‘What is it?’ Amerotke asked, crouching down and tipping her gently under the chin. The woman glanced up. Amerotke narrowed his eyes. ‘I’ve met you before, you are Djed’s wife?’
The woman nodded. ‘I came to thank you,’ she whispered hoarsely. ‘I thought, because of what my husband had done, I would be punished, but you are compassionate. You returned his corpse, and no punishment has been inflicted upon me or mine.’
Amerotke tried not to flinch at the smell of her unwashed body.
‘I will observe the period of mourning,’ she continued, ‘that his Ka finds some peace in the Underworld. Perhaps if I pray, fast and make offerings to the priests …’ Her voice trailed away.
‘What is it that you’ve come to tell me?’
‘I came to thank you for your kindness, and to help. I never knew what my husband did, who he met or where he went, or who provided such wealth. Only once did I become curious. A visitor came late at night, his face all masked. I saw him come to the side gate; my husband was busy with his beehives and he’d lit lamps. I was curious, so I stole across. I heard only one phrase, the Temple of Khnum.’
‘The Temple of Khnum?’ Amerotke asked. ‘But that lies at the centre of Thebes. What would your husband …’
‘No, no.’ The woman shook her head. ‘I don’t think they meant that temple, but the other one; its ruins lie to the north of Thebes, an old temple.’
‘Ah yes, I remember.’ Amerotke nodded. ‘Abandoned because the Nile broke its banks. It stands on an island or a large sandbank.’
‘That’s the one,’ the woman nodded. She got to her feet and backed away. ‘I thought you should know.’
She shuffled back to where the acolyte was waiting. Amerotke grasped his leather bag.
‘Where to, Master?’ Shufoy asked.
‘To the river.’
They left the temple precincts through the soaring pylons, past the huge stelae proclaiming the Great Deeds of the Divine Mother, or boasting about the exploits of previous Pharaohs, and crossed the square of obelisks, soaring pillars of gleaming red sandstone, capped in gold, silver, bronze or electrum, so as to dazzle in the blazing sun. The heat was like the blast from a fiery oven, the sun a tormenting demon above them. Shufoy offered to open the parasol, but Amerotke said he was in too much of a hurry and lifted his linen shawl above his shoulders to cover his head. He was fascinated by the problem which vexed him; perhaps there was no path through this maze of puzzles.
Shufoy was about to act as herald, to shout at the crowds that the lord Amerotke was approaching, only to realise that his master wished to draw as little attention to himself as possible, so he merely grasped Amerotke’s hand as the judge strode across the square. The dwarf almost had to run to keep up. Amerotke often fell into these trance-like moods, apparently oblivious to the crowds milling about and the various scenes in the streets and squares. The smell of incense as priests, clapping their hands, shuffled towards some shrine; the mercenaries from a dozen different nations, gathered eagerly round a group of sinuous Syrian dancers who swayed provocatively to raucous music. Only on one occasion did Amerotke stop. A snake charmer was performing his tricks under the spreading shade of a palm tree. He hurled what looked like a stick to the ground but it abruptly moved, head up, throat swollen: a hooded cobra, deadly and menacing.
‘How do they do that?’ Amerotke asked.
‘Very easily,’ Shufoy answered, gasping for breath. ‘There’s a point on the back of the snake’s head. If you press it firmly you paralyse it; throw it to the ground and it breaks free from the spell.’
Amerotke shook his head in disbelief.
‘I’ve tried that trick myself,’ Shufoy declared.
‘And?’
‘It only half worked so I gave up all hope of becoming a snake charmer!’
Amerotke continued on his way until they reached the bustling quayside. The place teemed with people from many nations: merchants from the Great Green; blond-haired mercenaries from the islands to the north of the Great Sea; Nubians, black as night; dour-faced traders from the land of incense; Phoenicians, Syrians, Canaanites, even Hittites with their strange parrot-like faces, hair piled high on their heads and trailing down the back like a horse’s mane. A dozen tongues babbled and everything was for sale: ivory from the jungles in the south, precious stones from the mines, creatures and birds of every kind. Sharp-eyed pimps touted for trade amongst the sailors, the women they offered trailing behind, resplendent in their gaudy finery, bangles jingling. Some of them were almost naked, others cloaked mysteriously. Barbers and pedlars shouted for trade and boatmen jumped up and down offering ‘the safest boat on the Nile.’
Amerotke hired a small barge with a look-out in the prow, a steersman at the stern and six burly oarsmen.
‘Where to, Your Excellency?’ The captain, naked except for a loincloth, was delighted with Amerotke’s deben of silver.
‘Upriver to the ruins of Khnum, then across to the Necropolis.’
The smile faded from the captain’s face.
‘What’s the matter, man?’ The judge pinched his nostrils. The smell of dried fish was overwhelming; the captain must hire the boat out to those who fished at night along the river.
‘Here, Your Excellency.’ The captain pushed a sponge soaked in perfume into Amerotke’s hand. ‘Why do you want to go to Khnum? Nothing there except ruins.’ He pulled a face. ‘And crocodiles. I mean, it’s …’
Amerotke’s escort walked closer, fingers going to the swords hanging in their leather sheaths.
‘If His Supreme Excellency wishes to visit Khnum …’ The captain bowed and sighed. ‘Then Khnum it is.’
The captain waved Amerotke to a seat in the middle of the barge where he could sit under the ragged awning, some protection against the sun. He also served, in carved beakers, surprisingly delicious ale. The order was given to cast off, and the barge left the busy quayside, threading its way deftly through the various punts and skiffs which congregated as thickly as water beetles. The smells of the city gave way to the marshy, fishy aroma of the river, but there was a breeze to cool their sweat. Amerotke closed his eyes, listening to the rhythmic chant of the rowers as they bent over their oars.
‘I knew a girl soft and sweet …’
Amerotke smiled as he recognised this old chant of the river.
‘A sailor’s heaven, a paradise she,’ came the refrain. The rest of the song continued, Shufoy joining in as the oarsmen began to list the charms of this mythical temptress of the river.
Amerotke opened his eyes and stared out across the water. The heat haze hung heavy, but he could make out the quayside of the Necropolis to the west and the soaring red-gold mountains over which brooded the peak of the goddess Meretseger. The river was busy, barges of soldiers going up and down to the various garrisons and barracks, a prison boat taking the condemned across to the quarries in the deserts to the west, merchant craft carrying a wide array of goods as well as animals: oxen, donkeys, and on one occasion a herd of baby gazelles and cages of strange-looking dogs. The barge was now midstream, the oarsmen falling silent as they concentrated on their task. To his left Amerotke watched the gleaming cornices and glittering obelisks and temple roofs of the city disappear behind a thick line of palm trees.
‘Would His Supreme Excellency like to tell us why he is going to Khnum?’ the captain asked.
‘His Supreme Excellency would not,’ Amerotke smiled. ‘But why are you so frightened? Is the place haunted?’
‘Demons hover there,’ the captain agreed. ‘It lies some way from the river bank. A causeway still stretches out, but the papyrus grove is like a jungle and the crocodile pools are always busy.’
The captain pointed to a small sand bank to his left. Amerotke squinted his eyes against the sun, and saw that what he had thought were gnarled stumps of trees were really stakes on which three men had been impaled, their bodies burnt black by the sun.
‘River pirates,’ the captain declared. ‘They also l
urk near the Khnum. But with all these brave men around us, we will be safe.’ His voice lowered to a whisper. ‘I only hope the crocodiles realise as much!’
They journeyed on. The city gave way to groves of palm trees and the fertile black lands. Farmers were busy; the smoke from their villages hung heavy in the air. Eventually the black lands gave way to rocky outcrops. Amerotke was dozing when the prow man shouted. Getting gingerly to his feet, he could glimpse the great sand bank, almost an island in itself, dotted with trees through which he could glimpse the wind-scarred ruins of the Temple of Khnum. The barge turned, nosing its way through the water as Amerotke inspected the island more closely. The river was constantly changing, eating away the land. A narrow causeway had been constructed, but Amerotke could see the dangers. On either side of it grew thick papyrus groves at least half a mile deep, the breeding place of many different birds, but also the killing ground of the crocodiles who lurked there. In fact Amerotke could see some of these beasts basking on the open ground, soaking up the sun until it began to set and they returned to the water, hunting for any unwary man or beast who came down to the riverside.
‘I would say the causeway can only be used during the day,’ the captain observed. ‘It would be a dangerous place at night. Even now it looks haunted.’
Amerotke could only agree; those lush dark-green groves, the battered causeway and the gloomy ruins justified the captain’s fears, though the crocodiles would pose little danger to men armed and vigilant, especially if they carried torches or lit fires, the only real threat these river monsters feared. He jumped at a bellowing roar and whirled round; the grove came alive as birds flashed through the air, screeching angrily at the bull hippopotamus lumbering through their sanctuary, hungry for the juicy green stalks. Amerotke ordered the captain to pull away. They rounded the sand bank and found a makeshift quayside where they could moor. The barge scraped in on the sandy shale beneath it.
Amerotke asked for two volunteers, and at the prospect of silver, one of the guards agreed to follow the captain. He took the pot of fire, carefully tended in the stern, and lit pitch torches, and the four men came cautiously ashore. Here and there they heard grunts as crocodiles, angry at being disturbed, slid into the water. They went up a steep incline and into the ruins. The sandstone walls were now cracked and broken, arches had fallen, doorways collapsed, statues and pillars had been worn down by the windborne sand and the heavy rains of the Inundation. They followed a narrow path into what must have been the Hall of Columns, around the various clumps of stone into the old sanctuary. It was no more than a circle of stone, the plaster covering the walls displaying faded paintings describing the exploits of Khnum.
‘Master?’ Shufoy grasped Amerotke’s arm and pointed. The judge went across and stared at the painting on the wall of an archer kneeling, a bow in his hand. They then carefully inspected the sanctuary. Although some effort had been made to hide the traces, they soon discovered that someone must have met here: the remains of a fire, a cracked wine jar and, beyond the wall in the doorway, what must have been a beautiful cup of faience which had been dropped and shattered. Amerotke picked up this exquisite piece of workmanship and turned it in his hand.
‘This is where the Khetra comes,’ he said. ‘Where the Sebaus meet. It’s lonely and dangerous; only men with torches and weapons would dare to come here. And more importantly …’ He walked to a gap in the wall and pointed back to the waiting barge. ‘I’m sure this is where some of the treasure is brought to be packed and sealed and sent north. This cup was once part of a hoard.’
He went back and scoured the ruins, discovering further evidence to prove his theory.
‘Think of a merchant leaving Thebes, Shufoy. The Khetra has some splendid plunder from the tombs, something which can’t be smuggled into the city. This is where the merchant will pick it up, as you would from the quayside at Thebes, then it’s north to Memphis, Avaris, Heliopolis, even across the deserts into Canaan. I’m sure this is where he met the Libyan war chief, and where those poor girls were brought.’
Amerotke pulled himself up the wall; it provided a good vantage point. To the left he could glimpse the river and the waiting barge, to his right, across the papyrus grove, the empty, dusty fringe of the Red Lands. A shout came from the barge, and the four men hurried back to the crumbling quayside. The guards were pointing across the river, to where three small barges had appeared to the north of the sand bank. Their prows were high and carved in the shape of some animal, dark sails flapping in the wind.
‘River pirates,’ the captain whispered. ‘They are watching us, weighing their chances.’
Amerotke ordered the soldiers to stand to and draw their weapons; spears and daggers were hastily produced. The captain opened his weapon locker and distributed bows and quivers of arrow to his oarsmen. The river pirates, watching carefully, realised this was no easy prey and turned sluggishly away. The order was given to cast off, and this time, because the wind was behind them, the blue and white sail was unfurled. To the patter of bare feet and the straining of the sail, the rudder man moving the craft to take full advantage of the wind, the barge reached midstream and turned south, back towards Thebes.
At last the city came into sight, its temple cornices and palace roofs shimmering in the sunlight, and the dark green wall of trees gave way to buildings. The river became busier, fishing smacks and boatloads of pilgrims, pleasure punts and dark powerful war barges thronged about, their lookouts blowing at conch horns to raise the alarm and demand passage. In the end they all had to wait, treading water as the funeral flotilla of some powerful nobleman made its way across to the Necropolis. The mourning barges had been dismasted, the outside of the cabins covered in embroidered leather. The passengers stood, their gazes directed towards the funeral barque, constructed in exact imitation of the sacred boat of Osiris which conveyed the god’s body to Abydos. It was swift, light and long and decorated at each end with a lotus blossom carved out of gold which bent gracefully as if eager to reach the water. In the centre of the funeral barque stood a small chapel adorned with flowers and various types of greenery. The close relatives of the deceased crouched mournfully beside this, protected by two priestesses dressed in the guise of Isis and Nepthys. In the prow stood the master of ceremonies, resplendent in his leopard kilt and shawl, before him a huge bowl from which flames leapt up which he fed with generous handfuls of incense, perfuming the river wind. Around the funeral barque clustered smaller craft bearing the choirs and musicians. Their mournful lamentations echoed across the water.
Go West, go into the Far West. May you land in peace in western Thebes. In peace may you proceed to Abydos and across the Western Sea to the islands of Osiris and their green, eternal fields.
The funeral cortege swept into the Place of Mourning. Amerotke’s war barge followed. He told the captain to wait, and climbed on to the busy quayside, a place where the dead mingled with the living. Other, much poorer funerals were being organised; corpses wrapped in cheap dyed linen were dragged on sledges or wheeled on carts up through the city and into the funeral grounds beyond. Priests of the poor moved amongst the mourners looking for business, as did amulet and scarab sellers. All the scorpion men of Thebes were there, eager to sell petty trinkets and statues to the relatives of the dead.
‘As thick as flies on a turd!’ Shufoy whispered.
The tramp of feet, the clouds of dust and the swarm of insects attracted by the great mounds of refuse and host of unwashed bodies were a constant irritation. A demented priest, face blackened and wizened, shrieked at the top of his voice as he danced and cavorted in front of the soaring statue of the green-skinned Osiris, until he was knocked aside by a gang of drunken sailors. These, in turn, began to curse a circle of mercenaries who were watching a dancing girl, naked except for a cloth expertly arranged to withhold her charms whilst enticing spectators.
Amerotke’s guards pushed these away. They went up narrow streets which reeked of the dead and the exotic odours of natron
, cassia, frankincense and juniper oil. They passed the corpse shops, where embalmers plied their trade, offering a wide range of services from stuffing the corpses of the poor with scented rags to the full paraphernalia of a proper embalmment. Casket sellers offered coffins and chests for sale, whilst their apprentices were eager to distribute copies so that people could take samples home for their kin. They crossed a broad square, through the Portals of the Dead and into a veritable honeycomb of caverns, tunnels and mortuary temples. Guards and officials milled about, armed with staffs ready to drive away the beggars and petty thieves. Amerotke produced his badge of office and demanded to see the Keeper of the Dead. A short while later this official appeared, a portly individual, greased and oiled and escorted by a group of flunkies carrying fans and perfume jars. He was a heavy-eyed, thick-lipped man who, as soon as he realised who Amerotke was, became cringingly servile.
‘Yes,’ he declared, nostrils flaring, ‘I can take you to the Mansion of Mercy, the mausoleum of the Temple of Isis.’
They had to thread their way up dusty, shale-strewn trackways, through a walled gate and across a courtyard, in the centre of which stood the statue of Isis suckling the infant Horus. The heat was intense, the dust stung Amerotke’s eyes and he was grateful to pause in the shade to sip clear water from a clay beaker. Once they were ready, they entered the mausoleum, a maze of tunnels and caverns with quotations carved in the rock and pointed with red paint. One in particular caught Shufoy’s eye, and he began to recite it loudly, his voice echoing eerily through the hollow space.
‘Oh you who cut off heads and sever necks, who put folly into the mouths of the spirits because of your magic—’
Amerotke gently put his hand across the little man’s mouth and raised a finger to his lips. Just within the doorway stretched the entrance chamber, with wall paintings depicting the divine souls as brilliantly feathered birds with human faces. The Scribe of the Caskets, the overseer of that place, squatted at the far end behind a small table, torches fixed on the wall above his head whilst oil lamps glowed on a side table. Next to this, chattering on a perch, were a beautiful pair of tamed swallows, who hopped up and down and gave a full-throated song as Amerotke approached.
The Assassins of Isis Page 21
