An Evil Spirit Out of the West

Chapter 2

My encounter with the Veiled One was brief but startling. I wondered if something might happen but no reference was made to my secret visit nor did I receive any message from the Silent Pavilion. My encounter also coincided with ‘the children of the Kap’ (though we were young men now) being more included in the life of the Malkata Palace, as Crown Prince Tuthmosis matured. What the Veiled One had told me quickened my interest in his parents whom I’d glimpsed from afar; now I listened avidly to the gossip. Old Weni, who was growing more and more dependent on the beer jar, was an excellent source of stories, if he kept sober. Not content with the henket or barley beer, he had moved on to the sernet, rich dark beer which would soon bring you into the presence of Hathor, Lady of Drunkenness.

I would often join him in the shade of an olive grove near a rather dank pool where the leaves were thick and lush. He’d lounge back against a tree, a basket of garlic sausage or grilled chicken covered with celery sauce on his lap.

‘Oh yes,’ he’d slurp, tapping his fleshy nose and winking at me. ‘The Magnificent One is truly blessed by Amun. He had a harem.’ Weni stumbled over the words Per Khe Nret ‘The House of Women’. ‘Princesses from every nation under the sun.’ He smacked his lips. ‘Mitanni, Hittites, Babylonians, Nubians, Libyans, the fairest of the field to satisfy his every whim.’ He’d slump closer, eyes glazed, breath thick with the smell of beer. ‘But the real power, I’ll tell you the real power. It’s his wife, the Great Queen, Mistress of the House, the Divine One Tiye.’

‘Where’s she from?’ I asked.

‘She’s not a foreign princess.’ Weni squinted up at the sky. ‘Pharaohs have always married foreign princesses but the Magnificent One was captivated by her since the days of his youth. Tiye the Beautiful.’ He shook his head. ‘And she was exquisite, Mahu. Oh,’ he caught himself, ‘she still is, small but perfectly formed, with strange red hair and those almond-shaped eyes. If she was a cat they’d glow in the dark.’

I lifted my hand for silence. Strange, isn’t it, how the relationship between teacher and pupil can change? Weni was becoming more and more dependent on me. The rest would tease or taunt him but I would talk to him and use the gifts I had received from Aunt Isithia to buy him a jug of beer. I’d do errands for him, fetching this or fetching that. I was growing as cunning as a mongoose and intended to use him to learn more about the Malkata. Horemheb had once said a strange thing to me. I’d made some funny remark about an official at the court. Horemheb was tying up his sandal and chose to do it close to me.

‘Watch what you say, Baboon of the South,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Around here, even the trees hear.’

I had taken the warning to heart but that olive grove, as always, seemed deserted. If anyone approached, the undergrowth and leaves would betray him.

‘Lady Tiye?’ I prompted.

‘Lady Tiye.’ Weni shook his head drunkenly. ‘Generous with favours, Great King’s wife, Beloved of Nekhbet. She’s from Akhmin, hundreds of miles to the North, in the Ninth Nome of Egypt where they worship Min the God of Male Fertility. Lady Tiye was a priestess there. They say,’ his face came closer, ‘she knows more about the art of love than a legion of courtesans.’

‘And the harem?’ I insisted.

Weni waved his hand as if wafting away a fly. ‘More for show than anything else, though rumour has it that, as he gets older, the Magnificent One’s tastes have developed. He likes to watch some of his women dance whilst the others fondle him.’

‘And the Divine One’s children?’

Weni was too sly to reveal a hidden scandal.

‘Oh, there’s Prince Tuthmosis,’ he glanced out of the corner of his eye, ‘and some daughters.’ He glared blearily at me and turned the conversation to how soon I would enter the House of War.

‘My days will end and yours will begin,’ he’d add mournfully. ‘I’ll be sorry to see you go, you clever goose.’ A reference, of course, to the disappearance of his beloved pet. However, I could play Weni at his own game and I wouldn’t be drawn.

The real leader of the Kap was Crown Prince Tuthmosis, a hard-bodied, lean young man with an imperious face and manner and a grating voice. About two months after my meeting with the Veiled One, the Prince gathered us together and announced that we would stay in residence here but enter the House of War under the direct supervision of Hotep the Wise, his father’s close friend and councillor who rejoiced in the title of God’s Father, Scribe of Recruits, ‘Overseer of all Works’. Hotep was a legend: a commoner from Athribitis in the Delta, he’d been promoted high in the Royal Circle. He was the overseer of the building works of the Magnificent One, from the Great Green to beyond the Third Cataract: temples, statues, shrines, palaces and obelisks all to the glory of Amun-Ra and his son, Amenhotep the Magnificent.

A week later Hotep arrived, tall and thin-faced, with patrician features. He must have passed his sixtieth summer. He dressed like a priest, head all shaven and devoid of any ornaments. He was joined by Colonel Perra of the Maryannou (the Braves of the King), seconded from the Regiment of Seth, a burly young man with a thickset body and the harsh face of a professional wrestler. He would be our tutor in the arts of war. Weni was ignored, pushed aside to sit on his bench and drink beer. Hotep gathered us in the courtyard and, with little ceremony, stood on a bench. He carried a small fan in his right hand which he kept tapping against his thigh. For a while he just stood studying each of our faces.

‘I am,’ he began in a carrying voice, ‘a truly excellent scribe. The first to calculate everything in To-mery. I have been inducted into the gods’ books. I have studied the words of Thoth. I have penetrated the gods’ secrets and learned all their mysteries. I have been consulted on their every aspect. I have directed the King’s likeness in every hard stone, supervising the work of his statues. I never imitated what had gone before. There has never been anyone like me since the founding of the Two Lands.’

Hotep the Wise paused, a smile on his lips. ‘I have taken a vow to Ma’at. My words are true. And why do I tell you this? You are children of the Kap. Soon you will enter the service of the Divine One. You will work in the House of Rejoicing and the will of the Divine One will be your pleasure. In doing his will, if you imitate me, you will find great favour. Do you understand?’

We were kneeling before him on the hard ground and made obeisance, noses pressed into the dust.

‘Good!’ Hotep climbed down from the bench. Colonel Perra told us to stand, and we hurriedly obeyed. Hotep moved down the line, pausing to speak now and again. He stopped before me and tapped me lightly on the cheek with his fan.

‘You are Mahu, son of Seostris.’

‘Yes, Your Excellency.’

The day was hot, the sun had risen high and we had been exercising before God’s Father had arrived. I was coated in dust and aware of the trickle of sweat down my face.

‘A good soldier, your father.’

‘Yes, Your Excellency.’

‘And you are nephew of Isithia, the lady of the fly whisk which she can wield so expertly.’

I caught his look of cynical amusement and wondered if he had been one of my aunt’s clients as well as the reason for me being included in the Kap. He moved closer to me, away from Colonel Perra. ‘Mahu the Baboon,’ he whispered. ‘A young man who knows his way around the palace, who can creep through the trees like a shadow.’

I stiffened and recalled Horemheb’s words. Hotep tapped me again on the face. ‘Do you have anything to say, Mahu?’

‘He who spits in the sky,’ I quoted the proverb, ‘will find spittle on his head.’

Hotep grinned. ‘So you have nothing to say?’

‘Except that I am honoured by your presence, Your Excellency, and that you have deigned to take notice of me.’

The smile disappeared. ‘Oh Mahu, Mahu, don’t worry, I have taken close notice of you.’

He moved on to Sobeck standing beside me. This time his voice was louder. Sobeck had grown into a handsome young man with a boyish smile and a lazy charm; a superb athlete, his hard, golden-skinned body often attracted the attention of the girls, as well as Maya’s who pined for him like some lovelorn maid.

‘Sobeck.’ Hotep, I am sure, intended me to hear. ‘Do you know the story about Babylon, Sobeck?’

‘Which story?’ my comrade replied.

‘About the Royal Harem. When the King dies he is buried in a deep pit. Those who have served him follow him there taking poison, being wafted to the Far Horizon by the music of blind harpists who will also accompany him into the West.’

Hotep glanced quickly at me. I stared ahead. Colonel Perra had gone back further up the line to talk to Horemheb.

‘You’ve heard the proverb, Sobeck,’ Hotep continued. ‘If you wish to keep the friendship of any household you enter, as either a visitor, a brother or a friend, whatever you do, never approach the women.’ He tapped Sobeck on the chest. ‘Remember what I said.’

‘Yes, Your Excellency.’

Once we were dismissed I took Sobeck aside.

‘He was warning you,’ I accused.

‘No, he was threatening,’ Sobeck laughed, ‘and I think he was doing the same to you.’

‘You should be careful,’ I advised, grabbing him by the shoulder. Sobeck glanced at my hand but I didn’t take it away. ‘There’s a spy amongst us.’

‘How do you know that, Mahu?’ Sobeck fluttered his eyelids. ‘What have they found out about you?’ He tapped me playfully on the cheek and walked away.

I now regarded my companions with unease. Sobeck made no attempt to hide his love affairs but Hotep had been hinting at something more than mere dalliance with a kitchen girl. I was different. I thought no one knew about my meeting with the Veiled One. Then I recalled squatting in that glade. How did the Veiled One know I was there? Were he and his escort so keen-eyed? Or had he been warned that he was under observation? The morning I was taken to the Silent Pavilion everything had been prepared, as if he’d been waiting for me.

Hotep’s arrival brought other changes, a quickening of pace like that of a drumbeat. The children of Kap had always taken part in the festivals. The Departure of Osiris, the Festival of Intoxication, Opet, the Feast of the Valley and the Festival of Beautiful Meeting. We had always associated these great days with food: loaves of bread, round, triangular or conical, enriched with eggs, butter and milk, and sweetened with coriander and cinnamon. After the bread came succulent water melons, sliced pomegranates and luscious bunches of grapes, with fresh gazelle or sweet hare meat, accompanied by the finest wines, either the Irep Neffer, the very good wine, or the Irep Maa, the genuine wine. We’d eat and drink till our bellies bloated, sampling these wines laced with honey, spices, myrrh and pistachio resin. Gorging ourselves on this plunder from the royal kitchens, we’d sit out in the courtyard, the night lit by aromatic jars or pottery bowls full of oil, their floating linen wicks glowing brightly against the dark. The only time we’d pause was to repeat the lines taught us by Weni:

We would all sing this, swaying on our feet but, of course, the Divine One was a distant figure, glimpsed on his royal barge, The Dazzling Power of Aten. He’d be adorned in his Coat of Jubilees and Robes of Rejoicing, brilliantly coloured as if a thousand butterflies and gorgeous flowers had clustered together. A distant figure, he and the Great Lady Tiye would sit on their thrones under ornate canopies, adorned with heavy jewelled pectorals, gold armlets and bracelets. They were always surrounded by fan-bearers, protected from the sun and the wind by gloriously thick pink-dyed ostrich plumes drenched in perfume. We’d glimpse his crown, blue, white and red as well as that of the Great Wife Lady Tiye’s, a solar disc between the Horns of Hathor, with tall feathers, a spitting uraeus — a dazzling image of swiftly passing colour and glory.

We regarded this magnificence as we would the beauty of the stars, always there but very distant. Hotep changed all that. He wanted to impress upon us that not only were we part of such glory, we had been born to serve it. He took us on well-conducted tours of the great Malkata Palace, be it the Magnificent One’s funeral temple or the splendid harbour he had built for Lady Tiye’s barge at Biket-Abu. We were taken through the well cultivated wall gardens and into the palace proper, a residence of vivid colour with painted tiled floors which depicted the People of the Nine Bows, the enemies of Egypt, captives under the imperial sandal. The walls and pillars of the palace were festooned with green spirals, golden bull heads, leaping red-and-white calves, and luscious paintings of the rich papyrus groves of the Nile with its flowing water and brilliantly plumed birds.

We were allowed to gawp at private chambers where beds, their frames inlaid with ebony, silver and gold, glinted in the polished light of the gleaming black or dark brown wood. Hotep encouraged us to sit on cross-legged stools with leather-cushioned seats, their feet carved in the form of panther, leopard or lion’s claws. We’d stroke brilliant blue and silver cushions full of feathers, silken and soft to the skin, and study wall hangings with fringes of thick colours, or handle vessels of silver and gold, faience and alabaster, moulded in the shape of exotic animals or beautiful women. The words Ankh and Sa, Life and Happiness, were everywhere. Above doorways or windows the guardian vulture Nekhbet spread gloriously coloured wings. We visited tiled bathrooms and toilets, sunrooms and a well-stocked library, the Per Medjet, the House of Books. Of course, everywhere were scenes depicting the Magnificent One crushing his foes, riding like the God of War against his enemies. He was a rampant Sphinx under whose cruel claws tattooed Libyans, earringed Nubians, Syrians in their flowing robes or the sheshnu, the Desert Wanderers and Sand Dwellers, trembled in fear. Hotep was a clever man. Every week he’d take us around the palaces to view the glory and drink in the power of Egypt. For this we had to live — and for this we might even have to die.

We also prepared to enter the House of War. Colonel Perra was a brute of a taskmaster. Our studies were over and a harsher training began. The service of Montu the God of War was, in the words of Colonel Perra, to be our constant food, our constant wish, the very breath of life. He paraded us dressed only in our loincloths during the noonday heat and always began with a quotation from a famous work called The Satire of Trades.

‘A soldier,’ Colonel Perra roared, ‘has to be beaten like a carpet, cleaned of all dirt and impediment. He campaigns in Syria and marches over the mountains. He carries bread and water on his shoulders like an ass. He slurps from brackish pools and sleeps with one eye open. When he encounters the enemy he must fight like an animal caught in a snare. He becomes a whirling piece of wood. He becomes ill and sick. His clothes are stolen and he eats dust every day of his life. That, gentlemen, is part of being a soldier. But, remember, there is the other side. The name of a brave man will never vanish from the face of the earth. You are here to serve Pharaoh, a magnificent soldier, the descendant of a magnificent soldier.’

‘I think,’ Sobeck whispered, ‘we are going to know this speech by heart.’

‘The Divine One’s grandfather,’ Colonel Perra continued in a roar, ‘was strong of arm, a master of bowmen, rich in glory. So was the Divine One’s father while he whom we now serve, Lord of the Two Lands, makes the people of the earth tremble at his move. Why?’ Colonel Perra walked up and down the line, striking each of us with his swagger cane. ‘Because of the might of Egypt, because of the glory of its regiments and the power of its army! When we go to war we are like raging panthers, lions on the hunt, eagles in the sky. You will be part of that glory.’

I assure you there was little glory! Day after day of route marches, running in a heat which seemed to have gusted up from the Underworld. We would go without bread and water, to camp in the Red Lands. Yet this was only the beginning. Roused at dead of night, we were ordered to drill. On one occasion we were marched down to the Great River; a war barge took us across, but instead of beaching we had to jump into the cold, fast-flowing water, curb our panic, the heartstopping terror, and make our way to shore. It was an experience I came to dread. Sobeck always helped me. Yet the current was very strong and, on one occasion, Horemheb’s Danga dwarf, hair and beard now greyed, having insisted on accompanying his master, was swirled away in the darkness. Hideous screams shattered the silence. He had been swept into a crocodile pool and the next morning the only remains we found were part of his head. Huy cracked a joke about the curse of Weni’s sacred goose. Horemheb just glared at him and, from that moment, Huy was his enemy. Horemheb hid his grief well and accepted it as part of the harsh training we all had to undergo. Rameses told me he had made an offering to a mortuary priest and dedicated a statue to Danga but, apart from that, Horemheb made no further reference to the dwarf or his hideous fate.

Colonel Perra was equally unperturbed. In fact, our training became even more rigorous. We learned to fight with the mace, the axe and the khopesh. Hours were spent standing at the butts practising with the composite Kushite bow, loosing arrow after arrow, with their cruel barbs and goose-feathered flights into a target of soft wood. Sometimes we’d fight in sandals, other times barefoot. If it was cold, we’d sometimes go naked, or just wearing a loincloth with a leather groin guard. In the hot season Colonel Perra made us walk in tight-sleeved Syrian coats of mail. Some of us were not cut out to be soldiers. Maya, Pentju and Meryre were hopeless — unable, as Colonel Perra remarked, to tell one end of a war-club from another. Nevertheless they provided constant amusement to Weni, who had now become a mere spectator. He’d sit on a bench drinking his beer and chortling with laughter. As for me — well, I was indifferent with the sword, spear, dagger or bow. Indifferent because I didn’t like using them. Indifferent because I didn’t want to be hurt.

The others excelled, particularly Horemheb. He proved himself to be a born fighter, a skilled archer, excellent with hand weapons. By now, he had filled out, and sported strong muscular shoulders and arms, a slim waist, powerful thighs and legs. Nothing seemed to trouble him, neither the heat of the midday sun nor the biting cold of desert nights. He was a man born with the breath of Montu in him. Rameses was just as good, though more cunning, a little faster on his feet. Of course not all of us had our hearts set on being warriors. Meryre wished to be a priest, Maya and Huy hoped to enter the House of Scribes, while Pentju wanted to be a physician. Sobeck, always laughing, asserted his wish to be the Overseer of the Royal Harem. Nevertheless, as a unit we were skilled enough. The Crown Prince joined us as the Kap had shrunk, due to death and departures, to no more than eighteen, whilst the Horus unit under Horemheb and Rameses outshone the rest. Tuthmosis was a constant reminder of the Veiled One, not so much his face or form, but that calm calculating look in his eye. I secretly wondered if the Veiled One would send me a message, a gift, engineer some form of contact — or should I go back to him? In the end, I did not have to do anything; the Veiled One came to us.

Tuthmosis always joined us in the morning just after our run when, under Colonel Perra’s lashing tongue, we’d prepare for the daily drill. One morning, however, quietly and without much pomp, a conch horn brayed out beyond the walls of the Residence. The gate opened. Tuthmosis led in the cart, pulled by red-and-white oxen, bearing that frame, draped in a gauze veil, behind which a figure sat. The retinue of Kushites followed led by the one-eyed man. He grinned evilly at me and raised his hand, as if we were longlost friends — a salute not lost on my comrades. They stood fascinated as Tuthmosis climbed onto the cart and pulled away the veil. He then did a strange thing: despite being elder brother and Crown Prince, he bowed before the Veiled One sitting on his thronelike chair. Then Tuthmosis turned to us, hands held up like a herald.

‘Behold,’ he proclaimed, ‘my beloved brother.’

He did not give him his proper name, the same as his father, Amenhotep, but the translation of that name, ‘Amun is Satisfied’. We, of course, clapped, bowed in greeting, and pretended not to be surprised. The Veiled One sat, his face open to the world. His body and face were a little plumper; a sidelock of reddish hair hung down over his left ear. The face was the same, possessing its own uncanny beauty: high cheekbones, sensuous pouting mouth and those well-spaced almond-shaped eyes that glowed like Syrian wine. He didn’t move though his glance took us all in: his eyes caught mine, face creasing into a faint smile. He raised his hand as a sign to continue, long fingers splayed out. Perra roared at us to prepare for our drill and, as we did so, the Veiled One sat on his throne watching us intently.

We finished just before noon and rested in the shade of the trees drinking watered beer and chewing hard bread. Tuthmosis joined his brother on the cart, squatting on a makeshift footstool, feeding him with his own hand as they chatted and joked together. The Veiled One’s shoulders shook with laughter. A deep, heavy sadness filled my heart. I had glimpsed something I had always wanted yet knew I would never have. I would have given the length of days to be in that cart joking with them, to be part of something, to be loved and accepted. I half-rose. Sobeck, who must have been watching me, grabbed my arm.

‘Sit down, Baboon. Don’t enter the panther’s cage.’

‘Physician, swallow your own remedy,’ I retorted.

The moment passed and we fell to quarrelling, interrupted by Pentju who wanted to tell us a filthy story about men-starved temple girls pleasuring each other.

The Veiled One stayed for the rest of the day and returned each morning. Many years later he confided how his father had reluctantly agreed for him to join the Kap and enter the House of War. Sometimes Hotep arrived and sat on a chair beside the cart. Although he always treated the Veiled One with great respect and honour, he actually seemed more interested in watching us lash and cut each other. In truth Hotep came to assess our worth, to choose and confirm which path we followed. Huy was marked down for the House of Envoys, Maya for the House of Scribes, Pentju for the House of Life, Horemheb, Rameses and Sobeck for the House of War. Hotep shared this information with us as we sat gasping on the ground, letting our sweat cool. He’d walk among us, sometimes crouching down to whisper his advice, punctuating his statements with elegant movements of his hands. He never approached me. I didn’t know what was intended and, in truth, I didn’t care. I was more hurt that the Veiled One made no attempt to welcome, greet or salute me whilst I did not dare tell my companions about my earlier meeting with him.

In the privacy of our dormitory, or barracks as we now called them, we’d discuss and share the gossip of court. In the main the consensus was the same, though I never made any contribution: the Veiled One was a monstrosity.

‘Perhaps he likes young men?’ Meryre smiled, glancing girlishly at Maya. ‘That’s why he comes to watch our soft flesh sweat.’

‘Do you really think that?’ Horemheb demanded. ‘I looked at him and thanked the gods for Tuthmosis.’ Rameses nodded in agreement.

‘No, I don’t,’ Meryre replied. ‘But,’ his voice fell to a whisper, ‘I think the Veiled One is a symbol of the anger of the gods.’

Pentju put the Veiled One’s strange appearance down to his mother being frightened by spiders or scorpions when she carried him in the egg. Huy openly wondered what effect his appearance would have on Egypt’s allies when their envoys visited the court. Sobeck was more pragmatic and wondered whether the Veiled One was the result of some love potion his mother, the Great Queen Tiye, had indulged in. Of course these opinions were exchanged in whispers. No one would dare speak like that in the presence of Colonel Perra or, even worse, Tuthmosis. Only two people remained quiet, myself and Maya. I remembered that.

Our military training stretched into five seasons. The Veiled One was always in attendance, even when we moved down to the royal stables to acquaint ourselves with the horses — beautiful, sleek animals trained for the chariot squadrons of Egypt. We made the usual offerings to Reshef and Astarte, deities of Syria, the homeland of these swift, elegant carriers of war, as well as to Sutekh, the Egyptian Lord of the Horses. I loved that part of my training. I had no fear of horses, even those bloodied in war, arrogant and proud with their arched necks, flared nostrils and laid-back ears. We were trained and drilled in the use of harness, the head collar, noseband, blinkers and, especially, the straps, one across the top, the other under the horse’s belly; it was important for these to be fastened clear and smooth with no knots or obstacles. We were shown how to hang the blue and gold streamers or war tassels, how to fix the pole cap between the horse’s ears to carry plumes, feathers or artificial flowers which would display the colours of the regiment. After that we moved on to the chariot itself, with its semi-circular platform and curved wooden sides with a thin rail above it. We studied these instruments of Egypt’s anger and glory, both horse and chariot. Colonel Perra told us we had to learn how to put both parts together, then use them so we would merge as one: driver, chariot and horses, the most deadly weapon of war.

Now I was a poor archer, ever ready to fumble with the flaxen bowstring or hard shaft of reed. Sobeck my companion proved to be an indifferent charioteer so we decided on our respective roles and I found my gift for war. At first I was clumsy but I grew to love the rattle of the chariot, the speed and power of the two horses and the exhilaration of a charge with streamers flying and horse plumes nodding. Like all young men I believed I had been born to ride in a chariot. My real education began after a number of nasty accidents when both Sobeck and I had either to jump clear and, on one occasion, even onto the back of the horses when a wheel buckled and cracked against a rock.

I became a charioteer, a master of the chariots, an expert in their construction. I studied their fabric, the imported elm and birch, as well as the tamarisk, which provided the wood for the carriage, the axles and the yoke. The six-bolt wide-spaced wheels placed at the back of the chariot were of special interest; their construction gave the vehicle more speed and mobility, their hubs and rims protected by thick red leather. The craftsmen described the body of the chariot, how it could be covered with copper and electrum and emblazoned with any insignia, whilst a floor of closely knit thongs heightened the experience in a full charge of standing on air. We learned how to position the quiver of arrows, the embroidered container for javelins as well as the leather pouches placed at the side of the chariot containing food and water for two men.

I chose my own horses, two bays, the Glory of Anubis and the Might of Montu. Believe me, nothing was more glorious than the ‘Squadron of the Kap’ in full battle honours, blue and gold plumes dancing between the horses’ ears, their necks, backs and flanks protected by leather coats of the same hue, to which war streamers and tassels displaying the same imperial colours danced in the breeze. Our chariots, polished and emblazoned, would move in a straight line across the pebble-strewn hard plain to the east of the Malkata Palace, on the very border of the Red Lands. There were ten chariots in all, Prince Tuthmosis’ and Colonel Perra’s included. We advanced in a line, wheels creaking, horses neighing, streamers and plumage dancing, all a-glitter in the blaze of the sun. Sobeck standing beside me was dressed the same as me in a leather kilt, marching sandals and a coat of Syrian mail across his shoulders. I looked to the left and right, revelling in the power and glory of this moving line of war. The whole scene would be watched by the Veiled One sitting in his cart under an awning surrounded by his Kushites. Near one of the wheels of the cart, Weni, looking pathetic under his parasol, squatted on a camp stool and nursed his beer jar.

The drill was always the same. Colonel Perra would move forward and his tedjet, or fighter, would intone the war hymn.

Each time we repeated the refrain, the chariots would move faster. The half-moon standard on Colonel Perra’s chariot would rise and fall as it broke into a charge whilst we followed in fast pursuit. The earth rumbled under our wheels, the sky echoed to the crack of our whips, the sun bathed us in its glory as we broke into a breathtaking gallop across the grey-red ground, loosed like shafts from a bow, like hawks swooping through the air. All life, all thought, word and action narrowed down to that glorious cascade of charging horses and chariots. We would reach the arrow butts and the air would hum with our flight of arrows. Then we would be past, charging onto the narrow straw-filled baskets. I’d stand feet apart, slightly stooped, reins wrapped round my wrists, guiding and coaxing, singing out to my two beauties. I praised their speed, their fire. I’d watch their heads plunge and rise whilst, at the same time, keep a keen eye out for any obstacle or be ready to take any advantage of the ground. I was full of the heart-throbbing music of the God of War.

Beside me Sobeck leaned against the rail, his body taut, prepared to pull back the bowstring and, when the quiver was empty, stand, javelin in hand, ready for the next target. Once we dealt with that we’d turn, determined to outrace each other, though, of course, never pass Colonel Perra. It was a heartstopping, blood-thrilling, death-challenging charge back across the desert to that waiting cart almost obscured by the shifting heat haze. Once we had reached the line there would be jubilation, laughter, teasing and taunting. Tuthmosis would climb onto the cart and embrace his brother, a gesture which always provoked a stab of envy in me.

One day, during the boiling heat of Shemshu, in the thirty-second year of the Magnificent One’s reign, the Veiled One rose and, resting on his cane, its head carved in the shape of a Nubian, he clambered down from his cart. Veil pulled back, he walked along the line of chariots, impervious to the dust still clinging like a cloud around us. He stopped at every team and talked softly to the horses, letting them nuzzle his hand which, I suspect, was smeared with the juice of crushed apple. He looked at each of my companions, then passed on. He had certainly grown; the protuberant belly and breasts and broad hips were more pronounced; although his hands and feet remained delicately long and thin. His face was still striking, the cheeks slightly sunken, the lips fuller and those almond-shaped, well-spaced eyes luminous and liquid. He walked slowly but gracefully. A Kushite carrying parasols and sandals came hurrying up behind, only to be summarily dismissed. Silence reigned, broken by the creak of a wheel, the snort of a horse and the low buzz of flies hovering over the dung. Above us circled vultures, their broad wings dark against the sky. The Veiled One stopped before me and lifted his head, revealing a beautiful smile, warm and generous, and eyes bright with excitement.

‘I will take Mahu, the Baboon from the South.’ His eyes held mine. ‘He shall be my tedjet.’

Sobeck immediately clambered down. I glanced at Colonel Perra who just shrugged. Weni was giggling behind his hand. Tuthmosis stood a little distance away, hands on his hips, a knowing look on his face.

‘I will be the driver.’ The Veiled One did not shout but his voice carried, an imperious command which no one dared question. He asked the names of my horses and, when I told him, he whispered to each, caressing their necks, letting them hear his voice and smell his sweat. He glanced up. ‘We forget how horses can smell so keenly. But come, before they cool!’

The Veiled One let his shawl slip away exposing copper-skinned shoulders, their blades protruding, his back slightly bent. Resting on his cane, he walked along to the chariot and clambered in, ignoring my gesture of support. He slipped his cane into the empty javelin container and grasped the reins, spreading his bare feet, clicking his tongue. I sensed that his skill was as great as mine though the chariot was strange and the horses new. He stood next to me, misshapen yet graceful, careful not to brush or knock me. Beads of sweat ran down his neck, and his body exuded a sweet cloying perfume. Clear of the veil I now noticed how strange his head was: the sloping forehead, the egg-shaped skull, the strangely elongated neck. His movements were carefully measured. He backed the chariot out, turning it for the long run, urging the horses forward. Once we were some distance away he reined in and turned his face to the sun, staring up narrow-eyed. I wondered if his sight was as strong as our own.

‘Praise me, Father,’ he raised a hand, ‘as I have praised you who existed before all time began. Bless me, Father, as you have been blessed by all creatures under the sun. Support me, Father, Lord of Jubilees, Ruler of the Years, beautiful in aspect. Let the rays of your power guide my heart with an iron hand. Oh, Joyous One, listen to your son the beloved.’

The others could not have heard him. He turned and winked at me.

‘So we meet again, Mahu.’ He clicked his tongue and urged the horses on. ‘Even though I have watched you from afar.’ He then glanced over his right shoulder and spoke in a tongue I couldn’t understand, as if someone else was standing on the far side of the chariot. Sharp guttural words. I wondered if it was Akkadian, the language used by Pharaoh’s scribes when writing to his vassal kings. He spoke again and turned back. ‘You are not frightened, Baboon of the South?’

‘Should I be?’ I grasped the chariot rail.

The Veiled One chuckled. ‘Do you know a funny story, Mahu? Can you tell me one?’

I racked my memory. ‘An old woman had a very garrulous husband. He would never stop talking even when asleep.’

Again the chuckle. ‘Every day,’ I went on, ‘she used to lead the cart on which he perched down to the market.’

‘And?’ The Veiled One grasped the reins more firmly.

‘One day a passer-by ran up. “Oh ancient one,” he yelped, “your husband has fallen out of the cart.” “The gods be thanked,” the Old Woman replied, rubbing her ear. “Why is that?” the passer-by asked. “Because for a moment I thought I had gone deaf.”’

The Veiled One threw his head back and bellowed with laughter, loud and clear. He then urged the horses forward, snapping the reins, calling out their names, sometimes lapsing into that strange tongue. I was about seventeen summers old, the Veiled One a little older, but he drove like a Lord of the Chariots. Undoubtedly he had been trained yet he possessed a gift and I realised the chariot freed him of any disability; he could now fly like the Horus falcon. He stood slightly stooping, his arms, wrists and hands displaying surprising strength and skill. There is a time as any soldier knows when a war chariot, both horses and driver, become united, long like a spear speeding through the air; you are not aware of the barb, shaft or feathered flight, just its swift death-bearing beauty. The Veiled One urged the horses on. They galloped as one, their direction straight. He guided them round the potholes and ruts. I clung to the rail aware of the ground racing away beneath us, the buffeting breeze and the Veiled One immersed in the thrill of the charge. Now and again he would whisper under his breath. We reached the targets, turned and streaked back like a javelin to the mark. We slowed down, but then picked up speed again and the Veiled One, leaning slightly to the left then the right, made the horses perform the most complex twists, as any war chariot would in battle, slicing deep into the enemy foot. At last we stopped just in front of our admiring audience who cheered and clapped. The Veiled One grasped his cane and clambered down. A servant hurried up carrying his shawl, veil and dark leather wallet. The Veiled One grasped this, opened it and handed me an amulet of jasper, cornelian and red sandstone: it was carved to depict the two celestial hills of the Far Horizon with the sun rising between them. He pressed this aknty, this Sun-in-the-Horizon amulet into my hand, stroked my finger, winked and walked away.

Later that day we celebrated, though Tuthmosis and the Veiled One were not present. Colonel Perra had also gone to the palace to convey the Squadron’s congratulations to the Princes. Naturally we discussed the Veiled One’s skill, his strange, ungainly movements yet his mastery of the horses. Horemheb looked a little jealous, not so much of me, but rather that he had been outclassed: however, he had the good grace, once the beer loosened his tongue, to praise the Veiled One’s prowess. Naturally I was teased and taunted. The beer jug was passed round. We stretched out our hands to the brazier, welcoming its heat against the cold night air. Weni, of course, was already drunk — clasped, as we say, in the arms of Lady Hathor. He abruptly put the jug down and, picking up a soiled napkin, covered his face and pretended to be the Veiled One driving the chariot, flailing his arms and hands around and provoking bursts of laughter from everyone except myself and Maya. Encouraged in his parody, Weni persisted, demanding what would happen if the Veiled One engaged in battle with a sheet across his face? Or, what if his chariot crashed? Again the imitation.

‘Would he go hobbling round the battlefield?’

I emptied my beer jug onto the ground and walked away.

The following day was a festival. There was no drill but we went down to the stables to tend to our horses, and check the harness, frames and wheels of our chariots. I was immersed in memories of the previous day; the amulet I kept in a wallet, and now and again I would walk away, take it out and study it carefully. I stayed late that day, long after the others had left. Sobeck came hurrying down.

‘Mahu, you’d best come!’

‘What’s the matter?’

Sobeck wiped sweat from his face. ‘Weni has been found dead, drowned in a pool.’

I recalled that olive grove, the dark reedfilled pond, Weni leaning against the tree, beer jug in hand. I hurried back to the barracks where Weni’s green-slimed, water-drenched corpse had already been laid out on the bench on which he had so often stood to lecture and berate us. Death is always pathetic but Weni’s was even more so. He lay, eyes, nostrils and mouth clogged with brackish mud, his loincloth sopping wet, trickles of dark water running down his legs. With his swollen belly he looked like a landed fish and his face had the same look of surprised horror. I took a napkin and covered his features and recalled what Weni had done the previous day. Orderlies brought a stretcher to convey the corpse to the House of Death. The others drifted around, muttering amongst themselves. Meryre had tried to intone a mortuary prayer but the others were not interested.

‘Get him prepared quickly,’ Horemheb bawled at the orderlies, ‘before he begins to smell.’

I crouched down and took the ring from Weni’s stubby fingers. He’d always been proud of that, a gift from the Magnificent One’s father. I placed this on the corpse and looked carefully at the nail of that finger, plucking at the little strips of leather. The corpse was removed. I walked around the barracks through the side gate and into the olive grove. I found Weni’s tree; the beer jug lay cracked on the ground beside it. The muddy edges of the pool were marked with the feet of those who had pulled him out. I noticed something gleaming in the grass and picked it up. It was a small copper stud, certainly not from the war-kilts of anyone in the Kap. I had seen such studs on the war-kilts of the Veiled One’s Kushite retinue. I weighed this in my hand and got to my feet. Weni was an old soldier, a drunkard, but sure on his feet, careful what he did. Going back to the olive tree, I sat down and imagined Weni sitting there, half-drunk, those dark shapes creeping through the trees. A sharp, short struggle, the jug being thrown to the ground, Weni being dragged to the pool and forced in, his head and face held underwater until all life left his heart. I recalled Weni laughing mockingly the night before.

‘Is there anything wrong?’

I whirled around. Sobeck stood staring at me curiously.

‘No, no, nothing.’ I got to my feet and threw the copper stud into the pool. ‘No, there’s nothing wrong, Sobeck, at least for the moment.’