Three days later the Veiled One summoned me and Imri to a meeting out in the garden pavilion. My master was puce with rage. In his hand was a piece of papyrus which he waved in front of our faces. ‘Envoys from the Hittite King are coming to the Divine One’s court! They will be officially received by my father and my mother. Tuthmosis will be there, but I have not been invited.’ He closed the door of the pavilion, his strange eyes bright with anger. I could tell by his jerky movements and slurred speech that he had been drinking. ‘But I shall go.’
He ignored Imri’s gasp of astonishment and gestured with his hand for silence.
‘I shall go! It is but a simple walk away with my guard and household. I,’ he struck his chest, ‘am a Prince of Egypt. I have a right to wear the Uraeus. I have the sacred blood in my veins. I will not be challenged on this!’ He made a cutting movement with his hand. ‘I shall inform God’s Father Hotep,’ he spat the words out, ‘and others at my father’s court that I will make my presence known and show my face to the envoys of the Hittite King!’ He shook his fist. ‘I am not some pet monkey or a bird to be kept in a cage. My days in the shadows are over.’
A week later, on a balmy afternoon when the sun was setting slowly and the mountains to the west of Thebes were undergoing a dazzling change of colour, the Veiled One decided to go hunting. The Nile was full and lush, sweeping majestically, drenching the papyrus groves and bringing its richness to the Black Lands. A soft breeze cooled the sweat and refreshed the soul, and the eye was no longer blinded by the harsh heat and desert dust. The Veiled One decided he would hunt for birds amongst the papyrus reeds. Since his declaration a few days earlier about meeting the Hittite envoys, he had been strangely silent. Now he’d roused himself. He, Imri and I, armed with bow, arrows and throwing sticks would hunt marsh birds in the thickets along the Nile.
The Veiled One dressed simply for the occasion in a long white linen robe, tied round the middle with an embroidered sash, folded so it hung in a brilliant display of colour against the white robe. He wore a straw hat and carried his pet cat which always accompanied him on such trips. Imri advised keeping to the canals along the Nile but the Veiled One was insistent.
‘No, we’ll find more quarry on the river, particularly at this time of day. The birds are heavy and slow-moving.’
We went down. Imri had prepared an imperial skiff with seats in the stern and middle and a small throwing platform in the prow on which the hunter could stand. All three of us were expert with the pole. On this occasion the Veiled One did not immediately go along the jetty where the skiff was lashed but sat cross-legged on a rocky outcrop, face towards the sun, lips moving soundlessly, lost in his own world of prayer. I stared down at the river, still slightly swollen as it swirled by the thick groves of papyrus and overhanging willow trees. This stretch of the river was now fairly deserted, as it usually was just before evening.
‘I am ready!’ The Veiled One opened his eyes: he put on his hat, followed me down the path onto the jetty and into the skiff. As I clambered in after Imri, I noticed the Veiled One was carrying a leather bag which he placed carefully in the stern. I unloosed the rope, Imri grasped the pole and skilfully pushed the boat out into midstream. Occasionally, other craft passed us: fishermen, merchants, and an imperial barge full of soldiers and archers. These were followed by a flotilla of small craft, the statue of some god in the stern. Across the water drifted the smell of incense, the clap of hands and the faint music of the sistra and the lute.
‘Probably taking their god for a swim,’ the Veiled One laughed.
He issued instructions. We headed towards the far side of the Nile and a lush outcrop of water trees, bushes and papyrus groves. Imri looked askance at me. Such places were often the haunt of crocodiles, especially at this time of day, when they’d absorbed the heat of the sun and became more agile and aggressive in hunting their quarry. The Veiled One, however, insisted that Imri find a path through the papyrus groves. As we did so, birds burst from their cover in a brilliant display of plumage. I settled my feet on the shifting platform and loosened my throwing stick. The quarry were easy. Time and again I hit the mark and a plump body would fall in the water. Imri would pole skilfully towards it. I would scoop the bird out, make sure it was dead and place it in the basket. I heard splashes and glimpsed a crocodile, eyes and cruel snout jutting above the water.
‘Master,’ I knelt at the Veiled One’s feet, ‘this is dangerous. We have taken our tally. I think we should return.’
The Veiled One ignored me. ‘Imri, pass me the pole. I’ll show you how it can be done.’ The Veiled One gestured at me to move aside. Imri, his face laced with sweat, handed over the pole. The Veiled One held it as a soldier would a spear, rolling the edge a few inches from Imri’s chest. ‘The Hittite envoys didn’t come to Thebes.’ He picked up the leather bag. ‘Mother has written to me.’
The sweat on the back of my neck grew cold. An ominous silence quietened all sound in the papyrus grove: no more the squawk of birds or the flurry of wings. The barge swayed slightly. Imri the Kushite stood, muscular chest drenched in water, sweat and flecks of mud. He turned his head slightly, his good eye intent on the Veiled One.
‘Master?’ He spoke as if his throat and mouth were dry.
‘They went to Memphis,’ the Veiled One replied casually. ‘Quite a flurry, messengers being sent hither and thither as if my father knew I intended to make a grand entrance. You told him, didn’t you, Imri? You are my father’s spy. Just like you told him when I first met my Baboon here, that morning in the grove when I worshipped the sun. You also discovered the truth about Sobeck. The only time you leave our pavilion is to walk in the gardens. Did you glimpse that stupid girl flitting through the trees with her lover? And what about the tainted wine and the figs with the vipers in it? Or that day down near the river when the madman attacked me? You were in charge of my guard — that’s your duty! You weren’t there that day, were you? If it hadn’t been for the Baboon, I would be no more.’
The Kushite made to step forward but the Veiled One held the pole secure, moving it like a sword.
‘You are a traitor, Imri. A spy. You are an assassin who does not know how my Father protects me.’ The Veiled One’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘My true Father. He has revealed the treachery of your heart, the evil you plot, the malice you nourish.’
‘I … I …’ the Kushite stammered.
‘I … I what?’ the Veiled One mimicked. ‘What next, Imri? A knife in the dark?’
Something bumped into our barge, making it sway dangerously. I stared around. A crocodile, its eyes above the water, was floating like a log almost aware of what was happening though I knew he had been attracted by the cry of the birds and their corpses falling into the water.
‘Oh Imri,’ the Veiled One clicked his tongue. ‘Go back to where you came from!’
The pole came down but then, with surprising speed, the Veiled One thrust it forward even as Imri’s hand went to the dagger in his belt. He was too slow. The pole caught him a tremendous blow on the side of his head. He staggered, swayed and fell into the water. Immediately my master seized one of the birds we had caught, slit its twisted neck and threw it into the water even as he grasped the pole. I knelt terrified, gripping the seat as the Veiled One, feet apart, drove the pole into the water, moving the barge swiftly back through the reeds. Imri, half-stunned, flailed and screamed. The barge moved quickly but Imri recovered his wits and, aware of the danger, tried to swim, not to the bank but towards us, his dark, scarred face twisted, his one eye full of fear and fury.
The Veiled One had calculated well. Even as the barge raced away I could see the pool of blood forming on the water, the body of the duck half-submerged sending out the delicious tang of ripe meat and fresh blood. The papyrus groves seemed to heave as if some hideous beast was preparing to emerge. I glimpsed the tail of a crocodile, two, three heads emerging above the water. Imri was swimming towards us, no more than a yard away, face tight with determination. The water moved, a slight wave. Imri screamed, coming out of the water, chest well above it, then he was dragged down. Again he emerged as the crocodile seized him, turning and twisting under the water, dragging him beneath the surface. The creature was soon joined by others. The river beyond the papyrus grove was turning into a scene of frenzied activity, the water chopping, Imri’s body spinning, the emerging snouts of other crocodiles. One last carrying, hideous scream, the water turning red — and then silence.