Egypt

24

We heard them before we saw them; beating drums, rattling tambourines and clashing cymbals announced their approach, and the crowd responded jubilantly, yelling prayers and oaths in their strange language. Nakht, Simut and I waited with the Chief Steward to witness the return of the festival procession to the temple. The King and Queen finally appeared in their chariot. They were both wearing blue robes; the King carried a crook and a silver axe. Dignitaries and priests followed in a long procession through the crowded ways, followed by the entertainment-acrobats flipped over and over, jugglers competed to cast their balls in daringly complex patterns, dancers in bright costumes, accompanied by the wild drums and tambourines of the musicians, performed for the applause of the crowds. And above all of them towered the image of the God himself, carried on an ox-drawn carriage, its axles creaking with the massive weight of the burden; three times as tall as any man, his gold body was densely decorated with jewels, which dazzled in the late light. His appearance encouraged cries of awe, prayers and urgent petitions from the crowds.

The Crown Prince and his entourage were standing close to the temple gateway. I realized his expression had altered. He suddenly looked like a man who had received good news. Several times he glanced over at Nakht, and smiled.

‘The Crown Prince has changed his manner,’ I whispered to Nakht.

‘So I see,’ he replied. He was not cheered by the difference.

As the chariot of the King and Queen arrived at the temple entrance, I saw how the Queen cast a quick look at the Crown Prince, an attempt at respectful friendliness, and how he responded by simply turning away.

In the inner courtyard of the temple, tables and benches had been set out for a huge feast. The God was set up at the head of the main table as the guest of honour. The King raised a silver cup in the shape of a bull’s head, full of wine, to the God, loudly proclaiming what seemed to be his eternal health, and then he drank deeply. Everyone cheered.

‘The King is drinking to the God,’ explained the Chief Steward to Nakht, who nodded sagely.

Then a herald announced the feast, and suddenly everyone else rushed to find places to sit. The Chief Steward guided us towards one of the tables near the King’s. Servants delivered grilled and roasted meats from sacrificed animals on huge platters, and the King chose the best cuts, glistening with fat, to offer to the God. Then he picked out one of the loaves baked in many shapes of men and animals that had been set before him-this one in the shape of a bird-and broke it into pieces. Once this last rite was completed, the crowd knew they could really start to enjoy themselves, and they set to devouring the food as if they had not eaten for weeks.

Simut and I insisted we stand either side of Nakht while he ate.

‘I do not see Ambassador Hattusa,’ I said quietly to Nakht.

He nodded.

‘Is Ambassador Hattusa not joining us this evening? We were expecting him,’ he said to the Chief Steward, sitting opposite him.

‘I, too, have noticed his absence,’ he replied.

‘I trust he is not ill,’ said Nakht.

The Chief Steward wiped his lips, clicked his fingers, and a servant hurried over, listened to his instructions, and ran off. Nakht and the Chief Steward exchanged a small glance, but continued to converse about other subjects, with other members of the table. Simut and I whispered briefly behind Nakht’s back.

‘Why is he not here?’ he said.

‘I cannot imagine. This is an important event… I hope there has been no problem…’

After a good period of feasting and drinking, the convivial atmosphere was becoming noticeably raucous. The Crown Prince and his companions in particular were in a riotous mood. Several times I observed how the other guests glanced at them, and commented to each other on their crude behaviour. At one point, the King himself glared at his oldest son; but his look of admonition seemed not to concern the Crown Prince at all. In fact it was almost as if he welcomed it, and was vying with his father.

Suddenly, the King clapped his hands. The daylight was fading, and the evening shadows had begun to lengthen and gather. Servants lit torches around a performance area, and a troupe of dancers ran into the flickering light. They were dressed as leopards and hunters. The Crown Prince and his retinue ambled over, and the other nobles quickly made way to allow him the best view of the show. The dancers bowed low to the God, and then the King. The musicians struck up a strong beat, and the performance, which recreated the drama of a royal hunt, began. The hunters danced their pursuit of the leopards, which ran in wonderfully lifelike, fluid choreography; they evaded their hunters, and then they turned on them, standing on their hind legs with powerful stylized claws raised in magnificent retaliatory attack. The hunters withdrew, in awe of these magnificent creatures. Then archers drew imaginary bows, and fired arrows that split the imaginary hearts of several of the magnificent beasts, and they died and were carried off in glorious style.

The King observed the spectacle carefully, for he was represented in the dance as the chief hunter. One by one, the other hunters and leopards faded away, until only this central figure was left; he now began a complex dance with the last and most powerful of the leopards, the King jousting with his spear, the leopard curling around his attacks, while two younger dancers, representing loyal hunting dogs, tried to attack the leopard’s belly and back without success. For a moment, the leopard appeared to be succeeding, and the King dancer himself was suddenly on the defensive, at the mercy of the leopard, poised for the kill-the crowd gasped, and the real King looked deeply dismayed. The Crown Prince, I saw, shared a small smile with his men.

But then the dancer representing the King raised his spear high in the air, and held it very still in a posture of regal dominance and triumph. The leopard, succumbing at last, looked up at the hunter and his poised spear, facing the moment of its own death with dignity; and the crowd roared for the kill, waiting for the King himself, who had risen to his feet, to give the sign of his approval.

But at that moment, from out of the shadows, an object like an uneven, clumsy ball bounced and rolled at speed across the stone slabs of the courtyard, and came to rest before the King. For a moment no one understood. But I did. I had seen this before. The ball was a human head, decapitated, and still dripping with blood. The grave, dead face belonged to Hattusa, the Hittite ambassador.

The King’s guards instantly formed a protective shield around the King, their spears pointing into the gathering shadows.

‘Make them shut the gates,’ I shouted to Nakht.

I grabbed a lit torch from its stand, and ran in the direction from which the decapitated head had been thrown, through the sudden pandemonium of the crowd, paying no attention to the cries of horror and outrage, or to the rush of bodies running away from the scene in confusion and disarray. Simut was just behind me, a torch in one hand, his dagger in the other. We came to the edge of the arena. The shadows deepened into darkness.

‘Which way?’ said Simut.

I shook my head, staring into the obscurity, scanning the passages, which disappeared in several directions, listening for the faintest sound. And then-was I imagining it? — I could sense something, someone, poised, waiting in the silence, and then moving away into the dark distance. I waved to Simut, and gestured to him to abandon his torch. We made our way stealthily along a shadowy passageway, which opened out into an inner courtyard. Several doorways led off into dark chambers. But only one compelled me. From within I could see the faint flickering of lights. It was a holy sanctuary. We took one side each and approached. We listened. Silence. I nodded to Simut, and we raised our swords.

But suddenly, from behind us, came the noise of many feet pounding on the stones, and a troop of palace guards ran into the courtyard, barring the way into the sanctuary. The captain spoke urgently and forbiddingly in his own language. It was perfectly clear: we were not allowed to enter and desecrate the God’s shrine. I yelled into the captain’s face in frustration, and he bellowed back, and then before I knew what I was doing, I had raised my fist to strike him. Suddenly spears were pointing directly at my chest, and Simut was dragging my arms to my side, and pulling me away. And then the Crown Prince and his retinue were standing there, staring at me.

‘How dare you desecrate the shrine with your filthy foreign presence?’ he said, and whacked me hard across the face.

‘We were following the killer,’ I said, spitting away bloody phlegm.

He hit me again.

‘Don’t you dare address me. If I had my way you would be cut into more pieces than our dear friend the ambassador.’

And he nodded, and a couple of his men began to punch and kick me as hard as they could. Simut was powerless to help. After a while, the rain of blows ceased. I struggled to breathe. Blood trickled down my chin.

‘If I ever hear another word from you, I promise it will be your last. Your royal protection doesn’t work with me,’ sneered the Crown Prince, pushing his foot down onto the side of my face.

And then Simut and I were shoved back up the passageway by the Crown Prince’s retinue.

The ambassador’s head lay on the ground, staring in dismay at something far beyond the circle of men gathered around. The King was shouting at the Chief Steward, and Nakht stood in silence beside the Queen. As our little group approached, they looked up.

‘These foreigners were about to desecrate the shrine of the God,’ said the Crown Prince as he kicked us hard and sent us flying at his father’s feet. ‘You should arrest them, blind them, and send them to the work gangs. That is where foreign spies belong.’

As he said this he pointedly looked at the Queen. Nakht surveyed our battered state, and quickly intervened on our behalf.

‘I beg your pardon, my lord. My men were ignorant. But they are officers of the highest rank. Rahotep is known as the finest Seeker of Mysteries in all Egypt. His only motivation would be to apprehend the murderer. If you would permit, he may be able to help.’

The King looked me over briefly, then nodded. I wiped the blood from my face and took a better look at the decapitated head. The wound was accomplished with several powerful hacks from an axe-so I knew at once this was not the work of the Theban murderer. I reached out to Hattusa’s mouth. There was a shout of outrage from the Crown Prince, but I continued regardless, while the King spoke to him sharply. The jawbones were locking together-he had been dead a little while already. I slowly prised them open enough to insert my fingers into the clammy, cold mouth. I drew out a little scrap of folded papyrus. Without even opening it, I offered it to Nakht, but the Chief Steward snatched it away. He opened it, then, puzzled, he showed it to the King. And I watched carefully as the Crown Prince took it from his father, glanced at it, and returned it to me with a look that told me precisely nothing.

The Hittite King began to shout at me, and Nakht translated quickly.

‘He wants to know how you knew this was there, and what it means,’ he said. And from his look I knew he was also saying, ‘Please be extremely careful how you reply.’

‘I didn’t know what I would find. I was merely checking the condition of the jaws because that gives an indication of the time of death-’

Nakht interrupted: ‘This is not an Egyptian star at all, as you can see. In our hieroglyph a star has five points surrounding a small circle of light. This has eight arrows around a black centre. Perhaps it is a Hittite sign?’

‘Of course it is not. This is all nonsense,’ interrupted the Crown Prince. He shoved the papyrus aggressively at the Queen. ‘But perhaps you recognize this sign, my dear lady? Perhaps it is a Babylonian star. Your people are famous star-watchers, aren’t they?’

The Queen glanced at the sign.

‘This is not a sign from the zodiac of my people,’ she said clearly.

‘It is the sign of the Army of Chaos,’ I said.

Everyone stared at me, astonished.

‘The ambassador has been murdered as a punishment for his association with Egypt and with our mission,’ I continued. ‘I name Aziru as the suspect.’

The Crown Prince roared with fury, but Nakht followed up quickly: ‘Let us be clear. You have a murderer in this city, and he knows about our most private discussions. He is warning you, as well as us.’

The Chief Steward respectfully took the King aside, so that we could not hear the exchange that followed. The Crown Prince confronted Nakht and me.

‘You should leave now, before you, too, suffer the same fate,’ he said, so only we could hear him. Then he turned to join his father and uncle.

The Queen stood in silence, gazing at the ambassador’s head.

‘That sign. I have seen it. It is not Babylonian, but for us it represents Ishtar-the Queen of Love and War. But why is it here, like this?’ she said quietly to Nakht and me.

Nakht shook his head, deeply alarmed. I was desperate to ask her more, for this was compelling new information about the meaning of the sign. But the King and the Crown Prince were openly arguing now. What was going on, underneath the surface of these events? The Crown Prince was feeling betrayed: his father had exiled his mother, and why would he forgive that? No matter how useful the political argument for the union with the Babylonians might be, blood is blood. But had the Crown Prince ordered this murder? Was he an agent in Hattusa’s death? Or was Aziru acting on his own? It was hard to believe the Crown Prince knew nothing about the murder, for it served his purposes too well. Perhaps that was why he had been so cheerful during the festivities. I glanced at the Queen, who stood like a statue of melancholy among these angry, arguing Hittite men. I wondered how long she could really survive.

Suddenly the guards ran up, pushing two men, bowing in terror, into the presence of the King. I had seen them earlier; they were gatekeepers. They trembled like lambs before slaughter when they saw the head of Hattusa. The Chief Steward began to question them, and immediately they shook their heads, their hands raised to the God, protesting their innocence.

‘They claim all who came or went during the feast were permitted and authorized,’ translated Nakht.

‘Ask them if they saw a man carrying anything-a box or a bag,’ I said to him.

He translated quickly, but the gatekeepers only shook their heads.

‘Ask them if they saw a man, a Levantine, with red hair, about my height,’ I said.

Once more they pleaded their innocence, when suddenly, without warning, the Crown Prince stepped forward and simply thrust his sword into the chest of one of the two men. The man looked aghast and slowly collapsed to his knees. The Crown Prince pulled out his sword. The man clutched uselessly at the torrent of blood, as if to plug a leaking vessel, and then keeled over. The Crown Prince wiped his blade on the dead man’s clothes. The second man closed his eyes, and began gibbering and praying for mercy.

‘Each man must pay the penalty for failure to protect the King,’ said the Crown Prince, preparing to kill again. But the King stepped forward, and with his own sword he executed the second man, who died with a grievous howl that silenced everyone present.