Chanting a hymn, the Veiled One poled us further and further away from that macabre scene. At last we were midstream. He kicked me gently in the ribs. I clambered to my feet and grasped the pole, while my master retook his seat in the stern. ‘We have hunted and we have killed, Mahu,’ he murmured. ‘Now let us go home.’
Once back at the Silent Pavilion I announced the tragic death of Imri. Both my master and I adopted the usual rites of mourning, tearing our garments, throwing ashes on our heads, abstaining from food. We kept to our own quarters though we continued to meet secretly. My master betrayed no compunction or regret. ‘I prayed, Mahu, to my Father, and he, who knows all things and sees all things, even the innermost secrets of the heart, told me that Imri must die.’
I bit my tongue and curbed my curiosity. The Veiled One sitting before me ran a finger through the ash which stained his cheek.
‘You are going to ask why.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘The answer came to me in prayer.’
I did not argue. In my view Imri was a traitor, an assassin. It was simply a matter of choice between his life and ours.
‘But that is not the end, is it, Mahu? Come, don’t sit there staring at me like a wise monkey on a branch! What does your teeming brain tell you?’
‘That Imri was not alone.’
‘Why do you say that?’
We were seated in the garden of the pavilion. I went out, gazed around and came back closing the door behind me.
‘Imri never went very far. Therefore, in this group, there must be others who carried messages, who advised and counselled him.’
‘Good. Good!’
‘If one fig is rotten,’ I continued, ‘the rest of the basket is tainted.’
‘And how many are in the basket, Mahu?’
‘Eight guards, all Kushites. They have served you how long?’
The Veiled One pulled a face. ‘Seven or eight years. They will continue to serve me.’ He looked at me from under his eyebrows. ‘Why, what are you saying, Mahu? If there are further problems, you must resolve them.’ He flicked his fingers. ‘Do whatever you have to.’
I mingled with the Kushite guard. They had their own barracks and lived their life separate from the rest of the household. Battle-hardened, scarred veterans, Imri’s death had disturbed them. I joined them one night out in the courtyard where they held their own ceremony of remembrance, offering wine, fruits and meats before a crudely carved statue, chanting hymns in their own tongue. I felt uncomfortable. They demanded details on how Imri had died and, of course, I described it as a most unfortunate accident. How we had entered the papyrus grove and aroused the crocodiles. They shook their heads at this. ‘But Imri was a skilled hunter,’ one of them declared. ‘He hunted along the river many a time. He knew its waters and the ways of such beasts.’
I could only shrug and say that even the most cunning of hunters make mistakes. I elaborated the story: how both I and my master had attempted to save him but the crocodiles, made ravenous by the birds we had brought down, had decided to attack — an event not unknown along the river. Nevertheless their suspicions were aroused. I could tell by the shifting eyes, the fleeting expressions. Imri’s death would not solve the problem. He would soon be replaced by another. I studied the Kushites and the rest of our household, absorbing every detail, observing habits and relationships. The Kushites not only kept to themselves but treated the rest of the servants, the Rhinoceri, the disfigured men and women who worked in the kitchens and elsewhere, with contempt. A deep antipathy existed between these two groups. The servants had all been chosen because of their disfigurement. The Kushites, however, saw themselves as warriors, their wounds as trophies of battle; they refused to be associated with common criminals and felons. The Rhinoceri lived in their own quarters. Some were married, others led a fairly lonely existence: unless they had the Kushites to guard them, they would not dare to enter the city or even the shabby markets which did thriving business along the riverside.
One of these Rhinoceri caught my attention: their undoubted leader, a young man of about my own age called Snefru, who acted as overseer of the stables. He was burly, with deepset eyes in a hard, disfigured face, a man quick with his fists though he still had a reputation for fairness amongst the others. He attempted to keep his own self-respect and dignity, shaving his head, being careful about his appearance as if to make up for the horrid scar which ran down the centre of his face where his nose and upper lip had been. He was very good with the horses, vigilant over their health and wellbeing. Their bedding, food and water were always rigorously checked, whilst he was skilled as any horse leech in dealing with colic or a myriad of the other minor ailments horses could suffer from.
Snefru would sit, eat and drink with the rest of the men in the cool of the evening, yet before doing so, he would always ensure he changed his leather kilt for a tattered but clean robe, scrupulously washing his hands and face in water mixed with salt. At first I studied him from afar but, with our common interest in horses, I soon learned his story. He had been a scribe of the stables in a military barracks on the far side of Thebes. His father, mother and sister had all died of the fever which often rages amongst the huddled tenements of those artisans in their mud-bricked houses beyond the walls.
‘I could not afford the fees for the embalmers,’ Snefru confided, brushing the flanks of a horse. ‘And so I became desperate. I thought the stable would not miss a horse. One night I took one out and sold it to a party of Desert Wanderers. They, in turn, were stopped by the Medjay. The horse carried markings. They were killed and I was arrested. The only reason I escaped with my life,’ he spread his strong, muscular arms, ‘was because of my skill with horses.’ He gestured at the scar. ‘The executioner was clumsy. He removed my nose and part of my lip. I was banished to the village of the Rhinoceri. I stayed there for two years until royal heralds arrived. They were looking for skilled men to work here. I produced my record.’ He shrugged. ‘And I’ve been here ever since.’
‘Are you a soldier, Snefru?’ I found it hard not to look at that gruesome scar, almost as if his face was cut into two by a dark shadow. The ‘wound’ on his lip made him stumble over certain words.
‘I have served in the levy,’ he replied. ‘On one occasion I even served as a driver in a chariot.’
‘But not like the brave Kushites?’ I lowered my voice.
‘Oh, them.’ Snefru came round the horse. Crouching down, he picked up its hind leg to scrutinise the hoof.
‘Yes — what about them?’ I squatted down with him.
‘They are arrogant and cruel.’ Snefru’s eyes held mine. ‘But so are you, sir. You are the master’s shadow. Yet, over the last few days, you keep appearing here, offering me wine and bread, drawing me into conversation. You want something? I don’t know what. You have no strange tastes. You are not fascinated by my disfigurement.’ His tongue licked the corner of his mouth. ‘And now we talk about the Kushites whose Captain, Imri, died so mysteriously in the crocodile pool. What is it you want?’
I got to my feet. ‘I don’t like stables,’ I grinned, ‘but the evening is cool, the stars are out.’