The Mask of Ra

by Paul Doherty

  And, before she could object, Senenmut was marching away shouting for officers. All around her, in a mad scramble, Egyptians were grabbing weapons which lay at hand. Chariot crews hastened to hitch up their teams. Trumpets bellowed. Officers lashed out with their white wands of office. Senenmut realised he could do little here. In the royal enclosure the strong-arm boys were already manning the palisade. Mercenaries in their horn helmets massed at the gate. Senenmut pushed his way through. In her tent Hatusu was arming herself. She had thrown her robe to the ground, pulling the armour over her head, a long sheath of protection from neck to calf. Her face was pale. Senenmut helped her put on her sandals. The war belt she hitched over her shoulder and, before he could stop her, Hatusu snatched up the blue war helm of the Egyptian Pharaohs, which she fastened on her head. From the far end of the camp they heard a roar as the first Mitanni chariots tried to break through. An officer came running up to report what was happening.

  ‘The Anubis regiment,’ he gasped, ‘have been ambushed! The Mitanni army have now rolled them up and are pursuing them into the camp!’

  Hatusu closed her eyes. Senenmut was offering advice but she couldn’t understand what he was saying. She was back as a girl with her father out in the royal gardens. He had a stick, drawing symbols in the earth, describing his victories.

  ‘My lady!’

  Hatusu’s eyes flew open. Amerotke, his face and body armour covered in dust, cuts to his cheeks and shoulders, was standing in the entrance to the tent. Behind him were other men from his squadron. Hatusu waved him forward. Without thinking she picked up a wine goblet and thrust it into his hands.

  ‘I know what has happened!’ she said. She pointed to the writing table littered with scraps of papyrus.

  ‘Show me clearly, Amerotke, what hope do we have?’

  Amerotke gulped at the wine then, taking a stylus, dipped it into a pot of red ink. He found he couldn’t stop trembling. Tears came into his eyes, his stomach was clenching as if he had drunk too much and wanted to be sick. Senenmut noticed his shaking hand.

  ‘It will pass,’ he reassured him. ‘It will pass, Amerotke.’

  The judge rubbed his eyes. He had reached a side gate of the camp, screaming at the guards to let him through the palisade and into the royal enclosure. He wished Shufoy was here, shouting good-natured abuse.

  ‘Show me!’ Hatusu’s voice was harsh.

  Amerotke drew a rectangle.

  ‘This is the camp,’ he explained as he drew a line across the bottom of the rectangle. ‘This is the royal enclosure.’ He then scored the top of the rectangle. ‘The main gate, yes? The Anubis regiment has broken, badly led, badly prepared. They panicked and are now trying to break into the camp.’ He curved an arrow from the left, down towards the front gate. ‘Here are the Mitanni, not a patrol or a few squadrons but massed chariots supported by phalanx after phalanx of infantry. They are trying to break into the camp.’

  ‘If they do,’ Hatusu said, ‘like water, they’ll find the easiest route. Not through the parapet but the main gate. They’ll force their way in. Their ranks will break among the tents and carts.’ She pointed to the bottom of the rectangle. ‘This is where our principal chariot squadrons mass! Her finger moved a little to the right, indicating the edge of an oasis. ‘Here the rest of our chariot force. My lord Senenmut, you will leave immediately and take over these squadrons.’

  ‘And you, my lady?’

  Hatusu grabbed Amerotke’s stylus and drew an arrow from the royal enclosure along the rectangle to the front gate.

  ‘The Mitanni chariots are heavy. Their horses will be tired. The crews will disengage to search for plunder.’ She summoned an officer.

  ‘You are Harmosie, commander of the Isis regiment?’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’

  Hatusu could hear the cries and shouts, the crash of weapons from the camps, but she kept her voice steady.

  ‘You are now camp commander.’

  ‘My lord Omendap?’

  ‘He’s still feverish. Now, listen, man, you have one order, to organise your force into a phalanx, a wall somewhere just beyond the royal enclosure. You are to hold the Mitanni back. Do not advance, I repeat, do not advance until our chariots have struck!’

  The council broke up, Senenmut hurrying away. Hatusu, now determined, rapped out more orders and playfully slapped Amerotke on the shoulder.

  ‘Come, my lord judge. Let us now mete out judgement to the enemy!’

  Amerotke stared wearily at her. ‘It’s the killing time?’

  ‘Yes, Amerotke,’ she replied quietly. ‘To seize power you must kill! To hold power you must kill! To strengthen it you must kill! If you are divine-born, that is your lot: you have no choice!’

  Re or Ra: the self-engendered eternal spirit.

  CHAPTER 14

  Hatusu, Amerotke and her group of officers joined the chariot squadrons where, under the direction of commanders, they were now massing on the far side of the camp. A long line of chariots stretched out, horses prancing and rearing, war plumes dancing, drivers checking reins and harnesses while their warrior companions ensured bow, quiver and throwing spears were ready. The late afternoon sun caught the bronze and gilt work, the edge of spears, in flashes of shimmering light. Wheels creaked as the chariots swayed forwards and backwards. The officers moved along, repeating the same instructions. They were to ignore the chaos in the camp. They were to advance behind the divine Hatusu. Those on the far right were to swing in an arc and they would smash into the flank and rear of the Mitanni. Lord Senenmut would bring a relief force around the other side to close the trap. The foot soldiers and strong-arm boys in the camp would hold the enemy. They would clasp the Mitanni into a tightening circle and so defeat them. The order was simple, the directions repeated time and again.

  Amerotke climbed into his chariot. The driver had changed the horses. He smiled.

  ‘This time, my lord, it will be our surprise!’

  Amerotke was about to reply when a swelling murmur of acclamation rose from the ranks. Hatusu in her chariot, her principal bodyguard around her, now swept along the front of the chariot squadrons. She was dressed in the blue war helm, her bronze armour glinting in the sun. In one hand she carried a spear, the other held the rail of the chariot. She did not speak but studied the lines of men as if impressing upon them, by her very presence, what was about to happen. Despite the urgency of the situation she reached the end of the line and turned back. Amerotke smiled. Hatusu was a born actress; standing in the chariot immobile, spear held up, she looked like the female incarnation of the war god Montu. The chariot stopped and turned. Hatusu lowered her spear. Her chariot moved slowly forwards. Amerotke and the squadron leaders followed. Behind, like some great hymn to death, rose the creak and rattle of the massed squadrons. All eyes watched that small figure standing next to the standard of Amun-Ra fixed in the front of her chariot. The driver was one of Senenmut’s lieutenants. He turned, one fist raised.

  ‘Life, health and prosperity to the divine Hatusu!’

  A roar greeted his words. Hatusu’s chariot moved a little faster. Somewhere among the squadrons, a priest chanted a hymn of war.

  ‘Hatusu, destroyer like Sekhmet!’

  ‘Hatusu!’ came the roar back.

  ‘Hatusu! Sword of Anubis!’

  ‘Hatusu!’ This time the roar was deafening.

  ‘Hatusu, spear of Osiris!’

  ‘Hatusu!’

  The litany was now taken up by thousands of voices.

  ‘Hatusu! Conqueror!’

  ‘Hatusu! Daughter of Montu!’

  ‘Hatusu! God’s golden flesh!’

  The chariots were now moving faster. Amerotke wondered if the divine litany was spontaneous or arranged but now he had little time to think. Hatusu’s chariot was moving fast like a bird skimming across the ground. Behind her rumbled hundreds of other chariots. The entire earth echoed with the drumming of hooves, the creak of harness, the clatter of metal. Behind Hatusu the principal
officers gave directions. The line slowed down as it turned, the far right moving faster in its arc. The sound of the battle from the gateway of the camp wafted on the cool evening breeze though all they could see ahead of them was a great cloud of white dust. Amerotke unslung his bow, squaring his feet. The chariots had now picked up speed. The horses, urged on by their drivers, headed like the devourers towards the unsuspecting Mitanni. The roar of battle, the sheer delight of killing, drew them on. They were approaching the white cloud of dust, then they were in it, smashing like arrows into the ranks of the Mitanni.

  The chaos was indescribable. Men and horses lay strewn on the ground. Here and there Egyptian foot soldiers stood in phalanx but some of the Mitanni had swept by these into the camp. The arrival of Egyptian chariots took them completely by surprise. The Mitanni had been interested in plunder while their horses were exhausted, their heavy chariots difficult to turn in the chaos and confusion of massed ranks of men.

  Amerotke was aware of faces screaming up at him. He loosened arrow after arrow and then drew sword and club. Faces, hands, chests appeared before him only to fall away in great red spouting wounds, the blood splashing him and his driver, drenching the floor of their chariot. All around him men became locked in individual combat. It grew difficult to distinguish friend from foe as armour, standards, helmets and faces got coated in dust. Amerotke looked up. Hatusu was deep in the enemy, her spear rising and falling. A group of strong-arm boys had now surrounded her, finishing off the Mitanni soldiers and charioteers, protecting their Queen as she drove deeper and deeper into the enemy ranks.

  At first it was just a fierce, bloody fight: men screaming and yelling; the enemy trying to turn their horses and bring their own chariots into play. Amerotke, however, sensed a change of mood. The Egyptian foot soldiers in the camp, who had heard of their arrival, were now pressing the Mitanni back. He heard the distant bray of trumpets, more shouts. Senenmut’s few chariot squadrons had crashed into the Mitanni’s far flank. The battle turned into a massacre. The Mitanni were trapped in a horseshoe formation. Some tried to break out and were successful but now Hatusu’s officers threw some of their squadrons into pursuit. Amerotke’s arms grew heavy, his eyes hurt, his mouth was so full of dust he thought he would choke. No mercy was being shown, nor pardon given. The strong-arm boys were now cutting the throats of any of the enemy who threw down their weapons. In some cases these rough, cruel fighters were sodomising their fallen foe. Amerotke grasped his charioteer’s arm.

  ‘It’s finished!’ he yelled. ‘It’s all over! This is no longer a battle but a slaughter yard!’

  The driver gazed, round-eyed.

  ‘Withdraw!’ Amerotke roared. ‘The battle is won!’

  The driver reluctantly turned his horses, driving back through the wedge, seeking openings in the Egyptian ranks, pressing in on their fallen enemy.

  Soon they were free of the slaughter. In the light of the setting sun the rocky desert ground seemed to shimmer in blood. In some cases the corpses lay two or three thick. Men groaned and moaned and horses struggled to break free from the ruined traces of their chariots. The camp followers had already swarmed in looking for plunder, stripping the corpses, cutting the throats of the enemy wounded.

  Amerotke pointed towards the small, grassy oasis which lay just outside the camp. Already the Egyptian wounded had been taken there to be tended by physicians. In the shade, near the coolness of the pool, Amerotke climbed down from the chariot and walked like a sleep wanderer. Men groaned, begged for a drink, an opiate, anything to relieve the heat, dust and pain. Amerotke found he didn’t care. He took off his body armour and lay down, pushing his face into the water, splashing his head, the back of his neck, lapping it like a dog. He found it hard to move; all he wanted to do was sleep, close his eyes and ears. He became aware of a man beside him: a long-haired mercenary in cheap leather body armour.

  ‘A great victory, my lord Amerotke?’

  The judge turned. The face was darker, disguised by a shaggy moustache and beard, yet Amerotke still recognised those eyes as he clasped the outstretched hand of Meneloto.

  The following morning the camp palisades were taken down so the massed might of Egypt’s army could stand in serried ranks. During the night a great dais had been constructed using wood and other materials from captured chariots. In the centre of the dais stood a huge tabernacle made of cloth looted from the Mitanni camp. Next to this stood Senenmut. He had been hailed as one of the great heroes of the battle and, like a true actor, he had not washed or changed but stood in his war kilt and bronzed cuirass, helmet in one hand, the other on the curved sword in his scabbard. He had been responsible for awarding the golden eagles for valour to different commanders and individual soldiers. Now and again he’d turn and glimpse Amerotke standing in the front ranks. He smiled with his eyes. The judge’s withdrawal from the battle had not been commented on and, the previous evening, Hatusu had sent a gift of wine to Amerotke’s tent. On either side of Amerotke stood squadron commanders and principal priests carrying the insignia and standards of the different gods and regiments of Egypt.

  No one had slept the previous night. The Mitanni camp had been looted and the darkness given over to celebrating Hatusu’s crushing victory. Tushratta had escaped but leading noblemen among the Mitanni detachment were now crowded into huge stockades hastily constructed outside the camp. The foot soldiers, charioteers, guardsmen, strong-arm boys and mercenaries now stood, all eyes on the great golden tabernacle placed so prominently on the dais. Amerotke suspected what was about to happen.

  Senenmut raised his hand. The trumpets blared. Shrill blasts were taken up by other musicians stationed around the camp. The cluster of white-robed priests beside the dais now held up their incense burners, the fragrant smoke rising like prayers to the bright blue sky. Cymbals clashed and Senenmut turned, gesturing with his hand. Two priests ran forward, the golden curtains were slowly pulled back. On the throne of Horus, covered in precious cloths, her feet resting on a footstool, sat Hatusu. On her head she wore the blue war crown, the silver spitting cobra around its rim. Over her shoulder hung the Nenes, the beautiful coat of Pharaoh. The lower half of her body was hidden in white goffered linen. Her arms were crossed. In one hand she held the crook, in the other the flail of Egypt and in her lap rested the sacred sickle-shaped sword of Pharaohs. Fan-bearers moved on to the dais around her, the great ostrich plumes wafting perfume through the air. Amerotke regarded Hatusu’s beautiful face which had, only a short time earlier, been contorted into the terrible rictus of battle. He gazed in wonderment at the false beard, used by Pharaohs, now fastened under her chin. The rest of the army stared, stunned by her majesty and the surprise of the occasion. Hatusu sat immobile as a statue, looking out over her soldiers’ heads.

  ‘Behold the perfect god!’ Senenmut shouted, his powerful voice carrying through the camp. ‘Behold the golden flesh of your god! The golden throne of the living one! Behold your Pharaoh, Hatusu, Makaat-Re: the truth of the soul of the holy one! Beloved daughter of Amun, conceived, by divine grace and Amun-Ra’s favour, in the womb of Queen Ahmose!’

  Senenmut paused to let his words sink in. He was not only proclaiming Hatusu as Pharaoh but of divine origin.

  ‘Behold your Pharaoh, King of Upper and Lower Egypt!’ he continued. ‘Golden Horus, lord of the diadem, the vulture and the snake! King of abiding splendour, most beloved of Amun-Ra!’

  He paused. The silence grew tense. Never before in the history of Egypt had a woman held the crook and the flail and been proclaimed as God’s child, King, master of the nine bows.

  ‘Hatusu!’ The shout came from behind Amerotke and was immediately taken up by the whole army.

  ‘Hatusu! Hatusu! Hatusu!’

  Spears were clashed against shields. The roar grew. The acclamations rang out as if to ensure their salutation would go to the far ends of the earth, beyond the distant horizon into the palaces of the gods. The ranks shifted backwards and Amerotke knelt with the rest, all pr
essing their foreheads against the ground in total submission. Amerotke smiled to himself: Hatusu was now victor of both war and peace. The trumpets blared, the men rose. Senenmut had five of the leading prisoners brought before the throne, their hands bound behind them. They were forced to kneel.

  Hatusu rose, grasping the ceremonial club one of the priests handed to her. She seized the hair of each captive, now held fast between two soldiers, and brought the club down. Amerotke closed his eyes. He heard the groans and moans of the prisoners, the awful death-bearing crunch and, when he looked again, the prisoners, clad only in their loin cloths, sprawled before the dais, great pools of blood spreading out around them.

  Hatusu was again proclaimed and, through Senenmut, declared her favour for her ‘beloved soldiers’. More rewards were offered. The plunder would be divided; a victory parade would pass through Thebes and the strengthening of the kingdom would take place. Nebanum was dragged before her. Senenmut was short and quick. The discredited commander was ordered to be taken out of the camp where men from each regiment would stone him to death. After that Hatusu took her seat. The golden curtains around the throne were closed like the doors of a tabernacle, hiding the god’s golden flesh from the impure sight of men.

  Amerotke looked up at the great pyramid, marvelling at this harmoniously shaped limestone staircase to the sky. Its burnished cap caught the rays of the rising sun like an oil wick catching a flame. Dark, impressive, the pyramid brought back memories of his father who had brought him here to show him the glories of ancient Egypt.

  No one knew the real reason why these had been built by the ancient ones. Amerotke recalled his father’s stories: that somehow these were linked to the gods of the first time, the period known as Zep Tepi, when the gods came down from the skies and walked among men. When the world was at peace. When the Nile was not a narrow green line but a lush valley which carpeted the face of the earth. Where the lion was man’s friend and the panther a household pet. His father, a priest, had been full of such tales, of how the pyramids were an attempt to climb back to the gods.