The Season of the Hyaena

Chapter 4

‘Steady, steady, keep on course!’

The pilot and captain of our imperial barge, The Joy of Isis, stood in the high prow above the gold carving of the Goddess Isis and carefully took the soundings as they guided us through the sandbanks, heading for mid-stream. The Nile was at the end of its inundation but was still fast and strong, whilst its concealed sandbanks were a danger to the most experienced sailor.

We had left Thebes early that morning, three days after the meeting of the Royal Circle. Ay insisted that speed was the order of the day, so the royal barges and their escort of marines had been quickly prepared. The sky was already scored with red. In the accompanying barge, The Glory of Seth, I could hear Meryre and his entourage singing their hymn to the Sun Disc, impervious to the shouts and calls of their own captain and pilot.

Sobeck and Djarka sat outside the cabin which stood amidships, a long, high chamber decorated inside and out with lozenge shapes of gold, blue, green and red. The huge mast soared above us, its red sails reefed. The oarsmen sat ready, but the craft was still in the hands of the captain, his pilot and the two helmsmen manning the great rudders on the jutting prow, which was carved in the snarling face of Sekhmet the Destroyer. I climbed on to the archers’ platform and stared at the five great war barges full of marines and imperial guardsmen who would accompany us most of the way. Inside the cabin, Prince Tutankhamun and Princess Ankhesenamun were resting; the latter had only been allowed to bring the lady Amedeta, whilst I considered it safer if Djarka alone looked after the Prince.

The river mist had now burned off. From behind us rose a cheer as the crews of the other barges realised they were free of the sandbanks. A strong, fine day. On either side of us stretched the rich black soil, and, beyond, the various shifting golds and greens of the ripening rye, oat and wheat fields. The gleaming white of the temples of Luxor and Karnak eventually disappeared. The captain left the pilot shouting at the steersmen to maintain the course set. The leading oarsman intoned a hymn to Hapi, the River God, ‘Our delight is in him who guides us …’

The refrain was taken up by the men as the oars were lowered. Other hymns rose faintly from the accompanying barges. I climbed down, and Sobeck and Djarka followed me further up into the prow, where we could talk free of Ay’s eavesdroppers. Djarka rolled out carpets, of bead matting but still better than the hard wood of the ship, and we ate our morning meal: light beer and yesterday’s bread followed a pewter bowl of sliced fruit. Sobeck dipped his finger in the beer and carefully wrote four hieroglyphs, three birds and a sitting man, the word for ‘beware’.

‘Beware of what?’ I teased.

Sobeck gestured at the cabin, then at The Glory of Seth.

‘Beware of the Princess Ankhesenamun,’ he murmured, ‘as well as Meryre.’

I had informed him during our hasty preparations about what had happened at the Royal Circle, though we had never discussed it. Meryre’s proposals had been finally accepted. We would journey upriver. Djarka would take the Prince and Princess into the City of the Aten, whilst Tutu and other members of Meryre’s entourage would withdraw to Buhen, the great fortress which dominated Egypt’s route south into the land of Kush. I would proceed, with Meryre, to the Delta.

‘I am surprised,’ Sobeck sipped from his beer, ‘that God’s Father Ay agreed to all of it.’

‘My lord Ay had no choice, and neither do we,’ I replied. ‘Thebes is very dangerous, full of discontent. The Shabtis of Akenhaten do pose a threat to anyone linked with the past, though I must admit …’

‘What?’ Djarka demanded.

‘I am confused,’ I responded. ‘Some of it I understand, some of it I don’t. Meryre and myself will, I suppose, be protected. The City of the Aten is a secure place for the Prince. I can understand Meryre’s entourage wanting somewhere in which they will feel safe whilst at the same time assuring us that there will be no danger to the Prince during his stay at the City of the Aten.’

‘What is Meryre plotting?’ Djarka demanded.

‘Meryre doesn’t concern me,’ I replied. ‘My lord Ay does. What if, let us say,’ I dipped a finger into my own beer and drew a circle on the dry wood, ‘the Royal Council is the rim of a wheel. The centre is Lord Ay.’

‘And the spokes?’ Djarka asked.

‘The lady Ankhesenamun,’ I murmured. ‘What if the lady Ankhesenamun, on behalf of her grandfather, Ay, conspires to be the ally and friend of every faction in the Royal Circle?’

‘Including Horemheb and Rameses?’ Sobeck scoffed. ‘Such officers would have little to do with her. She is the daughter of Nefertiti.’

‘She’s also the daughter of Pharaoh,’ I retorted. ‘They might not be interested in her but they could be interested in what she can offer. One day she will be Queen of Egypt and, if the Gods have their way, mother of Egypt’s heir. I know she has made similar approaches to Meryre whilst at the same time contacting me.’

‘So Ay controls his own granddaughter?’ Djarka asked.

‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘Using her to find out what is happening in each camp.’

‘But the murders?’ Sobeck demanded.

‘What if …’ I paused. ‘What if the Shabtis of Akenhaten are just a group of assassins, individuals like that gardener, controlled by Ankhesenamun and her grandfather? They use them to strike at those who, apparently, betrayed Akenhaten. They keep alive and vibrant the sense of danger, of imminent threat …’

‘So General Rahmose’s death was to frighten Meryre and the rest?’

‘Possibly.’ I clinked my goblet against Sobeck’s. ‘What if Meryre is truly frightened? Ay draws him into discussion. He agrees that I will accompany him to this usurper’s camp but offers him the fortress of Buhen as a place of sanctuary.’

‘Well away,’ Djarka agreed, ‘from both the Delta and the troops of the usurper, and just as far from Thebes and the City of the Aten.’

‘Yes, I can follow your reasoning, Baboon of the South,’ Sobeck agreed. ‘Ay has now neatly divided his enemies. Meryre is sent north, his supporters go south, whilst the Prince is moved out of harm’s way. Yes, it possesses a certain twisted logic, though it’s a dangerous game to play. If this usurper sweeps south, and Meryre’s faction decide to support him, they occupy one of the most powerful fortresses in the kingdom, the gateway to the gold mines of Kush.’

‘Ay is a gambler,’ I replied. ‘He will deal with one danger at a time. He first wants to strengthen his hand in Thebes, use this crisis to get rid of his enemies. Meryre to the north, Tutu to the south, even Generals Horemheb and Rameses are preparing to leave for Memphis.’

‘So Ay remains in Thebes building up his power? But why, Mahu, should the Shabtis of Akenhaten — and it must have been them — launch an attack on you?’

‘We know it was the Shabtis of the Akenhaten,’ I replied. ‘When the room was cleared of snakes we found two Aten scarabs lying on the floor — they’d been overlooked in the confusion. That made me reflect about the night of the attack. I was tired, sitting in my own chamber. I didn’t ask that servant to come in to see if I needed food or to clear those piles of linen. So I made very careful enquiries. According to a chamberlain, the servant who was bitten by the snake claimed he’d been sent to my chamber; the fellow repeated the same story to my mercenaries who let him through. He actually told them how he had been summoned to clear certain cloths away as well as see if I needed anything to eat or drink.’

‘So he was the intended victim?’ Sobeck demanded.

‘Yes, that attack was to show Meryre that the Shabtis of Akenhaten strike at anybody, not just members of his retinue. A carefully measured ruse to heighten fear, to keep the Royal Circle united, at least for a while, in the face of the common threat, which makes me think that Ay and his wily granddaughter are behind all of this.’

‘If you’ve reached that conclusion,’ Djarka murmured, ‘then so will others.’

‘I suppose they will. It’s just a matter of who will move first. Who will succeed? Once this present threat is removed, things will become a little clearer.’

Our journey north continued uneventfully. We passed Denderah, the great turning on the Nile. At first nothing seemed wrong, out of place or amiss. The river traffic was busy with pleasure boats and fishing smacks. On the banks the peasants and farmers, rejoicing at the effects of the inundation, were preparing to sow another harvest. Yet every so often we saw plumes of black smoke, dark against the light blue sky, whilst the smell of burning mixed with the rich stench of Nile mud, fish and rotting vegetation. The marines I sent to investigate brought back reports of desert raiders on the eastern banks, whilst on the west, Libyan war parties had plundered unprotected, isolated communities. Sometimes these marauders were captured and their corpses impaled on stakes, fixed on the high cliffs above the river, black shadows against the sky. On one occasion we passed a sandbank where at least ten river pirates had been impaled by the mayor of the local city. The breakdown of law and order could also be glimpsed in the empty quaysides. Occasionally we’d go ashore, my standard carried before us displaying a leaping gazelle against a gold and blue background and, on the reverse, the white feather of Ma’at. We marched along silent streets into deserted marketplaces.

Elsewhere the effects of disruption were difficult to detect. The quaysides and docks of the great cities were busy. Barges unloaded aromatic gum, bark, cinnamon, gold, ivory, ebony, as well as precious wood from Canaan. When we returned to the river, we passed numerous barges carrying jars of wine, liquors, fruits, Lebanese cedar, oxen, cattle, and on one occasion even a herd of baby ibex. At Abydos, however, where the great mass of the Temple of Osins stretched above a dark forest of green palm trees, Governor Motep nosed the ground before me in the precincts of the Temple of Min and whined about the growing incursions and lawlessness.

By the time we reached the City of the Aten I had learnt a lot. Egypt’s great cities were prosperous, their quaysides and workshops busy as always; the carvers of stone and wood, the goldsmiths and merchants did flourishing trade. Nevertheless, any town which lacked troops or strong fortifications, any farmstead or village vulnerable to attack, lived under a constant danger from sand-dwellers, Libyan raiders or the host of river pirates who skulked in the lonely stretches of the Nile, seeking out the weak and vulnerable. Of course, news from the Delta had not helped matters, heightening the growing sense of panic, of confusion at what was really happening and what fresh dangers were emerging. Perhaps it was this that changed my mind when we reached our destination.

I stood by the taffrail and stared out at the City of the Aten, its white buildings dazzling in the late afternoon sun. The City of the Aten! I had visited this cove stretching up to the eastern cliffs when it was nothing but sand and shale. I had seen all the power of Egypt transform it into Akenhaten’s Holy City, the place where God and Man met. I had witnessed all its glory, the power of Pharaoh and the splendour of Nefertiti. I had also mourned its decline, ravaged by plague as well as by murderous conspiracy and bloody intrigue. I stared across at its deserted quayside. The ghosts of all those I’d known, loved and hated came out to greet me. I stood there, ignoring all requests and questions, till the sun set and my body chilled. I stood and reflected on all I had seen and made my decision. We would not land there. I brushed aside Meryre’s furious protests. He could land if he wanted to; the Prince and I would continue north to Memphis, the white-walled city.

At Memphis, Horemheb’s principal staff officer, Colonel Nebamun, entertained us in the courtyard of his elegant two-storey house overlooking the river. He offered incense to Seth the Announcer of Battles and quickly came to the point, the question which had so infuriated my entourage.

‘Why,’ he asked, glancing up at the awning snapping under a strong breeze, ‘didn’t the Royal Circle at Thebes act more swiftly? More importantly, why have you brought Tutankhamun and Princess Ankhesenamun into Memphis? Didn’t the Royal Circle order them to be left in the City of the Aten?’

Sobeck and Djarka, not to mention Meryre, had made similar remonstrations, but on this matter I was adamant. I was wary of the lawlessness and my own darkest premonitions. I told Colonel Nebamun that the Royal Couple would be entrusted to him here in Memphis until the present crisis passed. Meryre sitting beside me clucked his tongue and shook his head, but lacked the authority to oppose me. Colonel Nebamun, resplendent in his gold collars and silver bees of bravery, did not object. I also promised that before I left Memphis I would issue formal letters accepting responsibility for what I had done. Nebamun sipped at his wine and nodded agreement. As for his questions about how the Royal Circle in Thebes had reacted to events in the Delta, I told him it was best if his commanding officer informed him personally when he arrived. Nebamun accepted the hint, quietly remarking that ever since he had heard the news, the city regiments had been put on a war footing and were ready to march.

‘And the usurper?’ I demanded. ‘What strength does he have?’

Nebamun squinted up at the sun. ‘We know he has taken the city of Avaris and is camped in the fields beyond. He has about a thousand chariots, two thousand footmen and a host of mercenaries.’

‘Mercenaries?’ I demanded.

‘Libyans and Kushites, some sea people, but mostly Hittites.’

‘Do you think the Hittite king is behind this pretender?’

‘I have told you what I can, my lord,’ Nebamun replied. ‘I have used every spy I could. I have questioned merchants, traders, pedlars, but the enemy camp is closely guarded. They have dug a ditch around all sides with a high palisade. Every entrance is guarded and protected. Men who are regarded as spies face summary execution. They say a veritable wall of impaled corpses circle the camp. You can smell their stench before you see them.’

‘What is the usurper waiting for?’ Meryre demanded.

‘More troops,’ Nebamun declared. ‘We also know he is sending raiding parties back across the Horus Road into Sinai. He is robbing the mines of precious gold and silver, then using the plunder to pay troops and hire more.’

‘Haven’t you thought of infiltrating the camp?’ I asked. ‘Surely there are men here who would serve as mercenaries, or pretend to?’

Colonel Nebamun’s close-set eyes studied me.

‘My lord Mahu, I was a mere stripling when I served under your father, Colonel Seostris, a cunning officer. I learnt my craft well. I handpicked six men and dressed them as mercenaries and sent them north. I told them to join the usurper’s army and send information back. I have neither seen nor heard from them since. According to a merchant, all recruits are closely interrogated. It’s not an impossible task to discover that someone has served alongside the imperial regiments then ask him what he is doing there. I suspect,’ he added bitterly, ‘my men are dead. I’ll send no more.’

He picked up a piece of lamb, richly coated in herb sauce, and chewed on it absent-mindedly.

‘These spices,’ he remarked, ‘were brought by a merchant who also traded with the enemy. He had no choice. He said the usurper was well advised by Hittite officers and strict discipline is maintained in his camp. Any looting is prohibited, martial law has been imposed, merchants and traders go freely about their business, and anyone who breaks these decrees faces summary execution.’

As he stretched out for the wine jug, his hand trembled; Nebamun recognised the danger and so did I. This mysterious usurper was not the chief of some band of robbers or desert marauders. He was leading a highly organised army and was eager to curry favour with the cities and towns of the Delta. He was demonstrating that he was not there to rob and pillage but to claim back what he regarded as his own. Nebamun glanced at me sheepishly.

‘Between here and the Delta, my lord, lie other garrisons. My loyalty is known. This city will be defended, the troops have a personal allegiance to General Horemheb.’

‘What are you saying, Colonel? That officers in other cities cannot be trusted?’

‘It’s obvious.’ Nebamun shrugged. ‘Soon the invader will march south. He’ll issue decrees. Troops will be given a choice: either fight or go over.’

I thanked him for his advice and returned to my own quarters. Lady Ankhesenamun was loudly haranguing Djarka; when I arrived, she turned on me. ‘I have been confined in a cabin,’ she snapped. ‘We were supposed to land at my father’s city; now we are placed here, surrounded by smelly, sweaty soldiers!’ She beat a tattoo on the table, her long nails rapping hard. Beside her crouched Tutankhamun, playing with his toy soldiers. Lady Amedeta turned her back on me as if eager to study the painting of a dancing heset girl, a vivid eye-catching picture.

‘My lady, these smelly, sweaty soldiers,’ I replied wearily, ‘will give their lives for you. I trust Colonel Nebamun; he is a soldier of the old school. You and His Highness,’ Prince Tutankhamun smiled up at me, ‘will be protected by him as well as by Djarka and my mercenaries. These, too, will give their lives for you.’

She pouted and flounced, but I could tell from the laughter in her eyes that she was only acting. Ankhesenamun never cared where she was; she was probably intrigued to be in a place where General Horemheb and Rameses had their strength. She would exploit every opportunity to ferret out information, question, flirt and suborn, anything to increase her power and that of her grandfather. She sat down in the throne-like chair; Tutankhamun rose to stand beside her. She stroked his head gently, whispering endearments to him.

‘And what will happen now?’ Her head came up.

‘I shall journey further north,’ I replied. ‘Send messages to the usurper that we wish to negotiate. You will remain here. In a few days Generals Horemheb and Rameses will arrive, bringing more troops from Thebes and the garrisons along the river.’

‘And?’

‘There will be a battle, my lady. We shall either win or lose.’ I bit back my words. Little Tutankhamun was standing, solemn-faced and owl-eyed. ‘Of course we will be victorious,’ I added hastily and, bowing, left, cursing my own stupidity.

I sent Djarka to the Prince and asked Sobeck to join me on the flat-roofed terrace.

‘It will be cooler there.’ I smiled. ‘And no one can hear.’

I took a wine jug and two cups. Sobeck followed me up the stairs. Nebamun had already erected a canopy; cushions were piled against the protective ledge which ran round the terrace’s four sides.

‘What are we going to do?’ Sobeck demanded. ‘What if Meryre is leading us into a trap?’

‘I suspect he is. The further I travel north, the more I believe we are part of a great conspiracy. Meryre is behind this nonsense; I fear he is coming north to tell this usurper everything he knows. I am even beginning to wonder,’ I slouched down on the cushions, ‘whether the Shabtis of Akenhaten are his work.’

‘So what do you suggest?’ Sobeck dabbed at the sweat on his neck. ‘Are we to go north to put our heads on the slaughter block?’

‘What other choice do we have? I only wish I knew,’ I filled both wine cups, ‘what Meryre intends.’

Sobeck and I argued for most of the afternoon, talking too much whilst our drinking matched it. I went down to sleep and woke in the cool of the evening coated in sweat, the wine tasting bitter on my breath. I washed and changed, and went back on to the roof, watching the sun set, recalling those days I had spent with Akenhaten, when such an occasion was sacred and holy. From the courtyard below drifted the sound of sentries, the bark of a dog. Djarka came up to say the Prince was retiring. I crossly replied that I would soon be down.

‘My lord, you are frightened?’

Djarka stood at the top of the steps, peering at me through the poor light.

‘Do you remember, Djarka,’ I came over, ‘the night we killed those two assassins then hid their corpses?’

‘How can I forget?’ His voice caught in his throat. ‘One of them was a woman I loved. We killed her and her father and buried their corpses between the walls of their house.’ Tears filled his eyes. ‘At night, when I am asleep, I have nightmares. I am back in that house, sitting in the cellar, and her ghost comes out, at first all sweet and coy, but,’ he put his face in his hands, ‘she’s a ghost, Lord Mahu, a phantasm of the night. You are frightened now, aren’t you, by the terrors of the day?’

‘I am very frightened,’ I agreed. ‘As I was that night: frightened of being wrong, frightened of being hurt, wondering what is best to do.’

‘And?’

‘I don’t know why I refused to leave the Prince and his sister at the City of the Aten.’ I grasped my stomach. ‘A feeling, an unspoken fear, a suspicion …’

‘About whom?’

‘I don’t know,’ I confessed. ‘We have witnessed the devastation along the Nile; a return to the City of the Aten is out of the question. As for going north, what seemed a good idea is, perhaps, not so clever. Sobeck and I could be going to our deaths.’

‘But you are with Meryre.’

‘I don’t trust that self-righteous, mealy-mouthed hypocrite. He seems so eager to go north, he entertains no anxieties about what might happen. He could be quietly supporting this usurper; this mission could be a pretext to meet him so they can plot together.’ I got to my feet. ‘But if we don’t go, we’ll never discover the truth, whilst Horemheb and Rameses must be given time.’

The days passed. I turned the problem over and over, one poor night’s sleep after another. Nightmares peopled by sinister images and forms crowded my dreams. My Ka seemed to spring out of my body to wander the haunted halls and fiery lakes of the underworld. One morning I woke suddenly in the ghostly light. I thought I heard my name called, yet my chamber was empty. I went to the Prince’s apartments but all was well, the guards vigilant, so I decided to go up on to the roof terrace and watch the sunrise. I turned to the east. The sky was changing; already the light was picking up the pyramid tombs in the necropolis of Sakkara. I knelt down, eyes fixed on the sun disc, a golden orb surrounded by a fiery red.

Memories poured back of other sunrises, of crouching down with Akenhaten and Nefertiti to worship the glory of the dawn. Faces of long-dead companions and enemies rose to haunt me. A gentle, lilting song wafted up from the courtyard. I looked over the parapet. A young mercenary was singing a hymn to some unknown God; he sat sprawled with his back to the wall, mending a piece of harness. He should have been on guard, standing on the parapet wall overlooking the broad stretch of grass, trees and bushes which separated the house from the river bank. I was about to shout down when the breeze caught my face. Looking back, I ask again, bearing in mind that voice which seemed to wake me, do the dead come to warn you? As I glanced up, the morning mist shifted, like linen gauze being pulled back, to reveal a truly heart-stopping scene: war barges, black and low in the water, packed with men, were streaking silently towards the quayside. I couldn’t make out their armour but caught the glint of their weapons. I counted five or six, all heavily laden.

‘Nebamun’s men?’ I whispered. ‘Marines coming to reinforce the house?’

Again the mist shifted. A black standard flew from one of the barges, inscribed with white hieroglyphs depicting ‘HATT HANT US’, the fiery furnace in the Ninth Hall of the Underworld where spirit souls of the enemies of Ra were burnt, hieroglyphs also used for the Hittites. Another standard was raised bearing the symbols of the Storm God the Hittites worshipped. I stood like a statue. Was I awake? Was I dreaming? I opened my mouth to shout, but the full enormity of what was happening kept me silent. Bargeloads of soldiers were nearing the quayside of Nebamun’s house. They had come to kill, plunder and possibly seize or murder the Prince.

Heart in my throat, I raced back into the house. Sobeck heard my clatter on the stairs and burst into my chamber. I pointed to the far window, even as I found the conch horn. I blew hard but my spittle blocked it. I cleared my mouth and blew again, a long, wailing blast. Gasping for breath, I informed Sobeck of what was happening and told him to arouse the Colonel and everyone else. I hastened to the royal quarters. Djarka was already up; something must have alarmed him, for he was already arming himself. I told him to stay where he was and guard the Prince, and if affairs warranted it, to take him and Ankhesenamun and flee. Bleary-eyed mercenaries blundered into the chamber even as another conch horn wailed somewhere in the house and from the small barracks adjoining it. I screamed at the soldiers to arm and gather in the courtyard. Ankhesenamun, a robe about her, hair falling down like a black mist round her face, came in sleepy-eyed asking what was wrong. Amedeta, sensuous and as lovely as her mistress, slipped in behind, almost concealed by Ankhesenamun. I wondered, then, did they share the same bedchamber?

‘What is the matter, Mahu?’ Ankhesenamun pouted.

‘You heard the alarm, my lady.’

‘Mahu, are we under attack? I thought you said we would be safe here?’

‘We will be,’ I snarled, ‘if you keep out of the way!’

I hurried down to the central courtyard. Nebamun and his officers were already there. The old colonel proved his worth. Sobeck had wondered if the man had been too often under the sun without his helmet, but Horemheb’s trust in him was quickly verified. He shouted and snarled for silence and coolly ordered gates to be reinforced with beams and carts. Postern doors and windows were also to be protected and defended. He turned to his staff, quietly issuing a stream of orders. Archers, ordered by their officers to remain silent, were quickly led up the steps and hid behind the battlemented walls. In the courtyard beneath, further ranks of archers lined up, bows and quivers ready. Behind them file after file of Menfyt, foot soldiers in their red and white striped head-dresses, swords and shields ready, war clubs in their sashes.

‘You raised the alarm?’ Nebamun asked, as he stripped to his loincloth before putting on a linen gown and fastening over it a bronze and leather war kilt. I told him what I had seen. ‘About five or six barges in all,’ Nebamun mused, screwing up his eyes. ‘About five hundred men,’ he added. ‘Possibly more. We have less than half of that.’ He raised a hand. ‘Ah well, my lord Mahu, if we survive we’ll ask how they knew as well as how they got here.’

Meryre came into the courtyard huffing and puffing, podgy fingers clutching his robe, eyes lined with black kohl. He was wearing a silver medallion round his neck depicting the Sun Disc. He acted all surprised and agitated, but I wondered how much he knew. I glanced at the other members of his retinue. They, too, were wearing the Aten disc. Was that some sort of sign to the invaders? Were they under orders to spare anyone wearing the Sun Disc?

‘What is the matter?’ Meryre fanned his fat face.

‘We are under attack, my lord,’ I replied drily. ‘We don’t have to search out the usurper; he has come hunting for us!’

‘You can stay and fight,’ Nebamun offered.

‘I am a high priest!’

‘Then you had best go find a temple and pray, or you’ll become a dead high priest.’ Nebamun turned away and grasped my wrist. ‘I want you to command the archers on the wall,’ he continued, ignoring Meryre’s angry splutter. ‘My house fronts the river.’

I glanced over my shoulder. Meryre was already waddling away.

‘Forget him.’ Nebamun’s fingers dug deep into my wrist. ‘They must have come for the Prince. The sides and back of the house are sheer wall, though they may try and force windows and doors. If they’ve brought battering rams …’ He pointed to the far wall. ‘Some of that’s granite, as is part of the house, but the rest is simply dried mud bricks under a coat of plaster. If they discover a weak spot they won’t need to use the gate.’ He gazed round even as his officers ordered the files of archers slightly forward, away from the foot soldiers. ‘They’ll invade here,’ Nebamun declared. ‘This will become a slaughter yard. I’ve also put men in the house. Already messengers, the fastest runners we have, have been dispatched to the barracks on the other side of the city. It’s only a matter of time.’

Nebamun turned away to confer with his staff officers. Sobeck and I collected our weapons and joined the archers crouching on the parapet. I peered over. The ground between the wall and the river was cut by a pebble-dashed path, then a line of greenery with trees and bushes sloping down to the quayside. The enemy had already landed; their advance party were shadows moving amongst the trees. I crouched back, looking along our line of men. Most of the archers were Nubians, hair cropped and oiled, dressed in white padded loincloths, leather quivers beside them, dark feathered shafts peeking out. Each Nubian carried a bow and a curved sword. They remained silent and watchful. I thanked the Gods that they were veterans, men who would not lose their nerve when the fighting began.

Once again I peered over the wall. It was a stomach-churning sight. The enemy advance guard had already cleared the trees, streaming up through the greenery towards the main gate. Anyone unfortunate enough to be in that area must have been killed silently, immediately. The front ranks of the enemy were Libyan archers, naked except for their leather phallus covers, cloaks of stiffened bull hide or giraffe skin around their shoulders, greasy hair tightly plaited and adorned with feathers or covered with the mask of some animal: panther, fox or leopard. They were a fearful sight, bearded faces daubed with war paint. Even more terrifying were the few Shardana warriors, mercenaries from the Great Green, in their leather tunics, strange horn helmets on their heads. They carried long stabbing swords and round bronze shields. Mitanni and Egyptian mercenaries followed next in striped head-cloths, carrying shield and spear: these were the men who would try and scale the walls once the archers had done their task. The Hittite officers were easily distinguishable, dressed in bronze-scale leather armour which fell beneath their knees, faces and the forepart of their heads shaven. They followed the Hittite fashion of allowing their hair to grow shoulder length. Each of these officers carried a standard, a pole with a disc, and above that a blade on which the severed heads of those they had killed were placed. Some of these were dried and shrivelled, others freshly severed, still dripped blood. The arrogant impunity of their surprise attack was astonishing, and Horemheb’s warning came back to haunt me: how, during the seventeen years of Akenhaten’s reign, he had not fielded one regiment or squadron of cavalry to defend our interests in Canaan. No wonder Egypt was regarded as weak and lax.

I crouched with the rest. We could hear the muffled noise of the enemy. The tension grew. I whispered to the standard-bearer in charge of the archers to prepare his men. I glanced down into the courtyard and the silent ranks of our troops. The foot soldiers were formed into an arc to protect the rear and the flanks; even household servants had been armed. I glanced back over the wall. Libyans carrying logs were approaching the gate. Others trotted behind grasping storming ladders, long poles with rungs on either side. They moved silently, still believing they had the surprise. The officer in charge of the archers glanced at me. I nodded. From the courtyard below came the war cry of Egypt. Nebamun clashed his sword, once again shouting the war cry: ‘Horus in the south!’ Our archers rose to their feet, arrows notched.

‘Loose!’ The officer’s yell was followed by a whirl of arrows. Our men chose their targets well: those carrying the battering rams and scaling ladders, as well as Hittite officers. The silence was riven by screams and shouts. The range was so close, our archers wreaked terrible damage. Attackers were flung back as shafts caught them in the neck, head and face. The enemy line broke, fleeing back to the sanctuary of the trees. Here they reorganised and under the whip of their officers renewed their attack, waves of men pouring up the grassy embankment, screaming their war cries. They advanced behind a range of shields and a screen of archers who kept up a hail of fire against the parapet wall. Now our men, standing or kneeling, became targets. Brightly coloured shafts found their mark; bodies tumbled from the walls or slid down nursing some hideous wound. The enemy were keen-eyed and skilled; our line of men began to thin.

The attackers brought their battering rams up against the gates and walls; others placed their assault ladders in position and started to climb. Some of these were pushed away, but the flood of men was too great. The archer next to me fell. A Libyan dressed in a panther skin, face daubed and painted, great tattoos across his chest, scrambled over the wall. He slipped in a pool of blood, I dashed his brains out with a war club even as our trumpets ordered us to withdraw.

We left the parapet, hurrying down across the courtyard and into the protection of Nebamun’s ranks. We were hardly in position when the first line of the enemy troops cleared the wall. Most were brought down in a whirl of arrows, but the gate was being forced and eventually broke. The carts were pushed back, attackers climbing over them. More of the enemy now cleared the parapet. Their own archers were brought into play to protect a group of Canaanites who pulled away the carts and obstacles from the gates for a fresh flood of attackers. Nebamun, protected by his shield-bearer, shouted orders. Our archers loosed volley after volley, trying to stem the flood at the gates, but it was impossible. The courtyard in front of us was filling with the enemy; they used the carts, together with the shields, and even corpses, to shield themselves from our archers, as they edged closer and closer.

A blood-curdling scream echoed from the house. Nebamun gestured at me. I took some archers and a group of Nakhtu-aa and we entered the Hall of Audience. At least seven or eight of the enemy had flanked the house and broken through a window. They’d killed the meagre guard and were now trying to force the stairs. Dark, heavy shapes in their dyed animal skins, carrying sword and shield, they were being held back by Djarka and household servants armed with bows. Even Ankhesenamun was there, beautiful as Sekhmet the Destroyer, bow in hand, a quiver of arrows held by Amedeta. Three of the enemy were already down. We hurried across even as a black shape raced in front of us. Nebamun’s war dog had broken free from its chain. A ferocious mastiff, it tore down one of the attackers, jaws slashing his throat. We closed with the rest, hacking and cutting. I heard a shout and turned. A Libyan had slipped behind me, sword raised, face snarling. An arrow pierced him full in his throat, whilst another smacked into his chest. Djarka, bow in hand, smiled at me, Ankhesenamun behind him. To this day I never really knew who shouted my name or loosed that first arrow.

We cut the throats of the wounded enemy and tried to reboard the windows. Clouds of smoke billowed about; the attackers, eager for pillage, had also invaded the nearby mansion. Screams and yells carried faintly on the breeze, but there was nothing we could do to help. We hurried back. A fierce battle raged in the courtyard. The Egyptian ranks held, but a ferocious hand-to-hand combat had broken out. The Hittite’s officers were leading a pointed wedge, desperate to break through to assault Nebamun and his staff and, after that, penetrate the house. The press was so thick that those in the rear ranks could only stand and watch. Now and again archers tried to loose but grew increasingly fearful of hitting their own men. Black plumes of smoke rose from the riverside.

I reached Nebamun just as the Hittite wedge finally broke through. A furious blood-spilling scramble ensued, hacking with knife, sword and club. The ground grew slippery underfoot. The Hittites were so furious, wild-eyed and reckless in their bravery, I wondered if they had been drinking or were drugged. I did what I could, fearful yet more frightened of being a coward. One of Nebamun’s staff officers collapsed beside me, almost dragging me down in his death throes. We began to push the Hittites back even as we heard the shrill trumpet blast and the cheers of our men. The assault slackened. The surviving Hittite soldiers were looking over their shoulders. The lines in front of us gave way. Nebamun shouted that his chariot squadrons had arrived. Of course, the ground outside the gates was too narrow and restricted to deploy them, but the troops they brought now harassed the enemy’s rear. More importantly, the chariot squadron had also paused to fire the barges. The enemy’s retreat was blocked and a bloody massacre now took place. No quarter was given. The killing was relentless. The courtyard swilled with blood, and in places the corpses were piled two or three high. Some of the enemy escaped across the walls only to be hunted down; a number even broke into the house, but they were caught, dragged out and executed.

At last the enemy threw down their weapons. There must have been about forty or fifty prisoners who were cruelly shoved and pushed into the centre whilst Nakhtu-aa combed the courtyard. The Egyptian casualties were dragged out and taken through the gate, where a makeshift hospital was set up under the trees. The enemy wounded had their throats cut; those still able to stand were hauled to their feet and pushed over to join the rest of the prisoners. Nebamun ordered a part of the courtyard in front of the house to be cleared. The regimental standards of the Horus and Ptah were brought out and placed beside a hastily built altar dedicated to Seth the Destroyer. The line of prisoners, arms bound behind their backs, were hustled up and forced to kneel. Nebamun grabbed each by the hair and, with his own war club, dashed their brains out. The ominous silence of the slaughter yard echoed with the moans of the captives, the exclamations of their escort and that hideous rushing sound as the war club smashed bone and brain.

Two Hittite officers had survived. They were not treated as the rest. Instead, Nebamun took them down into the cavernous cellar of his house. He ordered them to be hung by their wrists from the beams, and a fire lit beneath their bare feet. Sobeck and I and Nebamun’s principal officers gathered round. We were joined by the Colonel’s chief scribe, who understood the Hittite tongue.

The blood lust was still upon us. We nursed bruises and injuries, whilst the cries of our wounded were pitiful. The Hittites were brave, their strange parrot-like faces laced with bloody sweat. The cavern was lit by the glow from the fires. At first they tried to curb their screams as they jerked in agony. The smell of their burning flesh was sickening. Nebamun’s interpreter kept up his questioning. Neither officer would answer, so Nebamun had the older one, who bore the insignia of office around his neck, cut down and blinded. The questioning continued. The Hittite who’d lost his sight, eyes gouged out by one of Nebamun’s men, eventually lost consciousness. Nebamun ordered his throat to be cut and turned to the other, whose face was contorted in pain. The scribe kept up his questions like a priest gabbling his prayers. Now and again I would intervene. The Hittite knew a little Egyptian, but still refused to answer. At last Nebamun kicked away the pile of glowing charcoal beneath the prisoner’s feet.

‘Tell him,’ he ordered the scribe, ‘that if he answers our questions he will be given an honourable death. He will die like a soldier.’

The scribe repeated this. The Hittite looked as if he was about to refuse. Nebamun held up his dagger, pricking the prisoner’s face just beneath his left eye.

‘I know the Hittite customs,’ he told the scribe. ‘If he loses his sight he will never see his Storm God.’

The scribe translated. The Hittite’s body fell slack. For a while he just swayed backwards and forwards, then he muttered something. The scribe smiled at Nebamun.

‘He will talk,’ he declared. ‘In return for a goblet of wine and a warrior’s death.’