The frieze on my wine cup, a Libyan being chased by Saluki hounds, seemed to come to life in the flickering light of the oil lamps.
‘A gardener,’ I mused, ‘who owns a precious ruby, kills a priest to take his place. How do you think he inveigled that priest away from the rest?’
‘Some of the shaven heads have exotic tastes,’ Sobeck retorted. ‘But whoever bought him — I mean the gardener — was quite prepared to sacrifice him. I suspect,’ Sobeck popped the ruby into his leather pouch, ‘that given time, the real assassin would have had the gardener disposed of and the ruby taken back. I mean, once the wearer of the striped robe was killed.’
‘Who,’ Djarka asked, ‘is this real assassin?’
‘Ankhesenamun calls me the Striped Hyaena,’ I whispered.
‘Beware of the woman from outside,’ Sobeck intoned a maxim of the scribe Ani, ‘who is not known in the city. She is a water deep and boundless.’ He wagged a finger in my face. ‘Beware of such a woman.’
‘Many thanks for the advice. Oh, by the way, Djarka, the painting of the pelicans in the House of Adoration? Have it changed tomorrow; remove the scene of the fowler and his net.’
mesu-hesui
(Ancient Egyptian for ‘terror-stricken beings’)
Chapter 3
I went along a painted corridor deep into the palace. The windows on either side overlooked the gardens, but these had been ill-tended and the stench of corrupt vegetation blended with the fragrance of the flowers. Nakhtimin’s mercenaries stood on guard in alcoves and recesses. From the courtyard below I heard a servant recite the curse against crocodiles; these river beasts sometimes followed the irrigation canals into the palace, where they’d lurk amongst the bushes and shrubbery. The chilling, ominous prayer wafted up:
I crossed a courtyard blazing with light; guards stood aside, copper-plated doors swung open. I entered the women’s quarters, at the centre of which lay Ankhesenamun’s chambers, with their red and yellow lotus pillars, floors of polished tile and walls decorated with the most vivid paintings. Flunkies, servants and officials lounged about: the Director of Her Highness’ Nail-Doers, Chief of the Scented Oils and Perfumes, Holder of the Imperial Sandals, Keeper of the Jewellery, Master of the Cloths, all eunuchs with the bulging belly and breasts of pregnant women. They gossiped and moved around in a swirl of perfume, all officious, pretending to be busy. A cat chased a black and white monkey, which scampered up a pillar screeching in annoyance. A blind harpist, dead-eyed, plucked at strings. Dancing girls and acrobats in beaded, fringed loincloths, bodies coated in perfumed sweat, hair piled high in bound cord, were trying to clear a space to practise their skill, whilst flirting with the burly mercenary officers.
I went through more doorways, their lintels and pillars carved with lacework inscriptions, into a small room which served as a chapel where a group of shaven-headed priests garbed in panther skins lit bowls of incense before a statue of the Pharaoh Tuthmosis. This was once the heart of the Great Palace of Amenhotep the Magnificent, Ankhesenamun’s grandfather, who loved to collect pottery and vases of cobalt blue and delighted in covering the walls with the symbol of every deity of Egypt: the goose of Amun, the bull of Ptah, the goat of Osiris, the ram of Khnum. The air was sweet from fat drenched in perfume and the scent of countless flower baskets, as well as the incense smoke from the small thuribles glowing in the corners. A chamberlain stopped me outside the Painted Chamber. He knocked and led me in. I flinched at the heady perfume whilst my bare feet felt the lapis lazuli dust strewn on the floor. Caskets and coffers lay about, lids open. Lamps and candles glowed, glittering on the robes piled in a heap. A pet goose screeched whilst a monkey squatting on a table devoured a plum, its juices dribbling down on to the floor. On either side of the curtain were two black wooden busts of Akenhaten, their eyes of jasper peering sightlessly into the darkness, a reminder of his presence which caused a shift amongst the shadows in my soul. The carved face, in the light of the oil lamps glowing beneath, exuded an eerie life of its own, as if still possessed by the power of that mysterious Pharaoh.
The chamberlain bowed towards the busts, then pulled the curtains aside. Ankhesenamun was sitting on a high stool circled by oil lamps. She was naked except for a loincloth, a see-through veil thrown across her shoulders. She was being anointed on her face and head by her friend and constant companion Amedeta, who served as her principal lady-in-waiting. In looks, they were almost similar. Amedeta was slightly older, yet she had the same sensuous face, sloe eyes and pretty mouth. She was dressed in a diaphanous robe and floated around Ankhesenamun grasping an unguent jar carved in the shape of two chickens trussed for sacrifice. She moved silently, body swaying beneath the robe, the heavy tresses of her perfumed wig almost shrouding her face, around her throat a silver necklace. She and Ankhesenamun were murmuring to each other. As I approached, they began to recite a love poem aloud, beautiful lilting voices mouthing the words together:
When they had finished the poem, Amedeta continued her anointing whilst Ankhesenamun stared out through the window as if listening to the sounds of the night. I heard the rattle of a chain and glanced to the corner; it was only her trained cheetah stirring in its sleep. I coughed and stepped forward. Ankhesenamun turned. I had to remind myself that she was only a girl between fourteen and fifteen summers, for in the oil lamp she looked a beautiful, sensuous woman with those heavy-lidded eyes, her lips parted.
‘Why, Mahu, Baboon of the South! Why are you here so late at night?’
Amedeta had moved so her back was towards me. I could tell she was laughing quietly to herself.
‘And how is His Majesty?’
‘He sleeps.’
‘Why are you here, Baboon of the South?’
‘I prefer that title, Your Highness, to the Striped Hyaena.’
Ankhesenamun laughed and whispered to Amedeta. The lady-in-waiting turned, smiling seductively over her shoulder at me. She put down the oil jar and slipped from the chamber.
‘Well, Mahu, why are you truly here?’
‘The Shabtis of Akenhaten.’
‘What Shabtis?’
‘Do not act the innocent with me. You know what happened.’
‘I know Rahmose was killed and his assassin now hangs from the Wall of Death.’
‘Rahmose was wearing my cloak.’
‘So?’
‘I was the intended victim.’
‘You don’t really believe that?’
Ankhesenamun got off the stool and came towards me. She pulled the gauze-like shawl tighter about her, which served only to emphasise her full breasts, their nipples painted in gold.
‘Would you like me to dance for you, Uncle Mahu?’ She stretched out her arm, clicking her fingers, and moved rhythmically, languorously, little steps, hips swaying.