The Mask of Ra

by Paul Doherty

  Meretseger: snake goddess with shrines in and around the Necropolis and the Valley of the Kings.

  CHAPTER 11

  Amerotke walked further along the river bank. Now and again flocks of birds would burst up and sail out across the river busy with crafts and boats of all kinds and shapes. He heard a squealing from a dense thicket. A group of hunters were beating a pig with sticks while two others cast pieces of pork on the end of great hooks into the river, hoping the bloodied meat and the cries of the pig would attract one of the hunting crocodiles which would swallow the bait and be pulled into shore to be clubbed to death. The men, naked except for loin cloths, stood holding spears and clubs. One of them glimpsed Amerotke.

  ‘You should join us,’ he called. ‘It’s good sport!’

  Amerotke shook his head and moved on.

  At last he came to a fairly deserted landing quay and went along it. He stood on the causeway looking down at the swollen waters. There was always the danger of crocodiles and, though rare, it was not unknown for them to hunt unwary loiterers by the riverside. Asural believed so many drunks had fallen into the Nile and been eaten, the crocodiles had acquired a taste for human flesh. Amerotke stood there until he attracted the attention of a small fishing dhow which plied as a ferry up and down the Nile.

  Amerotke clambered in. The boat crew hardly noticed him but took his deben of copper. They chattered among themselves, turning their craft under Amerotke’s directions across the Nile to a small landing quay on the edge of the Necropolis. Amerotke stared up at the warren of streets, houses, shops and booths and, above these, the great rocky outcrop now turning reddish as the sun began to set. This was the peak of the west, dedicated to the serpent goddess Meretseger, lover of silence. Amerotke recalled the warning regarding the valley over which this rocky outcrop kept gloomy guard.

  ‘Beware of the goddess of the western peak. She strikes instantly and without warning!’

  Amerotke closed his mind to such gloomy thoughts by wondering what Norfret and his two sons would be doing. He became so withdrawn the ferry men thought he was asleep and shook his knee as their craft bumped into the wooden quay. Amerotke thanked them and clambered ashore.

  He took the road which wound through the Necropolis, pausing at the huge statue, a shrine to Osiris, foremost of the westerners, the god of the dead before whom all must appear. Amerotke often visited the Necropolis, to visit either his parents’ tomb or those of other members of his kin, and it was always an eerie experience. The close-packed dwellings of the many-streeted town housed embalmers, coffin-makers, chandlers, painters, and the makers of funeral furniture. Through the open doorways Amerotke glimpsed gilt and painted coffins leaning against the wall: show rooms where customers could choose the best designs. Some traders even offered their clients miniature mummy cases to take home and inspect.

  Beside these were the embalmers’ booths and sheds where the corpses would be prepared for burial. The air reeked with the strong smell of natron, the pungent salt in which corpses were soaked before the embalmers began their work. The smell mixed with others: the entrails, pulled out through the nose; the palm wine, pounded incense, myrrh and casis which were packed into the corpse once it had been gutted and cleaned. Most of the work was for the rich. The corpses of the poor were simply slung on hooks. Amerotke glimpsed some of these turning blue-black waiting to be tossed into huge cauldrons of natron salt to be soaked and cleansed before being collected by their grieving relations.

  Beyond the shops and booths were honeycombed tombs carved out of the limestone granite. Amerotke paused to allow a funeral procession to pass. This was led by a priest chanting a prayer to Osiris; behind him came servants carrying alabaster jars containing food, fresh oils and long, decorated wooden chests holding the ornaments, weapons and clothes of the dead man. A covered sled, dragged by two men, marked the centre of the procession. Inside it stood the Canopic jars containing the embalmed entrails which had been removed from the corpse. Behind it a lector priest solemnly chanted: ‘We come before thee, oh lord of the west, great god Osiris. There was no evil-doing in this man’s mouth. He did not speak untruths. Grant that he may be like the favoured ones who are among thy following. Hail to thee, oh divine father Osiris! Oh lord of breath! Oh lord of the palaces of eternity! Grant that this man’s Ka may dwell in your courts!’

  The words were taken up by other priests accompanying the intricately carved mummy casket resting on a couch beneath a canopy. Behind this trailed the family and friends, as well as a group of professional woman mourners who, weeping, tearing their hair and beating their breasts, intended to give good value for money as they scooped up dust and threw it over their hair and clothes.

  The procession passed. Amerotke was about to walk on when he glimpsed the physician Peay scurrying from a house, a pet monkey on his shoulder, one of those small vervin often treated by the rich as a pampered pet. The physician was moving in a hurried, secretive way and Amerotke wondered what business he could have in the Necropolis. He was about to move on when he bumped into someone. He stepped back and recognised the embalmer, the man who had spoken up on behalf of his kinsman during the recent trial in the Hall of Two Truths. The fellow, embarrassed, muttered an apology and, head down, stood back.

  ‘Health and blessing!’ Amerotke greeted him.

  ‘Health and blessing to you, my lord Amerotke. Why are you visiting the City of the Dead?’

  ‘Judges and their families eventually come here,’ Amerotke said.

  ‘Where are they buried?’ the fellow asked.

  Amerotke pointed to the far side of the town.

  ‘I can take you there,’ the embalmer offered. ‘The City of the Dead is not a place for you.’

  Amerotke looked through an open doorway. The embalmers were busy on a corpse, the workers stripped to their loin cloths, their bodies glistening with sweat. He heard the clang of hammer, the wails of the receding funeral party while the strange, pungent smells cloyed his nose and mouth. Amerotke had never been here by himself but with his family, servants, guards or officials.

  ‘You should walk careful,’ the embalmer observed.

  ‘I walk careful,’ Amerotke retorted.

  He went to pass on but the fellow didn’t stand aside. As Amerotke’s hand fell to his sword hilt, the man bowed his head and put his hand up in a sign of peace.

  ‘I thank you, my lord, for the mercy shown to my kinsman.’

  ‘It was a great mercy,’ he replied. ‘Your kinsman committed a blasphemous, sacrilegious act.’

  ‘I always pray for you, my lord Amerotke.’

  The judge tapped the man on his bare shoulder. ‘Then do so now,’ he requested and went on his way.

  At last Amerotke was free of the Necropolis, striding along a dusty path fringed by tough green gorse. The smells and sounds of the Necropolis receded, being replaced by the hot, sandy breath from the desert. At last he was round the rocky outcrop, following the narrow snaking path which ran along the dried wadi into the Valley of the Kings. The cliffs on either side rose dark and forbidding in the dying rays of the sun. Amerotke heard a sound and paused. Just a little way up the cliffside Amerotke saw a bundle of rags move and, grasping his sword, climbed the loose-packed shingle. An old woman had been put there. Her face was yellow and seamed with age, framed by thinning, greasy, grey hair. Amerotke caught the death-rattle in her throat and looked into her milky eyes. He shook her gently; eyelids fluttered, a vein-streaked hand moved as if she wished to cover her face against the sun. Amerotke lifted her carefully. She seemed as light as a feather. He pulled her up into the shade, resting her against a rocky outcrop. The old woman’s lips moved but Amerotke could not understand her quick jabber. He knew what was happening. The old woman had been brought here to die, left out in the desert by a family too poor to feed another mouth which had grown useless with age.

  ‘Where are you from?’

  The old woman went to speak but shook her head, her breath coming in a dry, croaking r
attle. Amerotke took the water gourd and held it to her lips. She drank greedily, then he poured some into his hand and wetted her dry brow and cheeks. Her eyes fluttered open. She suffered from the cataracts, a light film of skin which covered both eyes, but she could make out Amerotke’s shape.

  ‘I am dying.’

  Amerotke took her hand and pressed it.

  ‘I can take you back,’ he offered.

  She tried to laugh but her head fell forward. He wetted the back of her neck with more water, which seemed to revive her, for her head came up.

  ‘Will you not stay?’ she whispered. ‘Will you not stay and say the prayer?’

  Amerotke looked further down the valley. He should be going. He could take the woman back but where to? Her skin was already cold and clammy, the death-rattle loud in her throat. He offered the water bottle again.

  ‘I’ll stay with you.’

  ‘And you’ll close my eyes and say the prayer?’

  Amerotke agreed and waited as the shadows grew longer and the old woman became weaker. He gave her sips of water and made her as comfortable as possible. The end came fast. She coughed back some of the water, her scrawny body trembling, then her head fell sideways. Amerotke closed her eyes and, turning to the north, prayed for the special compassion of Amun-Ra, that this old woman’s Ka, her spirit, be allowed to dwell in the fields of eternity. He covered her face with a tattered cloak and spent some time placing boulders over the corpse; night was falling and, on the hot blast from the desert, he heard the howls of the scavengers, the jackals, lions and hyenas.

  Amerotke reckoned he must have lost at least an hour and hurried down the valley. The deeper he went the more ominous the silence grew. The gorse bushes clinging to the rocky escarpment seemed like hooded watchers waiting to pounce. The night was growing cold. In the blue-black sky the stars were appearing, a myriad of lights. The shadows stretched across and met. Amerotke recalled how this was a haunted place. Somewhere here in this valley lay the secret tomb of Pharaoh Tuthmosis I. The royal grave-digger and architect, Ineni, had boasted that ‘eye had not seen, nor had ear heard nor could tongue tell’ where the great king had been buried. In other words, dead men tell no tales. The hundreds of convicts and prisoners of war who had worked on the tomb had been massacred. Did the Kas of these men, their ghosts, still wander here?

  The track wound round. At the far end of the valley Amerotke could see the great cave, the shrine to the goddess Meretseger, high on the rocky escarpment. A flicker of flame leapt up against the closing night; peering through the gloom, Amerotke glimpsed a figure waving at him to come forwards.

  The judge hurried on, sweat coursing down his body as he began the climb. Rough steps had been cut into the cliff face but these were crumbling, covered in shale and shifting sand. The cult of the goddess had declined, being replaced by the lavish temple ritual of Thebes. Amerotke looked up but the mouth of the cave was now hidden by the steep incline.

  At last he reached the top. Here, as if scooped out by some giant hand, a dizzyingly deep cleft cut through the rock. Amerotke paused to catch his breath and stared across. The fire was no longer burning nor could he see anybody. Above the mouth of the cave, a carved statue of the slant-eyed goddess stared sightlessly back, her hair a mass of writhing snakes.

  ‘I am here!’ Amerotke called out. He glanced behind him, sure he had heard a sound. ‘I am here!’ he repeated. ‘Amerotke, chief judge of the Hall of Two Truths!’

  From the rocks above came the yip-yip of the great hairy hyenas. Drawing his sword Amerotke cautiously crossed the wooden bridge which spanned the gorge, nothing more than makeshift planks of wood. He entered the mouth of the cavern and looked down at the trickle of blood coming out of the darkness. Clutching his sword, he went in. Two oil lamps burnt weakly in metal dishes. Water had been poured over the fire, dousing the flame and warmth. The stench of blood and corruption was all-pervasive. Amerotke’s hand went to his mouth. He heard a sound and hurried back to the mouth of the cave where to his horror he saw that the wooden planks had been withdrawn, pulled back to the other side. Amerotke screamed in despair. So arrogant, so full of himself, he had not reflected on the possibility of a trap! He went back, picked up the oil lamp and went deeper into the darkness.

  He stopped in horror at the scene before him. The old priest lay there, his throat so badly cut the head only hung by sinews of flesh, his skinny body soaked in black blood. Beyond it sprawled the stinking corpses of two baboons. The wind was blowing in the cave and had wafted the smell away but, close up, Amerotke sensed the full horror of the trap. Blood-daubed symbols covered the walls. The stone statue of the goddess had been overthrown. The place had been desecrated.

  Amerotke went back to the mouth of the cave, closing his eyes in relief. The cave was dug into the side of a cliff. Surely if he went out on the ledge, he could climb on the rock above, reach the rim of the valley and find his long, dusty way back to Thebes, skirting the rim of the desert? He went out, hands searching for a foothold, and gratefully noticed a narrow, smooth, beaten trackway leading up the rock face. He put down the oil lamp, re-sheathed his sword and clambered up. A low, deep growl shattered the silence and he slithered back, scoring his hands and knees. Further up the trackway a dark shape had appeared, amber eyes glowed in the darkness. A smell of rottenness tinged the night air. Amerotke controlled his panic. The shape, though low and threatening, had not moved. Again the deep-throated growl, this time taken up by others. Amerotke drew his sword and the shape moved, head coming up. Against the blue-black sky Amerotke made out the long ears, ugly head and great maned ruff of a huge hyena, one of those ravening scavengers which hunted the edge of the desert. Amerotke stepped backwards. The hyena, for all its horror, was uncertain. Normally hyenas would never threaten an armed man. However, a hunting pack at night with the smell of blood and rotting flesh luring them on might well close in. They would probe his weakness and attack. Amerotke had heard similar stories from merchants and pedlars, being caught unawares, of wounded men, their cuts and lacerations drawing a pack in on them.

  The shape moved, belly close to the earth. The leader of the pack edged forward. Amerotke yelled and screamed, striking his bronze sword against the rock. The threat receded. Amerotke retreated back to the cave where the oil lamp was guttering low. He seized it, burning the tips of his fingers as he tried to build up a fire, the only sure protection against the threat outside. Desperately he tried to make the flames catch the dampened twigs but it was useless. He heard a growl and looked up. A dark, wolf-like shape stood in the entrance to the cave. Even in the poor light Amerotke could make out the full horror of this demon from the darkness. This was no ordinary hyena – the pack leader was probably a bitch in full maturity, its great ruff of hair now on end framing its ugly head, jaws open, eyes like pools of raging fire.

  Amerotke screamed and yelled. He picked up the oil lamp and threw it at the mouth of the cave and the shape disappeared. He heard the growls, the pack building to a frenzy. Soaked in sweat, he grasped sword and dagger. Soon they would attack. The fire would provide no protection. He could run, try to leap the gap, but he dismissed it. The gulf was too great and if hyenas could bring down a fleet-footed gazelle, they would catch him.

  Amerotke closed his eyes, praying to Ma’at.

  ‘I have done no wrong,’ he said quietly. ‘Have I not offered sacrifice in your sight? Have I not tried to walk in the truth?’

  Again the growl came as the hyena reappeared at the mouth of the cave, another behind it. Amerotke saw an arc of flame through the darkness and something smacked into the rock above the cave followed by shouts and screams. Other fire arrows followed. The hyenas, now alarmed, withdrew.

  ‘Master! Master!’

  ‘Shufoy!’

  Amerotke broke into a run then remembered the menace beyond; with his back to the wall of the cave he edged cautiously forward. He peered out into the darkness. He could see a shape moving, a torch was lifted.

  ‘Master, c
ome on! Come on!’

  ‘The planks!’ Amerotke shouted.

  The shape disappeared. He heard the twang of a bow, one, two fire arrows aimed in the direction of the hyenas. He heard his manservant grumbling, muttering to himself.

  ‘Master, for the love of truth, help me!’

  Amerotke went out on to the ledge. The cold night air caught his sweaty skin and made him shiver. He looked to his right. Of the hyena there was no sign.

  ‘They’ve gone!’ Shufoy exclaimed. ‘But, master, they could come back. The planks, quickly!’

  ‘Make sure they lie straight.’

  Amerotke crouched down and fumbled in the darkness. He found he couldn’t stop trembling, he couldn’t concentrate. Shufoy threw across the lighted torch, which landed, the flame spluttering but, reigniting the tar and pitch, glowed more fiercely. Amerotke, calming himself, used the light to grasp the edge of the planks and make them secure. Then he was across, crouching beside Shufoy. He allowed his servant to wrap a cloak around him, fighting against the wave of nausea and the burning sensation at the back of his throat.

  ‘How did you know?’ he gasped.

  ‘I didn’t,’ Shufoy declared self-righteously. ‘But, master, not here. We must go.’

  Amerotke was about to leave but, at Shufoy’s insistence, he helped pull the planks back across.

  ‘The hyena is a cunning animal,’ Shufoy explained. ‘We wouldn’t be the first two hapless humans to be hunted through the dark. Are you well? Can you run?’

  Amerotke nodded.

  ‘On one condition,’ he gasped. ‘No proverbs, no maxims, Shufoy!’

  ‘A man’s fate is a man’s fate,’ Shufoy intoned.

  ‘The hyenas don’t sound so terrible now,’ Amerotke joked.

  His manservant put his arm round his waist and the two of them made their way gingerly down the cliffside.

  By the time they had left the valley, Amerotke felt weak and sick. His mind teemed with tumbling, terrifying images: the blood-soaked corpses; the baboons with their gaping jaws; that putrid smell and those death-bringing shapes from the darkness.