The Season of the Hyaena (Ancient Egyptian Mysteries) (39 page)
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Authors: Paul Doherty
BOOK: The Season of the Hyaena (Ancient Egyptian Mysteries)
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Nefertiti had planned well. A concealed pit, a trip line, razor-sharp points embedded in the floor and baskets of vipers to turn the chamber into their own nest. I ordered more fire to be brought so that every inch of the floor of that concealed chamber was purified. Whilst the flames roared, we withdrew to the entrance, the smoke billowing out behind us. The news of our terrifying find had quickly spread. Pentju and others came hurrying up the cliff paths to discover what was happening. Once the flames had died down, we returned to the gap; part of the roof, deliberately weakened, had also come crashing down.
‘
Kheb
,
kheb
,’ Pentju breathed. ‘A trap within a trap. Why, Mahu? What does the sarcophagus contain?’
Kheb
,
kheb
,’ Pentju breathed. ‘A trap within a trap. Why, Mahu? What does the sarcophagus contain?’
‘I don’t know,’ I smiled grimly, ‘but I am determined to find out.’
Once the fire was out and the chamber cooled, I climbed over, stout marching boots on my feet. Armed with a sword, a club thrust in the sash round my robe, I clambered down on to the freshly placed plank, moving cautiously, ignoring the chatter of the others behind me. I edged across the floor until I reached the sarcophagus, and grasped it, my hands protected by the thick leather gauntlets the overseer had warned me to wear. I felt tentatively beneath its rim. Here, too, razor-sharp pieces of copper and bronze had been embedded. I carefully walked round the sarcophagus. It was at least a yard and a half high and about two yards across. I crouched down and ran my hands across the surface. I made out the hieroglyphs cut into the quartzite: an owl, a human hand and arm, a pool of water above a mouth sign, a lion at rest, a quail chick under the night sky, a broken sceptre, a loop of cord over a water ripple. The inscription contained a dire curse: anyone who tampered with this sarcophagus would be cursed by the Gods from morning till evening and know no peace for his soul. I was already cursed, so I didn’t care.
The others now joined me, Pentju included. The workmen brought mallets and crowbars and, after a great deal of exertion, broke free the lid. We pushed it to one side and it crashed to the ground, splitting as it bounced against the nearby wall. The coffin inside was a work of art, its blue-gold dazzling in the torchlight. The death mask was that of a Pharaoh, with brilliant dark blue faience serving as the eyes. The sarcophagus contained no traps, but nothing to indicate what it actually held.
It took us two days to remove the coffin from its concealed chamber and take it out to a waiting cart. I realised the casket would contain others within it, so I ordered it to be taken into the palace and kept in a small garden temple carefully guarded by my mercenaries. I decided not to investigate immediately. On that same day, a flotilla of barges arrived from Thebes to take the other coffers and treasure back along the river to the Necropolis in the Valley of the Kings. It took most of the day and late into the evening to load the barges, the coffins being received by officials wearing the black and gold jackal masks of Anubis. An eerie sight, as darkness fell: priests and guards in their hideous masks, torches lit, the evening air full of the smell of incense and the mournful song of the funeral march. The crowds were kept away. Only Pentju and our mercenary officers were on the quayside to watch that sombre procession leave, boat after boat, each carrying coffins, caskets and hoards of treasure.
The chief mortuary priest had informed me how the new tombs had been prepared in the Valley of the Nobles and the Valley of the Kings, but that would not be enough. Other royal graves had been opened, so coffins could be placed there as a temporary measure. At the time I did not care what the Lord Ay had arranged. I was more concerned with my own discovery, which I kept secret from Lord Ay’s spies. The next morning I began the grim task of opening the coffins. The first was quite easy; it contained a second within, again a work of art, its gesso overlaid with gold leaf and blue faience studded with precious jewels. The mask was that of a Pharaoh with features similar to those of Akenhaten’s elder brother Tuthmosis. I realised that whoever had supervised this burial had plundered the royal storerooms for the coffins and funeral paraphernalia. I was assisted by my overseer and two of his workmen, who were both sworn and bribed to secrecy, whilst Pentju, as a physician, was also ready to help. He had already pointed out that neither the funeral chamber nor the sarcophagus contained any treasure. More importantly, the four canopic jars were missing: the sacred vessels, their lids carved in the shape of the head of a God, which were supposed to hold the preserved entrails of the dead person.
The second coffin was much more difficult to prise open. So much embalming resin had been used that the lid stuck and we had to use crowbars, hammers and chisels to break it free. It revealed a corpse bound in funeral cloths held in place by tight cords. The cloth and cords had turned black due to the embalming resin which had been poured in. The corpse itself was shrunken and shrivelled, the heart plucked out, the skin stone dry, the bones so brittle they crumbled in our hands. The eyes had also been removed but no jewels or precious stones placed there.
‘Whoever did this,’ Pentju observed, ‘did not wish this man well.’
At first I had been fearful that these were the remains of Akenhaten. The corpse was that of a tall, broad-shouldered man. However, the face and head, completely shaven, betrayed none of the tell-tale features of a man I had served since childhood, and there were no inscriptions, no marks, nothing to indicate who this dead person had been.
‘He certainly wasn’t loved by those who buried him,’ Pentju repeated. He tapped the desiccated stomach and pointed to the embalmer’s long incisions on the left side. ‘The belly was opened and the entrails removed, but they weren’t buried with him in canopic jars; they were probably burned. The heart has been removed, the eyes not replaced, so he will not be able to find his way through the Underworld.’
‘Who?’ I asked. ‘Who could it be?’
Pentju inspected the corpse noting the high cheekbones in the long skull, and the thigh and feet bones.
‘He was not a courtier,’ he declared, ‘but someone who walked a great deal over rough terrain so the soles of his feet became coarsened.’
‘Why is the corpse so dry?’ I asked.
‘Because he was buried in haste,’ Pentju replied. ‘The usual period for embalmment is seventy days; that’s how long it takes to dry out a corpse. However, if you place the cadaver into a bath of natron, specially strengthened, the process is quickened. This is the result. Skin dry as a dead leaf, bones as brittle as stale bread.’
I now became aware of the rather vile odour seeping from the grisly remains: a mixture of natron, embalming perfume and that foul stench of corruption which Pentju claimed was the result of the corpse not being properly cleaned before being sealed into its coffin. We inspected both the corpse and the two coffins, but could find no clue. I ordered the remains to be gathered together, the second coffin placed back inside the first, which was to be resealed, whilst the small temple was to be fumigated and doused in perfume.
‘What will you do?’ Pentju asked as we left.
I told the captain of the guard to maintain a close watch and led my physician friend across to the Pool of Purity, where we stripped and bathed. Pentju repeated his question as we clambered out, drying ourselves with the towels servants brought, together with fresh robes I had ordered from the palace.
‘What shall we do, Pentju? We shall reflect. That secret chamber was definitely built by Nefertiti, the sarcophagus probably intended for her husband. The coffins and the death masks are from the royal storerooms. I suspect Nefertiti intended to proclaim herself as Pharaoh and to use that corpse, claiming it to be her husband. If she had established her rule, if the coup had not taken place, Nefertiti would have arranged a state funeral, a mockery of a public ceremony, to quell all rumours about her husband still being alive. I don’t think she intended to bury him here but arrange some solemn flotilla which would have taken his coffin back to join those of his ancestors in the city of Thebes. Don’t forget, Pentju, in the early years of his reign Akenhaten did order a tomb for himself in the Valley of the Kings.’
At first Pentju disagreed, but reluctantly he conceded that my theory might be correct.
‘I just wonder,’ he added wryly, ‘how much of this the Lord Ay knew.’
‘More important,’ I replied, ‘whom did she kill? When Khufu confessed, he declared he’d heard a hideous scream from the imperial quarters, as if someone was being murdered. I suspect we have found Nefertiti’s victim.’
Three days later, whilst I was still wondering what to do with the corpse and its coffins, Sobeck arrived in the City of the Aten, accompanied by what he called his ‘retinue’, a gang of the most ruthless ruffians from the slums of Thebes. He came to the palace and demanded an audience. When we met, he clasped my hand and embraced me warmly, kissing me on each cheek.
‘You should be careful, Mahu,’ he whispered, his lips next to my ear. ‘The Lord Ay’s power grows. He’s making himself a king in Thebes.’
‘And you?’ I asked, stepping back.
He spread his hands. ‘I have been pardoned. I have now been proclaimed “Great Friend of the Royal Circle”. My sins, although scarlet, are washed away. I have been appointed Overseer of the Imperial Granaries in Eastern and Western Thebes. I have also been given a mansion standing in its own fertile grounds near the Great Mooring Place only a mile from the Temple of Luxor.’ He let his hands drop. ‘The mansion once belonged to one of Meryre’s supporters; Maya tells me he won’t be needing it any more.’
He then related the rest of the gossip of the city. Now and again he’d turn to look back down the garden to where his retinue rested in the shade of fruit trees, filling their stomachs, quenching their thirst and teasing the maids.
‘Why did you tell me to be careful of Ay?’
‘Because, Mahu, Prince Tutankhamun gets older by the day. Soon he will be of age to marry, be crowned Pharaoh. He will no longer need a guardian or a protector.’
I leaned back to catch the shade of the alcove we were sitting in.
‘He will still need a friend, Sobeck.’
‘Ah yes, but our lord Ay will also decide that. Is the Lady Ankhesenamun well?’
‘Flirtatious as ever.’
‘Do you see the letters she sends her grandfather?’
‘Yes, and his replies. My scribes are very good at removing sealing wax and reimposing it so no one can notice. She gives him the chatter of this city. He provides her with the gossip of Thebes. I know, and they know that I know. Yet,’ I grinned, ‘they are also communicating in a secret code, one I can’t break. I suspect the messages she sends are all about the Prince and whatever mischief Ay might be stirring up in this dying city.’
‘Is it dying?’ Sobeck asked. ‘The streets seemed to be lively with trade. The quaysides are busy.’
‘For a while,’ I replied. ‘But when the Prince leaves, the heart of this city will stop beating. Within five years it will be a ruin.’
‘I have heard all about the removal of the coffins.’ Sobeck tapped the nail of his thumb against his teeth. ‘Ay tried to keep it a secret, but such a funeral flotilla cannot be missed. Anyway,’ he grinned, ‘did you discover anything of interest?’
I told him about the secret chamber, the traps it contained and the mysterious corpse concealed in its splendid coffins.
‘And I have brought you some help.’ Sobeck stood up. ‘I always read your letters intently.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You don’t think I came just to see your ugly face?’ He winked at me. ‘I have brought you a gift. The embalmer, the one they call the Stammerer.’
Akesi
(Ancient Egyptian for ‘a region unknown even to the Gods’)
(Ancient Egyptian for ‘a region unknown even to the Gods’)
‘My lord, my lord Mahu?’
The chamberlain of the Palace of the Aten, a pompous little man, came waddling up the path, clutching his robes lest they be caught by the bushes on either side.
‘My lord,’ he repeated, ‘that overseer, the one with the dust all over him.’ I sprang to my feet. ‘He’s at the palace gate. He demands to see you. He’s most insistent.’
I gestured at Sobeck to follow. The overseer was in the porter’s lodge, breathing hard in his agitation.
‘My lord,’ he gasped, ‘we were working in the gallery of the Royal Tomb. You’ve got to come.’
We hurriedly left the palace along the great eastern road, past the temples, through the market squares, up the dusty chariot paths and into the enclosure before the Royal Tomb. Mercenaries and workers milled about the entrance. They stood aside as the overseer led us through, down the steps and along the passageway. The secret chamber was on our right, but the overseer led us a further twenty paces and stopped where he’d placed a pole against the wall.
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