The Season of the Hyaena

Chapter 6

I murmured the words, more as a good luck charm than a prayer, as Sobeck and I disembarked along one of the many canals which pierced the Delta. In the far distance were the towers, turrets and silver-capped obelisks of ancient Sile, a crumbling city set amongst the fields and palm groves of that most fertile place. The quayside adjoined a small market town, one of those sleepy, tawdry villages dotted along the Nile and its tributaries, now transformed into a place of war. A teeming mass of armed men wandered its streets, mercenaries from every kingdom under the sun. They swarmed like flies on carrion, lounging in the makeshift beer shops along the quayside or clustered at the mouths of needle-thin alleys and streets. Sobeck and I, to all appearances, were just two more sword-sellers, dressed in leather kilts, high-tied boots and linen vests. Our weapons and blankets, panniers and provisions were heaped on the back of the most docile donkey Nebamun’s stable could provide, a good travelling companion who’d been no trouble even on the barges as we journeyed north. I had grown quite attached to it, joking with Sobeck that it provided better company than many a man.

We had prepared our stories, a common tale. We dressed and acted like professional mercenaries much given to raucous song and filthy curses. I had shaved my head and wore a collar of copper, with similar bands on wrists and forearms. Sobeck was attired the same, though he aped the language and swagger of the mercenaries better than I. A true enigma, Sobeck! I had reflected on this during the journey from Memphis. I was Chief of Police. It was my job to collect information about enemies of the Royal Circle. Sobeck, however, had come by choice, boasting as usual that he had nothing better to do. Secretly I suspect this disgraced Child of the Kap wished to be accepted by us all, particularly by me, who had grown up with him at the House of Residence in the Malkata Palace. During our river journey, whenever we were given the opportunity, we discussed the past. I asked if his absence as Lord of Am-duat, the underworld of Thebes, would be noted. Sobeck grinned in that sly way he had, not holding my gaze, and replied he would be a poor chief if he were forgotten in a month.

Naturally, as we approached Sile, such conversations ended. One night, when we moored in the shadow of another village, we caught a pedlar eavesdropping on our conversation outside a dingy beer shop. Sobeck followed him into the dark, knife grasped in his hand, and when he returned, reported we were still safe. Spies and informers abounded, so everyone was careful. Fellow travellers would stare, but never question or discuss what was happening. Nevertheless the tension was palpable. A usurper had invaded Tomery, the Kingdom of Two Lands, and a savage war was imminent. Armed men were everywhere. We glimpsed troops moving along the banks, provision carts and the occasional chariot squadron sending up clouds of dust. Smoke often smudged the sky, and after dark, night prowlers from the desert scavenged amongst the corpses along the river banks. One old man, out of his wits, complained how Seth’s red shadow covered the Nile; that the Hyksos had returned with all the terrors of the Season of the Hyaena. Others, more sensible, merely complained about raiders and the lack of patrols, or dismissed us as river scum floating north or south to sell our swords to the highest bidder. The countryside was held in a grip of fear whilst the great cities closed their gates and fortified their walls against these hyaenas, as one old lady, chomping on her gums, called us.

As we moved through that market town towards the usurper’s camp, I realised that she spoke the truth. The inhabitants appeared to have fled, leaving their homes to the scavengers: Shardana in their horned helmets and leather garments; Libyans and Nubians festooned with feathers and plumes, faces and bodies painted or tattooed, kilts fashioned out of animal skins flapping against their thighs. Soldiers from the islands of the Great Green were there, and even a few fair-skinned warriors from the lands beyond. All were armed and dangerous, displaying weapons of every kind: bows and arrows, clubs, daggers, swords, spears and two-edged axes. The air stank of sweat and strange perfumes which couldn’t disguise the reeking odour of the narrow lanes. The camp followers had also arrived: the wizards with their necklaces of bone and grotesque masks; fortune-tellers, wandering priests, leeches and physicians, dancing girls and prostitutes of every age and country. Nevertheless, although the market town was filthy, order was strictly maintained. Hittite officers and their military escorts patrolled the streets or lounged at the mouths of alleyways, ready to quell any trouble. Here and there stood the huge Hittite war chariots with their crew of three, driver, shield-bearer and archer, garbed in striped robes over metal-fringed leather jerkins and war kilts.

A grisly sight, a dire warning to those who broke the law, waited for us in the centre of the village: a row of corpses impaled on stakes driven through the chest, or up through the bowels. Each victim had been doused in resin and burned; their twisted black shapes seemed like demons frozen in the air. On the ground before each stake was a piece of wood proclaiming their crime: techar, spy; nek, rape; thai, thievery. Despite such bloodthirsty spectacles, the town seemed a noisy, gaudy place, dominated by a swirl of colour, cheap perfume and the chatter of at least a dozen tongues. A place where men greeted each other with open camaraderie, but beneath the singing, the laughter and the raucous drinking a sinister, threatening atmosphere lurked, as men of blood gathered for the slaughter.

No one accosted us, though we had to keep a sharp eye on our baggage; eventually we were through the village into a line of trees fringing the plain where the usurper had set up camp. At first my heart failed at the sight. A great makeshift fortress, surrounded by a moat fed by one of the canals, rose up from the plain, protected not only by the moat but by a soaring mound and a lofty, sturdy palisade of sharpened stakes. A bridge crossed the moat and cut through the mound to the huge double gates with wooden turrets on either side. From these, and elsewhere along the fortress, banners and standards fluttered in the breeze. The air was rich with the smell of wood smoke, burning meat, fried fish, incense, sweat and blood. On each side of the fortress a small town had sprung up of huts, bothies and tents. The air rang with the calls of trumpets, shouts, the neigh of horses and the lowing of cattle. I felt as if I was in one of my nightmares, standing in some lonely thicket looking out on to a city of the Underworld.

‘Much stronger,’ Sobeck whispered. ‘Much stronger than we thought, Mahu. What do you reckon?’ He gestured at the fortress and the camp. ‘What?’ he whispered. ‘Ten to fifteen thousand fighting men? Not to mention those we saw in the village, as well as those we met on patrol, foraging or hunting.’

A farmer, his cart laden with provisions, whip cracking the air over his oxen, shouted at us to get out of the way. We stepped aside and joined the other travellers making their way up to the camp. Once we’d reached it, we walked as calmly as we could around the fortress precincts, our donkey plodding patiently behind us. The field camp was like any I had seen: beaten paths snaked between tawdry huts and ragged tents. Camp fires burned, farmers, peasants and a legion of road wanderers offered everything for sale. We noticed horse lines and chariot parks and, as in the market town, the ubiquitous Hittite officers and military police. Walls and canals were protected. Latrine pits had been dug well beyond the picket line. Discipline was ruthlessly enforced. We passed a huge cage containing three naked malefactors being prodded and poked with sharp sticks by a horde of camp followers. A drunk who had defecated away from the latrines was being made to stand in his own ordure. Another, guilty of filching from the cooking pot, lay spread-eagled on the ground, the soles of his feet being beaten by two burly Kushites armed with split canes.

No one bothered us except for the traders or the fortune-tellers shaking their magic cups full of tiny bones. Whores and pimps touted for custom. Cooks tried to entice us with platters piled high with spiced meats. We walked slowly, wide-eyed, gaping-mouthed yet learning as much as we could. I noticed that the side gate, similar to the main, was closely guarded by troops placed before it and in the towers at either side. At the rear of the fortress another gate, leading down to the horse meadows and paddocks, was just as closely guarded. We were allowed to pass by but warned not to stop. At the far side of the fortress stretched another camp, screened off by a soaring palisade. Above this I glimpsed the top of a Mastaba, one of those ancient limestone pyramids used to house the dead before the Two Lands came together. The outer case was crumbling but its top jutted above the high palisade like a spear point against the sky; the sickly-sweet odour of spilt blood and the nauseating stench of burnt flesh were very strong. The guards at the entrance to the palisade were all dressed in black leather armour and jackal masks. A group of mercenaries were passing through the gate. As this swung open and closed, I glimpsed stakes, blackened earth, and heard the deep, cough-like roar of a lion.

We returned to the front of the fortress, a sprawling concourse, part travelling fair or market, with its many stalls and booths. We bought jugs of beer and some freshly baked bread, and settled down beneath a palm tree, studying the fortress which soared above us.

‘It seems,’ Sobeck declared between mouthfuls, ‘there are two camps. That’s the main one.’ He pointed towards the great double-barred gates, the avenue leading to them packed with soldiers, some wearing the striped head-dresses of Egyptian infantry, the rest a motley collection of mercenaries and Hittites. ‘And that’s formidable enough!’

‘What I would like to know,’ I gestured to the left, ‘is what is behind that palisade? What does the Mastaba contain and why are those mercenaries entering? They looked frightened. I glimpsed scorched earth, a stake, and heard the roar of a lion.’

‘I heard the same,’ Sobeck agreed. ‘And I keep thinking what that Hittite told us about the Place of Darkness and a Field of Fire. Many summers ago,’ he grinned at me, ‘when I was young and handsome and a Child of the Kap, I learnt the history of Egypt and the exploits of Ahmose, who drove the Hyksos out. Now, our history is full of tales about Hyksos cruelty, how they used to love to torture their prisoners in the most fiendish manner. I just wonder if that’s a place of Hyksos torture. If this usurper instils terror with his own slaughter yard. We have been round this camp, Mahu, through the town, but never once did I glimpse an Egyptian officer. Yet we know the usurper suborned some of our regiments.’

‘The officers may have been purged,’ I replied. ‘Intelligent men, they would soon realise they’d been tricked. Some of them must have seen the true Akenhaten and gazed upon the beauty of Nefertiti.’

Sobeck gazed around to make sure no one was listening, but this was not a royal palace where other people’s business was often your own. In a camp of mercenaries, in order to avoid fights and squabbles, people were only too willing to concede space to another.

‘Well, Mahu, I have asked you once and I’ll ask again. Why are we here? What shall we do?’

‘Gather as much information as we can; cause as much chaos as we are able.’

‘Chaos?’

‘If I am given the chance,’ I replied, ‘I would burn that fortress and kill the usurper.’

‘I do not want to end my days with a pointed stick up my arse!’ Sobeck complained. ‘How do we know Meryre won’t — hasn’t — sent messengers here?’

‘Because he’s too sly and cunning,’ I replied. ‘I doubt if there is anything in writing which ties him in with this.’

‘Did he believe you?’ Sobeck asked. ‘When you visited him before we left?’

‘He’s too closely guarded to send messages, whilst I am sure I didn’t convince him. However, I made him think. I apologised for my outburst before Colonel Nebamun. I pointed out that I too had been attacked by the Shabtis of Akenhaten, that my allegiance was solely to the Prince and not to the Lord Ay or anyone else.’

‘Did he believe you?’

‘He accepted my apology and listened. I didn’t tell him I was coming here, just that I was leaving Memphis to make other arrangements.’

‘Why should he trust you?’

‘Sobeck, why shouldn’t he? What do I owe Ay, Horemheb, Rameses or Huy? They only tolerate me because, in the end, I was Nefertiti’s enemy as much as theirs. They only accord me a privileged position because of my custody of the Prince. As I pointed out to Meryre, hadn’t I been Akenhaten’s close companion, his bodyguard, his friend? And do you know what he replied?’

Sobeck shook his head.

‘He said he always wondered where my true loyalties lay. I also claimed,’ I smiled, ‘all hurt and quivering, how never once had he approached me or shown me any gesture of friendship. He objected. I replied that I only accepted his offer to accompany him north because I thought it would heal any breach between us. But that after that attack, I was as suspicious of Sile as I was of Thebes.’

Sobeck whistled under his breath. ‘Mahu, Baboon of the South, very cunning.’ He toasted me with his cup. ‘Meryre may be convinced,’ he continued. ‘You did agree to accompany him. You were attacked by the Shabtis of Akenhaten, and you now blame-’

‘I now blame Ay for the attack at Memphis, or so I told Meryre. I left our pompous little High Priest confused, with plenty of food for thought. Perhaps he thinks we are travelling along the same road. If that attack at Memphis had been successful, I may have been spared. I may have been given a choice to either join the usurper or die. After all, I do have some influence with the Prince, as well as Ankhesenamun.’

‘Now she,’ Sobeck wagged a finger, ‘will have to be watched.’ He drained his cup. ‘That’s if we survive here.’ He called across to the potboy serving behind the stall. ‘We wish to join the army.’

The boy pointed to the tent, on the right of the avenue leading up to the main gates, guarded by mercenaries in striped robes holding rounded shields and spears. We went across and repeated our request. The men looked blankly at us. Sobeck lapsed into the lingua franca of the mercenary corps. A fat-cheeked, sweaty-faced scribe pulled up the tent flap and peered out.

‘We have enough riff-raff!’ he bawled. ‘Be on your way!’

‘We are soldiers,’ Sobeck retorted. ‘We have fought in the eastern and western Red Lands as well as in Kush. We have stood in the battle line and done more fighting in a day than you have done in your long, lazy life!’

‘Let us see them!’ a voice shouted from deep in the tent.

The scribe glowered at us, jabbered at the sentry to guard the donkey and beckoned us in. The tent was dark and musty and reeked of wine, sweat and fear. Soldiers lounged on either side, obscured by the poor light. Three men squatting on thick rugs faced the entrance; to the right of these was a line of scribes with writing palettes. The three men, officers by their collars and glittering armlets, were dressed in linen or leather vests; each had a club, sword and dagger by his side. Behind them stood six Nubian archers, bows in hand, arrow quivers hanging by their sides, feathered shafts ready to be plucked out.

‘Come here!’

The officer in the middle gestured at us to kneel before him. He was Usurek, a soldier from Avaris, a former standard-bearer from the Ptah regiment and, as we discovered later, one of the few to survive the usurper’s ruthless purge of the regiment’s officers. In many ways he reminded me of Sobeck: narrow-faced, with high cheekbones, sharp eyes and a cruel mouth. Usurek was a born soldier, a killer to the bone. What was that ancient phrase? Seka er Sekit, ‘a slaughterer from the slaughterhouse’. The other two officers I forget. They remain nameless and faceless. Like Usurek, their bones are now the playthings of jackals whilst vipers nest in their skulls. At that time they had the power of life and death. The tent we had entered, despite its shabby tawdriness, was the Utcha Netu, the Place of Judgement. Our three judges sat sharing a wineskin.

‘You look fit,’ Usurek began, ‘for visitors from Abydos.’

‘Who said we were from Abydos?’ Sobeck retorted. ‘We come from Thebes. My cousin is Mahu. We are of the Medjay, former soldiers in the regiment of Amun Ra.’

‘And?’

‘We were discharged.’

‘And?’

‘For thieving.’

‘Then what?’

Sobeck shrugged. ‘We served here and there: bodyguards for merchants, princes.’

The questions began, Usurek watching us all the time. They asked about where we had served, what weapons we had used. At the end Usurek shook his head and addressed Sobeck.

‘I don’t know about you, your speech is soft.’

‘My cousin and I were trained in the House of Life.’

‘Ah yes, the Silent One.’ Usurek turned on me. ‘You say you are from Thebes? Served in the regiment of Amun Ra? Then tell me, in the Temple of Karnak, what lies to the right of the Precinct of Montu?’

‘The Temple of Tuthmosis.’ I kept my voice steady and hoped he wouldn’t notice the bead of sweat coursing down my cheek.

‘And in the Precincts of Amun Ra, what temple stands by itself near the northern gate?’

‘The Temple of Ptah.’

‘And how do you know that?’

‘Because I have stood on guard there.’

‘Karnak has its own police.’

‘Units of our regiment still stand on guard,’ I persisted. ‘You know that as well as I do.’

‘Do you have service records?’

‘We destroyed them. They were more trouble than they were worth.’

‘And what Gods do you serve?’

‘My right arm and my penis.’

Usurek laughed. ‘You say you were in the regiment of Amun Ra.’ He leaned forward. ‘The regiment had a famous song, a love poem. How does it go?’ He squinted up at the roof of the tent. Sobeck’s hand slipped down and grazed my thigh, warning me to be careful.

‘Ah yes, I remember. “The little sycamore that she has planted with her own hands opens its mouth to sing.”’ Usurek peered at me. ‘I had a friend in the Amun Ra regiment. It was their marching song. Well, have you heard it?’

‘Yes, I have, but you have it wrong. The line should read, “opens its mouth to speak, singing of its gardens”.’

Usurek smiled. ‘You may recite your poem, but we still don’t need you. We have enough archers and foot men.’

‘But not charioteers?’ Sobeck retorted.

‘What?’

‘You have few charioteers. It is a matter of fact. Few mercenary armies do.’

The atmosphere in the tent changed. The soldiers lounging about got to their feet, going for their swords. Behind Usurek the archers notched arrows to their bows.

Sobeck had made his gamble.

‘You didn’t tell us you were charioteers.’ Usurek was no longer smiling. ‘Why should charioteers, hired by any army, trek from Thebes to Sile in the Delta?’

‘Because we are charioteers,’ Sobeck replied outrageously. ‘My cousin and I are very good. I am the driver, he is the bowman.’

‘You still haven’t answered my question. You said you were discharged?’

‘We discharged ourselves.’

‘For what?’

‘For stealing a chariot and two horses from the Royal Stables.’

Usurek laughed.

‘We were in trouble anyway,’ Sobeck continued blithely. ‘The officers were always picking on us, latrine duty here, picket duty there. So we decided to help ourselves. We cannot go back to Thebes.’

Usurek got to his feet. ‘In which case, you’d best come with me.’

He took us out of the tent, shouting at the guards to lead the donkey and calling up others as an escort, then marched us through the camp to the rear of the fortress and into the chariot park. Again, more orders; a collection of harnesses was brought, and two fine bay horses together with a chariot of wood with a floor of interlaced thongs. Thankfully it was a regimental chariot, two-wheeled and six-spoked. I checked the gleaming casing. It must have been an officer’s, with its gold and blue electrum embossed and ornamented with silver palmettes interlaced with spirals. There was a leather quiver for arrows embroidered with red and silver, whilst the javelin sheath was a resplendent gold and yellow with a charging lion along the outside. The harness was of good leather, polished and strong and studded with bronze clasps. I felt the yoke pins and axle; they were firm.

At last we were ready. Usurek leading the way, we were taken down to the chariot meadow with its range of straw targets fastened to poles at the far end. At first the horses were strange, the chariot clumsy, but we soon got the feel of the animals, the way the chariot would tilt and sway. All the skills we were taught in our years of training at the House of Residence quickly returned. Usurek became impatient and started shouting. Sobeck, ignoring him, wheeled the chariot round and round.

You know the way it is when horses and driver become one, a glorious weapon of war, wheels spinning, chariot bucking, the horses beginning to stretch out, guided by the reins and a touch of the whip. Our circuits became faster, more skilful, until Sobeck at one end of the meadow urged the horses into a full charge. The chariot thundered forward, racing like an arrow from the bow, the horses moving as one, swaying and turning under Sobeck’s careful direction. I grasped the bow, arrow notched. We swirled round the men of straw, loosed arrow after arrow into the target and thundered back. We ignored Usurek’s orders to halt, but charged again. The wind whipped our faces. I grasped the javelin, bracing my feet, careful to keep my distance from Sobeck. One after another, the javelins hit their mark. The chariot turned, bucking dangerously; the horses faltered. Sobeck, reins grasped round his wrists, gently steadied them before thundering straight towards Usurek and his companions, who were forced to scatter. Sobeck slowed the horses into a canter and gently brought them to a halt. He dropped the reins and, like any good charioteer, jumped down to congratulate the horses, letting them muzzle his hand, speaking to them softly. Usurek, splattered with mud but grinning from ear to ear, came up to congratulate us.

‘No wonder they didn’t catch you when you stole the horses. You wish to join the army? Then come, take the oath.’

I shall never forget that afternoon. A rain storm, frequent in that area, came sweeping in, low dark clouds splattering rain to soak us to the skin and turn the ground into slippery mud. We were forced to shelter beneath a tree. Usurek, still congratulating us on our chariot skill, asked further questions about our experiences. I was glad that Sobeck and I had agreed to use our proper names. The questions came so thick and fast, a mere slip would have alerted this man’s suspicions. Sobeck had made a wise choice. Usurek conceded they had more chariots than men and, when we asked why, turned away, hawked and spat.

At last the rains ceased. Escorted by Shardana, we crossed to the far side of the fortress and that sinister Mastaba hiding behind its palisade. The guards at the gate let us into what truly was the Plain of Horror. The Mastaba, with its pyramid top, stood at the far end. Its processional way, chapel and priest houses had long decayed. The causeway leading up to the ramp of the Mastaba had been repaired, as had its door, now closely guarded. The approach to the pyramid was dominated by a granite statue of Sekhmet the Destroyer, and ugly, obscene carving covered in lichen and spattered with dry blood. A slab of stone before it served as an altar bearing the sacred things, the Tchesert, probably looted from some nearby temple: a holy water stoup, incense holder and sprinkling rod. The ground on either side proved to be the true horror: a great expanse of scorched earth with its own hideous crop, row after row of blackened stakes each bearing the remains of an impaled man or woman. It was impossible to tell either sex or race from those gruesome black shapes.

‘Traitors and rebels,’ Usurek murmured, avoiding my gaze. ‘They are impaled and then burned. When more space is needed, new stakes are planted and the old removed.’

Sobeck was used to the cruelties of Eastern Thebes. I could only stare open-mouthed.

‘How long?’ I whispered.

Usurek, chewing on the corner of his mouth, kept staring up at the Mastaba. ‘Two or three months,’ he murmured. ‘Our masters have struck terror into the local inhabitants. For those troops who wouldn’t submit, as well as spies, speculators, traitors, it is either this …’ he gestured at the stakes, then nodded at the Mastaba, ‘or the House of Darkness.’

Never had I experienced such a place of terror, of abomination, a truly unholy pit: silent, sinister and threatening. I knew this usurper was not Akenhaten. Every ruler, my old master included, has a streak of cruelty, but Akenhaten only inflicted death if he had to, secretly, in some hidden place. This sickening sight was not Egyptian. The reek of decay and charred flesh was like some invisible cloak that muffled the mouth and nose and threatened to choke off your life-breath.

‘I have seen worse.’ Usurek sounded apologetic. ‘Out in the Red Lands and in North Canaan.’

‘Hittite work?’ I asked

He pulled a face. ‘You could say that, or Prince Aziru of Byblos. He claims descent from the ancient Hyskos princes who were driven from Sile hundreds of years ago. Such terror works.’ He sighed. ‘That’s why you are to take the oath here. If you falter, if you fail, if it is proved that you are not what you claim to be, this place is where you will die.’

I gazed around. No bird flew over that sacrilegious plot. No blade of green sprouted. Imagine, if you can, row after row of blackened corpses, gruesome shapes impaled above the burnt earth, and brooding over all of it the eerie tomb of a long-dead prince and the gruesome statute of the Destroyer. The Shardana who had escorted us were also uneasy, muttering under their breath, making signs with their fingers and thumbs against the Evil One.

Usurek was about to lead us over to the altar when the gates swung open and the black-masked guards pushed two prisoners through. They were naked except for loincloths, their bodies covered in blood. They were forced to move at a trot, moaning and groaning, hurrying to stay up with their macabre escort, who held their chains, the other end hooked into the lower lip of each prisoner.

‘Fraudsters,’ Usurek whispered. ‘They were tried by a military court yesterday evening.’

This hideous procession of death hurried past by the statue and up the ramp leading to the Mastaba. Guards appeared from the shadows wearing death masks similar to those of the soldiers who guarded the gates. One of the guards moved a stool across and pulled down the top part of the door as if it was a trap door. One prisoner was lifted up and thrown through, followed by the next, and the trap door was quickly replaced; even from where I stood I could hear their screams, followed by the hideous roaring of a lion.

‘By all that’s dark,’ Sobeck whispered. ‘What is happening?’

‘They were given a choice,’ Usurek declared. ‘The Field of Fire or the House of Darkness. When our masters came here they discovered that two lions had moved in from the Red Lands, man-eaters, preying on villagers or lonely travellers. Both beasts were caught, and the Mastaba became their cave. Their food? Well …’ Usurek gave a lop-sided grin.

I tried not to flinch at the heart-chilling screams of terror and the bestial roars which echoed across. All the time Usurek studied us carefully, refusing to move until the screams stopped and the death escort came trooping back down to the gate. The Shardana clustered together; fighting men, they were still terrified by what they had seen and heard. Usurek led us towards the altar.

‘I have never seen such good charioteers,’ he murmured. He kept us close as if fearful that the very statue could hear his words. ‘Our masters gave us a choice to join or to leave. Many of the Egyptian officers, after a while, refused to accept orders from either Aziru or his Hittite colleagues. When Pharaoh arrived,’ a shift in his eyes showed that Usurek no more recognised the usurper to be the true Pharaoh than I did, ‘the officers tried to leave immediately. They died here. So, continue to be good charioteers,’ he whispered, one finger tracing the scar on his cheek. ‘Follow orders. Never moan or complain and, as the old proverb says, “we all might live to see pay day”.’

We sprinkled the incense, took the oath, beginning with the words: ‘All homage to thee …’ and left that sanctuary of desolation.

So began our days with the usurper. We sold the donkey, bought a tent near the chariot park and tried to become one of the crowd. Usurek sought us out, eager to use our skills to train others, as well as to talk about what might happen. At first I thought he was suspicious of us, until I realised it was our company that he sought. We were often invited to his camp fire to share food and a jug of beer. From him we learned about the advance across the Sinai, how Avaris and Sile had been seized and Akenhaten had re-emerged, issuing decrees and demanding the allegiance of local garrisons. Hittite advisers and Canaanite mercenaries had bolstered his force, and the usurper’s presence had expanded like a cloud. One thing we quickly learnt: entrance to the fortress was strictly forbidden without a special pass. Usurek had permission to come and go as he pleased, but the likes of us were told to keep our distance.

Sobeck and I decided to become in all things professional mercenaries, careful in our talk, prudent in our actions, despite Usurek’s best efforts to make us drunk. Time and again we proved our skill on the drill ground. Some of the recruits were born charioteers; others could never handle a horse if they lived for a million years. Usurek decided to put us in charge of a squadron, giving us each a silver necklace as a badge of office.

Six weeks after our arrival in the camp, he woke us just before dawn, inviting us out to the meagre camp fire which one of his escort was trying to build up. He had brought some bread and meat; he shared it out and clapped us both on the shoulder.

‘You offered to serve for three months and take a percentage of the spoils?’

‘We have already agreed to that,’ Sobeck replied harshly. I was more cautious, wondering what was behind our rough awakening.

‘As squadron leaders,’ Usurek continued, ‘you will also be paid certain debens of silver from the war chest, but I have done better for you. You have both been raised to the rank of Nesus, bodyguards.’ He handed us small tablets of clay. ‘You will be allowed to enter the fortress. So come, we might as well begin today!’

We seized our passes, each hung on a copper chain, put these over our heads, grabbed our cloaks and followed Usurek up the causeway. A captain of the guard rigorously checked us, searching for any concealed weapons, taking our names, studying us closely in the pool of torchlight. I grinned and joked with Sobeck to hide my nervousness. The inquisitive captain was a Hittite, perhaps some relation to the one Colonel Nebamun had tortured in the cellars of his house. We were allowed to pass. One gate was pulled slightly open, and we slipped through into that grim fortress. It was like entering a small city. A great avenue ran north to south, another east to west, quartering the camp precisely. Tents and bothies were erected in neat lines. At the centre of the camp stood a second ramp and palisade which housed the pavilions of the usurper, his advisers, altars and standards. Usurek found us a place in the eastern quarter: a tent made out of camel skin with some crude bowls, jugs and a cooking pot. Once he was satisfied, we returned to our old place and collected our baggage.

Our duties were not radically changed. We spent our days drilling the recruits, but at night we were expected to do a tour of duty either along the picket lines outside the gates or on the towers or ramparts. I was eager to catch sight of the usurper, but the Sacred Enclosure was closely guarded. Three days later, however, my wish was satisfied. The False Pharaoh decided to ride in glory through the camp to show his face to his faithful followers, a glorious procession preceded by standard-bearers and surrounded by officers and flunkeys. The usurper wore the blue war crown of Egypt, the sacred nenes cloak about his shoulders and a beautiful war kilt girded around his middle, its jaguar tails hanging behind. He drove a splendid chariot of state of blue gold and silver electrum, pulled by pure white Syrian mares, proceeding along the broad avenues of the camp to receive the cheers and acclamations of the soldiers. One glance proved he was a usurper: a tall, angular man with bony body, sharp face and cruel eyes. Of course I had to nose the ground as his chariot passed. I, who had looked upon the face of Akenhaten, could only seethe in anger at the impudent insolence of this pretender. The woman behind him was no better. She was beautiful in a garish sort of way, dressed in white gauffered robes, a crown upon her head. Just for a few seconds, with the swirl of red hair, you thought you might be looking upon Nefertiti, but she too was as false as her husband. Oh, she was beautiful enough, though rather small, plump, lacking any of the beauty or grace of the woman who had haunted my heart, still did and always would.

More interesting were those who followed in the chariots behind. Aziru, Prince of Byblos, resplendent in his jewellery and collars of silver and gold, was dressed as a priest in his long white robe, a striped red and blue cloak about his shoulders. There was a man who reminded me of the Lord Ay, with his long, narrow face and expressive dark eyes. In the chariot beside him were two men I did recognise, the priests Khufu and Djoser, shaven-headed, of medium height, faces heavily oiled, eyes ringed with black kohl, full lips carmined. I had met them in the City of the Aten and always regarded them as two fat priests eager for a profit. Now their plump beringed fingers clutched the chariot rail as they beamed out across the cheering soldiers like Lords of Creation. The cavalcade proved the true source of the usurper’s strength. Apart from the priests, the rest were Canaanites or high-ranking Hittite officers.

Sobeck and I cheered with the rest, and that evening we joined the feasting, filling our cups with spiced wine, our platters heavy with roasted meat. From the Sacred Enclosure drifted the sound of music. Sobeck and I, acting drunkenly, watched as the trays of delicacies — shellfish, fried lotus sprinkled with spices, antelope, hare, partridges, wild calf, as well as bowls of grapes, melons, figs and pomegranates — were taken into the Royal Pavilion where the usurper feasted with his officers.

‘What’s the occasion?’ Sobeck blearily asked Usurek.

‘I have told you not to ask questions,’ the mercenary replied, waving a finger drunkenly. ‘But today is an auspicious day, sacred to the Weather God of the Hittites, and if our master says we feast and celebrate, then we shall feast and celebrate.’

Sobeck and I pretended to be as drunk as the others. We each found a dancing girl and joined in the festivities. Sobeck even agreed to entertain the rest by showing how he could dance on fiery coals without burning his feet. At last the wine had its effect. The music died, the flame torches and fire faded, though even then I noticed that order was strictly maintained. Hittite guards patrolled the camp, sentries were checked, gates reinforced. It must have been in the early hours when Sobeck and I, throwing aside all pretence of drunkenness and gaiety, left our companions in their stupor and found a lonely part of the camp.

‘What can we do?’ Sobeck asked.

‘We can kill the usurper,’ I whispered. ‘The next time he decides to show his face, a well-placed arrow to the throat?’

‘And we receive a nice sharp stake through our arse. Mahu, there is nothing we can do. The usurper and his woman are mere puppets. Kill them and they’ll find someone else.’

Despite my best efforts, I had drunk a lot of wine. I felt sleepy and heavy-eyed.

‘We have to go,’ Sobeck whispered. ‘There’s nothing we can do here. Every day increases the danger. We have the information we need.’

‘No, no.’ I tried to think clearly. ‘The very fact that we are here we can use later. There are two dangers: this army, and Meryre’s faction in Egypt. Both must be destroyed.’

I heard a sound in the darkness. Sobeck tensed. We had gathered in a darkened corner of the fortress near a small postern gate where the rubbish was piled to be taken out each morning. We were well away from the festivities.

‘Is there someone there?’

Sobeck and I got to our feet just as Usurek came staggering out of the darkness, a beer jug in one hand, a cup in the other.

‘Why are you here?’ he demanded.

The way he stood, the sharpness of his question and the way he looked at Sobeck and me showed that he too was not as drunk as he pretended to be. He put the beer jug down on the ground.

‘Why are you here?’ he repeated. ‘Why did you leave the dancing girls to come and talk near a pile of rubbish?’ He sniffed at the stench. ‘I have watched you, you know. When the procession was taking place. You seemed most interested. When you were drinking, I noticed more went on the ground than in your mouths.’

‘We have got a busy day tomorrow.’ Sobeck walked forward. ‘And we have to be ready.’

He moved his hand so fast, Usurek had no time to react. Sobeck plunged his dagger straight into his belly. Usurek tried to stagger back, but Sobeck’s hand went behind his neck, pulling him forward, thrusting the dagger deeper into his belly, pulling him on to it. The mercenary captain, eyes staring, mouth trying to speak, dropped to the ground.

‘I had no choice,’ Sobeck whispered over his shoulder. ‘I thought he was as drunk as the rest. Come, quickly.’ He withdrew his dagger. We took Usurek’s corpse and buried it beneath the rubbish; afterwards, arms round each other’s shoulders, we staggered back to our tent. Once inside, we packed our possessions. I was fearful of what would happen. We couldn’t flee immediately as the gates were guarded and sealed, the curfew imposed. Sobeck whispered that we would leave as early as we could and try to reach the river. He sounded optimistic, but I was more fearful. Usurek was a good officer, a captain as well as a scribe of troops. He had his own retinue and would soon be missed.

I am not given to prayer. I don’t know if the Aten exists, or if Amun-Ra, the Silent One of Thebes, involves himself in the affairs of Man. All that night my soul was haunted by the images of the Field of Fire and the House of Darkness, and I prayed that our lives would not end. For once, perhaps the only time in my life, the Gods seemed to listen. We were roused the next morning by cries and shouts. I thought Usurek’s corpse had been discovered, but instead a wide-eyed herald announced the news that Generals Horemheb and Rameses, together with the Horus and Isis regiments, had entered the Delta and were moving rapidly towards us. Within a day the entire camp would be under attack.