An Evil Spirit Out of the West (Ancient Egyptian Mysteries)

by Paul Doherty

  Eventually we entered the mining area and discovered the true devastation caused by the Kushite attacks. Whole villages had been wiped out, houses burned, the small temples polluted, the inhabitants slaughtered in every way the human heart can devise. Men, women and children had been bound hand and foot, placed in thornbushes which were then saturated with oil and set alight. Corpses, stripped by the vultures and animals, were impaled on stakes; the wells were swollen with carcasses. Miners, priests, officials and soldiers had been bound, staked out under the blazing sun or buried alive. In one village we found a cauldron, taken from the mine workings, filled to the brim with severed limbs.

  We secured the mines, left a protective force and moved on. Horemheb’s agitation deepened. Our force was being slowly reduced and we were now in the heart of enemy country. We entered their villages, abandoned and deserted, except for the old and weak who had been left behind. Rameses delighted in lining these people up, then moving quickly down the line, slitting one throat after the other. We came across refugees, or so they claimed, destitute, naked and unarmed. Horemheb ordered the war-chariots out to disperse or crush them. The Horus unit became the cutting edge of our corps, the point of the spear, the razor edge of the sword. As our tally of dead rose, the Veiled One’s words came back to haunt me. What did it really matter? We were nothing but marauders moving across the landscape of Hell: the life-force of those men killed was a mere puff of breath, smoke from a dying fire, glimpsed briefly then quickly forgotten.

  By the middle of the hot season we had secured all the mines, pushing the Kushites back until they were forced to make a stand. Our chariot squadrons were deployed, we made the offering to Horus; incense was burned on a scalding rock, we intoned the litany of supplication and hitched up our horses, now not so plump, ribs showing through their dusty coats but still eager and ready for war. We deployed in a line of battle. The Veiled One sent a messenger to Colonel Perra: he wanted to be with us. Perra shrugged and, shamefaced, Horemheb ordered Sobeck to stand down whilst we waited for him to arrive. He came leaning on his cane, walking in ungainly fashion in his leather kilt and jerkin. He wore no sandals and his head was now completely shaven: the reddish-haired sidelock had gone. The Veiled One had decided he was now an adult, a warrior. He climbed into the chariot beside me, grasped the reins, nodded to his left and right, then passed his hand gently up and down my arm.

  ‘You wonder why?’ he murmured. ‘Because I have to, Mahu. My Father wishes it.’

  I was sweat-streaked, thirsty and tired.

  ‘Your father?’ I asked. ‘The Magnificent One?’

  ‘The One I love, Mahu, who is in the very air I breathe.’ He wrapped the reins round his wrists and glanced away. Colonel Perra and Horemheb were now moving their chariots forward, standards displayed.

  ‘Horus the Victor!’ a lector priest intoned. ‘Spread your wings above us. Devour the enemy! Let your heart be with us!’

  The refrain was taken up by the rest. I remained silent. The Veiled One whispered a different prayer to his Father, face turned towards the sun. Ahead of us lay the Kushite host, formed into three distinct battalions across the desert, blocking our advance. They carried their own grisly standards, long poles bearing the heads of slaughtered Egyptians, and their raucous war-chant echoed across the plain. I was aware of the sweat, the clinging dust, the shifting heat haze, the hordes of flies. I briefly thought of Aunt Isithia and wished she was with me, to suffer from the flies. The Veiled One was singing softly under his breath. Horemheb was eager to move, the Horus squadron taking pride of place in the centre of the battleline. Perra, shading his eyes, seemed anxious.

  ‘The Kushite line is moving,’ the Veiled One whispered.

  I strained my eyes. The heat haze hung like a shifting veil between us and the enemy. At first I thought my eyes were playing tricks.

  ‘They are moving,’ I replied. ‘They are retreating!’

  They were gone. Horemheb was furious. He insisted on a pursuit, and a shouting match broke out between him and Colonel Perra, who was determined that we would stay in line and not follow.

  ‘It’s a trap,’ he warned Horemheb. ‘Only the gods know where they have gone or what they can see.’

  In the end he had his way. Our battleline broke up and we drifted back to the camp. The Veiled One threw the reins at me, grasped his cane and left the chariot without a second glance. We fortified the camp and made ready lest the Kushites attack. Colonel Perra was now in constant communication with the army high command. Now the province behind us was clear of a hostile force, messengers could move quickly backwards and forwards. Late that evening, just before darkness, a chariot pulled by the finest horses in the imperial stables clattered into the camp. The messenger reported to Colonel Perra, who came to discuss the matter with Horemheb and the rest of the Horus unit. Colonel Perra was anxious and dust-streaked. Despite his personal bravery and military bluster, Perra depended heavily on Horemheb for advice and guidance.

  ‘I have news,’ Perra peered down at us squatting in a circle round the fire, ‘from the Viceroy himself.’ He held up the sheet of papyrus, kissed the seal mark and showed it to us. We bowed our heads. ‘The Kushite chiefs have sued for peace and are eager to surrender. Early tomorrow morning I am to go out to accept their surrender.’

  ‘I’ll come.’ Horemheb got to his feet.

  Rameses of course joined him.

  ‘That’s why they vanished, wasn’t it?’ Huy remarked. ‘A last act of defiance.’

  ‘I don’t care about that.’ Perra made a cutting movement with his hand. ‘Horemheb, you will stay. I will go with five chariots and some Nakhtu-aa. You will be left in command. Oh,’ Perra smiled grimly at me, ‘and you are to come with me.’

  ‘He will not accompany you.’

  I whirled round. The Veiled One, dressed in a beautiful gauffered linen robe, sandals on his feet and a blue and gold striped head-dress covering his scalp, stood resting on his cane beneath a palm tree. He walked slowly forwards.

  ‘Colonel Perra, you received a message? I was not informed!’

  ‘My lord.’ Perra coughed and cleared his throat.

  ‘I accept your apologies.’ The Veiled One’s voice was terse and clipped. ‘But you will not take Mahu. He will stay and guard me. The Strong-Arm Boys are to accompany you.’

  Colonel Perra glanced at Horemheb who shrugged.

  ‘Your wish is my command.’

  The Veiled One turned and marched off into the darkness.

  The next morning Colonel Perra left. He and the accompanying four chariots clattered off, the Nakhtu-aa running beside them. Horemheb was anxious. He insisted that the camp remain on a war footing: shields up around the defensive perimeter, carts pulled across the entrance, every unit ready for battle. At first I thought he was showing off to the rest of us. I had been taken aback by the Veiled One’s intervention and wondered why, but he never sent for me or asked me to stay near him.

  As the day grew on I began to share Horemheb’s unease. In the late afternoon a look-out cried that Perra was returning. I joined Horemheb on the perimeter. The entrance carts were pulled back as the chariots emerged from the cloud of dust, men running alongside them.

  ‘Well, it’s over,’ Pentju sighed behind us, ‘and the gods be thanked. We have done our service to Pharaoh and now we can go home, the ever-conquering heroes.’

  I and others drifted away as Horemheb went down to the gates to await the Colonel. I was by the pool wetting my lips when the alarm was raised. I raced back on the path. Horemheb was screaming; the carts had been pulled across and the chariots swung through. A nightmare. The driver was not from our corps but a Kushite wearing Colonel Perra’s head-dress and uniform. Each chariot had a thornbush attached to it to raise the dust and conceal the surprise attack. Perra and his group must have been slaughtered and their chariots and uniforms taken to penetrate the camp. Horemheb’s warning had given us some respite. Conch horns and trumpets wailed. Every man was still ready fo
r battle but the Kushite foot burst into the camp and a bloody hand-to-hand struggle took place amongst the trees. The first chariot contained only two, those behind more warriors, whilst enemy foot raced up the escarpment knocking aside our shields, eager to cause devastation. Chaos ensued, not so much a battle but separate fighting as our units clashed with this group or turned to face another. Corpses bobbed in the still water of the pool. Cooking pots and carts were overturned, a small well-armed group of Kushites reached the horselines to hamstring our mounts.

  Horemheb saved the day, organising a phalanx of Menfyt and leading them forward to clear the camp. I struggled through the press, lashing out with sword or club or whatever weapon was at hand. A Kushite who had speared one of our lector priests slipped around a tree, lance back, shield slightly down, exposing his soft belly. I ducked and rushed in, thrusting my dagger deep, pushing the body away and moving on. I glimpsed Pentju beneath a cart, eyes all tearful. The swirl of fighting became less intense. Stumbling, searching for a sword, I glimpsed the Veiled One’s pavilion, no guards before it as everyone had left their posts. I lifted the flap and entered. The Veiled One was on his knees trying to strap on his leather kilt, fingers fumbling with the thongs. I heard a sound and turned. Two Kushites had slipped through the entrance: they separated, shields up, moving their spears backwards and forwards. I glimpsed the Veiled One’s khopesh and grasped it with two hands. One Kushite closed but he was nervous, leading with his shield. I crashed into him and knocked him aside; the other, slightly crouched, jabbed at me with his spear-point, but missed. I lashed out, slicing off his arm just beneath the elbow. The man staggered away, blood spurting, face contorted with pain. I turned, the other one was scrambling to his feet. I swung the khopesh and its razor edge sliced deep into his head, cutting through the top part of his skull, shearing it away as if it was the top of an egg. The pavilion was rent by screams, hot blood spurting, splashing my leg. I closed, hacking down with my sword on the Kushite’s chest. I was screaming, sweat pouring down me.

  ‘He’s dead, Mahu! He’s dead.’

  I paused, gasping like a swimmer who had fought a fast-flowing river. The Veiled One was kneeling beside me. The Kushite whose arm I’d severed was trembling, eyes glazed, jabbering in a tongue I couldn’t understand. The Veiled One knelt beside him, nodding gently as if he understood every word. I raised my sword but the Veiled One lifted his hand. He talked quietly to the man as if unaware of the trembling, the fear-filled eyes, the blood spurting like water from a cracked jug. My battle frenzy passed. The Kushite whose skull I had sliced lay slightly to one side, his chest a mass of wounds. I squatted down, clutching my dagger. The Veiled One was still talking quietly to the other. The man’s eyes rolled back in his head, his tongue seemed thicker. He kept repeating the same words. ‘Deret nebeb Ra.’

  ‘Egyptian,’ the Veiled One smiled across at me. ‘He keeps saying those three words. Listen.’

  The man, fighting for breath, repeated them as if lost in some nightmare, unaware of his surroundings.

  ‘Deret nebeb Ra.’

  ‘Fetch Ra’s Basket,’ I translated. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘He has the words wrong,’ the Veiled One smiled up at me. ‘He means nuber not nebeb – gold not basket. They were bribed to attack, told to look for gold, easy pickings in this tent. I wonder who told them that?’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t matter now.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t,’ the Veiled One replied and, lifting his dagger, cut the Kushite’s throat.

  ‘The sky thunders,

  The earth quakes,

  Because of you.’

  (Utterance 337: Pyramid Text)

  Chapter 4

  The eating-house of the Residence had been transformed for the occasion. Painters had skilfully drawn battle-scenes on the walls in eyecatching dark blues, deep reds and golden yellows – all depicting the glories and bravery of the Horus unit. Our battle standards, displaying the Ever Blind Yet All-Seeing Horus triumphant over a fallen Kushite, rested against the wall on either side of the door. We sat on the softest cushions before small tables on which alabaster oil jars and scented candles glowed against the darkness. On the other side of our tables sat a line of beautiful temple girls in braided, perfume-drenched wigs, sloe eyes ringed with green kohl, bracelets dangling on their wrists, jewelled rings glittering on their long sensuous fingers, gorgets of amethyst round their soft throats. They came from the Temple of Isis and were called ‘the Hands of God’: they were well named! All were draped in linen veils which only enticed rather than concealed their beauty. These soft-eyed, red-lipped girls with their tender glances and soft sighs were a constant paean of praise to the heroic Horus unit. Baskets of flowers and pots of myrrh, frankincense and cassia perfumed the air. In the far corner musicians with lyre, harp, flute and oboe provided soothing music to pluck at the heart and stir bittersweet memories.

  At the top of the room in their robes of glory and scented wigs, jewellery glittering at throat, ear and finger sat God’s Father Hotep flanked by the Veiled One and Crown Prince Tuthmosis. They were our hosts, the newly proclaimed Maryannou of Pharaoh, Braves of the King. Hotep sat impassively. The Veiled One had drunk deeply. He looked bored, playing with his food, strips of tender pork, beef, chicken and duck, tapping his nails against the silver goblet. Around his neck dangled a Collar of Valour as he had killed two of the enemy in hand-to-hand combat during the expedition.

  I made no mention of my role. Once the two Kushites were dead, I had rejoined the bloody struggle taking place in the rest of the camp. I blinked and glanced away. We had been well entertained as a reward for our bravery. Sinuous dancing girls with flashing eyes, clicking castanets, naked except for a loincloth had performed feats of agility, their long black hair sweeping the ground and stirring our lusts. We were all there: Maya, plump and soft-skinned, staring calf-eyed at Sobeck. I ignored the heset opposite me, her flirtatious glances and coy, soft touches across the table. I closed my eyes. A month had passed since I had returned from ‘The Cauldron’ as we now called the desert. We had arrived home, lean, dark-skinned warriors who had bloodied themselves in the heat of battle. We had been given a hero’s welcome, the Silver Bees of Bravery and the Gold Collars of Valour being bestowed on everyone in our unit. Maya had been so incensed with jealousy he had gone out and bought himself a cornelian necklace, a shimmering myriad of colours to hang round his own throat. Our deeds had been extolled by heralds and poets all over Thebes. Colonel Perra’s death was viewed as an act of gross treachery for which the Kushite princes paid a terrible price. We had only survived their brutal ambush due to Horemheb; his vigilance and ruthlessness had kept us prepared. Our assailants were driven off, scouting patrols were despatched, then we retreated, faces towards the enemy, falling back until we reached the support corps, the ‘Splendour of Isis’ near the oasis of Koroy.

  Tonight’s celebration was the last of many. It not only marked the official end of the campaign but our education at the royal court. Tomorrow Horemheb, Rameses and Sobeck took up their commissions in the Sacred Band, an imperial regiment under Hotep’s direct command, which guarded the temple complexes of Thebes. Huy was to enter the House of Envoys, Pentju and Meryre the House of Life, Maya, the treasury, the House of Silver. And me? I opened my eyes and smiled at the girl opposite. Tomorrow, I reflected, would take care of itself. The room was stifling, so I rose, bowed towards the High Table and went out into cool, fragrant night air. I stared up at the stars, brilliant gems on a dark cushion and wondered what I really would do. A sound made me jump. I turned round, my fingers going for the knife which wasn’t there. Imri the one-eyed Kushite, leader of the Veiled One’s personal guard, emerged into the pool of light. He bowed sardonically, one hand on his chest. ‘I did not know,’ he said, and glanced at me from under his eyebrows. ‘I did not know you were one of the heroes.’

  ‘A change,’ I taunted, ‘from when you put a rope round my neck.’

  ‘Now you have put the rope ro
und many a Kushite.’

  ‘You were not there?’

  ‘I would have been.’ Imri stepped forward. ‘Egypt is my home; my master has my loyalty.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you come with us?’

  ‘Orders from above.’ Imri winked his good eye and gestured towards the palace.

  He walked back into the darkness. I wanted to be alone, away from Imri’s careful gaze, the raucous chanting of the eating-house. I decided to walk on. Since my return from The Cauldron, I had grown to love the cool greenery of the evening, the whispering olive trees, the sound of running water, the comfortable silence, unbroken by the prowlers of the night. I also wanted to think and plan – but about what? Where was I to go? What was I to do? I had fought as a soldier, the stench of blood was never really far from my nose and mouth. My sleep was plagued by nightmares. I could not do that again, at least not for a while.

  I found myself walking down towards the Silent Pavilion, keeping to the line of trees. Surprisingly its gates were open, the courtyard bathed in pools of light from glowing braziers and oil lamps. People were about to leave. I hid behind a sycamore and watched a group of courtiers protected by Nakhtu-aa, swords drawn, shields up. Yet, despite the ring of protectors, the group looked relaxed. A man of middle height walked between two women, the rest appeared to be retainers. The elder woman was Great Queen Tiye – I recognised those high cheekbones and full lips, the hard sensuous mouth. The other woman was much younger. Just outside the gate, she stepped into a pool of light; pausing to listen to something her male companion said, she threw her head back and laughed. My heart skipped! My soul, that hidden force within me, surged to meet hers. It was the first time I had experienced such passion and, indeed, the last. The sheer exhilarating beauty of that face!

  In my wine-drenched frenzy I thought she was staring directly at me, hands clasped, head slightly tipped back, hair cascading down, a jewelled-braid band about her brow, beautiful sloe eyes under heavy lids, that laughing, merry mouth. Despite the darkness I saw it all. A soul on fire with her own beauty! Nefertiti! Nefer means beautiful and the name was created for her. Till that night I’d never loved and, since that night, I have never really loved again. Don’t mock, don’t ridicule. Each soul has its song, each heart its purpose. Nefertiti was my song, my purpose. You’ll say it is ridiculous. I thought it was miraculous. A vision by moonlight, a face which took in all my longing: all my hurts, all the stupidities and the waste – I could forget them all, looking at her! On that evening I stared on the face of my eternity and became lost in it. I still am. Don’t mention courtship, getting to know someone, nurturing feelings. What nonsense is that? If death can come in a heartbeat, why not the profoundest love? I just watched openmouthed. The vision laughed again, a merry sound which touched my soul and taunted it with what could have been, what might have been. Then she was gone, my beautiful queen of the night!