The Assassins of Isis

by P. C. Doherty

  ‘I have enough proof for that,’ Amerotke answered quietly. ‘You and your staff look after former comrades, veterans who have served the Divine One well.’

  ‘You know the times and seasons, Amerotke. I am Chief Scribe of the Army. I am pestered day and night for favours. Secure this man a post, a pension for another, a gift for a third.’

  ‘Would former soldiers know about the tombs in the Valley of the Kings? Their secret entrances? The treasures they contain?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Omendap wiped the sweat from his brow and plucked at a loose thread on his gown. ‘I have such knowledge, as do some of my officers. Soldiers guard the funeral processions, members of the Sacred Band accompany the corpses of the Great Ones to their last resting places. But such information is also known to priests, judges and even Lord Valu. After all, prisoners are used to dig the tunnels and carve the entrances.’

  ‘After which they are silenced,’ Amerotke replied grimly. ‘Do you have a list of the soldiers and veterans you’ve helped?’

  Omendap shook his head. ‘It would take a year and a day to collect. I’ll answer your question boldly. Let me give you an example. Mafdet, the captain of the guard at the Temple of Isis, was a good soldier. He served with me and others, so I secured him the post there. However, I do that in cities up and down the Nile, and sometimes I pass such requests to my brother officers. You are talking about hundreds of petitions.’

  Amerotke poured himself a beaker of water. He offered one to Omendap, but the general shook his head.

  ‘What is it you really want, Amerotke?’ Omendap gestured to the door. ‘You have one visitor after another. Why me?’

  Amerotke stared at the wall behind the general’s head. ‘I slept little last night,’ he confessed. ‘So my temper is short and my speech blunt. Once again I went through the records about these robberies. I recalled a reference being made by the dead woman Sithia to a man called the Shardana; he was a former soldier, definitely a Sebaus, a tomb robber, though he was indicted and punished for another crime. He killed a man and was sentenced to one of the prison oases. Now, if he was still alive, I would have him brought back, but according to Lord Valu, the prison oasis was attacked by Libyans, its guards and all those held there massacred.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I heard about that.’ Omendap rubbed his brow. ‘It was strange.’

  ‘Why?’ Amerotke snapped.

  ‘Prison oases contain nothing, some weapons, a few supplies. You know how it is, Amerotke, the prisoners can move about but they are kept chained. Their only food and water is in that oasis. If they try to escape the desert will kill them; that is if they are not captured or tortured by Libyans, sand-dwellers or desert wanderers.’

  ‘You are not aware why that prison oasis was attacked?’

  ‘I’ve told you, no idea whatsoever.’

  Amerotke ran a thumb round his lips. ‘Do we have any high-ranking Libyans in our prison camps?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Omendap closed his eyes. ‘Most prisoners of war are used as slaves in the quarries; they barely survive a year. Ah yes.’ He held up a hand. ‘There is one, we never learnt his name, we simply called him the Libyan. He was a chieftain, we caught him raiding villages along the Nile. Usually he would have been killed immediately.’

  ‘Why wasn’t he sent to the quarries?’

  ‘Because he was one of their high-ranking noblemen. He would only have started trouble; it wouldn’t be the first time a gang of slaves broke out. We also held him as a hostage. One day they might capture one of our officers, and we would trade him, man for man. He is kept in the Oasis of Bitter Grass, about sixty miles into the eastern Red Lands.’

  ‘I’ve heard of it.’ Amerotke got to his feet. ‘General Omendap, I want a favour, your best chariot squadron. Twenty chariots in all, each chariot carrying two men. I want to visit this Libyan.’

  ‘Why?’ Omendap got to his feet too.

  ‘I want to ask him a question. Why did his people attack a prison oasis when there was little hope of gain?’

  ‘He might be dead.’ Omendap scratched his chin. ‘No, no, on second thoughts, he’ll be alive. The Keeper there would have told me.’ He clasped Amerotke’s hands. ‘The squadron will be ready within the hour.’

  Later that day, just as the heat of the sun began to cool, the Ptah squadron of the Horus regiment left its barracks on the outskirts of eastern Thebes, following the rutted trackway into the desert lands. Omendap had chosen well. The Ptah squadron was the fastest and most experienced; their horses, bloodied in war, were arrogant and fast, with their arched necks, flared nostrils and laid-back ears. The carriages they pulled, with their curved wooden sides and thin rails, were sheathed in gold and electrum. They were built of imported elm, birch and tamarisk, and the six spoked wheels placed at the back gave them that lightness and mobility which was the terror of Egypt’s enemies. A glorious sight, the harness of the horses gleaming, the plumes and streamers displaying the black and gold colours of their regiment. Amerotke and Shufoy had been given their own chariot, the horses of which had the blue and gold plumes of the Great House dancing between their ears and tassels of the same colour tied to the leather straps.

  At first the squadron moved through a haze of dust, across a pebble-strewn plain. As the sun began to sink and the cool wind soothed the sweat, the chariots began to fan out, moving in a swift line across the desert, eager to take advantage of the freshness before the darkness came rushing in. Each chariot was armed with a javelin pouch as well as quivers for arrows. Shufoy, standing beside Amerotke, gripped the reinforced bow with all his strength. The officers of the squadron were all veterans, men used to desert warfare and the rapid change in the hideous weather conditions which prevailed in the Red Lands. They drank sparsely from their leather water carriers and filled their stomachs from the bags of hard rations slung on hooks just inside the chariots.

  To begin with Amerotke found it strange to be away from the noise and clamour of the city, nothing but the blue, red-shot sky above him and the barren plain around. He showed Shufoy how to wear a mask across his face soaked in water and bitter lemon to provide sure protection against the whirling dust and stinging insects. Now and again they would pause at a water hole to rest their horses and seek some shade under a cluster of dusty palms. The soldiers asked no questions; their standard-bearer had been told to escort this important personage and that was what they would do. When Shufoy approached to draw them into conversation they just smiled, shook their heads and turned away.

  Their journey continued. They were not in the desert proper but on that rocky, sandy plain which divided the Nile from the whirling sands of the Red Lands. At first it felt as though the wilderness around them was deserted, but as the sun set and the blackness fell like a blanket, it became alive with the roar of the night prowlers. The standard-bearer insisted on travelling as far and as fast as they could, but as the stars came out above them, he called a halt at the entrance to a rocky gully. Amerotke helped the squadron set up a night camp. They arranged the chariots in a protective ring, with the horses in the centre, well away from sudden attack by lion or hyaena. Camp fires were lit, guards posted, and the huntsmen in the squadron managed to bring back some fresh meat. They were full of stories about a pride of lions lurking very close by, roused by the smell of cooking and the sweet odour of horse flesh. The meat was shared out along with the watered wine.

  After the meal, Amerotke lay down next to Shufoy, a leather pannier serving as headrest, his war cloak as a blanket. He slept fitfully, aroused now and again by the call of the guards or the heart-shrilling roar of a night creature. Shufoy, however, slept like a babe; Amerotke almost had to kick him awake when the camp was roused and their journey continued.

  The heat turned pitiless, the sun becoming a merciless tormentor, the dust whirling like a devil to sting their eyes and cake their lips. As the sun climbed to its midday strength, the squadron reached an oasis, where the standard-bearer agreed with Amerotke that they would wait u
ntil the cool of the afternoon. When they resumed their journey, Amerotke felt as if he was a sleepwalker. Shufoy had ceased his chattering and become nothing more than a small dust-covered figure standing beside him clutching the chariot rail. Amerotke tried to recall his own training, concentrating on the horses, gently coaxing them with the reins, keeping a safe distance behind the chariot in front, trying to ignore the heat and the stinging dust. He was aware of the sun beginning to set; he no longer felt as if he was being buffeted and pushed by some unseen club. He took the mask from his face, eager to catch the cool breeze, and rewarded himself and Shufoy with a drink from the pannikin and mouthfuls of dates. The sun began to slip in a fiery glow, once again changing the colour of the desert so that it was no longer a place of blinding harsh light, but rather sinister, with dark rocks and racing shadows.

  ‘I’d never be a charioteer,’ Shufoy moaned. ‘I’m too small, and the wind …’ He clutched his face. ‘My scar throbs worse than a toothache.’

  Amerotke tried to distract him by pointing up to the vultures circling high in the breezes above them.

  ‘It can’t be far now, Shufoy. Vultures always gather near an oasis; that’s where they find their prey.’

  A short while later, just as the darkness was closing in, Amerotke heard a shout and the leading chariot came racing back.

  ‘My lord.’ The standard-bearer wiped his face and pointed back the way he had come. ‘We are almost there. It means cool water and fresh food.’

  The chariot column picked up speed, the horses smelling the water, eager to reach their destination. The oasis came into sight, protected by a high wooden stockade. Amerotke glimpsed its guards under the makeshift shades they had built. The narrow entrance gate was open and a soldier, naked except for a leather kilt, a white cloth over his head, came out to greet them. A short discussion took place, the gate was thrown open again and they entered the Oasis of Bitter Grass.

  Amerotke had visited such a stockade before and found this no different. A wooden palisade surrounded the gloomy oasis, with its springs, palm trees and thick vegetation. Both guards and prisoners lived in makeshift bothies. There was a small paddock for horses and places where meat could be cooked and bread baked. The oasis was clean enough, refuse being taken out and dumped in the desert sand. Nevertheless there was no hiding the grim conditions under which both prisoners and guards lived. The soldiers who served there were mercenaries who would do a three-month duty before returning to the garrisons outside Thebes. The prisoners themselves looked a pathetic group in their ragged garb, manacled to each other at both wrist and ankle. It was hard to distinguish one from another except for the clay tablets hung from cords around their necks which gave their name and number.

  At first Amerotke rested and refreshed himself at the water hole. Despite the oasis’ name, the water was clear and sweet. He made sure Shufoy was comfortable before going over to a tent awning just inside the prison gate where the warder and the prisoner known as the Libyan were waiting for him.

  ‘You’ve travelled all this way to see me?’ The Libyan was tall, with a long face, narrowed eyes and high cheekbones. He had his hair gathered in a clump behind him, his groin covered by a simple leather skirt. Amerotke noticed blue and red tattoos on the man’s muscular torso.

  ‘So you are a warrior?’ Amerotke spoke the lingua franca of the barracks. ‘You have killed men in battle?’

  ‘I am a warrior and a chief,’ the Libyan replied in a high, clipped voice. His mouth had a bitter twist, his eyes a sly look. ‘I have killed Egyptians in battle. Why are you here, what is your name?’

  ‘My name does not concern you. I have come to ask you a question. Why should your people storm a place like this and kill all the prisoners and their keepers?’

  ‘They would never do that.’

  ‘But they did. Look around you, Libyan. Apart from our chariots and horses, and perhaps our weapons, what value is there here?’

  ‘Are you a judge? I heard one of the guards say you are a judge. Tell me what is happening in Thebes.’

  Amerotke was about to refuse, but the Libyan was keen; he could probably sense that this visit was to his profit. He leaned over, lifting his chained hands as if in prayer.

  ‘Speak with true voice, judge, tell me what’s happening in Thebes.’

  Amerotke described the tomb robberies, the death of General Suten. At the mention of his name the Libyan half smiled, his eyes glancing away.

  ‘We should have killed him,’ he whispered, ‘or taken him prisoner. Well, judge, what else has happened?’

  Amerotke described the slaying of Captain Mafdet and the disappearance of the four hesets. When he had finished, the Libyan asked for a cup of wine. Amerotke agreed, and the Libyan raised the coarse beaker in toast.

  ‘Tell me, judge,’ the prisoner asked, ‘if you were a Libyan warrior, what would you need out in the desert?’

  ‘Gold and silver to buy weapons and food.’

  ‘We have enough of that ourselves. What we don’t have we can always take.’ He laughed at Amerotke’s puzzlement. ‘If I help you, judge, what will happen to me?’

  ‘If you really help me, those chains will be released. You will be given fresh clothing and taken back across the Nile. You will be provided with food and water, a bow, a dagger and a quiver of arrows. You will be free to rejoin your people.’

  The smiled faded from the Libyan’s face, and he pointed to the chain around Amerotke’s neck bearing the sign of truth.

  ‘Put your hand on that and swear.’

  Amerotke did so. The Libyan finished the wine and asked for more, smacking his lips appreciatively.

  ‘The temple girls,’ he began, ‘the hesets, they are virgins of good family? Soft-skinned and beautiful?’

  ‘If the Libyans want women, they raid the villages.’

  ‘What raids?’ the Libyan retorted. ‘How successful are we? What casualties do we take? A great deal of fighting for what? Some old woman left behind or a peasant girl too stupid to hide?’ In a clatter of chains he tapped the side of his face. ‘Think, judge: the Libyan tribes wander the desert, women are a scarcity, marriages are dominated by blood ties.’ He grinned with sharp pointed teeth at Amerotke’s surprise. ‘What a prize, eh, for a chief to attack a place like this, kill everyone, take some paltry plunder but receive in reward four of Egypt’s finest women! Girls chosen for their beauty and grace. If you think I’m lying, ask yourself this question. How much would an Egyptian merchant pay for one girl?’

  ‘A veritable fortune, but—’

  ‘But,’ the Libyan finished the sentence, ‘how can such a prize be hidden? What dire punishment awaits you if captured? Your girls are gone, judge, out in the desert. They were the price of that attack.’

  SHENSTET: ancient Egyptian, ‘wickedness’

  CHAPTER 9

  Amerotke sat in the audience hall of Lord Impuki’s mansion in the Temple of Isis. He stared out of the open window, once again quietly rejoicing at having returned from the gruelling heat of the Red Lands. The squadron had left the Oasis of Bitter Grass long before dawn. Their journey had been exhausting but unremarkable, and they had reached the Sphinx Gate of northern Thebes just before dawn the following day. Amerotke had spent the rest of the day sleeping and relaxing, once again going through the business of the court. He had already dispatched a pardon for the Libyan, whilst Djed’s wife had been allowed to take her husband’s corpse back to her own home. There was nothing Amerotke could do for her except express his sorrow and whisper a prayer to the spirits of the Underworld.

  Shufoy had gone to the palace and had returned with more guards as well as loving messages from the Lady Norfret and the two boys. They were all well but missing him. Amerotke was pleased: his family were now in sanctuary whilst his mansion had been turned into a veritable fortress, with guards in the house and gardens as well as along the avenue leading to it. He’d tried to calm his own anxieties, taking down the scroll of Ma’at and meditating on its sayings:
Speak with true voice and the gods will respond; Let truth flower in the heart and justice will flourish. However, he found such sayings banal, of little comfort, so he returned to his researches. He had scrupulously examined the documentation and tried to recall everything he had seen and heard. He drew some comfort that the wall of lies which confronted him, with their sinister mystery, was beginning to crumble. Ideas, suspicions, theories and reservations were springing green and fresh in his troubled mind.

  Towards the end of the day, just after sunset, Amerotke decided to visit the Temple of Isis and question the three individuals who now squatted before him. Lord Impuki had been welcoming enough, inviting him to join them in a brief meal; the wine from Avaris was red and rich, the spiced quail and goose freshened by crisp lettuce strewn with herbs. Amerotke had to close his eyes; with its cool breezes and heavy fragrance this was a different world from the desert. He opened his eyes, sipped his wine and smiled across at Lord Impuki.

  ‘You wonder why I’m here?’

  ‘Of course,’ Lady Thena replied for her husband. ‘Your face is tired, burnt by the sun, but your eyes are fresh.’ She glanced sideways at her husband whilst stretching out to touch Paser’s wrist, a furtive gesture. Amerotke wondered if she was trying to warn her two companions.

  ‘Mafdet was a criminal,’ Amerotke began. He felt the linen curtains behind him move in the breeze, and out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed a mural of an antelope evading a hunting dog by jumping a bush. ‘Is that what I am?’ He pointed at the painting. ‘A hunter out for the truth?’

  ‘You have already spoken the truth,’ Impuki said. ‘Mafdet was a criminal.’

  ‘He was more than that.’ Shufoy, who had been eating, now spoke up, his mouth full of meat. The High Priest lowered his cup.

  ‘I’ve come from the Red Lands,’ Amerotke explained, ‘where I questioned a Libyan prisoner. The four temple girls who disappeared were probably kidnapped by Mafdet, drugged and handed over to the assassins who call themselves the Sebaus. The girls were taken out to the Red Lands and given as a bribe to a Libyan war chief. In return for this, the Libyans raided a prison oasis and killed a man who the Sebaus thought might betray them.’