melt and drench their heads in the most fragrant of smells. As was customary, the men sat at one side of the hall, the women at the other. Cups of wine were circulated as the feasting began. Dishes of roast beef, chicken, goose, dark pigeon and many varieties of bread cut in different shapes were served. Wine jars, set up in metal stands, each marked as a vintage year, were opened and servants ensured the jewelled bronze cups were regularly filled. Napkins and finger bowls were brought. Next to Amerotke sat General Omendap. He turned, dipping his fingers in a bowl, and winked at Amerotke.
‘Welcome to the royal circle,’ he murmured.
Amerotke smiled back. He had met the general on a number of occasions, and knew him to be a good, honest man, stout-bodied, fleshy-faced but with a bluff good humour which hid a sharp brain and keen wits. A brave warrior, Omendap wore round his neck the golden lotus given to him by Pharaoh for courage in battle. Omendap leaned closer.
‘We have all heard your judgement about poor Meneloto.’ He checked to ensure no servants could hear. ‘You spoke the truth! The case should never have been brought.’
‘So why was it?’ Amerotke asked. ‘Wasn’t it discussed in the royal circle?’
‘The wife of the god insisted!’ Omendap turned and stared across the chamber to where Hatusu sat on a small throne-like stool above the other women. ‘I thought she had more sense than that. Anyway, you’ll soon sense the politics of the royal circle. Basically, there are two factions.’ Omendap took his wine cup and slurped from it. ‘Rahimere.’ He gestured down the table to where the Vizier, in all his jewelled splendour, sat talking to the chief scribe Bayletos. ‘He wants to be Regent and so does Hatusu.’
‘And who will win?’
‘Probably Rahimere. He controls the treasury, the chancery and the temple of Amun-Ra.’
‘And the lady Hatusu?’
‘She has three supporters. Sethos, Senenmut and now the lord Amerotke.’
‘I belong to no faction.’
‘Don’t you?’ Omendap grinned. ‘You accepted her invitation and took that ring. We are all part of the dance now.’
‘And you?’ Amerotke gestured with his cup at the military commanders.
‘We haven’t made our minds up. We are soldiers, we take orders. We’ve heard the rumours in the marketplace. Pharaoh’s dead, gone into the blessed west, his successor is a boy, the council is divided. The jackals think the guard dogs are gone so they’ll try to rob the hen coop.’
‘And whom will you support?’
Omendap moved the cushions a bit closer.
‘My sympathies are with the lady Hatusu. She has the blood of Tuthmosis in her and I don’t like Rahimere. But you know us soldiers. Our first rule is never give battle when you know you are bound to lose. So, drink up.’ He clinked his cup against Amerotke’s. ‘And let’s pray for more fortunate days.’
Amerotke turned back to his food. He was trying to see where Norfret sat when a messenger entered carrying a small chest bound with copper bands. He knelt at the entrance to the banqueting chamber waiting to be noticed. Rahimere’s steward, standing behind his master’s chair, beckoned the man forward.
‘What is it?’ Rahimere looked up.
‘A present, my lord. From Amenhotep.’
The Grand Vizier’s lip curled. Amenhotep was a chantry priest, chaplain to the dead Pharaoh Tuthmosis II.
‘Amenhotep should be here. As a priest in the temple of Horus, it is his duty to attend to the royal circle.’
Rahimere was making his power felt and the banqueting hall fell silent. An invitation to such a meal was really a royal summons and only sickness or some serious calamity should prevent attendance. Amerotke was surprised. He had met Amenhotep a number of times: a busy, pompous little man full of his own importance. It was most unlike him to avoid such an occasion.
‘Perhaps it’s a peace offering,’ the chief scribe joked. ‘A fitting apology, my lord, for his non-attendance at our meetings.’
Rahimere shrugged and gestured at the servant to draw closer. Amerotke looked over his shoulder. Hatusu sat pale-faced, her eyes blazing with fury. The present really should be given to her. She was the host, the lord of this palace, but Rahimere’s intervention was a public snub and an eloquent reminder that he held the reins of power. The servant brought the chest forward.
‘It was delivered, my lord,’ he explained, ‘by a man cloaked in black.’
Amerotke dropped the piece of goose he had been nibbling on. The reference to black robes stirred memories. In reports which had come before the court, Amerotke had learned about the guild of assassins, the devourers, professional killers. Time and again in criminal cases, references had been made to this bloodthirsty band who worshipped a ferocious feline goddess Mafdet, and were garbed in black from head to toe.
‘I accept the gift.’ Rahimere clapped his hands in irritation. ‘Open the chest!’
The seals were broken, the lid thrown back. Amerotke turned to say something to his companion when he heard the scream. The servant had taken the gift out of the chest, holding it up like a man in a dream. The blood still dripped from the neck. The guests stared in horror at the severed head of the priest Amenhotep.
Sekhmet: the lion goddess; the destroyer.
CHAPTER 7
The banquet ended in chaos. Two ladies fainted. Some of the male guests, covering their mouths with their hands, left the hall for the privies to vomit and purge their stomachs. The head was thrust back into the coffer, guards despatched to find the bearer, but he had long gone. Hatusu, supported by Senenmut and Sethos, imposed order.
‘My lords!’ Hatusu clapped her hands for silence. ‘My lords and ladies, there is little point in continuing these festivities. The banquet is over. The royal circle will meet in the hall of columns!’
Servants came in to take away the dishes and wine jars. Those not members of the council were only too pleased to make a sign against the evil eye and leave the palace. Amerotke arranged for Shufoy to take Norfret back to their house. Omendap kindly volunteered two of his officers to accompany them.
Once she had gone, Amerotke went back into the banqueting hall. The blood-stained chest still lay open on the floor. Amerotke crouched down: the ghastly face stared back, its eyeballs rolled up, the tongue protruding. Amerotke studied the severed neck: the cut had been clean and sheer. He noticed how the skin of the face was puffy and discoloured.
‘What are you searching for?’
Hatusu, with Senenmut and Sethos on either side of her, was looking down at him.
‘My lady, I suspect Amenhotep was dead when his head was severed. The cut is clean, a professional heavy blow. The messenger who brought this was clothed in black. This is the work of the Amemets, a group of professional assassins.’
‘But why kill Amenhotep?’
Senenmut crouched down and peered curiously at the severed head.
‘That prattling mouth is now quiet,’ he declared. ‘And those arrogant eyes will never again look at me from head to toe.’
Amerotke glanced quickly at this new right-hand man of the lady Pharaoh: his dislike of the dead priest was apparent. Hatusu lifted one sandalled foot and kicked the chest closed.
‘In the Hall of Columns!’ she snapped.
The council chamber had been prepared, seats and small tables arran
ged in an oval. Rahimere was already there, taking the place of precedence. The scribes and priests who supported him flanked him on either side. Hatusu sat where she had the previous evening, Senenmut and Sethos on either side.
Amerotke took the chair nearest to the door. He felt uncomfortable and wished he wasn’t there. Despite the wine and the gaiety of the first part of the banquet, the atmosphere in the chamber was oppressive. The hatred and jealousy which seethed there were almost tangible.
The priest hurriedly intoned a psalm, likening the young Pharaoh’s face to that of the god Horus. How his hair was as tender as the skies; his left eye the sun in the morning, his right eye the sun in the evening. How the glory of Ra filled his body, providing light and warmth for the people of Egypt. Once the priest left, however, there was no sign of this light and warmth. Hatusu seized the initiative.
‘My lords.’ She sat so imperiously, her chair seemed like a throne.
Rahimere went to interrupt but she raised her hand.
‘My lord Vizier, this is a royal palace: the House of a Million Years. Our glorious Pharaoh is in the House of Adoration. I am his stepmother. So, what do we have here? My husband collapsed in front of the statue of Amun-Ra, bitten by a snake. General Ipuwer died in this chamber, bitten by a snake. And now, during a banquet, the severed head of Amenhotep is sent as a grisly reminder or, perhaps, as a warning to the rest of us?’
‘What are you implying?’ the chief of the House of Silver whined. ‘Three men have died.’
‘No,’ Senenmut intervened. ‘Three men have been murdered.’
‘Murdered?’ Rahimere cocked his head. ‘So you are now saying the death of divine Pharaoh, who has travelled to the blessed west, was no accident?’
‘General Ipuwer’s certainly wasn’t,’ Hatusu pointed out. ‘And I don’t think Amenhotep fell downstairs.’
‘My lord Amerotke.’ Rahimere beamed down the council chamber. ‘We have all heard of your judgement.’ He spread beringed hands. ‘You established, at least to your own satisfaction, how the viper on board the Glory of Ra was not responsible for the death of divine Pharaoh. Now we all know that the divine Pharaoh was carried to the temple on a palanquin where he was met by his lady wife.’
