The Assassins of Isis

by P. C. Doherty

  Hatusu herself had come down to the court early that morning to lecture Amerotke in his chamber behind the shrine. The Chief Justice thought Pharaoh had never looked so beautiful: her flawless skin drawn tight, eyes sparkling with life, the blood running fast and free. She was so angry she could not stay still, but walked up and down, linen robes swishing, her multicoloured sash swinging backwards and forwards to the clatter of bracelets and necklaces: these reflected the light from the torches and lamps so it seemed the Pharaoh Queen shimmered in an aura of fire. She had even pressed the pearl-encrusted fan used to keep her cheeks cool against Amerotke’s neck.

  ‘You are sure they are guilty, my lord?’ she demanded.

  ‘Of course, Divine One.’

  Amerotke kept his eyes on the Uraeus, the spitting cobra, which lunged from the centre of the circlet around Hatusu’s head. In many ways, he thought, the Pharaoh Queen in her present mood was more dangerous than any snake.

  ‘I want those criminals dead.’ Hatusu took away the fan, snapped it open and began to use it vigorously. She turned, and stared down at her Chief Minister, Senenmut, his thick-set face impassive as he squatted on a footstool and watched his divine mistress engage in not such a divine tantrum.

  ‘You must not, my lady, be seen to interfere,’ Senenmut declared. ‘The tombs were invaded, the criminals caught; justice will be done.’

  ‘I want them all to see justice is done. I want people as far north as the market towns of the Delta who stare out over the Great Green to know that I am Pharaoh. I want people who live beyond the Fourth Cataract to tremble at the sound of my name.’

  ‘They already do.’

  Amerotke leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. Hatusu was not angry with him, she was just indulging her well-known temper. In truth he realised this cunning Pharaoh Queen was delighted at what he had achieved.

  ‘They will see you as mighty of form,’ he continued, ‘strong of heart, beloved daughter of Pharaoh, Lord of the Two Lands, she whom Nekhbet the Vulture Goddess has covered with her feathered wings, she whom Horus protects as he burns millions.’

  Hatusu now hid her face behind the fan.

  ‘She to whom,’ Amerotke continued his teasing, ‘the priests of Amun, Isis and Osiris offer incense to the clash of cymbals and the braying of trumpets. She who wears the double crown and the feathered headdress, whose words leap down from her mouth.’

  Hatusu’s rage subsided. She stood for a while listening to Amerotke imitate an imperial herald, then began to laugh, shoulders shaking, fingers going to cover her mouth. She had thrown the fan at Senenmut and hitched more closely around her shoulders the beautiful jewel-encrusted Nenes, the coat of glory, worn only by Pharaoh. Now she clapped her hands in appreciation.

  ‘If you ever wish to become a herald, Amerotke, I can arrange that, but in the meantime …’ She drew so close Amerotke could smell the beautiful Kiphye perfume, the juice of the resplendent blue lotus. Up close Hatusu’s eyes reminded him of a leopard’s, almost amber-coloured, whilst he knew those beautiful lips, parted so prettily, could curl in a snarl. She lifted her hands, sheathed in their blood-red gloves, and gently touched Amerotke’s face. ‘Three years, Amerotke, I have been Pharaoh, and you are right. I am the beloved of the gods. I am the smiter of the vile Asiatics, the crusher of the rebellious Kushites, and before me the People of the Nine Bows tremble. My ships cross the Great Green, my war barges patrol the Nile, my chariot squadrons go deeper and deeper into the Red Lands. My soldiers build wells, fortify oases, map roads; they set up inscriptions and monuments to my glory. My troops patrol the Horus path across Sinai, I demand the princes of Canaan flood my court with tribute, wines, wool and precious timber. But what is the use of that,’ she pressed her fingers against his cheek, ‘if I can’t even protect the sepulchres of my kin, my father, brother, mother and husband? You know what they did, Amerotke, those miscreants? They looted the tombs, desecrated the mummies. They stripped them of jewels, gold and silver, selling them like trinkets in the marketplace. What do you think, my lord Amerotke, the princes of Canaan will say when a merchant approaches them and offers to sell jewels which once protected my dead father’s eyes? What does that say about the power of Hatusu?’

  ‘My Lord Amerotke is not to be blamed.’ Senenmut spoke up. ‘He is the one who hunted these villains down and brought them to justice.’

  ‘Ah yes. Justice!’ Hatusu stepped away. ‘Make sure my justice is done, make sure it is published and shown that it has been done.’ She snapped her fingers at Senenmut and swept out of the chamber.

  That had been three hours ago, just before dawn. Now Amerotke sat enthroned on the dark-red-quilted Chair of Judgement, its acacia wood inlaid with silver and gold, the back of the chair rising above him from which a tasselled awning stretched out above his head. Both the arms and the feet of the throne were carved to represent a lunging lion with the face of Sekhmet, the destroyer goddess. Amerotke stared across at the group of men and women manacled and chained, guarded by Asural, the burly Captain of the Temple Guard, dressed in full ceremonial armour, sword in one hand, club in the other. Around Asural stood the temple police, whilst Amerotke knew that in the courtyard outside, the death carts had been assembled. On a cushion at Amerotke’s feet knelt Lord Valu, the Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh, the royal prosecutor, keeper of the Crocodile Diadem. Amerotke knew the ritual. Valu would ask for justice, for sentence of death to be passed on all those he’d presented to the Goddess.

  ‘This is my decree.’ Amerokte grasped the flail and the rod, the symbols of justice; he crossed his arms, imitating Pharaoh when she issued a decree. ‘The crimes you have committed are a blasphemy which stinks as high as heaven, offensive to both man and god. You entered the Holy of Holies, the Houses of a Million Years. You opened the coffers and caskets of the great ones, and plundered their treasures, sealed there for all eternity. You disturbed the dead.’

  Amerotke paused as the onlookers gasped and sighed, for that was the real crime: not the theft, but the disturbance of the dead. What happened to their corpses in this life would influence their Kas in the next.

  ‘You used corpses as torches, setting alight the mummies and embalmed remains of divine children.’ Amerotke stared at these criminals, men and women now almost indistinguishable, the dirt and muck of the prison dungeons staining their bruised flesh and torn clothes. ‘Very well.’ He picked up a scroll and handed it to Valu. ‘Here are the names of the prisoners. Ten of the men shall be impaled alive at the entrance to the Valley of the Kings; the women will be buried alive beside them. The rest can hang in chains from the Wall of Death.’

  ‘And the treasure they stole?’ Valu asked.

  ‘Everything these criminals robbed,’ Amerotke continued, ‘is to be sealed and brought here to the Temple of Ma’at, and placed in the embalming rooms below. The goods will be purified and inspected by Lord Senenmut before being returned to their proper place.’

  Some of the prisoners were starting to shout and weep. Asural and his guards began to walk amongst them, thrusting cloths in their mouths to gag them.

  ‘This is Pharaoh’s justice,’ Amerotke continued, ‘and as it is written, so let it be done.’

  Lord Valu smiled, his fat face creasing in pleasure. He scrambled to his feet, bowed to the judge who had made his job so easy, and backed away before turning, snapping his fingers and shouting at Asural to escort the prisoners out to the waiting death carts.

  Amerotke put the flail and rod down on the small table before him which carried the Books of Judgement. The court began to empty. He took off the heavy symbols of office, the beautiful cornelian pectoral, the bracelets and rings, as well as the chain of justice around his neck. He felt exhausted. He had trapped these criminals, he had proved, or at least Lord Valu had, that each had been guilty of a heinous crime. He could well understand Lord Valu’s pleasure, for most of the work had been done for him when the evidence was handed over to his House of Scribes.

  ‘My lord?’ Am
erotke looked up. Asural had returned, helmet under his arm. ‘Shall I replace the bar?’

  Amerotke nodded. The Captain of the Temple Guard, helped by one of his men, lifted the bar of sweet-smelling cedar wood and placed it across its three trestles. This separated the place of judgement from the rest of the court; it was only removed when the judge was about to give sentence.

  ‘Is my lord ready for the next case?’

  Amerotke got to his feet and walked over to the speaker, a fresh-faced young scribe who squatted with the rest, a writing tray across his lap. He crouched down and smiled at his kinsman, Prenhoe.

  ‘Are you so eager for justice, Prenhoe? Are you not tired after writing so long?’ He tapped the pots on the writing tray which contained red and black ink. ‘Don’t they have to be refilled? Aren’t your fingers tired and your mouth dry? Or have you forgotten all other appetites except your hunger for justice?’

  The other scribes now began to join in the teasing.

  ‘We have to wait,’ Amerotke continued, ‘at least until Lord Valu and Asural return.’ He got to his feet. ‘Prenhoe, take some refreshment.’ He pointed towards the Chair of Judgement and the table before it with his insignia of office. ‘But make sure you guard what is there. Oh, by the way, where is Shufoy?’ Amerotke stared round. Usually his manservant was never far away. ‘The ever-dancing dwarf’, as Asural called him, would come hastening up to his master once any case was finished to discuss its finer points. Amerotke couldn’t remember seeing him during the trial.

  ‘You sent him on an errand, don’t you remember, my lord?’

  ‘Yes, it was a message,’ Amerotke agreed, ‘but not a journey! I hope he is all right.’

  The Chief Justice strode towards the door, straining his ears; he could easily distinguish Shufoy’s voice amongst the rest. Amerotke always worried about the dwarf who had become his companion and manservant. Shufoy was one of the ‘Rhinoceri’; his nose had been removed for a crime he hadn’t committed and he’d been banished to live with the other Rhinoceri in their dusty, dirty village many miles from Thebes. He had appealed against his punishment. Amerotke had investigated the case and found a hideous miscarriage of justice had taken place. As recompense, he had taken Shufoy into his household, and the little man had repaid him with undying loyalty and friendship. Despite his appearance, Shufoy had a keen mind and nimble wits, and was a constant companion to Amerotke and his family. He was forever plotting schemes to make himself wealthy. He had trained as a physician, sold medicines, proclaimed himself to be an astrologer and even offered to tell fortunes. Of course, all the schemes had failed, but not without provoking a great deal of laughter from Amerotke and the rest. Shufoy was a pleasant antidote to the pomposity and burdensome protocol of the court.

  Now Amerotke wanted to discuss certain matters with Shufoy, and at the same time he was fearful for the little man’s safety. Shufoy always accompanied his master through the streets of Thebes, and Amerotke had seen various merchants study the dwarf carefully. They viewed him as a grotesque. It was not unknown for the likes of Shufoy to be captured, bagged, bundled aboard a barge and taken either up or down river to be sold to some travelling troupe of itinerant players to serve as a mascot or fairground attraction.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Prenhoe called out. ‘I’m sure Shufoy will be safe.’

  Amerotke turned and stared back at the place of judgement. He went over and picked up the pectoral, the chain of office, the precious rings and bracelets, placed them in a coffer on the table and locked it securely. Still anxious about Shufoy, he sat down on a cushion, stretching his legs and arms, ignoring the curious looks of the scribes, who wanted to get away. They were hungry and eager to visit one of the temple cookshops.

  ‘I wish to see the judge!’ The woman’s high-pitched voice echoed from the portico. ‘I wish to see Chief Justice Amerotke. Let go of me! I am Lady Nethba.’

  Amerotke groaned and put his face in his hands.

  ‘You should see her.’ Prenhoe hurried over and crouched before the judge. ‘I didn’t tell you this, master, but last night, I had a dream. You were walking by the river bank. Shufoy and I were riding on the back of a crocodile, which plunged into the water. I thought I was going to drown when I saw the ibis bird above me. I opened my eyes—’

  ‘Were you still asleep?’ Amerotke asked crossly.

  ‘Yes, I was.’

  ‘So how could you open your eyes? Never mind.’ Amerotke patted Prenhoe’s knee. ‘Bring the lady in.’

  The young scribe hurried away and returned with the lady Nethba. Amerotke had glimpsed her on other occasions but had never spoken to her. A tall, harsh-faced woman with the imperious features of an eagle, glittering eyes, sharp nose and a jutting mouth, her cheeks slightly furrowed, she had rather strange hands, her fingers so long and thin they reminded Amerotke of a spider’s legs. She was dressed in a light blue cloak, the hood pulled across her head because she wore no wig, and her only concession to fashion was some face paint on her cheeks and black kohl under her eyes; this had been done hastily and was beginning to run. She extended a hand as Amerotke went to meet her. The judge grasped this and brushed her fingers against his lips, a gesture of respect for this daughter of one of Egypt’s greatest architects.

  ‘My lord Amerotke, I am so pleased you will see me.’

  ‘Not here.’

  Amerotke smiled. Calling for Prenhoe to bring him a jug of sweet ale, cups and apple bread, the judge took the lady Nethba into the small whitewashed room which served as his writing office and private shrine, a comfortable chamber with a desk, stools, chair and a bench along the far wall. He tried to keep it as clear as possible, a place where he could sit and think. He courteously showed Lady Nethba to a stool and pulled across another so that he could sit opposite. They exchanged pleasantries while a temple usher served the ale and bread. Amerotke was pleased to eat and drink; his throat was dry, whilst he hadn’t broken his fast, having been summoned from his house long before dawn by Pharaoh’s messenger.

  ‘My lady.’ Amerotke put his cup on the floor and leaned over to clasp one of her hands ‘It is good to see you. You wish to speak with me?’

  ‘It is my right,’ Lady Nethba replied. ‘As a daughter of an Imperial Fan Bearer, I have the right to appeal to Pharaoh’s principal judge. My father was given that title and privilege for his work in the Valley of the Kings. Oh, my lord, I am so pleased that you caught the villains responsible for those robberies.’ She would have carried on, but Amerotke squeezed her hand.

  ‘My lady, time is short. How is your father the lord Sese?’

  ‘He is dead.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Lady Nethba’s lower lip trembled. ‘He travelled into the Far West a few days ago. He had complained of pains in his belly. I had taken him to the Temple of Isis. My lord, he was in good health.’

  ‘Your father had passed his sixtieth year.’

  ‘He was still vigorous,’ Lady Nethba retorted, ‘and all he had were gripes in the belly. They wouldn’t let me see him. They took him into the House of Twilight to examine his stomach. He was there four days. I received a message that my father was dying. I was preparing to go there when another messenger arrived: Father was dead. By the time I reached the temple, all I had to collect was my father’s corpse. Oh, and a letter he had signed and sealed leaving a generous bequest of gold and silver to the Temple of Isis.’

  ‘And?’ Amerotke asked.

  ‘I don’t believe it, my lord. I believe my father was murdered, killed by those priests and physicians. In his fevered state he was encouraged to sign away part of our wealth.’

  ‘But the Temple of Isis is famous for its skill and its riches. My lady, surely you misunderstand them? Your father—’

  ‘My father is now being embalmed. I have appealed to the Divine One.’

  At any other time Amerotke would have closed his eyes and groaned, but he wished to remain tactful and diplomatic.

  ‘I have asked the Divine
One for his death to be investigated. I have asked for you, my Lord Judge, to study the circumstances and tell me what happened. I know the Divine One will not refuse me.’ Lady Nethba’s face broke into a smile. She thrust her ale cup into Amerotke’s hand. ‘I’m pleased justice will be done.’

  ‘Where is your father’s corpse?’

  ‘At the Temple of Isis; it lies in the Wabet, the Place of Purification, awaiting the embalmers. I have asked my own physician to be present when this takes place.’ Lady Nethba sniffed and blinked quickly. Despite her apparent arrogance and harshness, Amerotke could appreciate this noblewoman’s love for her father and her deep anguish at his unexpected death.

  ‘I promise you,’ the judge held up his hand, ‘I will do what I can.’

  When Lady Nethba had left, Amerotke sighed and loosened the sash round his robe. He felt damp with sweat and realised how agitated he had become. He tried not to think of what was happening to the prisoners. Only two would survive, young women who had been sentenced earlier to life imprisonment at one of the prison oases far out in the eastern desert. He and Lord Valu were to question these later.