The Mask of Ra Page 4

  ‘Your charioteer lied,’ Sethos added. ‘And he is now in a prison camp in the Red Lands. He will stay there for the rest of his life and reflect on his lies though, of course, he must be praised for his loyalty.’

  ‘You are guilty,’ Amerotke stated. ‘Will you lie to the gods? Your soul is soon to be weighed in the scales against Ma’ at’s feather of truth.’

  The prisoner sighed. ‘I killed my wife yet I loved her,’ he confessed, ‘more than life itself. You know what it’s like, sirs, to gaze into a woman’s eyes, to hear her lips say she loves you while, in your heart of hearts, you know she is lying?’

  ‘Sentence must be carried out!’ the executioner growled.

  The prisoner turned. ‘Then hand me the cup.’

  The executioner picked up the deep greenstone bowl, its edge rimmed with gold, and handed it to him.

  ‘What am I to do?’

  ‘Nothing,’ the executioner replied softly, ‘except drink!’

  ‘And then?’ A note of nervousness entered the condemned man’s voice.

  ‘As soon as you have drunk all the wine, walk about until you find your legs become weary, then lie down upon the bed.’

  The condemned man took the bowl without any emotion, his eyes fixed on Amerotke. He raised it in silent toast and, throwing back his head, drank the poisoned wine.

  Amerotke repressed a chill. It was always the same. Most condemned drank the potion as if in a trance, resigning themselves to the approaching darkness. He quietly prayed the executioner had done his job properly, that the wine was heavily tinged with poison so there’d be no clumsiness, no prolongation of the agony. Amerotke glanced down at the floor. It was said that men like this condemned officer, stripped of the cares of life, could see hidden truths. Had he glimpsed something in Amerotke’s eyes? Did he know that the judge who had condemned him also had a soul tortured by suspicions that his beautiful wife had loved, perhaps still did, another man? And how, on this very day, Amerotke would sit in judgement on this former lover Meneloto, captain of the guard, accused of criminal negligence in the care of his beloved Pharaoh? Amerotke broke from his reverie as Sethos cleared his throat. The eyes and ears of Pharaoh spread his feet as if to ease his own tension. The prisoner was walking up and down, the chains clinking, like the rattle of some priest ushering him towards the darkness.

  ‘I feel weary!’ the man gasped. He lay down on the bed. ‘I cannot feel my feet!’

  The executioner took the man’s sandals off and pressed his toes. He did the same to his legs and thighs.

  ‘Cold and stiff,’ the condemned man whispered. ‘Death’s water creeping up my body. Make sure my debts are paid.’

  ‘It shall be done,’ Amerotke replied.

  One of the functions of the court was seizure of this man’s wealth and property and the settlement of any claims before it was handed over to the House of Silver, Pharaoh’s treasury.

  On the bed the man convulsed, his body arched and lay still. The executioner pressed his hand against his neck.

  ‘The life pulse has gone,’ he declared.

  Amerotke sighed.

  ‘Pharaoh’s justice has been done,’ Sethos stated.

  He bowed and, followed by Amerotke, left the death house and walked along the corridor to where Azural and Prenhoe were waiting. Only when they had climbed the steps and were back in the small forecourt did Sethos clasp Amerotke’s wrist.

  ‘And how is the lady Norfret?’

  ‘She is well.’

  ‘Black are her tresses, as black as the night,’ Sethos quoted from a poem. ‘Black as the wine grapes the clusters on her hair.’

  ‘She’s as beautiful as ever,’ Amerotke laughed, hoping the keen eyes of his friend and colleague would not catch any glimpse of hurt.

  ‘Both she and you were friends of Meneloto?’

  ‘As always, my lord Sethos, you come abruptly to the point. Meneloto was once my house guest. Later today I sit in judgement on him.’

  ‘You have read the evidence I have submitted?’

  Sethos lifted his small hand-fan and cooled his face, his eyes scrutinising Amerotke carefully. Does he know? Amerotke wondered. Can the eyes and ears of Pharaoh even learn the secrets of the bedchamber? Or the troubles of the heart?

  Sethos glanced over his shoulder at Asural and Prenhoe then gently ushered Amerotke closer to the small fountain so the sound of tinkling water might hide their conversation.

  ‘They can be trusted!’ Amerotke said.

  ‘I am sure they can. You have no qualms about trying Meneloto? I mean, he should have taken greater care!’

  ‘This afternoon,’ Amerotke replied, ‘we will sift the evidence. We shall hear the testimony of witnesses and then, my lord Sethos, I will decide.’

  The chief prosecutor laughed. He joined his hands in obeisance and bowed mockingly.

  ‘I stand reproved. My regards to the lady Norfret.’

  Sethos walked away, softly humming a hymn to Amun. A cunning man, a veritable fox, Amerotke thought. Sethos had been the beloved friend of Pharaoh. A principal priest in the service of Amun-Ra, former chaplain to the Queen Mother. Did Sethos want vengeance against the man whose carelessness, he maintained, had caused his friend’s death? Sethos, a member of the House of Secrets, had used all his skill in building a damning case against Meneloto. Amerotke glanced at the glittering water. But was it Sethos? Amerotke had heard rumours that the royal prosecutor was reluctant to prosecute but someone in the palace insisted.

  ‘It went well, my lord?’ Asural and Prenhoe drew closer.

  ‘Death never goes well,’ Amerotke replied. ‘But sentence has been carried out and his soul is now in the antechamber of judgement. May the all-seeing eye of Horus present the full truth when his soul is weighed in the balance.’

  ‘And now?’ Asural asked.

  Amerotke poked him playfully in the stomach.

  ‘The court will not reassemble for another two hours. You, my captain of police, are hungry and thirsty.’ He tapped Asural’s head. ‘You should visit the barber. I have never seen a man’s hair grow so fast.’

  ‘It’s the heat,’ Asural mumbled. ‘But, yes, it will be nice to sit under a sycamore and share a jug of beer with a friend.’

  The chief of police glanced sideways at Prenhoe.

  ‘Aye and watch the girls go by,’ Amerotke joked. ‘Prenhoe, the evidence for today’s trial? You’ll make sure all is ready?’

  His scribe agreed.

  ‘Then leave me for a while.’

  He watched his two companions walk away and stared up at the blue sky. Amerotke would have liked to join them. Perhaps walk through the bazaar in the marketplace, become lost in the ordinary, everyday things of life? But he felt dirty, soiled. He turned the pectoral round the proper way. Somewhere in the temple a conch horn blew, an invitation to worship. Amerotke glanced down at the goddess Ma’at, expertly carved on the pectoral, admiring the flowing tresses of her hair, sloe eyes, her graceful hands joined in supplication, the beautifully formed body shrouded in diaphanous robes. He sighed. Whenever he looked on the image of the goddess it always reminded him of his wife, yet this made him feel uncomfortable.

  Amerotke stared at a drawing on the temple wall of a grotesque dwarf with a fierce face, a depiction of the god Bes, painted above the courtyard to drive away scorpions and snakes. Amerotke touched his lips in a sign of gratitude.

  ‘I thank you,’ he murmured, ‘for reminding me!’

  Amerotke had always wanted to do this, slip out and see how his household page, the dwarf Shufoy, whiled away his time when waiting for his master in front of the temple of Truth. Amerotke was pleased at something to do. He walked through deserted courtyards, crossed a small ornamental bridge over the canal, dug to bring Nile water into the temple precincts. He then followed the boundary wall, walking under the shade of acacia and sycamore trees, and went through a small side gate and along a beaten trackway which reeked of vegetables and cooking odours. This took him into the g
reat open expanse which stretched before the huge soaring pylons of the temple of Ma’at. Crowds thronged about: visitors from as far south as the first cataract; Libyans; desert wanderers; peasants from the village; mercenaries from the garrisons; and the different citizens of Thebes. They all came either to shop in the nearby markets and bazaars or stream up through the great painted gateways of the temple, to perform sacrifice.

  Amerotke hoped he would not be recognised as he walked to the edge of the great square. The palm and acacia trees provided welcome shade from the heat of the noonday sun; barbers, pedlars, sellers of fruit and sweet-breads paid heavy sums to the House of Silver in the temple of Ma’at for these choice locations.

  ‘Where there’s food,’ Amerotke said to himself, ‘Shufoy will be close by!’

  Sure enough, just off the main concourse, taking full advantage of an acacia tree, sat Shufoy the dwarf, his parasol stuck in the ground beside him. Shufoy was busy. On a small carpet unrolled before him lay a mound of turquoise amulets.

  ‘Approach and buy!’ the dwarf called out in his deep, bell-like voice. ‘You visitors to the holy place who throng to pay sacrifice to the goddess of truth! For a few debens of copper, an amulet of Ma’at, blessed by no less a person than my most holy master, the august lord Amerotke, chief judge in the Hall of Two Truths!’

  Amerotke made sure he kept his distance. When Shufoy turned his face, Amerotke caught the terrible disfigurement where his nose had been sliced. Shufoy was one of the rhinoceri, those felons condemned in the courts to have their noses slit. They congregated in their own community, a small village to the south of Thebes. In Shufoy’s case, there had been a dreadful miscarriage of justice. His appeal had been brought before Amerotke, who upheld it. Pharaoh’s pardon had been issued but justice had also to be done. Shufoy, a former leather worker from Menonia, had entered Amerotke’s household as a page, parasol-carrier and, whether Amerotke liked it or not, a dispenser of patronage.

  Amerotke smiled and turned away. Now, at least, he knew the source of Shufoy’s newfound wealth; it was harmless enough though he wondered from where Shufoy bought the amulets in the first place.

  Amerotke joined the rest of the pilgrims streaming up towards the pylons. On each side of this great gateway were huge paintings of the goddess Ma’at.

  ‘May your name be reverenced!’ Amerotke whispered.

  On the left of the gateway, Ma’at was dressed in a pleated linen gown, leaning back on her heels, arms crossed. From her head rose two great ostrich plumes, symbols of truth and integrity. On the right side of the gateway was a scene from the Book of the Dead: the gods Thoth and Horus were weighing the souls of the dead. In one scale lay the dead man’s heart, in the other justice and truth. Ma’ at looked on, ever waiting for which way the scales would go. If it was for truth, the dead would be admitted to the divine house, to the pleasures of the gods. If it was against truth, those grotesque creatures, the ‘devourers’, were waiting to tear the soul to pieces.

  The temple of Ma’at was a favourite shrine for the citizens of Thebes and elsewhere. The air was thick with the noise of chatter, different tongues, clashing dialects. High-class ladies in their ornamental wigs and embroidered, pleated skirts, together with their husbands, merchants or persons of importance in white robes and gold-fastened sandals, rubbed shoulders with peasants, visitors from the Delta, artisans and workmen. The air held a mixture of scents. Myrrh and frankincense, unguents which the rich used to pamper their bodies, mingled with the cooking oils which permeated the scant clothing of the artisans or the rich earth which clung to the bodies of the farmers and peasants. Parasols, fans and perfume-drenched plumes were wafted to provide some coolness against the heat. Amerotke followed the pilgrims, keeping his head down. He did not wish to be recognised, particularly by the scribes from his own court.

  They went along the Dromos, the pilgrim way which led up to the main doorway. On either side stood a row of sphinxes, lion bodies with human heads or those of bulls and rams. Amerotke went through the gateway where scribes clustered, their linen robes stretched across their laps to serve as makeshift desks. Ever ready with pen and scraps of papyrus, these scribblers touted for custom, to write down petitions which the poor could dictate and then hand over to the priests in the shrine.

  The temple, however, was not only a place of worship. Leading off the main hall of columns were the minor courts where lesser judges and scribes heard the petty cases brought before them. Outside one of these a furious row had broken out between two neighbours. One claimed how, when she had gone swimming in the Nile, the other had pushed a wax crocodile among her clothing: a curse to summon up that truly dreadful beast of the reeds to kill her. Her opponent, a large, fat-bellied fishwife, was loudly declaiming that she didn’t even know how to fashion a wax crocodile and might the goddess of truth be her witness! It would take a legion of crocodiles to kill a woman as evil as her neighbour! Next to them a scribe was taking down the plea of a copper-worker, the man declaiming his grievance in a loud voice. How he had paid good bronze rings for a physician to heal his child with the toothache. He had faithfully boiled a mouse and placed the bones in a leather bag near the child’s cheek. However, her toothache hadn’t gone and the child, rolling over on the bed, had gouged her cheek against the sharp bones in the sack.

  Amerotke loved to listen to such business: the hearing of cases, the weighing of evidence, the handing down of decisions, no matter how petty it was. Ma’at was done, justice was implemented. He looked down at his hands. Perhaps it was the light bouncing off the brilliantly coloured pillars but his fingers seemed tinged with red. He recalled the execution he had witnessed earlier in the day. He hurried on through the hall of hypostyles, its columns covered in gold plate, their supports painted in brilliant colours and shaped in the form of the lotus flower. The beauty of the place always delighted Amerotke, with the star-studded ceiling and its floor, painted so it felt as if you were walking on water. He left by a side entrance and took the path leading down to the academy or House of Life where the temple physicians, astrologers, archivists and scholars studied. He crossed the open parkland with its different trees and shaded walks. At last he reached the divine pool which stretched before the Red Chapel, a unique small shrine dedicated to the goddess and reserved for principal judges and priestesses of the temple of Ma’at. Over the doorway, which fronted the pool, was a picture of Ra in his golden boat crossing the heavens.

  Amerotke stood and waited for one of the minor priests to approach.

  ‘My lord Amerotke?’

  ‘I wish to purify myself.’

  ‘Hast thou sinned?’ came the formal reply.

  ‘All men sin,’ Amerotke answered according to the ritual. ‘But I wish to immerse myself in the truth; to purify my mouth and cleanse my heart.’

  The priest waved to the sacred pool, purified by the ibis birds which drank there.

  ‘The goddess awaits!’ the priest murmured.

  Amerotke took off robes, rings and pectoral. He unfastened his loin cloth and handed everything to the priest who placed the garments on a basalt stone seat. Then Amerotke walked down the steps. The pool was lined with green tiles and the water, pouring in from a spring, danced and shimmered in the sunlight. He breathed in and closed his eyes. He caught cooking smells from the kitchens and cookshops, the faint tang of blood from the slaughter sheds behind the temple. He waited and breathed again. This time the air was pure. He put his hand out and the priest shook a few grains of natron salt from a gold cup. Amerotke wetted them with water, rubbed his palms together and washed his face. Only then did he lean forward, swimming slowly, allowing his full body to become submerged under the water. He opened his eyes, revelling in the coolness which washed away the impurities, sharpened his mind, restored that sense of harmony he would need in the difficult and dangerous case awaiting him. He turned, swimming as adroitly as a fish back to the steps. Once out of the water, he shook himself gently, accepting the great linen bands the priest han
ded over to dry himself. When he had finished and dressed, Amerotke sipped at a small cup of wine mixed with myrrh and walked into the Red Chapel of Ma’at.

  The place was dark, lit by lights in pure alabaster vases placed on shelves along the walls. As soon as he was inside, an old priest shuffled forward, proffering an incense boat. The smoke rose thick and strong. Holding this before Amerotke, the old priest walked backwards. Amerotke followed slowly. Before the shrine, or Naos, the priest paused. He placed the incense boat down and opened the sacred cupboard. Amerotke looked upon the gold and silver statue of Ma’at and prostrated himself, then raised his head. The goddess’s statue was draped in cloth of gold. He looked upon the face and caught his breath: that black, shiny hair, beautiful long face, those full lips and slanting, kohl-edged eyes. He was certain the goddess would speak. Those lips would move but it wasn’t Ma’at, it was his wife Norfret. Beautiful, cool, serene. Amerotke bowed his head to the ground before sitting back on his heels.

  ‘Are you a follower of the truth, Amerotke?’ The old priest, crouching to one side, began the ritual questions.

  ‘I have taken the oath. I have pursued justice and truth.’

  ‘Whose justice?’

  ‘That of the divine Pharaoh.’

  ‘Life, health and prosperity.’

  But the old priest’s voice quavered. Amerotke sensed his uncertainty. Indeed, he reflected, who was Pharaoh? The boy Tuthmosis III? Hatusu the dead Pharaoh’s wife? Or was real power in the hands of Rahimere, Vizier and Grand Chancellor?

  ‘If you pursue the truth,’ the priest’s tone took a conversational note, ‘why do you purify yourself in the ibis-kissed waters?’