The Assassins of Isis

by P. C. Doherty

  No one was more concerned about this than High Priest Impuki, physician, priest and politician, who, during his ten years of high office, had made the Temple of Isis even more famous. Now he sat in his small writing office next to the embalming rooms underneath the temple. It was a gloomy place even during daylight hours, as only a window high in the wall provided sunlight, but now, as darkness fell, the oil lamps and candles had to be lit. Impuki sat fanning himself and, as he often had during that evening, moaning bitterly about the heat. He prayed quietly that the hot season would soon pass, the Dog Star would appear and the Great Inundation would begin, when the rushing waters of the Nile would replenish themselves and refertilise the land. Until then the heat would be intense, the only relief being the cool of the evening and the fragrant breezes from the Nile.

  However, at this late hour, Impuki was not so concerned about the heat as about the failure of the man opposite, Mafdet, Captain of the Temple Guard, to discover the whereabouts of four young besets, temple girls, who had disappeared. Impuki glowered at the fellow. When this crisis was over, he promised himself, he would tell Mafdet to exercise more and eat less. He noted the soldier’s bulging belly, the fat glistening thighs, and the jowls appearing on either side of this veteran’s face. Impuki did not like Mafdet. Impuki was a physician, a great healer. He prided himself on the fact that he could recognise a killer when he met one. In fact he secretly categorised people with the names of animals, birds and reptiles. The temple girls were beautiful moorhens; the priests were geese. The physicians? Well, some of them reminded Impuki of mastiffs or monkeys. But Mafdet? Impuki thought of him as a scorpion.

  Mafdet was a dangerous man, a former soldier who had fought with the redoubtable General Suten out in the Red Lands, and had been given this post as Captain of the Temple Guard because of his friends in high places. He now sprawled insolently in a low-backed chair, his linen robe slightly stained. He had taken off his ornamental leather breastplate and war kilt, whilst his sword belt had been unhooked and slung on the floor beside him, and he sat, legs apart, tapping one sandalled foot against the tiled floor, as if impatient and resentful at being summoned here. Instead of staring at the High Priest, or adopting a more reverential pose, Mafdet enjoyed ignoring him. He stared up at the heavy-beamed roof or glanced across at the writing desk piled high with papyri and writing implements as well as the cups and phials Impuki used in the study of medicine.

  ‘I’m sorry to call you here, Captain.’

  ‘With all due respect, my lord, I don’t think you are.’ Mafdet turned his head and stared directly at the priest.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Impuki leaned his elbows on the table, joining his hands to conceal the anger in his face.

  ‘You don’t like me, my lord,’ Mafdet said. His accent was harsh, lacking the soft culture of Thebes. He liked to emphasise that he came from the north, from the town of Henes, in the Delta, where life was not as comfortable and easy as it was in Thebes. ‘My lord,’ he repeated, wiping the sweat from his face with one hand and drying it on his robe, ‘you don’t like me, and now you hold me responsible.’

  ‘And why don’t I like you?’ Impuki asked, intrigued at the captain’s insistence on having this conversation.

  ‘You don’t like me, my lord, because I am a soldier, I come from the north, my manners are rough and I like my food and drink. I have as much experience of life as you do. I have served Pharaoh and her father most loyally. I have held positions of authority. I was an officer in the retinue of Lord Rahimere, once Grand Vizier of Egypt.’ Mafdet could have bitten his tongue. Rahimere had died in disgrace, and it was best not to mention him. ‘I was recommended to this post by the Commander-in-Chief General Omendap,’ he added hastily. ‘I am a good captain of the guard; nothing disturbs the peace in the Temple of Isis.’

  ‘I don’t like you,’ Impuki lost his temper, allowing his tongue to run away with him, ‘because …’ He paused, fighting for breath. ‘I think you like killing, Mafdet.’

  The soldier snorted, shook his head and glared at the High Priest from under his eyebrows.

  ‘And that’s another thing I don’t like about you,’ Impuki added. ‘The way you stare at me. As for keeping the peace in the temple …’

  Mafdet picked up his war belt and eased the sword in and out of its scabbard, a threatening gesture not lost on Impuki.

  ‘I don’t like you, Mafdet,’ the High Priest decided to return to his confrontation, ‘because I think you like killing. You are a bully, you swagger around, you drink and eat like a pig!’

  ‘Do I do my job?’ the soldier asked. ‘Where have I failed? Is there any disturbance, do trespassers scale the walls? Are temple treasures stolen? Are the pilgrims and worshippers not carefully marshalled and controlled?’

  ‘The hesets.’ Impuki spat the words out. ‘Four of our temple girls have disappeared, dancers and singers, consecrated by their parents to dance in the Holy of Holies and give praise to the Mother Goddess, virgins who have taken a vow never to leave the safety of these precincts. In the space of a few months four of these girls have disappeared without trace.’

  ‘If a young woman has an itch—’

  Impuki banged the desk with his fist. ‘These are sacred girls, dedicated to the Goddess, not temple prostitutes! No one has seen them leave, they have not returned to their parents’ houses. According to the High Priestess,’ Impuki snorted in derision, ‘they were happy enough.’

  ‘So how is that my fault?’ Mafdet sneered. ‘How can I be held responsible for their disappearance? If you decide to scale the walls, my lord, and run away, what can I do to stop you?’

  ‘Well, the walls could be patrolled.’

  ‘They already are, by your priests and my guards.’

  Impuki picked up the fan and wafted it in front of his narrow face. He could feel the anger seethe within him. The muscles at the back of his neck were tense, whilst his mouth was as dry as if he had been facing a desert wind. He closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing, and when he looked again, Mafdet was sitting, legs crossed, arms hanging down by his sides, staring up at the ceiling, humming quietly.

  ‘I’ll have you dismissed,’ Impuki declared. ‘I’ll make an appeal to the court. I have the Divine One’s ear. You’ll be discharged to join the other lazy veterans in the beer shops of the Necropolis or the slums of Thebes.’

  ‘If you do that, my lord,’ Mafdet straightened the chair, ‘I, too, will ask for an audience before the Divine One, or my patron General Suten, or perhaps Lord Senenmut, Pharaoh’s Chief Minister. I will tell him about the secret doings of this temple.’

  ‘The secret doings?’

  ‘Well, my lord.’ Mafdet sighed and patted his stomach, smacking his lips as if eager for a drink. He looked longingly at a jug standing near the doorway. ‘It is remarkable how many men and women come to this temple and die in the House of Twilight.’

  Impuki stopped wafting his fan. ‘What are you implying? Our patients are old and very ill; they come here to die and we make their last days as comfortable as possible.’

  ‘They still die,’ Mafdet answered cheekily, ‘and before they do, they write out their wills and leave most generous legacies to the temple.’

  ‘We don’t need their money and you know that,’ Impuki answered. ‘They wish to repay us for our care and skill. You will find this common practice in other temples; the income we receive from such legacies is a drop in the pool.’

  ‘And there are other matters,’ Mafdet continued.

  ‘What matters?’ Impuki could now feel the sweat soaking his body. The buzzing of the flies over a dish of sweetened dates seemed to grow, an irritating sound which set Impuki’s teeth on edge; for the first time since this confrontation had begun, he felt a prick of fear in his gut. How much did Mafdet know? What was he hinting at?

  ‘If you have anything to say, now is the time.’ Impuki drew a deep breath. ‘If not, I think it is about time to dispatch you to your duties. I want you to sea
rch the temple gardens, the groves, the undergrowth, the orchards, all those lonely places.’

  ‘And what am I looking for, my lord? Do you think the temple girls are hiding there, giggling behind their fingers, eager to play hide and seek?’

  ‘We have many visitors to this temple,’ Impuki retorted. ‘The sick in body and mind come here. They visit our schools of life, they make offerings in our chapels and seek the advice of our priests and physicians.’ He took a deep breath. ‘It is possible that we have admitted a sinner, a man who likes to prey on young women—’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Mafdet interrupted. ‘One thing I know about our temple girls is that they have powerful voices. If any man touched them, their screams would be heard all over Thebes.’

  ‘How do you know that, Captain? Have you tried to touch one yourself?’

  ‘I have heard rumours.’

  ‘The young women of this temple are dedicated to the Mother Goddess; they are not the playthings of a drunken soldier.’

  ‘To echo your words, my lord, if you have any allegation to make, do so. I am friendly with these girls. I tease them. If I wished to hire one to satisfy my own pleasure, then I would do so honourably.’

  ‘I’m giving you an order, Captain. Instead of sitting in your guard house tonight, search the temple grounds. It is months since the first heset disappeared; she may even have been a victim of a quarrel amongst the girls themselves. I fear you must search for a corpse.’

  ‘At night?’ Mafdet objected.

  ‘You can carry a torch,’ Impuki retorted. ‘And it is something best done under the cloak of darkness so that we don’t raise suspicion. Let us forget our quarrels. The parents of these girls are now petitioning the court. The Divine One herself has taken a great interest in their fate. As I said, I want you to search the orchards and groves, those lonely parts of the temple grounds. Look to see whether the ground has been disturbed, make a careful note of where you go. Tomorrow morning report on which areas you have covered.’ Impuki waved his hand. ‘Now you may go.’

  Mafdet belched noisily. He slowly picked up his leather breastplate, kilt and war belt, gathering them into a bundle, scraped the chair back as noisily as possible and stamped out of the chamber. He climbed the steps into the temple grounds and stared up at the night sky. The heat had now gone, the breeze was cool and ripe with the smells of the temple gardens. In the distance he could hear the faint sound of the chapel choirs rehearsing for the morning sacrifice, and from the bull pens came the lowing of the cattle being prepared for the sacrifice once the sun returned. Servants hurried by, busy on their various tasks. The Temple of Isis rarely slept. There was bread to be baked, meat to be cooked, wine jars to be brought up from the cellar, temple forecourts to be cleaned and sprinkled, animals to be tended to, the countless tasks of a busy temple. Above all, there was the care of the sick, both those in the House of Twilight and those who would be allowed to sleep in the forecourts, the poor and crippled, who had spent money and time reaching the temple in the hope of a cure for their illness.

  A group of young temple girls came by dressed in their billowing white robes and heavy black wigs. They chatted amongst themselves, shaking sistras or clattering tambourines. One or two glanced flirtatiously at Mafdet before wafting by in a cloud of perfume. The Captain of the Guard watched them go, then slowly made his way through a grove of trees to his own small, square-built house which adjoined the temple barracks. He unlatched the door and went in, revelling in the smell of cooking oil which mingled with a small pot of cassia he had placed in the centre of the table. Mafdet liked things clean; he always insisted that the tables, benches and furniture, every pot and jug, be scrupulously scrubbed by his orderlies. Jars of perfume were to be left out to sweeten the air; as Mafdet always remarked, he’d had his fill of smelly latrines and pits. Now he was Captain of the Temple Guard he would have the same luxuries as those plump priests.

  Mafdet went to the rear of the house, into the stone-floored bathroom and latrine. Using a thick cloth, he picked up a small pot of fire placed there and brought it back into the centre of the room. He placed it on the table, took off the lid and blew carefully. The flame, a wick floating in a small pool of oil, flared vigorously. Mafdet used this to light other lamps before returning to the bathroom, where he washed his hands and face in a bowl of herb-strewn water and wiped himself clean with a napkin. During the day he had a servant to tend him, but at night he liked to be by himself. He had business to do, plans to make, money to count. He thought of High Priest Impuki and smiled, baring his teeth like a dog. ‘My lord Impuki this, my lord Impuki that!’ he hissed. ‘Well, my lord Impuki,’ he filled a beer jug and sipped appreciatively, enjoying the harsh tang of the brew, ‘perhaps I know more than you think.’ He recalled the High Priest’s angry face and his instruction to search the grounds. Mafdet sat down on a stool and laughed softly to himself. He would do nothing of the sort. If the temple gardens were to be searched it would be during the day. He had no intention of jumping to the High Priest’s every whim and wish.

  Mafdet finished his beer. He felt tired and sleepy. He recalled what Impuki had said about the temple girls, and smiled quietly to himself. As he thought of a certain heset’s golden body squirming beneath him, his eyes grew heavy and he promised himself a short sleep before resuming his drinking. He put the beer cup down and went and lay on the long couch which served as his bed. For a while he drifted in and out of sleep. Memories came and went: of the chaos caused by Rahimere’s fall, followed by service out in the Red Lands; of sleeping with one eye open, ever ready for those Libyan marauders to come slipping out of the darkness. Ah well, that was all over; now a life of comfort beckoned. Mafdet fell asleep.

  He was slapped awake brutally, startled by a cup of cold water thrown into his face. He lurched forward, only to discover that his hands were bound above his head whilst his legs were held fast by cords which bit into his ankles. He tried to speak, but the linen cloth stuffed into his mouth made him gag and fight for breath. Mafdet turned his head. Was this some sort of nightmare? Yet he was in his own house; the oil lamp still glowed. He glimpsed a movement, and a shadow detached itself from the darkness and came towards him. Mafdet gazed in terror as the head came into view, the face hidden behind a jackal mask. The intruder was cloaked in black, and the sinister features of that mask, the glittering eyes, cruel snout and sprouting ears, reminded Mafdet of the city executioner. He shook his head, trying to understand who this terrifying figure could be, and why it was here.

  ‘Mafdet.’ The voice was low and throaty. The Captain of the Guard couldn’t decide if it was female or male. ‘Mafdet, you have sinned against the Goddess.’

  Mafdet shook his head and strained with all his might against the cords around his wrists and ankles, but they were tightly bound and the cords held. He struggled, trying to lift his body, but it was impossible.

  ‘Do you remember, Mafdet?’ The voice came like an echo in a dream. ‘Do you know what happens to those who commit sacrilege against the Goddess?’ Mafdet could only stare at this monstrosity from the Underworld. ‘You have to be punished, Mafdet.’

  The Captain of the Temple Guard felt his tunic being raised. He tried to scream as his loincloth was wrenched away, and his body convulsed in agony as the knife, pressed against his genitals, thrust deep.

  BEHEN: ancient Egyptian, ‘murderous’

  CHAPTER 2

  The Hall of Two Truths in the Temple of Ma’at at the heart of the Waset—Thebes, the City of the Sceptre—lay silent. So expectant was the crowd gathered at the back and along the sides of the hall that they forgot to stare round. They did not admire its painted pillars and columns of dark green and light blue with gold lotus leaves carved around the base and silver acanthi at the top. Nor were the spectators distracted by the marble floor, polished and shiny so it seemed as if you were walking on water: so clear it acted like a mirror and caught the reflections of the silver flowers, butterflies and birds carved on the ceiling. The Hal
l of Two Truths was truly a chamber of beauty as well as justice. Its wall paintings depicted Ma’at, the Goddess of Truth, in many poses and roles: as the beautiful young woman, the divine princess, kneeling before her father Ra; as the judge, standing in the Hall of Judgement with the jackal-faced Anubis and the green-skinned Osiris as the Divine Ones assembled to weigh a soul and determine its final fate. In other paintings she was portrayed as a warrior princess fending off the destroyers, the creatures of the Underworld, who exulted in such names as Devourer of Faeces, Gobbler of Flesh, Supper of Blood, Grinder of Bones. Next to these she appeared in more peaceful roles holding the scales of justice or stretching out the feather of truth.

  All these paintings and carvings reminded everyone assembled in the hall that this was a court of justice, a place of judgement, where men and women faced the all-consuming power of Pharaoh and suffered the consequence of her displeasure. Here, sentence of death was passed, the dreadful decree which dispatched criminals to a suffocating death in the desert or to be hung in chains from the Wall of Death outside the city.

  Now, in the first weeks of the Inundation, in the third year of Pharaoh Hatusu’s reign, sentence of death was to be proclaimed. The onlookers in the court either gasped or held their breath, for the trial recently ended manifested how the Pharaoh Queen, scarcely a woman of mature years, had tightened her grip on the collar of Egypt. When Pharaoh’s power was strong, the princely tombs in the Valley of the Kings and the Valley of the Queens were left untouched. If Pharaoh weakened, the powers of darkness always made their presence felt, either in attacks on the temples or in the raiding of tombs across the swollen waters of the Nile in the City of the Dead. Such raids had recently taken place, and all manner of men and women had been involved. Priests of the mortuary temples, priestesses of the serpent goddess Meretseger, whose shrine overlooked the Necropolis, merchants and soldiers, high-ranking ministers and officials: no fewer than two dozen people in all had been arrested. Hatusu, her face mottled with fury, had met her councillors of the Royal Circle and demanded such raids be brought to an end. Now the man responsible for Pharaoh’s justice, Chief Justice Amerotke, was about to pass judgement. He had been left in no doubt that he was to show all of Egypt how Hatusu had tightened her grip on the Kingdom of the Two Lands.