Paul Doherty - The Season of the Hyaena

‘Uncle Mahu!’

‘I have come to check the oil lamps, Your Highness.’

‘I am afraid.’ The boy knelt on the bed, hands clasped together.

‘You are not afraid.’ I sat down beside him and felt his forehead. It was cool. ‘You are telling me stories,’ I smiled, ‘to make me stay.’ I picked up the goblet of green faience on the nearby table, sniffed and tasted the pure water. ‘Djarka will come and sleep in your chamber,’ I murmured. I pointed to the small gong hanging from one of the bedposts. ‘What do you do if you are really frightened?’

Again that beautiful smile, and his little hands stole beneath the headrest and pulled out a small hammer, which he shook vigorously.

‘I hit it, Uncle Mahu, I hit it hard!’

‘Good.’ I cupped his cheek in one hand. ‘And remember, Your Highness,’ I kissed him gently on the forehead, ‘I am not your uncle.’

‘Yes, Uncle Mahu. Have you come to tell me a story?’

‘Not tonight.’ I grinned. ‘But perhaps in the morning I’ll tell you about the brave deeds of Ahmose, your ancestor, who drove the Hyksos from Egypt with fire and sword.’

‘I know all his deeds.’

‘Do you now? And can you count? Do you remember your numbers? How many are in a shet?’

‘One hundred, Uncle Mahu.’ The boy clapped his hands.

‘And how many shets in a kha?’

‘Er …’ His face was all screwed up. ‘A kha is a thousand, so there must be ten.’

‘And the God Shu? What is the hieroglyph for him?’

‘A man with a plume on his head, or sometimes a man with the head of a lion.’

‘Good! Good!’ I whispered.

‘Do you love me, Uncle Mahu?’

‘Of course I do. Why shouldn’t I?’

‘Ankhes …’ Tutankhamun always stumbled over his half-sister’s name, so he had taken to using the shortened form. ‘Ankhes says you love nobody.’

I stared at the little boy dressed in his shift, head slightly to one side, waiting eagerly for my reply. I kissed him on the forehead.

‘Sometimes, Your Highness, I find it difficult to love, but you are different.’

‘Did you love my father?’

‘Of course.’

‘And my mother?’

I recalled the small, black-eyed Khiya, the Mitanni princess whom Nefertiti had nicknamed the Monkey.

‘A great lady, Your Highness, and one I loved.’

‘Ankhes says you do not speak with true voice.’

‘That is so of everyone except yourself, Your Highness. Nevertheless, I swear that when I speak to you it will always be with true voice.’

Tutankhamun flung his arms round my neck.

‘Ankhes,’ he whispered in my ear, ‘does say you are the best of all.’

‘The best of what, Your Highness?’

‘The best amongst the hyaenas!’ he whispered.

I felt cold, and slowly withdrew. The little fellow smiled up at me, face eager for my reply. His innocence disturbed me. I stared around. I had done my best to make the chamber comfortable. The walls had been washed and repainted with country scenes: a fowler out with his nets, birds and insects, including a locust of pinkish-yellow hue resting on a light papyrus stem. Above this, birds flew with widespread gorgeous wings against a dark green sky. A dove with bulging throat cooed over a golden nest containing a silver egg. Next to it, a group of pelicans, father, mother and brood of young, advanced unknowing towards the fowler’s net. I felt a surge of depression. I had tried to make this chamber pleasant for the boy, with its countless niches for oil lamps in coloured glass which would glow all night. Nevertheless, the sight of those pelicans advancing unsuspecting towards the net held by the fowler, with his unshaven face and red-ochre skin, now seemed sinister. I recalled the assassin.

‘Go to sleep, little one,’ I whispered. I made the boy lie down and pulled up the sheets.

‘Will you tell me a story?’ Tutankhamun asked sleepily. ‘Ankhes says you are a hunter, the Striped Hyaena.’

A shiver, as if some evil spirit crawled over my shoulder, made me start. I gently pressed his hand.

‘Is that what she calls me, Your Highness, the Striped Hyaena?’

‘Of course, Uncle Mahu, because of your cloak.’

I recalled Rahmose all a-sweat, the kohl rings round his eyes running in dark rivulets, my cloak about him, striding across the courtyard, the assassin streaking like a flame to kill him. Tutankhamun was asking me more questions, but I gently chided him and began to hum a song Djarka had taught me, a lullaby shepherds would sing to their flocks.

I waited until the boy was asleep, then left looking for Djarka and Sobeck. They were sitting with our men in a nearby courtyard. A Nubian mercenary was entertaining them, dancing to the eerie sound of the flute and tambourine, arms moving rhythmically, body swaying in fluttering steps. He was dressed in a loincloth beneath a thin linen robe. In the light from the torches he too looked threatening, with his cropped head, huge earrings, necklace and beads, a leopard skin hanging about his arms: a spirit of the night dancing round the pools of light! The shadows fluttered as if the ghosts of the dead had come back to mimic the actions of the dancer. I felt uneasy, and sharply asked Sobeck and Djarka to accompany me back to the House of Adoration. My own chamber lay next to the Prince’s; its windows were unshuttered to allow in the fragrance of the gardens, braziers and oil lamps glowed warmly against the cold night air. Djarka scrutinised the wine jug and filled three goblets, a sweet-tasting white wine from the imperial vineyards to the north.

‘You have eaten, my lord?’ He squatted next to Sobeck. I leaned back against the cushions.

‘My belly is full because my heart aches.’

‘Poetry?’ Sobeck teased.

‘The truth,’ I replied. I told them what had happened in the council chamber; the threats posed by the usurper, now crowing like a cock on his dunghill at Avaris. As I spoke, I watched Sobeck. He lived closer to the crocodile pool than I; he was often the first to pick up rumours and gossip. Yet he too was surprised. He sat, face tight, eyes narrowed, whistling under his breath as he shook his head at the news.

‘Could it be Akenhaten?’ he demanded.

‘What do you think?’ I turned to Djarka.

Perhaps it was talking to the young Prince, feeling his soft cheek, yet I noticed that evening how my friend, my servant, had aged. Furrows marked his mouth, his eyes were tired, there was an ashy tinge to his night-black hair. Djarka had not forgotten. He had never truly reconciled himself to the death of his beloved a few years earlier.

‘Djarka, you are of the Shemsu? Those who wander the desert.’

‘As is Ay.’ Djarka smiled. ‘As was his sister, Great Queen Tiye. All those who come from the town of Akhmin were once wanderers from Canaan.’

‘And my question …’

‘I know your question, master.’ Djarka’s voice was sardonic. ‘Did Akenhaten go out into the desert to meet these people? Did they spirit him away?’

‘And the treasure?’

‘I certainly remember the priests, Khufu and Djoser.’ Djarka sipped at his wine. ‘And the other chapel priests. They were fanatics, true servants of Aten. They may have taken the treasure and followed their master.’

‘But why?’ Sobeck asked. ‘Why leave the power and the glory of Egypt for some village in Canaan? It’s more likely Akenhaten became a recluse, or his own priests murdered him!’

‘And you have heard nothing about this impostor?’ I asked.

‘I am a Lord of the Darkness,’ Sobeck retorted. ‘My kingdom is not your kingdom, Mahu. However, I drink your wine — so don’t distrust me, Baboon of the South. I stand and fall with you. I knew nothing of this! So, what will happen now?’