Paul Doherty - An Evil Spirit Out of the West

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.