‘I still wish I was home.’ Amerotke stretched his head back to ease the tension in his neck. ‘But it’s too dangerous; I mean, to cross the city at night.’
‘Are you frightened, master?’ Shufoy teased.
Amerotke grasped him by the arm and pulled him close. ‘No, Shufoy, I’m not frightened, I’m truly terrified, and so should you be. Those assassins today, they were professional killers, well disguised, and they reached the heart of our temple. Sithia was a prisoner, closely guarded, yet they settled with her.’ Amerotke drew a deep breath. ‘The Lady Norfret must not be disturbed, she would only worry. I’ve had a word with Asural. My house will be guarded and watched, every inch of its walls, every gate; she’ll be safe enough.’
The judge, followed by Shufoy, went downstairs to the washroom, where they stripped and poured cold water over their heads, using perfumed oiled rags to clean themselves. Once they had finished, they returned to their chambers, where servants had laid out linen robes from the temple storerooms. A sleepy-eyed girl came to collect their laundry; Amerotke had to guide her out of the chamber, her eyes were so heavy. Shufoy went down and brought back two beakers of beer. Amerotke sniffed at it carefully and pronounced it was good, and they sat and talked for a while, half listening to the sounds of the temple fade. Amerotke recalled the flames, Mafdet’s house burning like a funeral pyre. Had it been destroyed as an act of vengeance, or was there something which had to be removed? Why had the captain been so cruelly killed?
There was a knock at the door and Shufoy came back carrying a leather pouch tied around the neck.
‘A temple servant said this was for you, a gift from the lord Impuki.’
Amerotke opened the pouch and peered inside. He gasped and shook the contents out on to the bed. Small, hard wax figurines, two larger than the rest, crudely fashioned to represent a man and a woman, the other three smaller as if representing children.
‘Or a dwarf,’ Shufoy muttered.
Amerotke, his throat dry, his stomach curdling, stared in disbelief. He picked up the figurine depicting an adult male. It was brownish red and spiked with small thorns where the head and heart should be.
‘Blood and faeces,’ he muttered. ‘A curse.’ He snatched up the leather bag – a scarab fell out, black and shiny but clearly displaying a white-lined figure kneeling clasping a bow. The piece of parchment with it was yellowing and frayed at the edges. Amerotke, losing his temper, knocked it away, but Shufoy picked it up and read the curse inscribed in blood.
‘At dawning, at midday, at evening, at night, the Devourer always lurks in the doorway. The river monster with huge jaws will be your shadow and behind him all the horrors of the Underworld hound your footsteps. The Lady of the Red Linen casts her bloody shadow over you.’
Before Shufoy could stop him, Amerotke had sprung to his feet and left, hurrying downstairs. He opened the door and went out into the night. As the cold night breeze sobered his mind, he knew instantly his mistake. The assassins slipped out of the blackness, one from his left, the other running at a crouch from his right. Amerotke stepped back and bumped into a vine pole resting against the wall. He grasped this and tried to go back through the door, but the pole became jammed and the first attacker was already on him. Amerotke lashed out with his fist, hitting the black-garbed figure on the face and sending him reeling back to fall over some flower bowls. Grasping the pole like a spear, he turned in time to block the killing blow of the second assassin, but this time he was not so fortunate. He only hit the man’s right arm, and the assassin sprang back but came in again, a dagger in one hand, a small axe in the other. Amerotke became engaged in a deadly dance, aware only of his opponent, of his own fear, desperate to look the other way to see what had happened to the second assassin.
Suddenly he felt himself pushed from behind as Shufoy, like a shot from a sling, hurled himself through the door and threw himself at the second assassin, who was still nursing the injuries from his stumble. Amerotke could do nothing to help. His opponent lunged in, leading with his knife whilst swinging with the axe. Amerotke drove him off. The night air was rent with screaming. Amerotke watched the black-clad figure move to the left and right, the eyes gleaming madly at him. He drove the pole towards the man’s chest, but his assailant simply leapt back and came in again. Amerotke meant to move to the left, but he missed his footing and stumbled, going down on one knee. He glimpsed other figures and felt a pang of despair. He tried vainly to search for his own opponent, but the man had moved to his far left and was now edging towards him, knife grasped between both hands. Amerotke struggled to his feet. The assassin was about to spring when the judge glimpsed another figure behind his opponent and a club swung down, smashing into the assassin’s skull and sending him staggering forward to collapse unconscious on the ground.
Amerotke crawled away and leaned against the wall. The screaming had stopped. Shufoy came stumbling towards him, his linen robe covered in blood, a knife in his hand. Amerotke closed his eyes and shook his head. He felt his arm grasped. It was Paser. The priest gently urged him to stand and led him into the guest house, making him sit in the small entrance hall while he went back outside. Shufoy staggered in and crouched like a dog at his master’s feet. Amerotke couldn’t stop shivering. He put his hand to his mouth, fearful lest he retch. There were voices outside, a low groan, orders being shouted, and Paser re-entered the house and stood over Amerotke.
‘My lord, you are unwell? You want some wine?’
Amerotke tried to speak but couldn’t. Paser was talking as if he was far off.
‘I went for a walk in the cypress grove. I heard the screaming and roused the guards.’ He gently touched Amerotke’s shoulder. ‘Shufoy is unharmed but drenched in blood. You have no wound?’ Amerotke shook his head. ‘One of the assassins is dead,’ Paser continued, ‘but the other is only unconscious.’
Amerotke put his face in his hands.
‘It was a trap!’ Shufoy declared. ‘My master ran into the night thinking he could catch the person who had brought the leather pouch. One of the oldest tricks in the slums. They were waiting for him, and if he hadn’t gone out they would have come in here anyway. They had us both marked out for death.’
RERT: ancient Egyptian, ‘medicine’
CHAPTER 5
Amerotke recovered quickly. He washed himself in a bowl of water over which Paser had sprinkled crushed pondweed and purslane. Impuki arrived, the jaguar skin of a senior priest across his shoulders. The High Priest was all concern. He apologised profusely for the attack and insisted the guards had reported nothing amiss. He checked both the judge and Shufoy for any bruises or cuts but declared that shock was the only thing they had suffered, then he anointed them both with holy oil and drew on the door of the guest house the words Ankh and Sa, ‘Peace’ and ‘Happiness’. Amerotke could hear sounds in the darkness as the dead assassin was dragged away; the one Paser had knocked unconscious was roughly tended to. Lord Impuki withdrew, saying that he wished to have words with the guards. A servant brought fruit juices and delicious walnut cake cut up and mixed with crushed apple. Amerotke wondered idly if some sort of soothing potion had been added to the mixture.
Shufoy was not at all disturbed by the fact that he had killed a man, and was eager to boast about his warrior skills. The dwarf was also full of indignation at Amerotke’s foolishness.
‘It’s the oldest trick,’ he repeated, ‘to leave someone a message and wait for them to come out. You could have been killed. I would have been very angry with you.’
Amerotke laughed and told him to keep quiet, but wondered aloud why there hadn’t been more assassins.
‘Too dangerous,’ Shufoy retorted. ‘Two men slipping through the darkness, waiting for their opportunity, are difficult to detect.’
‘Why not loose an arrow?’ Amerotke asked.
‘In the dark?’ Shufoy scoffed. ‘These are assassins. They work in pairs. They would have to report back that you were truly dead and not merely wounded.’
Paser came into the eating hall; behind him, temple guards dragged the wounded assassin. The blow to his head had been roughly bandaged, the top part of his robe ripped down and his hands bound behind him. He was forced to kneel at Amerotke’s feet. The assailant was a man of middling height, a former soldier by the healed scars on his upper torso. He had a sharp face with a snub nose and close-set, glittering eyes; his lips were so swollen they parted to show blackened teeth, and his body odour was acrid, reeking of the cheap oil in which he had coated himself. He showed no fear despite his injury and capture, but began to hum a hymn to the Lady of Silence.
‘You will answer my questions,’ Amerotke began. The assassin hawked and spat at him. Amerotke slapped him sharply across the face. ‘Are you Sebaus?’
‘I am Set-qesum.’ Bone breaker.
‘Why are you here?’
‘I bring Setemu.’ Edicts for the slaughter.
‘Who sent you?’
‘The Khaitieu.’ The slaughterer.
‘Where does the slaughterer live?’
‘Kerh.’ The darkness.
Amerotke sighed. The prisoner was gabbling in the flat nasal dialect of eastern Thebes. He persisted in using terms from the Book of the Dead. Amerotke suspected he was a soldier but an educated one, perhaps even a fallen priest. He slapped the man hard across the face once more. ‘We shall begin again. Who are you?’
‘I am the Breaker of Bones,’ the man sneered. ‘The Swallower of Shades.’
‘We found this.’ Paser, standing behind the prisoner, handed across a polished black scarab depicting a kneeling man holding a bow. ‘There was that and some pieces of silver.’
‘Who are you?’ Amerotke repeated.
‘Sem-em-senf.’ Drinker of blood.
‘Take him away,’ Amerotke ordered. ‘Under heavy guard. He is to be placed in the House of Chains,’ he looked at Paser, ‘beneath the Temple of Ma’at. Tell Captain Asural he is to be bound with chains and a guard is to be placed outside the door. Only Asural is to feed him or give him anything to drink.’
Paser dragged the prisoner to his feet and pushed him out into the darkness. Amerotke sat and listened to the sounds fade. In a short while the priest returned and asked Amerotke if he wanted any palm brandy or smoked liqueur to make him sleep. Amerotke refused. Paser said he would leave guards around the house.
‘You are sure you don’t need anything to drink?’
‘No, no.’ Amerotke smiled. ‘Nor do I want any of your powders from the Island of Daydreams.’ He stretched out his hand and Paser clasped it. ‘I’m grateful for your help. I owe you a life.’
‘It was fortunate,’ Paser replied. ‘I couldn’t sleep; perhaps it is I who needs the palm brandy!’ He gestured at the stairs. ‘Sleep well and safe; you will be better protected than in the Divine One’s palace.’ He left, closing the door behind him.
Shufoy wanted to talk, but Amerotke was too tired and went up the stairs to his own chamber. He took off his robe and, garbed in only his loincloth, squatted for a while, eyes closed, hands extended, praying to the Lady of Truth for himself, his family and his household.
Amerotke slept long and late. In the early hours he was disturbed by the lowing of cattle and the calls from the various sacred flocks as beasts and birds were taken up into the shrines and chapels for the morning sacrifices. Amerotke lay half asleep. He could smell the smoke from the holocaust fires, the reek of blood and the stench of burning meat. He drifted off to sleep again reassured by the calls of the guards outside. It was mid-morning by the time he woke fully. He washed and dressed quickly in the robes returned from the temple laundry rooms. It was a beautiful day, a cool breeze still bending the flowers and branches of the trees, so he and Shufoy decided to break their fast outside under the deep shade of the sycamore tree with baby gazelles grazing nearby. Servants brought them beer and platters of roast quail, as well as bread sweetened with honey.
‘How do you think the assassins got in?’ Shufoy began.
Amerotke cocked his head, listening to the distant songs of the choirs who, under the supervision of a lector priest, were rehearsing hymns to the Great Mother, ‘The Defender of Osiris, the Defeater of Seth’. He listened carefully to the music of the lines, how Isis was ‘The Mistress of Magic, the clever-tongued one whose speech never fails, more powerful than ten thousand soldiers, more clever than a million scribes.’
‘I asked a question!’ Shufoy crossly waved a hand in front of his master’s face.
‘By all that’s holy, Shufoy, I don’t know!’ Amerotke snapped back. ‘It’s easy to scale a wall, they must have known we were here.’
Further argument was ended by the arrival of Lord Impuki, Lady Thena and Paser, resplendent in their fringed robes bound by the sacred coloured sash of Isis. Servants brought them cushions to sit on the grass. Lady Thena asked how they had slept, and once again Impuki apologised for the attack.
‘I prayed for you this morning,’ he declared. ‘After I’d left the food in the Holy of Holies in front of the tabernacle of the Great Mother.’ His voice took on a more cynical tone. ‘Once that was finished, I gave my guards the rough edge of my tongue. Of course, they apologised and used Mafdet’s death as an excuse. The walls are patrolled, but there are blind spots.’
‘How would the assassins know that?’ Shufoy asked. ‘Someone must have told them.’
Impuki glared at the dwarf and shook his head. ‘I cannot answer that.’
‘And the fire?’ Amerotke asked
‘Probably started by the same intruders,’ Impuki replied. ‘It was no accident. At least two skins of oil must have been used. Everything was burnt to black ash. I have sent a message to the Divine House.’ His voice faltered. ‘What else can I do?’
Amerotke studied Impuki’s clever lined face, the sharp eyes and sardonic mouth. The judge concealed his own suspicions. Shufoy was right: temple walls were guarded, high and difficult to scale. Even if it was easy to climb a wall, any intruder ran the risk of being caught by a patrol or being seen from a guard post. The two attackers had had to bring in oil skins and somehow obtain a torch or lamp, unless they had brought a pot of fire with them as well. Impuki was staring up at a buzzard floating in the breeze, as if determined to say no more. Beside him Lady Thena looked the picture of serenity and elegance, a blue faience brooch clasping her robe, with matching earrings and throat collar. Powerful people, Amerotke concluded. He thought of the assassins, the tomb raiders and the mysteries which confronted him. The high priests of the major temples of Thebes also held the imperial seal or cartouche so that they could mark documents or goods to pass undisturbed by border guards or customs posts. Was the person behind those hideous robberies someone like Impuki, a high-ranking official, one of those who rejoiced in the title of ‘Friend of Pharaoh’, ‘Keeper of the King’s Words’, a member of the Royal Circle?
Impuki glanced quickly at Amerotke.
‘you seem troubled, my lord.’
‘I am,’ Amerotke agreed. ‘And deeply suspicious. I would like to walk this temple, visit your House of Twilight.’ He rubbed his fingers together. ‘Study its walls and gates.’
‘Don’t leave the temple without a guard,’ Paser intervened. He sat plucking the grass as if agitated. Despite his smooth, effeminate face and ways, Paser seemed unable to sit still.
Are you always restless, Amerotke thought, or has something disturbed you?
‘I’m very busy.’ Paser’s dark eyes smiled as if he could read Amerotke’s thoughts. ‘So much to do and so little time to do it in. Granaries to check, patients to be seen, pilgrims to be met, accounts to be drawn up.’
Amerotke nodded. He tried to recall how long Impuki had been high priest. Of course he had heard his name and seen him from afar. He was sure his appointment was due to the Divine One’s father, Tuthmosis. Wasn’t Impuki more famous for his medical knowledge than for any worship of the Goddess?
‘Have you always been at the Temple of Isis?’ Amerotke asked.
/> ‘Since I was a youth.’ Impuki patted Lady Thena’s hand. ‘It’s where I met my wife. We exchanged vows in front of the statue of the Mother, oh,’ he squinted up at the sky, ‘about fifteen years ago.’
‘You have children?’
‘Had.’ Lady Thena’s face was now hard, her voice cracked. ‘We had children, my lord, until the pestilence took them. All the prayers, all the incense and all the offerings could not save them. They were beautiful.’ Tears brimmed in her eyes. ‘The boy was seven years, the girl four; the fever came so quickly, followed by a sharp racking cough. I sat by them every hour, my husband used all his skill and knowledge. You might as well have tried to stop the rain falling or the sun shining. They’ve gone, the little ones.’ Her voice broke, her anguish so sharp Amerotke bitterly regretted asking the question. ‘They lie in our tomb across the river in our own House of Eternity.’ She grasped her stomach. ‘I cannot, will not, have more children; even the Great Mother could not save them.’
Amerotke looked at her more sharply. There was something about her words and tone of voice. He had never heard a priestess refer to the deity she served in such a bitter fashion. He glanced quickly at Impuki, but he had his head down, whilst Paser was looking away as if fascinated by a red shrike digging at the grass with its sharp beak. Did these people truly believe in the Goddess? There were times when Amerotke himself stood with the other officials of the court in the antechamber to the Holy of Holies at the Temple of Amun-Ra, a mass of dark columns with only faint light seeping through. The incense would billow about and the dark emptiness would echo with the chanting of the priests. The all-seeing, ever-silent Amun-Ra! Yet Amerotke often wondered if the gods were nothing more than pieces of wood and clay, the product of the human heart desperate for answers.
He shivered and broke from his reverie. Shufoy was watching him curiously. The judge felt like pinching himself. For a moment it had seemed as if they were no longer out on this dew-washed lawn enjoying the fragrance of flowers and the taste of good food.
The Assassins of Isis Page 10
