The prisoner closed his eyes. He sat for a while rocking himself backwards and forwards humming a tune, as he always did at this time of the day, his only prayer that the gods would once again turn their faces to him and smile. When he opened his eyes, the sky was beginning to redden, the sun turning from a molten gold to a fiery disc, slipping quickly into the west. The prisoner recalled his days as a priest physician; how he would prostrate himself and pray to Osiris, Master of Yalou, Lord of the Evergreen Fields in the Eternal West. Until he escaped, if he escaped, there would be no more gods, no meadows of heaven, nothing but this hideous hell of a prison oasis.
The darkness came flowing in like a cloak. The heat cooled. The noises of the oasis changed as prisoners and guards relaxed, ready to enjoy a night of pleasure. A woman screamed, the sound broken by the raucous singing of the guards. The prisoner waited. The moon, the Khens, the Great Runner of the Dark Sky, rose full and clear. The stars, the flowers of the night, gleamed like precious jewels against a dark velvet background. The night air echoed with the howls of the night prowlers beyond the palisade. The prisoner, however, was not worried. He had studied the star maps at the Temple of Ptah; he had his own illicitly acquired crude diagrams. He could recognise the position and shape of the blossoms of the night: Sothis the Dog-Star; Mesekhti shaped like the Great Bear. He would use all this knowledge to plot his way out. He dug into the folds of rags and prepared himself. The drunken chanting of the guards was abruptly interrupted by a clear voice breaking through the strident din.
‘How soft your hands, petals of your skin…’
The prisoner smiled to himself. He recognised that hymn, sung so delicately in this hellish place: it was a heset psalm from his own temple. The words and the melody were the prisoner’s final spur. He would go tonight or die here in this place of horror, even if he had to use his skills to concoct some potion so that his ka could break free from his body and begin its awesome journey into the Eternal West. Whatever happened, he would escape or die in the next few hours.
The prisoner left in the third quarter of the night. He scaled the palisade, no real obstacle; the real keepers of the oasis, as the Guardian had proclaimed, lurked in the blackness beyond. He dropped into the hot, soft sand and stared up at the sky, recalling those star maps and the desert charts he’d consulted at the Temple of Ptah. From these he had learnt where the Oasis of Bitter Bread was situated. He would use this information to travel north-east, and break out of the hot sands on to the hard gravel land that stretched up to the tributaries of the Nile. Once there, he was safe.
The prisoner made his way carefully forward, a dark shape flitting across the sand. Roars, coughs and the growling of night prowlers rang out, though these were now busy tearing the flesh of the felon executed earlier. The prisoner didn’t fear any pursuit, not yet. The guards who walked around the palisade would be slumped down in beer-drenched sleep or hiding in the shadows ready to be pleasured by the prisoners they’d selected. It would be at least noon tomorrow before the Guardian and his guards realised what had happened; early in the evening before they organised any pursuit. The prisoner slipped across the sand. Now and again he’d stop and stare upwards, studying the blossoms of the sky. The desert air was freezing cold but at least he was free. Somewhere to the east lay Thebes and the Palace of a Million Years. Only when he arrived there could he seek out Hutepa, demand justice, and take vengeance for what had happened to him.
MEN: ancient Egyptian, ‘poison’
CHAPTER 1
‘Ptah, Man God, when you show your face all the birds which were as dead spring to life. The beasts browse content in their pastures! Trees and plants grow luxurious. The birds fly and wheel under the sky, wings uplifted in worship of you. The deer spring up at the glory of thy power. Life-giving Ptah, turn your face towards us…’
The temple choir of Ptah, clad in brilliant white robes, paused in their paean of praise. The cymbals clashed to the rattle of the sistra and the joyful blaring of trumpets. The vast crowd gathered in the great precinct below the steps of the temple sighed in astonishment at the hundreds of pure-white doves that burst out from the massive pillared front of the building. These fluttered in a snapping of wings, joyful to be free, then turned and whirled like the innocent souls of the dead beneath the blue canopy of Nut the Sky God, soaring and dipping over the towering walls, pylons and broad bronze gates of the temple. Finally they flew out across the sacred complex of chapels, courtyards, sanctuaries, shrines, statues and gardens of Ipet-sut, the Most Desirable of Places, the temple city of Karnak in Thebes. Once they were gone, the choir continued their hymn:
‘Fair of face and lovely of form are you…’
The crowds waved fans of palm fronds to cool their sweaty faces, and strained to stare up at the sacred precinct of the temple. Dazzling in the sun, this beautifully exquisite facing of pillars and columns of honey-coloured sandstone and pink sculpted limestone overlooked the broad, sweeping steps leading up to it. Maryannou and Nakhtu-aa now guarded these steps, an elite corps of the Imperial Army resplendent in their blue and gold headdresses and linen kilts of the same colours. From the belts of these soldiers dangled the khopesh, the killing sword; their right hands grasped blue and gold shields displaying the Horus hawk, while in the other was a long spear with a pointed barb. Beyond these guards, at the top of the steps clustered the leading priests of the temple in their gauffered robes, shoulders draped in the glossy, gleaming skins of leopard and panther. The celebrants moved in clouds of the most fragrant incense, curling up in prayer to the Man God Ptah, whose gigantic statue stared stonily down at them.
To the right of the priests sat Hatusu, the Glory of Egypt. She was garbed in the jewel-encrusted vulture headdress of Nekhbet, the lunging Uraei, the Spitting Cobra, around her brow. Her lovely shoulders were draped by the Nenes, the Coat of Glory, her long legs swathed in a long linen kilt. She sat on the Throne of Majesty, its golden arms carved in the shape of leaping lions, its silver legs ending in the sculptured heads of Egypt’s enemies, the vile Asiatics, the Prowlers on the Great Green, the rebels of Nubia, and other foes amongst the People of the Nine Bows. Hatusu, her beautiful long face exquisitely painted, sat elbows resting on the arms of the throne, sandalled feet pushing against a footstool of silver and gold. She gripped the flail and rod and suppressed a smile. She only hoped the Libyan war chiefs, squatting on cushions on the other side of the precinct, did not notice the carvings on the front of the footstool: they depicted their warriors kneeling in submission, arms bound behind them, tufts of hair specially tied up so that Pharaoh, Horus in the North, the Mighty Bull of the South, the Glory of Amun, the Living Incarnation of Montu, might smash their skulls.
Hatusu wetted dry lips, and her sloe eyes, ringed in black and green kohl, glanced across at the five living sacrifices awaiting their fate. They knelt at the top of the temple steps like the carvings on the footstool, garbed only in loincloths, arms bound behind them tied at the elbow, shaggy heads hanging down, their faces hidden by bushy beards. Hatusu stilled her own qualms. Across the forecourt of the precinct squatted Naratousha, the principal war chief of the Libyan tribes who roamed the Western Desert, the disputed Redlands. She had to demonstrate to him and his council that the power of Egypt was invincible. As the hymn proclaimed: ‘She is like the hawk lord on the wing who takes what pleases her at a glance of an eye, like the Jackal of the South, Lord of Quickness, the runner who crosses over the Two Lands, like the War God Montu who crushes the furthest perils…’ The Libyans and others must accept the message of the paintings, carvings and inscriptions on the walls, columns and pillars around them, all summed up in one line of hieroglyphics edged gloriously in gold: ‘Egypt will set its boundaries where she will. Pharaoh will crush the people of the Nine Bows.’ In other words, squadrons of imperial war chariots must go where they wished in the western Redlands. Egypt’s merchants and traders and those of its allies must trade unmolested as far west as the Mountains of the Moon and north to the coast al
ong the Great Green.
Hatusu felt beads of sweat prickle her brow. She glanced quickly to her right but her Grand Vizier, First Minister and lover, standing behind her, the shaven-headed, craggy-featured Senenmut, had already anticipated her. He raised a hand and the fan-bearers to the left and right moved a little closer. The huge flabella they carried – ostrich feathers fluffed and dyed many colours before being soaked in cassia and kiphye – gently wafted away the hot sandy air and the ever-marauding flies. Hatusu felt Senenmut’s fingers brush the skin at the back of her neck. He was encouraging her, telling her to be strong. Again she glanced to her right at her row of ministers, her secretary, chamberlain, Keeper of the Cabinet and, next to these, in his blue and gold headdress and gauze-like robes, the Chief Judge in the Hall of Two Truths, Lord Amerotke, adorned with the necklace, pectoral and rings of Ma’at, the Goddess of Truth. It was Amerotke who had condemned the five sand-dwellers to be sacrificed. Marauders, murderers and thieves, twice warned, they had still attacked and captured an Egyptian merchant. Today these five condemned men would die as a sacrifice to the righteous anger of Pharaoh, a public warning to the enemies of Egypt and a grim reminder to the Libyan war chiefs. Hatusu breathed in. The moment was approaching; the choir was drawing to a close.
‘We sing thy praises in the House of the Double Doors. We lift our hands in the Mansion of a Million Years. Glorious are you, Ptah…’
The choir finished. The Keepers of the Stake, the executioners, clad in red, faces hidden by Seth masks carved in the form of a dog, moved out of the shadows of the pillars. The chief executioner carried the sacrificial apron; his assistant the gold-handled war club of Pharaoh. Horns rang out, cymbals clashed, trumpets bellowed. The captives, despite the drugged wine they’d been given, moaned and stirred. The executioner’s guards moved closer. Naratousha and the other Libyan war chiefs leaned forward, eyes glittering in their sharp, high-cheekboned faces. Hatusu rose. The chamberlains wrapped about her the thick, silver-edged apron embossed with the hawk head of Horus. Hatusu gripped the war club and, escorted by Senenmut, walked across to the line of captives. Again the trumpets shrilled, horns brayed, gongs boomed. Pharaoh walked carefully, slowly, wary of the lapis lazuli dust, glittering blue and gold, strewn on the floor. As she stood next to the first captive, her heartbeat quickened and she prayed quietly to Horus-Who-Burns-Millions. She must remember that these sand-dwellers had defied her, and murdered and raped her subjects. She was now Sekhmet the Lioness, the Devouress, the Destroyer. She ignored the stench of sweaty fear from the captive and grasped the specially prepared tuft of hair, then swung back the club, bringing it down with a hideous crack on the right side of his head. The sand-dweller collapsed, coughing on his own blood, body jerking, but Hatusu had already moved to the second captive. The eerie silence of the temple forecourt was broken only by the slither of her silver-edged sandals, the gasps and moans of the remaining captives and that hideous noise as war club shattered bone and brain.
At last Hatusu was finished, but instead of returning to the throne, she side-stepped the line of sprawled, bleeding captives to stand on the edge of the top step, her apron now bloodied, war club slightly raised, her left hand up, palm forward in blessing. Senenmut, who had been caught by surprise, gestured at the trumpeters, who blew a long blast, then his powerful voice echoed.
‘Behold Hatusu, Red-eye Horus in the North and South. Beloved of Amun, Mighty of Montu, Glory of the Kingdom of the Two Lands, Possessor of Men’s Necks, Protector of All, Sekhmet the Destroyer, the living incarnation of the God…’
For a few heartbeats the vast concourse simply stared up at this woman, queen, warrior, avenger and vindicator, then the silence erupted in a thundering wave of cheers, praise, paeans of victory and showers of flower petals. Where possible people prostrated themselves, noses to the ground, before this beautiful destroyer, fair of face and most fitting of form. Ministers and officials on the forecourt fell to their knees as Hatusu swept back round to allow the chamberlains to remove the apron, club and specially woven golden-edged red gloves from her hands. Naratousha and his chieftains were also on their knees. Hatusu, face impassive, winked at Senenmut and walked back to her throne. She glanced quickly down the line of ministers. Amerotke was kneeling, though lost in his own thoughts.
Once more there were clarion calls, and hesets sprinkled flower petals. The corpses were removed, the floor cleared and sanded. Hatusu made herself comfortable and the ceremony continued. A small naos was brought containing the treaty rolls, the freshly sealed peace terms between Pharaoh and the Libyan tribes. It was placed on the sacred table, its gold-plated doors of Lebanese cedar open, and flowers were arranged around it. Ani, the High Priest of Ptah, and his two assistants Hinqui and Maben incensed the scrolls. The three principal Libyan envoys came before the altar, and Ani handed them the beautiful bowl of turquoise faience threaded with gold holding the sacred wine. Each drank, then the bowl was given to the three Egyptian scribes who had negotiated the terms, leading figures from the House of Envoys, Nebseni, Menkhep and Kharfur. These too drank from the bowl, then knelt on cushions beside their new-found Libyan friends.
Hatusu relaxed; Senenmut beside her deliberately breathed out noisily. Fresh hymns were sung, flowers sprinkled, incense burnt. Hatusu was about to whisper, ‘It is over…’ when she heard a sound, a cough, strangulated and agonising. She glanced in alarm at the three Egyptian scribes. Kharfur was lunging forward, hands to the floor, coughing and retching. Nebseni and Menkhep were also in difficulties, as if each was choking on something. Kharfur was now convulsing, all ceremony forgotten. He lay sprawled on his left side, limbs jerking, white spittle bubbling between his lips. One of the assistant high priests had grasped the fallen man’s hand. Hatusu watched in horror as Senenmut gestured for the trumpets to sound and a squadron of Silver Shields to deploy along the top steps to screen this abomination. The crowd in the concourse below sensed something was wrong, but only the former prisoner known as the Rekhet realised what was truly happening. He stood shaven and oiled on a plinth of a courtyard wall and stared at the chaos on the temple forecourt before the horror was sealed off by a phalanx of Silver Shields.
* * *
The House of the Golden Vine was an exquisitely stately mansion. It stood in its own grounds, protected by a high curtain wall and a massive double gate. It belonged to Ipuye, a leading merchant who imported spices from the land of Punt and whose fat, greasy fingers dabbled in so many pots. His house of dreams was the envy of his neighbours, even in that chosen spot amongst the lush vegetation which grew along the east bank of the Nile north of Thebes. The house itself was one storey with a rising middle section built on a solid brick platform. It stood on a slight mound, its walls gleaming white, the cedar front door screened by wooden pillars painted a cooling green as if they were rushes sprouting fresh from the Nile, their base coated a rich brown, the flowery capitals silver and gold. The gently inclined ramp leading up to these pillars was broad and sweeping. The lintels of doors and jambs of window grilles were of the best imported timber, decorated in malachite and painted a reddish brown to lessen the glare of the sun. Nevertheless, the real glory of the House of the Golden Vine was Ipuye’s exquisite garden. Most of its soil was rich and black, imported from Canaan and watered by ribbon-thin canals brought in from the Nile. Along these sprouted every kind of herb and flower: poppy, cornflower, mandrake and fat water lilies nestling between their waxen green leaves. Throughout the garden many varieties of trees were specially cultivated: pomegranate, date palm, doum palm, castor oil, sycamore, oak, acacia and terebinth.
All these beautiful trees could be viewed from the finely decorated summer pavilions with their pillared porticoes and cool rooms behind. These were decorated, both ceilings and walls, with bunches of black-gold grapes, which sprouted amongst brilliant silver-green leaves. Other, smaller resting places nestled in cool arbours approached by arching pergolas, climbing plants trained across their latticed timbers. Birds of all kinds nested
in the garden: rock pigeons, swallows, turtle doves, cuckoos, pied kingfishers, geese and ducks, as well as gloriously plumed birds from south of the Fourth Cataract.
Ipuye was very pleased with his garden. He had even imported frankincense and myrrh trees from the land of Punt. He was particularly fond of the latter, which grew like low spreading cedars with gnarled grey branches, their small tufted leaves and white and yellow flowers often proving a talking point with guests. Ipuye had developed his garden to include a whole range of different features: orchards, brightly coloured paths, ornate flower terraces, rich vineyards, fountains and pools. It was a veritable paradise. He was always quick to remind his guests that the infant Sun God was first born as a lotus and daily reborn out of a water lily in a garden such as his. Nevertheless, pride of place went to Ipuye’s lotus pool, as he called the T-shaped bathing lake he had constructed in the far corner of his garden. This was the heart of his paradise. Here the lawns rose slightly, giving way to luxuriant bushes and beautiful sycamores, placed so close together in the rich soil that their branches intertwined. These in turn surrounded a high trellis fence or palisade at least four yards high and fashioned out of blackthorn branches specially interwoven and painted a deep ochre. This exclusive bathing area could only be entered by a narrow double gate which opened up on to a carefully tended lawn, peppered with bushes and trees, which surrounded the pool, its brilliant ivory and rose-coloured stone specially imported from the mines of Sinai. It was edged with different-coloured tiles, on each of these a carving of some animal: porcupine, mongoose, dog, cat and red fox. The pool itself contained the purest water filtered from the channels dug in from the Nile. On the water floated ornate blue and white lotuses. Around the pool were comfortable stone benches with cushioned seats, and at each end was a garden pavilion, elaborately designed to represent a miniature temple, with steps and brilliantly coloured columns behind which stretched small halls constructed so that their window vents could catch the weakest breeze and cool the guests who might wish to shelter within. The lotus pool was a place of beauty.
The Poisoner of Ptah Page 2
