An Evil Spirit Out of the West

Chapter 1

Ah well, so the fire is laid. A fire burns away the dross of the years. So, who am I? Why, I am Mahu, former General of the great Pharaohs, friend of the great Pharaohs, now I dwell alone in a little mansion beside the Nile where palm trees throng. Over their green-skinned tops I can make out, through the mist, the dim ghosts of mountains. Those mountains know the secrets. They hold the truth about the One whose name cannot be uttered, and the rest. Oh yes, the rest.

I have begun my confession on the nineteenth day of Akhit, the Season of the Inundation; the waters of the Nile are fat and swollen, sweeping life into the Black Lands. The Dog Star has risen high into the eastern sky; now it has gone, as have the white flashes of the ibis bird. All memories! The Pharaoh’s scribes have also come and gone, so has the Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh: with his cobra eyes and beak-like nose he reminds me of General Rameses, thin lips always twisted in a smirk — or was it a grimace? Even now Rameses’ ghost stands in the shadows with the rest, watching with those close-set, ever-shifting eyes.

They have brought me food, writing pens and ink pallets, rolls of papyrus, a horn knife and a smoothing stone. They have also found the journals I kept over the years: these will serve as pricks to memory. I am to write down all that has happened. They want my confession, so Pharaoh shall have it — once the dross of the past has been burned away, bringing back those glory days of the Magnificent One, Amenhotep III, his fat paunch and coarse thighs gleaming with perfumed sweat. Amenhotep the Magnificent, Lord of the Two Lands, Wearer of the Divine Plumes, sitting on a pleasure stool, his own daughter squatting libidinously on his lap, long legs dangling down, in one fair hand a blue lotus which had flowered at noon and in the other a silver-edged whip. Next is Queen Tiye, small of face and fierce of heart, a Queen whose dreams were haunted by her mysterious god. Ah, and here comes Maya! Old Smooth-Skin with his perfume-drenched robes and face painted more heavily than any heset girl from a temple. Ever-smiling Maya who liked to dress in women’s clothes, his face as bland as the full moon and a heart just as changeable. Maya’s lips were wet, red and full as if he had sucked on blood, that sneering mouth ever ready to sing his own praises: When I began I was very good, so ran the inscription on his tomb, but when I finished I was brilliant.

The shadows shift, to reveal Pentju the physician, cunning and just as dangerous. Behind him is Huy, the glory of Pharaoh, followed by Horemheb the great warrior, with his thickset body, square stolid face and the eyes of a ferocious panther. Rameses? Ah well, Rameses always stands in Horemheb’s shadow. And the others? Oh yes, they’ll appear. Nefertiti, ‘the beautiful woman has arrived’. She walks, as she always did, her magnificent head tilted back, those strange blue eyes peering out from under heavy lids. She is followed by her daughter Ankhesenamun, just as eerily beautiful and just as treacherous. Ankhesenamun wears her perfumed wig bound by a golden fillet; her sloe eyes are ringed with black kohl; a silver gorget circles her beautiful throat, and her braided, beaded skirt slaps provocatively against those exquisitely curved thighs. She wears one gold-topped sandal whilst the other is held effortlessly in her hand. Behind her is gentle loving Tutankhamun, innocent dark eyes in a smiling boy’s face. Dominating them all, like a brooding cloud which covers the sky, is the Heretic! The Veiled One, whose name cannot be uttered. They all come to Mahu, and where does Mahu begin but at the very beginning?

I was born popping like some rotten seed out of my mother’s womb, so rough, so hard she died within the month, or so common report had it. My father Seostris, a Standard Bearer in the Medjay, was not present at my birth. Surely you know who the Medjay are? Auxiliary troops from the South. Many years ago, during the Season of the Locust, the Medjay decided to throw their lot in with the Egyptians when they waged war with fire and sword, by land and sea, against the Hyksos: barbarians who turned the Delta town of Avaris into their strong-hold and threatened to bring all Egypt under their heavy war-club. So impudent did they become, that the Hyksos Prince sent a message to the Pharaoh of the time to keep the hippopotami in his pool quiet because they disturbed his sweet slumbers in Avaris.

The brave Sequenre took up the challenge, launching a savage war only to be struck down in battle. The struggle was taken up by his son Ahmose who, like fire running through stubble, marched against the Hyksos and reduced them to ash. The gilded Egyptian war-barges smashed the Hyksos defences along the Nile, and Ahmose’s troops burst into Avaris and burned it to the ground. My ancestors, the Medjay, were with Egypt’s troops and, for such help, an eternal pact of friendship was sworn between the two peoples.

My father was a Medjay from the moment he left the egg. A born soldier, he did not bother with me. My memories of him are vague: a stout man with a shaven head, dressed in a leather kilt and jerkin, marching boots on his feet, a war-belt fastened about his waist, a quiver of arrows slung across his back. A man proud of serving Pharaoh, he had received the Golden Collar of Honour together with the Silver Bees of Courage for slaying enemies in hand-to-hand combat in battle. (I still own these medals of bravery; the heavy gold necklace and the small silver bees carved in a cluster from a lump of pure silver with a jewelled hook to fasten on your tunic.) I remember him showing me the khopesh, the curved sword which he used against the People of the Nine Bows, those myriad enemies of Pharaoh who envied Egypt’s riches and lusted after her rich soil and fair cities.

Father visited me occasionally, sometimes accompanied by an aide who carried his ceremonial shield. He would crouch down and stare coldly at me, eyes wrinkled up after years of peering through the heat and dust of the Red Lands. From the beginning I was lonely. I lived with my father’s sister, Isithia, a hard-faced, sinewy woman, sharp-eyed and bitter-tongued. A childless woman whose husband had gone North on business and never returned. I could understand why! He certainly left Isithia wealthy enough, the owner of a country mansion surrounded by lofty thick walls. One of my constant memories is playing on the steps leading up to its porticoed entrance with its palmetta decoration in blue, green and ochre-red. Around the house were slender columns carved to represent green papyrus with red roots and golden capitals, a shadow-filled peristyle which provided welcome shade against the heat. The rooms inside had polished beam ceilings and tiled floors: a vestibule, an audience chamber, other rooms and polished wooden stairs leading to upper chambers. Isithia and I would sit on the broad roof, away from the heat, to catch the cooling breath of Amun. All around the house stretched verdant gardens, fed by a canal from the Nile, shaded by climbing vines and edged with flowers. A beautiful place, its paths were lined with trees of every variety: kaku palms, sycamore, persea, pomegranate, acacia, yew, tamarisk and terebrinth. Elegant coloured pavilions stood around the garden where you could sit to enjoy the different flowers and scents. In the centre gleamed a square pool of pure water with blooms of white water lilies floating on the top. Even as a boy I could sit for hours and observe them, how the blue lotus would flower at dawn, curl at midday and sink beneath the water whilst the white lotus only flowered after darkness fell.

I very rarely left that house and garden. I used to stand on the roof next to the corn bins, resting against the latticework built around the parapet to keep me from falling off. Not that Isithia cared all that much for me. She was a cold woman. The only creature she ever showed affection for was Seth, the ugly Saluki hound — a fierce war-dog from less gentle days, and in my youth a rare breed. Where Isithia went, Seth always followed, and where Isithia went, so did her fly whisk. She hated flies and mice. Every hole, every crack through which vermin could creep, were liberally coated in cat fat.

I recall her sitting, fly whisk in hand, in her high-backed armchair, its legs ending in four panther paws. The chair suited her. Isithia was a panther with narrow eyes and receding chin. A tall woman, she dressed in flowing gowns and embroidered sashes. She very rarely wore a wig or, indeed, her silver-edged sandals which a servant always carried behind her. If the nights turned chilly, she’d drape a fringed shawl about her shoulders. She distilled perfumes and medicine and sold them to select customers, often making trips out to the Valley of the Pines to collect those herbs and concoctions she could not grow in her own gardens. In the main these produced enough fruit and vegetables to make us self-sufficient, with crops of onions, leeks, lettuces and water melons. Isithia rarely went to the market but hired the best cooks to buy and serve fattened duck and geese. I always drank the freshest milk, sweetened with honey from the hives of pottery jars kept at the end of the garden and, when the bees were found wanting, the milk was sweetened with carob seeds. If I was naughty I’d be given nothing except the pith of a papyrus stalk to suck. Isithia never hit me though sometimes she’d seize me by the shoulders and shake me. She led her own private life: her customers came at night — women for potions and sometimes men. I used to hear the sound of beating and cries but whether they were of pleasure or pain I could not tell.

Isithia’s servants were shemsous, or personal slaves, who wore a collar with a hieroglyph denoting their status — rolled-up matting on a stick. They were as terrified of her as I was — wary of her tongue and fly whisk. There were also a few slaves or bekous, men and women captured in war who were made to work in the gardens and live in sheds not fit for cattle. On one occasion two of them escaped. My father pursued them, caught them but never brought them back. Wielding authority over these was Api, Isithia’s wedpou or steward, dumb as an ox but just as faithful.

Isithia was undoubtedly rich. Her strongrooms held vases of oils and unguents: henna, iris, fir, mandrake and lotus, all kept in sealable chests with ebony and gold veneer in silver mountings. I don’t know whether Father even recognised the truth about his sister, or the silent terror she instilled in me. Sometimes at night, on the eve of an inauspicious day, Isithia would stand on the portico quoting bloodcurdling verses from The Book of the Dead. Flanked by fire cauldrons she would sprinkle the darkness with oils and herbs, Api standing in the shadows behind her. Isithia’s voice would carry low and terrible through the night.

One night I even glimpsed her in the garden squatting over a dish of glowing charcoal strewn with herbs. Her kilt pulled up, she crouched like a woman would over a latrine, mouthing curses into the night. Isithia practised hek, the magic of the dark. She was always terrified of the aataruu, those evil spirits out of the West. Only the gods know what her past contained; her soul must have been heavy with the nastiness. She hardly spoke to me except to quote proverbs about the need for peace and security. I remember one of the verses well. She made me learn it by rote.

In my later years, going through the records, I discovered that Isithia’s former husband had been an army officer. Perhaps she was terrified of the chaos war might bring. Occasionally I tried to ask her about Mother but she forced a quick smile and told me to keep quiet. I asked about my birth and she pounced like a cat would on a mouse.

‘You were born between the twenty-third and twenty-seventh day,’ she waved her fly whisk at me, ‘so you must always be wary of snakes and crocodiles.’

On reflection, oh how right she was! I asked what god should be my patron? What divine being protected my birth? She pushed her face close to mine in mock sadness. ‘Strange you ask that, Mahu. Strange to answer. No god.’ Again, how right she was!

My memories should be sweet: a clean house with its bathrooms, hard-tiled stoolroom and well-decorated chambers. The air was sweet with the fragrance of kiphye, juniper, cassia and frankincense, and plentiful incense, the divine perfume of the gods, burned in spoons, their handles carved in the form of human forearms. Food was plentiful, delicious meals piled high on reed dishes. Yet I cannot recall anything sweet. No children ever visited us. I was given an education of sorts. The first hieroglyph I drew was the sebkhet, an enclosure with battlements that represented my life as a boy, locked in an enclosure. On rare occasions Father arrived and took both my aunt and me across the Nile to the Todjeser — the Necropolis. I loved such occasions: the fast-flowing Nile, the cooling breezes, the pungent smell from the thick papyrus groves, the flashes of colour as ducks and wild birds rose up and wheeled against the blue sky. Sometimes the roar of the hippopotami would echo along the banks. I’d feel a shiver of fear as my father pointed out the crocodile pools. Occasionally, I’d glimpse the gold-topped obelisks and carved mountings of the temples of Thebes.

‘That is Waset,’ Father would whisper in my ear. ‘Pharaoh’s city. And from here you can see …’ And he’d list the temples but I couldn’t really care. I was just so pleased he was close to me. Eventually the crew would make ready to land at the Great Mooring Place. Above us soared the peak of Meretseger, the brooding goddess, and those craggy cliffs which could change colour so dramatically. These loomed over the City of the Dead and its warren of tombs, the Valley of the Nobles, the Valley of the Kings, the places where the dead came. We’d disembark on the quayside, pass the huge statue of the green-skinned god Osiris and go up through the winding streets of the City of the Dead, a place of horror and delight where the stench of natron, the heavy salt from the embalmers’ shops, mingled with the more pervasive stink of corruption. Yet we’d turn a corner and glimpse beautifully carved caskets and coffins or elegantly sculptured canopic jars. The embalming shops, cabinet-makers and coffin suppliers did a roaring trade. As in life so in death. The rich could buy the best but the corpses of the poor were everywhere, nothing more than dried-out skeletons, draped in skins lying on floors or ledges. Not for them the Osirian rites of the embalmer but the cheap juice of the juniper pumped up through the rectum, the entire corpse pickled in natron. The very poor were given some cheaper, even more corrosive, substance, before being dried out in a natron bath wrapped in a dirty sheet and housed with scores of others in some coffin room. I noticed my aunt’s whisk was even more vigorously at work as the flies buzzed everywhere. Great black clouds of them seemed to haunt her.

At last we were free of the city and going along the rocky, crumbling path to the Valley of the Nobles. At its entrance we were greeted by the Master of the Necropolis carrying his staff, its top carved in the shape of an ankh, the symbol of life. He was flanked by two priests wearing Anubis masks, which the Master introduced as Wabs or ‘Pure Ones’. They took us along to my father’s tomb, the House of Eternity which sheltered his wife’s corpse and would, in time, shelter his, Isithia’s and mine. Even then I uttered a silent prayer that, in death, I would be free, as far away from her as possible. We entered a courtyard. Inside, a small stela proclaimed the message:

This was the first clear reference I had ever seen to my mother. My father squatted down and pointed out the words Ma a Kherou. ‘Do you know what that means, Mahu?’

‘No, sir,’ I replied. My father smiled slightly, a rare occurrence. ‘It means “Be true of voice”. Will you be true of voice, Mahu?’

‘Why, yes, sir.’

That was the first promise I ever really made and the first one I never really kept. ‘Was Mother …?’

‘Your mother was a good woman,’ Father replied.

He took my hand, another rare occurrence, and led me round to the other side of the squat stela to read out the confession from The Book of the Dead.

‘“I have not ill-treated people. I have not taken milk from the mouths of little children”.’ (I glanced sharply at my aunt.)

Under this there was a picture of my mother’s soul being weighed on the Scales of Truth. My aunt took great delight in naming the demons, also carved there, ready to seize my mother’s soul if the Scales went against her: Great Strider, Swallower of Shades, the Breaker of Bones, the Eater of Blood, the Shatterer of Shades. I tried to grasp my father’s hand but he gently pushed me away. Standing up he ruffled my black hair.

‘Don’t worry, Mahu. Your mother is in Yalou, the Fields of the Blessed, under the protection of the great Osiris.’

He led me across the courtyard to the small temple faced with columns. The Master of the Necropolis unsealed the door. For a while we waited for the torches to be lit and my father led me proudly into the vestibule.

‘This, Mahu, is our House of Eternity! We have prepared it well.’

The walls of the entrance chamber were decorated with scenes from Father’s life: being received in audience by Pharaoh to be presented with the Silver Bees. Father hunting out in the desert, driving his chariot towards a herd of antelope. Father in a papyrus thicket, boomerang at the ready, waiting to bring down the gloriously painted water birds which burst out at his approach. Other more touching scenes were recorded: my mother, lithe and graceful, anointing him with perfume or pouring water into his hands.

We left the vestibule and went down a narrow passageway; its walls on either side were decorated with scenes of souls being taken to Abydos, of worshipping the gods, of offering them dishes of fruit above lighted braziers. At the entrance to the burial chamber Father paused to talk to the priests, making sure that the Ka priest, the Priest of the Double, offered prayers and libations to the gods on the anniversary of my mother’s death. At last we entered the burial chamber containing four sarcophagi. To the left stood my mother’s, dark-red and covered with quotations from The Book of the Dead. I was fascinated by the wadjet eyes painted just under the sarcophagus lid. I ignored everything else and went across and pressed my cheek against the cold stone. When I looked up, my father was staring down at me, tears in his eyes. My aunt, however, still stood in the doorway, the only time I had ever glimpsed her really fearful. I wished to crouch down. Burial chamber or not, I could have slept by that tomb. However, my father picked me gently up and led me out.

On our way back across the Nile, Father asked me to speak with true voice. Was I well? Was I happy?

‘I am, sir,’ I replied.

‘And are you not happy to live in the Land of Tomery?’ He used the old term for the Kingdom of the Two Lands, the realm of Egypt.

‘Of course, Father.’

‘Then what is wrong, son?’

My aunt’s obsidian-like eyes caught my gaze, but sheltering by my mother’s tomb had strengthened me.

‘I am lonely, sir.’

My father laughed and ruffled my hair. I thought he’d ignore me but, in the riverside marketplace, he stopped and bought me a pet monkey, an agile little creature with bright mischievous eyes who clung to me and screeched noisily. My aunt whispered a joke, how it would be difficult to tell us apart. I was delighted. I called my pet Bes after the ugly household god, and when my father left I hardly noticed. I loved little Bes. He truly was a brother. Indeed, I took pride in the jokes, made by my aunt and taken up by the servants, about the resemblance between us. I bought Bes a little shawl and a silver medallion with the debens of copper I had saved. I didn’t actually do this in person. An old servant called Dedi went to the marketplace for me. She was a bekou, a slave who did the laundry and who somehow knew a great deal about monkeys. Bes was the delight of my life. A greedy creature, the very aroma of duck or meat cooked in onion and garlic would send him chattering wildly whilst a piece of sliced melon made him dance with joy. Where I went, Bes followed.

My aunt came to hate him.

‘He attracts the flies,’ she snapped.

Bes grew very wary of her copper-tipped whisk.

Isn’t it strange where dreams come from? Memories drift in and out of our hearts like incense across a sanctuary. Our memories are traces of ghosts, things that were, or even might have been. My aunt’s house was always dark yet tinted with yellow as if one of those great sandstorms had blown in from the Red Lands. My childhood was like a wall frieze with a yellow background against which all those around me, including Bes, acted out their roles. I can still recall that little monkey, his jerky movements, the silver chain glittering around his neck, the naughty face and darting eyes. I also remember that fateful day so well. Dedi was filling the vase of the water clock: it was decorated with carvings of the baboons of Thoth, ringed with twelve lines to signify the hours of the day. I was explaining all this to Bes, chattering like a monkey to a monkey, one of the few occasions I ever did so in my aunt’s house.

‘You see,’ I pointed with my finger, ‘it takes one hour for the water to sink from one line to the next as it trickles out of that small hole at the bottom.’ Bes jumped up and down on my lap. Dedi started laughing at me, not in a mocking way; her fat face crinkled up, her eyes, like two slivers of black glass, bright with merriment. I rose and embraced her; she was one of the few people I touched. She smelt of dust and soap. Dedi stopped what she was doing, put the jug down and gave me her endearing gumless smile. I heard a patter behind me and looked round. Bes was streaking like a pellet from a sling through the doorway towards a piece of juicy melon lying there. That monkey could never resist melon. I shouted and ran after him, but Bes grabbed the melon and scampered across the courtyard.

I had almost reached the doorway when an agonising scream, followed by a low growl, made my stomach lurch. I could hardly step through that doorway. Even then I knew what had happened. Someone had let Seth the great Saluki hound out. Bes was already dangling between his jaws. The cur was shaking him as a cat would a mouse; blood spattered the pavements. Bes’s arms hung limp, his head strangely sideways, the small medallion glinting in an ever-widening pool of blood. A nightmare image as that hellhound shook the little corpse like some bloodsoaked rag.

My screams seemed to come from far off. Servants came running, led by Api. He grasped Seth’s collar and pulled him away but made no attempt to retrieve Bes from his jaws. Dedi put her arms around me. I pushed her away and looked up. My aunt was staring coldly down through a latticed window. Dedi tried to comfort me but I was inconsolable. She ran away in a patter of sandals and, a short while later, brought back Bes’s corpse wrapped in a green, gold-edged cloth. We buried him beneath the shade of a sycamore tree. Then I wept for the first and last time. Dedi, grey-faced with anxiety, sat cradling me. I was all but eight summers old. My eyes couldn’t leave the freshly dug earth. Dedi had even found a small ankh, a life sign, and pressed it into the black soil.

‘Cruel she is,’ Dedi whispered.

I knew what she meant. The melon near the doorway, the waiting Saluki hound, Isithia’s vicious gaze fixed on me.

‘She was always cruel,’ Dedi continued.

Something pricked my memory. I felt a shiver as if I’d been doused in cold water. Dusk was gathering. The sky was scorched with slivers of red. Dedi led me deeper into the garden under the shade of a beautiful willow, its branches curving down as if to drink the water from the narrow canal. Here she knelt and dug at the earth. She brought out a lightly coloured pot-shard and, with stubby fingers, traced its strange markings.

‘I can read,’ Dedi murmured. ‘I am, I was, of To-nouter.’

I recognised the phrase for the Land of Punt, the Incense Country.

‘I was captured in war and brought back here during the Time of Starvation by your father’s father. I can read.’

‘What does it say?’ I asked.

‘“Go away from me, Meret. Let your spirit not haunt me”.’

‘Meret was my mother. Did she,’ I gestured back at the house, ‘leave that there as she left the melon?’

Dedi cackled with laughter and reburied the pot shard.

‘Your mother often came here, that’s why Isithia has placed the curse beneath the tree. Cruel she was to her, cruel as she is to you.’

I heard a sound and turned. Dedi, mumbling in terror, clambered to her feet but there was nothing except the whispering branches in the gathering darkness. Nothing? So I thought, but the next morning Dedi was gone, and I never saw her again.

My aunt left me alone to brood on Bes and Dedi. My anger soon cooled. I decided to hide my feelings and mix with the servants. Akhit, the Season of the Inundation, came and went followed by Peret, the Season of Sowing, and Shemou when the sun burns hot and the servants fight against the vermin which swarm into the house. My aunt hated this time of year as the flies hovered like black clouds and the rats thrived fat and supple. I loved such confusion and did my best to help it. I found a rat’s corpse, bloated with poison, and hid it in the whitewashed toilet, its limestone seat fitted around a hole over brick containers filled with sand. I tunnelled deep and placed the rat beneath the sand. Two days passed before my aunt realised what had attracted the horde of flies and gave off the terrible stench. A short while later I managed to find some poison. I hid some duck, soft and tender and coated with venom, near Seth’s kennel.

‘An accident!’ the servants later cried. ‘The hound must have eaten bait meant for the rats.’

My aunt grieved, but that night I went out in my linen shirt, stood beneath the willow tree and whispered softly to the breeze about Dedi and Meret.

The death of the Saluki hound was only the beginning of my aunt’s troubles and my own liberation from her. Two days later a dusty, sweat-streaked messenger bearing the cartouche of Pharaoh arrived at the house. He was taken into a hallway to be cleaned but, even as a slave bathed his feet, he gabbled out his message: my father was dead! He had recently been promoted to a full Colonel of the Chariot Squadron known as the Vengeance of Anubis with the direct responsibility for the protection of the tombs in the Valley of the Nobles. A gang of skilled robbers had broken into one of these through the adjoining mortuary temple. Once inside, the robbers had stripped the gold sheets from the faces, fingers and toes of the mummies, seized the amulets and ointment jars. They had compounded their blasphemy by setting fire to the mummies of children so as to provide light for their plundering. The fire had burned fiercely, and smoke had curled out through a venthole so the alarm was raised. The robbers fled out into the Red Lands, my father following in hot pursuit.

‘Like a hawk,’ the messenger proclaimed loudly, ‘plunging on its quarry.’

The robbers, a sizable gang, eventually took refuge in a rocky outcrop served by a spring. My father laid siege. Aided by Sand Dwellers, he had eventually stormed the outcrop. Those robbers who were not killed in the skirmish were impaled on stakes thrust up into their bowels or bound in thornbushes drenched in oil and set alight. A few were sent into Thebes to await punishment whilst my father returned triumphant. He had only been slightly wounded; an arrow had clipped the side of his neck. However, its barb had been drenched in snake venom and, despite the help of the regimental leech, by the time they reached Thebes, Father was dead. My aunt didn’t cry but, gnawing at her lip, demanded my presence and, escorted by a retinue of servants, led me across the Nile to the Wabet, the House of Purification, up above the Libyan plateau just beyond the Necropolis. Our journey was fruitless. We arrived only to find that a great honour had been bestowed on my father by the express order of Pharaoh the Magnificent One. My father’s corpse was already across the Nile being cared for in the House of Death at the Temple of Anubis, a soaring temple which lay just east of Ipetsut, the most perfect of places, the great temple complex of Karnak where Amun-Ra the Almighty, the All-Seeing Silent One, or so they said, dwelt in dark mystery.

I did not know why my aunt dragged me to these places of death. Oh, I know what the priests say, they are also the Springs of Life, the first part of the journey to the Fields of the Blessed. Isithia didn’t care about that. Perhaps it was revenge? Yet, on reflection, it was an enjoyable day. I was taken through the Waset, the City of the Sceptre, the splendid Thebes — what an experience! Most boys of my age knew the city like the back of their hands but, for me, it was like entering another realm. An experience I’d never imagined: the throngs of people, the dust haze, and the marauding flies against which Isithia’s notorious whisk was used like a weapon.

I’d always regarded Isithia as a Demon God lording it over her household, but in the city she was just one being amongst many. I saw men and women I could never have imagined: Negroes in their plumed head-dresses, shoulders draped in jaguar skins. Mercenaries from Canaan, Libya and Kush. Some wore horned helmets, stout boots on their feet and wicked-looking weapons thrust through belts and sashes. These brushed shoulders with merchants from the islands, Desert Wanderers and Sand Dwellers whose faces and bodies were hidden beneath folds of cloth. Hesets, temple girls, danced and flirted, their beautiful faces framed by thick braided wigs, all decorated with white stones and gorgeous head-bands. They wore gauze-like gowns above leather braided skirts. Every movement was part of some dance as they clashed sistra and shook tambourines in a slow, sinuously moving line of beauty.

The many markets enthralled me. Smells from the ointment-and perfume-sellers mingled with the tang of freshly cut antelope steaks which hung dripping from hooks or were being vigorously grilled over charcoal fires. Bakers offered strange-shaped loaves smelling fragrantly of spices and fresh from the ovens. Water-sellers, yokes fixed across their shoulders, cheap cups dangling from cords round their necks, forced their way through, bawling for custom. Shaven-headed priests, eyes ringed with black kohl against the heat, moved through the crowds like a shoal of fish amidst gusts of incense. Ladies in palanquins chattered in different tongues, their brilliantly-plumaged tame birds chained to a pole. A thief, caught red-handed, was being beaten on the feet next to a barber’s stall set up under a palm tree. Elsewhere, the market policemen with their trained baboons had caught another sneakthief, who screamed abuse as a baboon bit deeply into his thigh. A million colours dazzled the eyes. Shifting images came and went as we twisted and turned through narrow streets or trod across blazing white squares and courtyards. Oh, how I remember that day! I could have stopped and stared till the sky fell in, but Aunt pulled me on.

At last we were through, going up the basalt-paved avenue to the Temple of Anubis. You must have seen it? Lined by huge statues of the crouching Anubis dog, their bodies, heads and paws black as night, their pointed snouts and ears picked out in brilliant gold, rich red ruby eyes glowing in the sunlight as if these creatures were about to rise in snarling anger. I recalled Seth the Saluki hound and glanced away. We pushed through the throng towards the great pylon or entrance to the temple. This was flanked by two huge statues of Anubis the Lord God of the Necropolis, the Master of the Death Chamber. For a young boy who had never seen the like before, it was an awesome spectacle. Above the gateways soared flagpoles, their red and green streamers dancing in the breeze. Crowds of worshippers, many of them carrying small reed baskets of food, were also pouring through to pay their devotions. The heady aroma of food made me realise I had not eaten. In outright defiance, I stopped and cried out that I was hungry. I could tell by my aunt’s face that she was prepared to argue but her servants were similarly famished so she agreed to stop by a small booth. A few debens of copper bought trays of mahloka, its green leaves crushed and mixed with onion, garlic and strips of roast duck, followed by pots of bean soup and eggs cooked long and slowly so as to be melting soft and creamy in the middle. We squatted under an awning and ate, my aunt chattering to Api. As we were eating, another servant took me across to read the inscription of the mighty war Pharaoh Tuthmosis III:

Oh yes, I remember that day so well! A shabby fortune-teller, a wizened man, eyes yellowing in a weather-beaten face, sidled up to curse my aunt in a language I could not understand. My aunt jumped to her feet and replied just as fiercely. I didn’t understand, but a servant later whispered that the fortune-teller had cursed my aunt with the Seven Arrows of Sekhmet the Destroyer Goddess.

‘Why?’ I asked.

The servant pulled a face, cupping a hand over his mouth to whisper, ‘He claimed she has no soul.’

I don’t know what really happened but, if I had a piece of silver, I would have rewarded that fortune-teller.

We finished our meal. Sounds from beyond the pylon drifted down — not the singing of choirs or the humming prayer of priests, or the sweet music of the harpist and lyre-players, but hideous screams. Curious, we hurried up to the gateway and into the great temple forecourt. I stood astonished at the sight. Executions were rarely carried out near holy places but on this day, the Magnificent One had made an exception. Kushite mercenaries, members of my father’s regiment, were dealing out punishment against the last of his killers. The temple forecourt had been cleared, its visitors marshalled into one long column stretching up to the great copper-plated, cedarwood doors. At the far side of the forecourt a stake had been driven into the ground and the thief, impaled through the rectum, writhed in his death agonies. A herald, armed with a conch horn, oblivious to the blood-drenched ground and the hideous screams, loudly proclaimed the penalty for plundering tombs and murdering Pharaoh’s servants. Two other robbers, stripped naked, were being basted with animal fat. More members of my father’s regiment, seasoned warriors in their leather kilts, baldrics and striped bright head-dresses, were preparing great leather sacks held with cord. These last remaining assassins from the tomb-robbing gang were to be bound in the sacks, taken to the great river and thrown into a crocodile pool.

My aunt seemed impervious to the hideous death agonies and the dreadful scenes. Beating the air with her fly whisk she approached an officer, a standard-bearer of the Chariot Squadron. In a hoarse voice she explained who we were. Immediately we were surrounded by soldiers and priests — a strange contrast of soft skin and sloe eyes with the tough and grimy war veterans, eyes red-rimmed from tiredness and desert dust. I recall a mixture of sweat, exotic perfume, hardened leather and perfumed linen robes. My aunt was treated as an object of veneration whilst I was caressed as the Son of the Hero. A priest gabbled his apologies, how we were not supposed to wait but I knew Aunt, she always liked to make a grand entrance. We were ceremoniously ushered across the second court which boasted a giant statue of a jackal-headed Anubis. A priest explained that it had a movable jaw so it could speak to devotees and utter an oracle. Around the courtyard were fountains, each with a sacred stela, a statue over which the water could flow and so become holy, a sure remedy against poison. I, remembering the Saluki hound, didn’t think there were such remedies and stopped to examine one. My aunt pulled me away. I could tell by the curl of her lips that she was not impressed.

I wondered why my aunt was so apprehensive about approaching the temple until I entered it and realised that this was my first time in a true House of Worship: Aunt Isithia’s house had few statues or tokens of the Divine Ones. Isn’t life strange? I have never thought much of the gods but the Houses of Eternity in which they are supposed to live always impressed me. The hypostyle or hall of columns: rows of papyriform pillars with their bell-shaped bases and bud-forming capitals painted in glorious red, blue and green and decorated with triangular patterns. Bronze-plated doors, emblazoned with inscriptions, opened smoothly and silently on hinges set into the wall. I truly felt we were entering a place of magic.

Every so often we were sprinkled by a priest with drops of holy water from a stoup and cleansed by brushing the images of Pharaoh inscribed on the wall. Paintings and decorations were everywhere. The air was thick with incense and pierced by a low chanting which echoed eerily through the columned passageway. We passed Chapels of the Ear where pilgrims presented their petitions and eventually reached the Wabet, the Place of Purification. At the express order of the Magnificent One my father would begin his journey from here to the eternally fresh fields of the Green-skinned Osiris. A great honour! Even the most expensive embalming houses in the Necropolis could not be trusted with the corpses of the great ones. A priest once confided to me in a scandalised whisper how even the bodies of beautiful women were kept for a few days to allow decomposition to begin so they would not be violated.

The steps we went down seemed to stretch for ever. The cavern below glowed with light. Priests, some with shoulders draped with jaguar skins, others with their faces hidden behind jackal masks, moved through the billowing smoke. The air was rich with spices. The object of their veneration was the body of my father, stretched naked in the centre of the chamber on a sloping wooden slab. He looked fast asleep except for his grey skin and the dark wound in his neck. His corpse had already been drenched in natron. Surrounded by incense-burners, a lector priest, eyes half-closed, swayed backwards and forwards as he chanted the death prayers. I had to stand and watch my father’s body be embalmed. The ethnoid bone in his nose was broken, the brains pulled out, the eyes pushed back and the cavities filled with resin-soaked bandages. Armed with an Ethiopian obsidian knife a priest made the cut in my father’s left side and drew out the liver, lungs and intestines. The inside was washed with natron and stuffed with perfumes. All the time the prayers were chanted and the incense billowed. I was not frightened, whatever my aunt intended. I was fascinated by the priests in their white kilts and robes, shaven of all hair, even their eyebrows, their soft skins glinting with oil. Afterwards, when we left, I did not feel sad. My father was gone and these secretive priests in that sinister chamber with the brooding statues of Anubis meant nothing to me.

We honoured the seventy-day mourning period whilst the preparations were brought to an end. Father’s corpse was pickled in perfume, his heart covered with a sacred scarab, tongue lined with gold and two precious stones placed in his eye-sockets. He was then bound in bandages. On the day of his burial I joined my aunt and a legion of mourners and singers to accompany Father across the Nile to the House of Eternity. He was placed in his sarcophagus. We had the funeral feast and afterwards on our journey back across the Nile my aunt leaned over. I had studied her well and so had remained totally impassive throughout the entire ceremony. At the end she asked if I was upset.

‘Madam,’ I replied, ‘I am not sad.’

‘Because your father has gone,’ she gabbled, ‘to the Field of the Blessed?’

‘No, dearest Aunt, I am happy because my father’s ghost will now join my mother’s beneath the willow tree in your garden.’

Isithia’s face went slack. I savoured for the first time how revenge, well prepared and served cold, was sweeter than the richest honeycomb.

‘You have seen her there?’ my aunt breathed.

‘Often,’ I replied, round-eyed in innocence.

She moved away. I glanced at the swirling water of the Nile.

‘Oh swampland,’ I whispered, reciting a famous curse, ‘I now come to you.’ I glanced quickly at Isithia. ‘I have brought the grey-haired one down to the dust. I have swallowed up her darkness.’ I realised, even then, that my days in Aunt Isithia’s house were closely numbered.

Despite my tender years, these were the verses I sang under the willow tree. I even managed to find gifts to place there: small coffers made out of papyrus, miniature wooden statues which would act as shabtis, servants to help my parents in the Fields of the Blessed. I turned the area around the willow tree into a small shrine. To be perfectly honest, it was not so much out of filial affection, more to taunt Aunt Isithia. Oh yes, I knew I would be going but I just wanted to help her make that decision. I spent more time under that willow tree than anywhere else. Accordingly, I was not surprised when, within a month of my father’s burial, I had joined the Kap, the Royal House of Instruction at the place known as the Nose of the Gazelle in the sprawling, unfinished Palace of the Malkata. The Malkata was a jewel, the House of Rejoicing, the Palace of the dazzling Aten built by the Magnificent One, Amenhotep III, for his own pleasure. It lay just beneath the western hills, so at evening the palace was suffused with the dying rays of the sun. It was an impressive imperial residence, but as a boy of no more than nine summers, I didn’t care about its splendour. Children are strange! I was not aware of the coloured pillars, the flower-filled courtyards or the ornamental lakes. All I cared about was the fact that I was leaving Aunt Isithia! I was to be in a new place, the school attended by Pharaoh’s son, the Crown Prince Tuthmosis, and the chosen offspring of certain highranking officials. My place there was the Magnificent One’s final tribute to my father. Only later did I learn that Aunt Isithia wielded considerable influence, not to mention her rod, over certain of Pharaoh’s ministers.

The House of Instruction stood at the far side of the palace and, looking back, I smile wryly. I was in the most splendid palace under the sun, being given a foretaste of life in Osiris’s Great House and Territory. However, I was more concerned with my new surroundings and new companions. The House was a one-storey building built four square round a large courtyard which boasted a splendidly built fountain, a small herb garden and a multi-coloured pavilion. The building was mud-bricked, stamped with the name of the Crown Prince; plastered within, whitewashed without, its flat roof was served by outside stairs, its doors and lintels made of wood and limestone. One part served as a dormitory: its beds were crude cots, wooden frames with stretched leather thongs to support a straw-filled mattress. Each bed was protected by a canopy of coarse linen veils against the flies, with sheets of the same texture and a rug for when the nights turned cold. The floor was of polished acacia wood so bright you could see your face in it. Beside each bed was a simple fold-up camp chair and a plain stool fashioned out of sycamore. A chest of terebrinth wood stood at the end of each bed to contain clothing and other personal belongings. Down the centre of the room ranged small dining tables bearing oil lamps. The windows were mere wooden-edged squares in the wall, boarded up with shutters in the winter or latticed screens in the summer. One part of the building was a schoolroom during inclement weather. In the spring and summer, unless it grew too hot, we were taught outside. The rest of the building served as offices, kitchens, wash places and schoolrooms.

The overseer of the House of Instruction was Weni, an old soldier-cum-scribe with a plump round face, thick fleshy lips and heavy-lidded eyes. From one earlobe hung a gold ring; cheap jewellery decorated his fingers and wrists. He looked the typical fat fool but he was sly, ruthless and, despite his porky appearance, light on his feet. Weni was a former member of the Nakhtu-aa or ‘Strong-Arm Boys’, a crack infantry unit known as ‘the Leopards of the East’. A highly decorated veteran, successful in hand-to-hand fights, he always wore a Gold Collar and the Silver Bees for killing five Mitanni in hand-to-hand combat and cutting off their penises as proof.

Aunt Isithia made sure I was aware of Weni’s reputation as she dragged me through the palace grounds, whispering and nipping me, determined to exploit this last occasion together to heap petty cruelties and insults on me. She kept mentioning the Mitanni penises. When I met Weni, he glared down at me as if he would take mine. He was sitting on a bench in the courtyard, his shemsou or personal slave holding up a parasol against the midday sun. Grasping me by the shoulder, he spun me round. His hard eyes studied me carefully.

‘I knew your father.’ His gaze shifted to Aunt Isithia. ‘You can go now.’

Isithia scuttled away. She didn’t even say goodbye, I didn’t even look. I decided to stare around and received a blow on the ear.

‘I will tell you,’ Weni whispered, leaning forward, ‘when to look away.’ His grim face relaxed and he gently caressed my earlobe. ‘I never did like your Aunt Isithia — she’s a cruel bitch! Some people say she drove your mother to an early grave. Well, go and unpack your things.’

There were about twenty-four boys in the Kap, sons of the Magnificent One’s friends or the offspring of his concubines — known as the Royal Ornaments. The principal boy was Crown Prince Tuthmosis, a tall, twelve year old with the eyes and face of a hunting bird. We were organised into four units of six. Tuthmosis was not with us on the night I met the Horus Ones, the members of my unit. We all bore the seal ‘HA’ with the hieroglyphs of a hawk and a rod etched on a small copper tablet slung on a cord round our necks. There were five in all, boys who were later to be my friends, rivals and enemies. Horemheb, Huy, Pentju, Maya and Rameses — I vaguely remember a sixth but he died of fever. I always think of us as the ‘Six’.

My companions were roughly one or two years either side of my age. Horemheb was the undoubted leader; pugnacious and hot-eyed, his lower lip jutted out, his chin too: even as a boy he had muscular thighs and a barrel chest, and his skin was slightly lighter in colour than ours. Rameses struck me from the start as a bird of prey, with those cold, ever-shifting eyes and beaked nose over thin bloodless lips. Huy was Huy, graceful but arrogant. He always stood, feet apart, hands on his hips. He looked me up and down from head to toe, eyes crinkling with amusement. Pentju. Ah yes, even then he was ever-watchful. With his narrow, pointed features under a shock of rather light hair, Pentju reminded me of a mongoose. Maya was plump and always smiling; even then he could walk more provocatively than a girl. We all dressed in linen tunics and loincloths: Maya wore his like a girl with his tunic nipped in at the waist, legs oiled, feet shod in delicate sandals. Meryre joined the unit a few weeks after I did — a sanctimonious bastard from the start with his holier-than-thou face and permanently raised eyes as if he was in constant prayer to the heavens.

Sometimes I become confused. Did Meryre join us from the beginning, or am I getting mixed up with someone else? We were supposed to be a unit of six but the numbers fluctuated. What I do remember clearly is that first night I felt as if I was surrounded by a host of enemies. They pushed me around, went through my possessions and pulled the sheets off my bed. I then had to be initiated. My hands were bound, I was blindfolded and they poked and prodded me to recall their names. My little body turned black and blue and the game was only terminated by our evening meal of bran and artichoke followed by semolina cake. I remember it because it was so enjoyable. I was eating, free of Aunt Isithia’s glare.

‘Eat quickly,’ Horemheb growled, scooping some of my semolina cake from the bowl. ‘If you don’t eat quickly, we’ll eat it for you.’

How cruel children can be. They had the rapacity and ferocity of a starving hyena pack. Once the meal was finished the rest sat in judgement over me.

‘We all have nicknames,’ Huy murmured, one finger to his lips. ‘So what shall be yours?’

He then introduced us. Horemheb was the ‘Scorpion General’. Rameses the ‘Snake Shadow’. Pentju the ‘False Physician’. Maya was the ‘Heset’ or dancing girl, Meryre the ‘Pouting Priest’, Huy the ‘Ignoble Noble’.

‘I know,’ Rameses whispered, head slightly to one side. ‘Just look at him! His brow juts and so does his mouth.’ He tapped me on the end of my nose. ‘He looks like a baboon.’

My initiation was complete. From then on I was known as the ‘Baboon of the South’. After that I was accepted. I had learned my first lesson in the House of Instruction, the golden rule of all politicians: be as cunning and ferocious as the rest, show no pity and ask for none. Weakness only provokes attack. My formal schooling began every day at dawn. Weni roused us and force-marched us down to the icy waters of the canal. Then, whatever the weather, we’d run back naked, dress and eat a quick meal of oatmeal and sweetened bread. All the time Weni and his instructors, pinch-faced priests from the local temple, quoted proverbs at us.

‘Don’t eat too much. Don’t drink too much. Yesterday’s drunkenness will not quench today’s thirst.’

The day’s schooling would then formally begin. We learned the mysteries of the pen, the palette, of red and blue ink. We practised on ostraca or pot shards and limestone tablets before graduating to finely rubbed papyrus. We studied the Kemenit or Compendium and wrote out how marvellous it was to be a scribe. We learned the language of Thoth and paid lipservice to Sheshet, the Lady of the Pen. Our tutor’s favourite instruction was: ‘Be a scribe, and your body will be sleek. You will be well fed. Set your heart on books. They are better than wine.’

Our teachers certainly believed in the old proverb ‘A boy’s ear is upon his back; he hears when he has been beaten’. We’d sit cross-legged in the schoolroom or out in the courtyard, our writing palettes on our laps whilst the instructor would walk up and down ever ready to rap fingers or backs with his sharp ferrule. During the heat of the day we’d rest and continue our schooling as the weather grew cooler, followed by games, skittles, tug-of-war or jumping the goose. Whatever we did was fierce and cruel. I soon hardened myself. The seasons passed. Sometimes, Aunt Isithia came to visit me. She seemed to have aged; she was smaller, more wizened, and tried to flatter me with ointments and unguents from the storerooms. My present to her on the great festivals was always the same, a wooden carving of a monkey with a fly on its shoulder. I always informed her that I was very happy, that I was most fortunate to be in the Kap. I told her nothing about what happened there. None of my unit were friends, the only close relationship was that between Horemheb and Rameses. For the rest it was petty cruelty. I remember my first beating when Maya dared me to write this poem.

I was beaten because the hieroglyph for ‘embrace’ was the same as for a woman’s vagina. The sharp-eyed priest thought I was mocking him. I always retaliated. Maya loved his sandals and I received another beating for creeping out of bed at night and smearing them with oil.

Naturally, as the time passed, our interest in girls grew, though no one could boast of any experience, except Panhesy. He claimed he had read certain treatises and, ever clever, fashioned wooden puppets with movable arms and heads. Male and female, he made them act in close embrace which provoked smirks from Maya and sniggers of laughter from the rest. Weni discovered this and punished us, not for the toy, but for ‘stealing out of barracks’ as he termed it in the dead of night, lighting a fire in the grounds (a dangerous act), and taking strong beer to drink. He put us all on ‘battle rations’, a hideous punishment for young boys who woke like starving jackals and only lived to eat. Filling our stomachs was the only time we were silent as we bent over our reed baskets of chicken cooked in olive oil and onion sauce, garnished with chick peas and cumin. Now we had to starve. Horemheb decided to retaliate and tried to steal the bread of another unit. When Weni discovered that, we all received six strokes of the cane. He informed us that even ‘battle rations’ were suspended; we would now be given only dry bread and water for a week.

We were getting older, more cunning and sly, less reluctant to accept Weni’s authority. Pentju was skilled at stoking our anger. We forgot that he had fashioned the puppets or that Rameses had actually stolen the bread. Weni the overseer at the House of Instruction became our mortal enemy. Now Horemheb had been given a Danga dwarf, a gift from some relative in the Delta. In theory Weni should have objected but, being an old soldier, he was superstitious and slightly wary of the dwarf: a thickset little man who reached no higher than my shoulder, his head and face almost hidden by straggling black hair, moustache and beard. The Danga couldn’t sleep in the dormitory but had to fend for himself outside, whilst during lessons and games he crouched like a dog in the shadow of the wall. Horemheb always doted on the dwarf: the only person to whom he showed compassion, saving food and drink whilst also imposing an arbitrary levy on our rations. Horemheb held a ‘council’ as he called it, the dwarf squatting next to him. The oil lamps had been extinguished, the moon had fully risen and the rest of the dormitory were asleep as we sat in the far corner listening to the faint sounds from the rest of the palace.

‘I am hungry,’ Horemheb moaned, ‘and so is the dwarf.’

‘We are all hungry,’ Huy whispered.

‘It’s Weni’s fault,’ Pentju accused hoarsely.

‘But where can we get some food?’ Meryre demanded.

The Danga dwarf muttered, a guttural whisper. Horemheb cocked his head. The dwarf repeated what he had said. Horemheb smiled and patted his stomach.

‘I’m starving,’ he repeated. ‘And what I’d do for a piece of roast goose!’

At the time I didn’t know what he meant but two days later I found out. Weni had a goose called ‘Semou’, sacred to Amun: a noisy aggressive bird always dropping dung and pecking the nearest piece of soft flesh. I never discovered the full story but the goose disappeared and, from the smug smile on Horemheb’s and Rameses’ faces, I gathered they were the culprits. The dwarf also, a miniature grotesque with his flowing beard and sunken features, looked remarkably happy. Weni was furious and naturally suspected the Horus unit.

By now we had been joined by Sobeck, the son of a powerful merchant prince of Thebes who imported incense from Punt and cedar from Lebanon. ‘Sobeck the Sexual’ I called him; even as a youth he was always hungry for girls. He’d managed to weave his way into Horemheb’s affection and I suspected he was part of the coup against the goose. Nevertheless, we were all to blame. At midday, in the baking heat of the sun, Weni decided to hold court. Crown Prince Tuthmosis, as leader of the Kap, was present, dressed in a short tunic and holding an embroidered fan which bore the insignia of the Kap. He would act as Weni’s official witness. We were all stripped naked, the dwarf included. Weni rigorously inspected us, sniffing at our mouths and hands for any sign of grease or cooking but the ‘criminals’ as Weni called them were cunning; they had washed themselves thoroughly, though they had forgotten about the dwarf’s tousled hair and beard. Weni fell on him like a hungry vulture. He sniffed the little man’s hair and beard and slapped him harshly across the face.

‘Criminal! Thief! Murderer!’ Weni bellowed.

He dragged the dwarf from the line, pushing him forward for Tuthmosis to inspect. The Crown Prince confirmed his judgement: the dwarf smelled of goose.

‘Give us the names of your accomplices,’ Weni demanded.

The dwarf, trembling with fear, shook his head and made matters worse by urinating over Weni’s feet. The overseer grabbed him by the hair and dragged him across to a bench. He was forced to lie face down. Weni grasped a rod. Horemheb made to protest but Tuthmosis pushed him back in line. Weni turned threateningly. The dwarf’s wrists and ankles were seized by Weni’s assistants. The rod came back.

‘Master?’ I stepped forward.

Weni paused and turned. ‘Yes, Mahu? Are you the culprit?’

This was the one time I could tell the truth.

‘No, Master.’

‘Then why are you speaking?’

I went down on my knees and knelt in the dust.

‘Master, the dwarf is innocent.’

‘What!’

‘I gave him the goose grease.’

Weni forgot the dwarf and, striding over, dragged me to my feet.

‘I did not eat the goose,’ I stammered. ‘Nor did the dwarf. As you know, my Aunt Isithia distils potions and unguents. She gave me a pot of goose grease.’ I caressed my sidelock, the mark of my youth as well as membership of the Kap. ‘It is good for the hair.’ I gestured at the dwarf. ‘I gave some to him.’

Weni stared narrow-eyed. ‘And where is this goose grease?’

‘In a pot in my chest.’

Weni gestured with his head and one of his assistants hurried away to discover the truth. Aware of the others standing next to me, I closed my eyes. The dwarf was moaning. Tuthmosis was sucking on his lips as if to control his smirk. I just prayed that the pot of goose fat would be found, and whispered a prayer against ill luck: ‘Perish you who come in from the dark. You who creep in with your nose reversed and your face turned back.’

‘Master, he has told the truth.’

I opened my eyes. Weni was holding the small pottery jar, sniffing at it suspiciously.

‘Did you use this?’ He pulled the dwarf up and made him stand on the bench. The dwarf looked quickly at me, nodded and muttered something Weni couldn’t understand.

‘He uses it on his hair and beard,’ Horemheb shouted. ‘It keeps away the flies.’

Weni strode across and slapped Horemheb on the face. ‘Speak when you are spoken to.’ Then he turned to me. The fury had drained from his face; his eyes had a cold, calculating look.

‘Well, well,’ he murmured. ‘You are well named Mahu, Baboon of the South.’ He gnawed at his lips. ‘Let the dwarf go.’ Weni’s gaze never left me. ‘We’ll all take a good run down to the water and have a swim. Afterwards you can eat.’

He strode off, followed by Tuthmosis and his instructors. We just sat down in the dust. I had to, my legs were trembling. A short while later we were taken down to the canal to bathe. No one said anything until we returned. I was standing by my bed drying myself off, more interested in the fragrant smells coming from the portable stove out in the courtyard. Horemheb and Rameses came sidling over. Horemheb held out his hand.

‘Baboon of the South, I shall not forget.’

I clasped his hand and that of Rameses, and that was all Horemheb ever said. I learned two powerful lessons that day: how to win friends and how to survive. From that day on, the petty cruelties stopped and I fashioned my own philosophy. I would not be too bright to attract the teasing of my peers nor too dumb to provoke the anger of my teachers. I would be Mahu, he who lives by himself and walks alone. Horemheb never forgot and, I think, neither did Weni. From that day I felt strangely marked but I took comfort in the proverb I had learned in the schoolroom: Trust neither a brother nor a friend and have no intimate companions for they are worthless. The quotation from the Instructions of King Amenemhat was most appropriate. I had acted on impulse by myself, I had confided in no one either before or after; I had made friends or at least allies without making enemies.

I became a student skilled in the hieratic and hieroglyphic writing, the preparation of papyrus, and the use of calculations, especially the nilometer. With the rest I studied the glories of Tomery and, of course, theology — the worship of the gods and the cults of the temple. All things centred around Amun-Ra, the silent God of Thebes who, over the years, had become associated with the Sun God and was now the dominant deity of Egypt. We were instructed in the mysteries of the Osirian rites, of the journey through the Underworld, the Am-Duat, as well as the difference between the Ka and the Ba, the soul and the spirit. It all meant nothing to me. The gods were as dry and dusty as the calculations for assessing a kite of gold or a deben of copper. Women, though, were a different matter.

The years had passed, our bodies had changed. We no longer played skittles, or jump the goose or tug of war, but became more interested in stick fighting, wrestling, boxing — anything to dissipate the energy which seethed within us. Weni, of course, noted the changes and turned a blind eye to our sweaty forays beneath trees and in bushes with kitchen girls and maids, those who crossed our courtyard carrying pots or jars, swaying their hips and glancing sly-eyed at us. Of course Weni tried to give advice, but his attitude on women could be summed up in that proverb he lugubriously repeated: ‘Instructing a woman is like holding a sack of sand whose sides have split open’. Weni’s experiences with women had not been happy ones! He certainly never had the honour, or blood-freezing experience, of meeting women such as Tiye, Nefertiti and Ankhesenamun. I once repeated Weni’s advice to Nefertiti, at which she bubbled with laughter, and pithily replied, ‘You don’t have to instruct a woman, Mahu. She is already knowledgable.’

One word of advice Weni gave us which Sobeck later ignored to his peril. ‘Have nothing,’ Weni roared at us, one stubby finger punching the air, ‘have nothing to do with the Per Khe Nret, the Royal Harem, whoever they are, wherever they come from! They are the Sacred Ornaments of the Magnificent One!’

I listened bemused. The Magnificent One was encroaching more and more into our daily lessons, not only his name and titles but his power, whilst Prince Tuthmosis was finding his feet and wielding authority amongst the young men of the Kap. I, in turn, was becoming more curious about my surroundings. Years away from Aunt Isithia, I now began to crawl out of my shell or nest, the House of Instruction, and my first foray formed one of those threads which would later bind my entire life. I had been out with a kitchen servant, a sweet girl with beaded head-band and pretty gorget. We had gone deep into the orchards, then she left whispering how she would be missed and flitted away like a shadow through the trees.

I lay for a while staring up at the branches and listening to the early morning call of the birds. It was one of those inauspicious days, decreed by the Priests of the Calendar to be touched by Seth the Red-Haired God. Accordingly, there would be no instruction, no school, nothing but boredom from dawn to dusk. I had stolen out, met the girl and now wondered if I should go back. Instead I decided to explore the orchard and, for the first time, approached the Silent Pavilion. I had heard of this place from chatter in the dormitory and the drill ground but had paid it no attention. It lay some distance from the Residence. It wasn’t really a pavilion but a two-storeyed house peeping above a high, whitewashed wall. From my vantage point I could glimpse date palms, sycamore trees and terebrinths. A canal from the Nile had been dug in to water the grass, gardens and herbs. I crept closer, moving silently amongst the trees, and discovered that the Pavilion had only one entrance — a spiked double gate of heavy wood painted a gleaming black.

I approached the gate but froze. It was guarded by Kushite mercenaries, in fringed leather kilts, copper-studded baldrics across their chests; there were at least a dozen of them, some armed with the khopesh thrust through their sash, others with spears and shields bearing the insignia of the Isis and Ptah Regiments. A few archers also patrolled the area, heavy composite bows in their hands, quivers of cruel barbed arrows slung across their backs. They all wore the imperial blue and gold head-dress which stretched from their forehead down to the nape of their neck, each warrior displaying the Gold Collar of Bravery and the Silver Bees of Valour. Yet, even from where I crouched, I noticed they were all disfigured: one had an eye missing, another had suffered a deep scar which ran across his face and down into his neck: a third had his left cheek shrivelled, the eye pulled down as if he had escaped from some hideous fire.

The sun had risen though a faint mist still clung to the trees. I had just decided to withdraw when I heard a shout, that of a boy playing in the courtyard beyond. I also noticed the heavy rutted tracks of a cart marking the entrance to the gate. Mystified, I crouched back and listened more intently. Again the shout. Memories flooded back of Aunt Isithia’s house. Was this a similar situation? A boy playing by himself, guarded by adults?

I returned to the Residence. When I questioned my companions they were equally mystified, though Rameses smirked slyly, rubbing that beaked nose as if he knew a secret but was unwilling to share it. Huy whispered something about being careful, how the Silent Pavilion was forbidden territory. I went to see Weni, who was sunning himself against a wall, a jug of dark beer in his lap — an increasingly common sight. We had begun to lose our fears of him. He was slower; sometimes his speech was slurred, whilst he depended more and more on his subordinates. Since the incident of the goose he had shown me a little more respect. When I asked him about the Silent Pavilion, he sat up, slurped from the beer jug, opened his mouth to bellow at me but then shrugged.

‘Sooner or later,’ he mumbled.

‘Sooner or later what?’

Weni stared slack-jawed.

‘Who’s there?’ I asked.

Weni blinked and swallowed hard. He gazed round the courtyard then tapped his nose. ‘The Veiled One,’ he slurred.

‘Why is he veiled?’

‘Because he’s ugly like you!’

‘Who is he?’ I asked.

Weni smiled drunkenly and waved me away.

I was intrigued. A boy living all by himself, kept away because he was ugly? And why those cart tracks? And the disfigured guards? Early the next morning, long before dawn, it must have been the eighteenth or nineteenth day of the Inundation, I stole out of the dormitory and took up my position near the Silent Pavilion. The guards were easily distinguishable in the glaring light of fiery pitch torches dug into the ground. The dancing flames illuminated the spiked gates as well as the grotesque wounds of those who guarded it. I waited.

The north wind, the cooling breath of Amun, began to subside. At the first gash of sunlight a conch horn wailed from beyond the gate, a harsh braying sound which sent the birds all a-flutter. The torches had now burned out. I was moving to ease my cramp when the conch horn wailed again. I recalled hearing it on a number of occasions in the House of Instruction but had always dismissed it as just another eerie sound of the palace. The double gates opened and a covered cart, pulled by four red-and-white oxen, garlands between their horns, lumbered out. Two Kushite archers led these, another sat on the seat guiding the beasts through the gate. On the cart stood what looked like a naos, a tabernacle. I could make out a wooden frame and a shape beneath hidden by drapes of the finest gauze linen. Pots of incense in the cart glowed and sent up perfumed clouds. The cart, followed by its escort, turned east towards the river. I followed. It entered a small glade and drew to one side.

The day was already bright with the glowing rays of the rising sun. Steps were brought to the tail of the cart and the veil lifted. A figure emerged, head and face hidden by a linen mask. A roll of similar material hung over a long, unnaturally thin body, the legs and arms strangely elongated. Whoever it was wore no ornamentation except for a red arm guard embossed with silver studs. I glimpsed sagging breasts and a protruding stomach. As the figure clambered down, his legs and arms, as well as the fingers of the thin hands appeared almost spidery. He wore no sandals, exposing long slim feet, with toes like that of a monkey. So this was the Veiled One?

The figure turned its back on me and went to squat cross-legged on blood-red cushions the guard had already laid out, two pots of burning incense placed either side of him. He sat, head down, towards the rising sun. A low, melodious voice began to chant a hymn which would one day ring through Egypt and shatter its gods.

I crouched transfixed. The rest of the retinue were now squatting in a semi-circle behind this figure; his appearance might be strange but the voice was strong, rich. I had heard hymns and poetry chanted before, but not with the passion which suffused these lines. Was he a worshipper of the Aten, the Sun Disc, a cult gaining popularity amongst the wealthy nobles of Thebes?

The face veil was now pushed back. Leaving my position, I stole quietly through the trees to outflank the guards and obtain a better view. I settled beneath a holm oak. The figure seated on the cushions lifted his head; revealing a face with elongated chin, narrow eyes, and a sharp nose above thick full red lips, his high cheekbones emphasising the narrowness of the eyes. And yet, although the face was strange, it possessed a singular beauty. Again the head went down and the hymn was resumed.

The hymn was taken up by the escort, a low, melodious chant followed by silence. The young man had something in his lap, a blue water lotus. I moved closer. The Veiled One turned to his left, beckoning to the Captain of his escort who hurried forward. A few whispers and the Veiled One returned to his meditations. The sun was now rising fast, bathing the glade with shifting light. I was about to withdraw when I felt a sharp point digging into my neck. I whirled round. A Kushite, one eye missing, stood holding his spear, its point only inches from my face. On either side of him were two archers, arrows to their bows, the cords pulled back tight and taut. They gazed impassively down at me. I couldn’t speak. I was frightened both of them and of breaking the silence.

The Kushite leaned down, grabbed me by the shoulder and pulled me to my feet. I was dressed only in a loincloth, a linen shawl across my shoulders. He pulled this away, whispering to his companions in a tongue I couldn’t understand. My loincloth was felt.

‘I have no weapons,’ I stammered.

‘Bring him with you.’

The Veiled One was already moving back to the carts. He took his seat, the steps were removed, the cushions and incense pots placed back and that strange procession returned to the Silent Pavilion. I had no choice but to follow. One of the Kushites had tied a rope around my neck. He didn’t treat me cruelly, but held it lightly as one would walking a pet dog or monkey. The black gates opened and I entered a square, brick courtyard cut by the canal; a small fountain splashed in the middle. There was no garden plot but an abundance of flower baskets, full of fresh cuttings, their fragrance already filling the air and attracting the hunting bees. The front of the house was like any wealthy nobleman’s, porticoed and columned with Lebanese cedar, brilliantly emblazoned with different insignia and approached by well-cut steps. The cart stopped in front of these. The Veiled One got down and, escorted by his strange retinue, swept into the house. He moved more freely now, not so ungainly but with a natural grace and dignity as if, aware of his disabilities, he was determined to emphasise these rather than hide them. My guard stared down at me.

‘Shall we crucify you now?’ His voice was guttural.

Despite his grotesque wounds and the fierce glare of his one eye, the harsh mouth was smiling.

‘What shall we do with you, Monkey-Boy?’

I hid my fear and glared back.

‘Monkeys,’ he leaned down, ‘can stay in trees.’

‘A monkey can look at a king!’ I retorted.

The Kushite laughed and cuffed me gently on the ear. He undid the rope and pushed me towards the steps. The inside of the house was cool, its walls limewashed a faint green, no paintings except for the richly ornamented borders at top and bottom. Servants clustered there: men and women, about four or five in all. They, too, were disfigured. In Thebes they would have been dismissed as Rhinoceri, men and women who had lost their noses and ears as a penalty for some crime. Usually they would be banished to a dusty village or commune or even exiled to an oasis, some rocky culvert in the Red Lands. These, however, looked well fed and clothed and were welcoming enough. My shawl and loincloth were removed. A servant brought a jug of water. My body was carefully washed and anointed, lips and hands lightly coated with stoups of salted water. I was being purified as a priest would be before entering the Inner Sanctuary of a temple. A fresh loincloth was bound around me, a linen robe, cool and crisp, draped over my shoulders, and strange long sandals fastened to my feet. I was then taken into the inner hall — a beautiful elegant room, its roof supported by four pillars painted green and red. Here the walls were finely decorated but, as I waited in the shadows just beyond the doorway, I realised the paintings were like nothing I had seen in the Temple of Anubis. There was no formal stylisation; here the raging lion was lifelike as if ready to leap from the wall. The birds in their brilliant plumage were about to fly. Everywhere were symbols of the Sun Disc, either in full glory or just rising above a dark-blue horizon. Sometimes they were winged, sometimes not. A fireplace stood in the centre of the room; at the far end was a daïs protected by a grey curtain. Someone propelled me forward, the curtain was dragged back. The Veiled One sat on cushions with his back to the wall, a small table in front of him. I was pushed to my knees and nosed the ground before the daïs.

‘There is no need for that. There is no need for that.’

The words came slowly, the voice low. ‘Let my guest join me.’

I went up the steps. The Veiled One lifted his head, revealing his strange elongated eyes, yet their stare was entrancing, and it distracted my fears. I was no longer aware of the spidery fingers, the long hands on the breast or stomach bulging against the embroidered linen robe. Just those eyes, full of passion as if the Veiled One was going to chant one of those hymns as he had in the glade. His sensuous lips were parted: his tongue sticking out slightly as he studied me closely, like a judge weighing what I was worth, trying to discover in one glance who I really was. He smiled, slightly lopsidedly, a graceful movement of those long fingers gesturing at the cushions on the other side of the table.

‘You’d best sit down, hadn’t you?’

The cushions were thick and soft. The table was of beautiful acacia inlaid with ebony and silver whilst the pots and jars were of the finest quality, containing small chunks of crisp duck, sauces, herbs, and bread cut into thin strips. The cups held wine not beer. When I tasted it I coughed and drew back. The Veiled One laughed softly.

‘The best,’ he murmured. ‘From the rich land of Canaan. They say the earth is black there, so rich you gather two crops in one year. Come, come, eat!’

He gestured at the fresh reed basket before him. I was not frightened but wary. He served me himself, delicately wiping his fingers on a napkin.

‘You are purified and cleansed.’ He leaned across the table and I became aware of the Veiled One’s true features. He wore a blue and gold head-dress, a silver pearl dangled from one earlobe and a flowered pectoral hung about his neck. On his left hand glittered a ring bearing the symbol of the Sun Disc.

‘You are too shy,’ he murmured, eyes squinting as if he was short-sighted. ‘But not shy enough not to pry.’

‘I wasn’t prying.’ I swallowed quickly.

‘Then what were you doing?’

‘I was curious.’

‘Do you know who I am?’

‘The Veiled One.’

‘And why am I veiled?’

‘Because they say you are ugly.’

‘Do you think I am ugly?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Do you know who I am?’

I shook my head.

‘My name is Amenhotep. I am the second son of the Magnificent One and his beloved wife, the Lady of the House, Queen Tiye.’

I hid my nervousness by lifting the wine cup and gulping noisily.

‘You’ve never heard of me? I was born like this,’ he continued evenly, ‘kept in the Royal Nursery away from the Kap. Do you think I am strange? I have no real name. I am simply the Veiled One — he who lurks in the shadows.’ He broke from his reverie. ‘And who are you?’

‘I am Mahu, son of Seostris, the Baboon of the South. I, too, am called the Ugly One.’

I spoke louder than I intended. I heard a sound from behind the veil; the Kushite archers were still there armed and ready. The Veiled One, however, just lifted those long fingers, palm upwards in the sign of peace. He stared at me for a while, that long, solemn face, the unblinking eyes and then he began to laugh. At first it was a sound deep in his throat, then throwing his head back, he laughed loudly, clapping his hands softly together.

‘Mahu the Ugly One, the Baboon from the South!’

He picked up a piece of duck, dipped it into the herb sauce and, leaning across, gently fed me. ‘I like you, Mahu, Baboon of the South. You are a child of the Kap. Now tell me about yourself.’

I had no choice. I chattered like a bird on a branch about Aunt Isithia, my father, my years in the Kap, Horemheb, Rameses and the rest. The Veiled One turned his head slightly as if he had difficulty hearing. He stopped eating and listened intently, now and again interrupting with a sharp question. When I had finished he leaned back against the cushions, head against the wall, cradling his wine cup.

‘I hate beer.’ He looked at me from under heavy lidded eyes. ‘How old do you say I am?’

‘About my age.’

‘Which is?’

‘About fourteen summers.’

‘Have you had a woman, Mahu?’

‘Yes,’ I confessed.

He leaned forward, his face rather vexed. ‘But not last night?’ His voice became rather petulant. ‘Not today, not last night. You have been purified.’ He stared intently through the linen curtain behind as if seeking assurances from someone beyond it. Then he relaxed and laughed noisily.

‘I cannot take a woman.’ He glanced down at the table. ‘They say I am unable to.’ He gestured towards his groin. ‘A curse from the gods. What is your favourite god, Mahu?’

I was tempted to reply the Aten, the Sun Disc.

‘Well?’ The Veiled One’s head came up, a curious look on his face.

‘I have no god.’ The words came out. Tell the truth, I thought.

‘No god?’ He reached over and caressed my cheek. ‘Are you sure, Mahu? Not Seth or Montu, Isis or Ptah? Why not? If you repeated those words in the House of Instruction …’

‘I’d be beaten,’ I replied, the wine now making its presence felt. My face felt flushed, my tongue thicker and heavier than I would want.

‘No god.’ The Veiled One blinked. He turned to his side and brought out a small beautiful coffer of sycamore wood with bands of copper, its corners inlaid with silver and gold. He moved the platters and cups, placed this gently on the table and pulled back the lid. ‘Here are the gods, Mahu.’ He lifted out small statues of all the great deities of Egypt, except their heads had been removed: Osiris, Isis, Anubis, Seth the Destroyer, Montu of War. ‘Baubles!’ The Veiled One weighed two in his hand. ‘Plaster and stone and nothing else. They laugh at me, you know?’

His face had changed, no longer beautiful with his jutting mouth and those half-closed, glinting eyes. ‘The shaven pates, the soft heads, the priests — they told my father to keep me away, to place me here so here I have sat, Mahu.’ He threw the statues back in the box.

I was tempted to ask him about what I had seen in the glade earlier that morning but decided to hold my peace. Abruptly his mood changed.

‘Come on, finish your meal.’

I did so even as he filled my wine cup. I was becoming alarmed at this strange person with his changeable moods. Sometimes he would talk to me directly, at other times he would break off and turn to his side as if there was someone I couldn’t see sitting next to him. He would eat quickly but tidily, wiping his lips with his fingers, cleaning them on a napkin. The questions came thick and fast.

Had I entered the House of War? What was it like to lie with a girl? Which of the boys were my friends? Did I ever visit my aunt? His mood turned ugly whenever he mentioned the priests. I fought against the drowsiness, a sense of oppression. At the end of the meal the Veiled One rested back against the wall.

‘Shall I share a secret with you, Mahu? My brother Tuthmosis, he is kind.’ He wagged a finger at me. ‘I am glad you respect him. You must go soon.’ He played with the ring on his finger. ‘Mother will be here shortly. I shall speak to her about you but ask her not to tell Father. The Magnificent One,’ his voice turned rich with sarcasm, ‘does not like my name to be mentioned. If he’d had his way, I would have been drowned in the Nile. Mother argued differently. She says I am touched by the gods. We have our secrets.’

‘But you do not believe in gods?’

‘True,’ the Veiled One murmured. ‘For the time being true.’ He cocked his head slightly. ‘Do you believe in magic, Mahu?’

‘I know some tricks,’ I replied.

The Veiled One giggled, fingers covering his mouth. ‘Well, you’d best go.’ His hand fell away. He stretched across and ran a finger around my lips. ‘I have met you and wish you peace Mahu, Baboon of the South. One day we shall meet again.’