Chapter One In the Hall of Two Truths at the Temple of Ma'at, the Goddess of Divine Speech, sentence of death was about to be passed. Amerotke, chief judge of Thebes, sat on a low cushioned chair carved out of acacia wood. Its light green and gold cushions were of sacred fabric and embroidered with hieroglyphics extolling the exploits of the goddess Ma'at. On the walls around the hall, interspersed by soaring columns, were brilliant pictures and carvings of the Forty-Two Daemons of the Duat, the Underworld: `Breaker of Bones', `Eater of Souls', `Blood Gobbler'. These beings dwelt in the mansions of the gods, ready to devour souls who, on being weighed by Anubis on the scales of divine justice, were found wanting. Before the chief judge were cedarwood tables bearing the laws of Egypt and the `words of Pharaoh's mouth'. The holy documents were not there to be consulted but to remind Amerotke that he delivered sentence on behalf of Pharaoh. The clerks, scribes, temple police and spectators all stood hushed, staring at Amerotke. Some of the scribes, seated down one side, found the tension difficult. They plucked at their white robes or bent shaven heads over the small desks. Prenhoe, the youngest scribe and Amerotke's kinsman, became so agitated that he moved around the palettes of red and black ink, the water pots, the sharp knives for cutting the papyrus. One knife fell on to the marble floor, clashing like a cymbal. Prenhoe picked it up and stared guiltily at his kinsman. Amerotke was a cunning man, a courtier born and bred, but one noted for his justice and his severity. Now his thin, dark face had turned thunderously angry. He was staring down at the closed doors of the hall, lips moving slightly. Now and again his hand would touch the lock of gleaming black hair plaited with silver and green which hung down over his right ear. Amerotke breathed out and rearranged the blue-bordered robe which fitted him so elegantly. He moved on the cushion and the sunlight, streaming in from the gardens on either side, sparkled in the gold chain round the judge's neck. The pectoral of Ma'at which lay on his chest shimmered as if the goddess herself had come down to dispense justice. Amerotke played with the ring depicting the insignia of the goddess and, stretching out his hands, touched the sacred manuscripts before him. `The prisoner known as Bakhun. Do you have anything to say before sentence is passed?' The young man chained between two guards shook his head. At the urging of the guards, Bakhun bent down so his forehead touched the floor. `I have sinned!' he wailed. `And my sin will be always with me!' `You sinned,' Amerotke replied, `and intended to escape the justice of Pharaoh.' Amerotke gazed round the court. At the back near the door stood Asural, chief of the temple police. He had already taken a step forward as if eager to pluck this malefactor from the sacred precincts. Amerotke was silent, not for effect but to control both his anger and his fear. Anger at the terrible crime Bakhun had committed: the heinous deaths of his victims. Fear because the crime stirred dark phantasms in his own soul, chilling nightmares from his childhood: of running along a street, pursued by a rabid dog. It had caught him and, had it not been for the intervention of a passer-by ... Amerotke closed his eyes. His wife Norfret told him to put such thoughts out of his mind. At night, however, the dreams came creeping back like serpents beneath the door, ready to coil themselves around his soul: the mad eyes, the slavering jaws, the lips curled back, the jagged teeth, the sharp claws scraping his knees. Amerotke had always had a love for dogs but, since that day ... He blinked. The court were waiting. `Bakhun,' he declared, `you had no kin except your aged uncle and aunt. They had made you their heir. They had even reserved a place for you in their tomb in the Necropolis so you could journey into the west together. They were old and infirm. What you did was an abomination!' `I didn't mean to,' Bakhun protested. `You plotted maliciously,' Amerotke retorted. `You took a rabid dog, mad and frothing at the mouth. You trapped it in a cage and brought that cage down to your uncle's lonely farm outside Thebes. Under the cover of darkness you opened the door and let the dog in. Your uncle and aunt were too weak to resist. They could not even climb the stairs or defend themselves. The dog attacked and killed both. Their bodies were grotesquely mutilated; even the embalmers found it difficult to prepare them for their final journey. You would have escaped if it had not been for the vigilance of witnesses who saw you leave Thebes in a covered cart, early on the day your relatives were so horribly murdered. I see no grounds for mercy. Pharaoh's justice will be done. Your uncle and aunt's property will be sold to cover their funeral expenses. The rest will go to the House of Silver for distribution to the poor.' Bakhun sat back on his heels. Amerotke was glaring at him. It was the custom in Egypt to make the sentence fit the crime. Out of the corner of his eye Bakhun glimpsed the Dog Master, the keeper of the sacred pack in the Temple of Anubis. Amerotke had summoned him as an expert witness. `Asural!' Amerotke called. `And you, Dog Master, approach!' Both men came before the court. The Dog Master was lean and sinewy, dressed in leather, marching boots on his feet; in one hand he carried a whip, in the other a small spear. Asural, in contrast, was dressed in the full ceremonial uniform of the temple police. He marched up, his bronze helmet under his arm, as if he was about to ride out and charge all of Pharaoh's enemies. Asural's bald head and fat face gleamed with sweat; he had caught the mood of his master. The news of this abominable crime was all over Thebes. Bakhun had not only murdered his kinspeople but, because their corpses had been torn and wrenched, he had hindered the souls of his uncle and aunt in their journey through the underworld. `Asural, Dog Master!' Amerotke ordered. `Bakhun has been found guilty of murder and sacrilege. He is nothing but a stench in the nostrils of Pharaoh, so Pharaoh's justice will be done.' Amerotke touched the medallion on his chest. `Pharaoh's word leaps down from her lips. It will run its course through the entire earth so all may see her justice. Dog Master, you are to take this prisoner back to his uncle's house. He is to be placed inside and the doors and windows bricked up and sealed.' Amerotke paused. `Before he is immured, you are to take two rabid dogs from the streets of Thebes. They were his associates in murder; let them be his companions in death. Sentence is to be carried out before dusk. Take him away!' Bakhun threw himself forward in a rattle of chains. The guards seized him. Bakhun jumped to his feet, his face a mask of fear, but the silence in the court, the murmurs of the scribes, showed he'd find no sympathy here. Cursing and screaming, the prisoner was dragged away. Amerotke relaxed. The court took time to compose itself. Prenhoe got up and went and checked the great water clock, a huge jar with a carving of a baboon on the front. It stood in the corner of a portico leading out to the gardens. Amerotke watched him go. He wished he could follow, go into the temple gardens or paradises and sit beneath a tamarind tree. Would there be a breeze? Would it be cool? He glanced at his chief scribe and nodded, a sign for the court to continue. Asural had now returned, having handed Bakhun over to a cohort of temple guards. Amerotke wondered how Asural could stay cool in his heavy leather corselet and skirt, not to mention the greaves on his legs. Asural, also a distant kinsman, was a stickler for discipline and proper dress. As Amerotke had remarked to Norfret: `He'd rather die of sunstroke than break regulations!' Amerotke recalled the next case and muttered a prayer for patience. The chief scribe got to his feet. `Let those who desire Pharaoh's justice approach!' The cedarwood doors at the far end opened. In waddled the dwarf Shufoy, carrying parasol and walking-cane. He was attired in his best robe, a garment of pure wool which covered his little body from neck to ankle; new sandals on his feet, a dark blue coat strapped elegantly about his neck. Amerotke had insisted that he did not turn up in court unshaven and dressed in his usual collection of motley rags. Shufoy liked nothing better than to appear poor. A sharp contrast to Amerotke, whose friend, servant, adviser and herald Shufoy was. He walked pompously forward, ignoring the muffled laughter. Amerotke kept his face severe but his heart went out to the little man. He was small and squat, his hair, despite the oil, a tousled mess, whilst nothing could be done about the hideous disfigurement to his face. Shufoy had once been a leather worker. He had been falsely accused of a crime; his nose was cut off and he was banished to live with the other rhinoceri in their walled compound to the south of Thebes. Amerotke had investigated the case. He'd established Shufoy's innocence and, as compensation, taken him into his own household. The judge found him fascinating. Shufoy was a true chameleon. He could change from the self-proclaimed herald of the chief judge to a confidence trickster, selling false potions and amulets to the incredulous of Thebes. Shufoy paused, went down on his knees and prostrated himself before the judge's chair. Oh Ma'at be my witness, Amerotke thought, please, Shufoy, do not start. The little man raised his head and winked at Amerotke. A wicked grin transformed his disfigured face. Amerotke glared back. `What is your business?' `Oh great judge of Thebes. Incarnation of the Wisdom of Ma'at. Beloved of Pharaoh.' Shufoy's deep voice rose round the court. `He who has looked on Pharaoh's face and felt the warmth and strength of her friendship. Chief Judge in the Hall of Two Truths, High Priest of Ma'at ...' `Enough of that!' Amerotke snapped. `State your business!' Shufoy, his face a mask of servility, scrambled to his knees. The parasol and walking-cane lay alongside him. He threw his hands out in a dramatic gesture. `State your business,' Amerotke repeated. He glared at one of the scribes, who'd giggled. `The plea will be heard in silence.' `I am Shufoy, page and wretched servant of the great lord ...' `I am going to count,' Amerotke interrupted. `If you have not stated your business by the time ! reach thirty ...' Shufoy caught the warning glance. `My name is Shufoy,' he gabbled. `I represent Belet and Seli. Belet is a very good locksmith,' Shufoy continued. `Seli comes of good family; her father cuts papyrus.' `Twenty-three ...' Amerotke declared warningly. `They wish to marry.' Shufoy's lower lip came jutting up, a sign that he was losing his temper. He had been looking forward to this for weeks. Shufoy loved the drama, the solemn majesty of this court. Above all, he couldn't resist the opportunity to tease this most solemn of masters. Amerotke knew what Shufoy was going to ask; he just wished he would get on with it. `What is the problem with this marriage?' `Can I bring them forward?' Shufoy asked. Amerotke raised his hand. The young woman who entered the hall was comely enough: slender and sweet-faced. She was wearing her best oil-drenched wig and a simple white linen robe. The young man was dressed in a woollen tunic which hung just below his knees, but his face was covered by a leather mask. One of the guards came forward and whispered in his ear; the man removed the mask. Amerotke closed his eyes. Once, the young man must have been handsome, broad-faced, but, like Shufoy, his nose had been removed. `You have been convicted?' Amerotke asked, ignoring the muted outcry from the court. `I am a locksmith.' Amerotke glimpsed the pain in Belet's eyes. `I asked when you were convicted.' `Four years ago, my lord.' One of the guards came forward to press the man to his knees, as was the custom when anyone addressed Pharaoh's judge. Amerotke raised his hand and shook his head. `Continue!' `I committed a number of crimes,' Belet continued. `I entered the shops and houses of those I sold locks to.' `Why?' Amerotke demanded. `My parents became poor. My father drank too much. They had no tomb.' Amerotke nodded. One of the causes of so much crime was the overwhelming desire by the prosperous tradesmen of Thebes to secure an appropriate tomb in the Necropolis across the Nile. `And you paid for your crimes?' `Yes, my lord.' `And now?' `I cannot live in Thebes. I cannot marry. I cannot carry on my trade. My lord,' Belet fell to his knees: no drama intended, just a pleading honesty, `I have come to beg for Pharaoh's clemency. I have my wound.' He gestured at the scar which disfigured his face. `I have endured my exile. I am prepared to take the most solemn oaths. I have the testimony of others,' he continued in a rush, `that my life for the last four years has been blameless.' Amerotke raised his hand. Asural and Prenhoe had investigated the case. The young man was speaking the truth: he'd been involved in no crime. `This is my sentence,' Amerotke declared. He glanced at Seli and smiled, `You love Belet?' `Yes, my lord.' Amerotke could see the young woman was agitated; sweat coursed down her face. `This is my verdict,' Amerotke repeated. `Belet will take the most solemn oaths. Here, in the Temple of Ma'at, he will swear to do no wrongdoing. The scribes will write out a revocation of the previous sentence. This will be done before dusk. You know what will happen,' he glanced warningly at Belet, `if these oaths are broken? Perpetual banishment from Thebes, the confiscation of all property.' Shufoy, alarmed that he was going to be ignored, now jumped to his feet. `Witness the wisdom of Pharaoh!' he shouted. `Praise and thanks to the great lord Amerotke who walks in the truth, who has looked upon the face of ...' `Clear the court!' Amerotke bellowed. He rose from his seat as a sign that the session was ended, walked to his left and entered the mysterious portals, his own private side chapel. He loved to rest here, in this long, high chamber of white basalt stone, its concave ceiling painted a light green. On the walls were paintings of the goddess Ma'at ministering to her father Ra. There was a stoup of holy water, mingled with natron, on an offertory table; stools and cushions. In the centre, on the altar, stood the barque in which the goddess was carried. Behind it the naos, the sacred cupboard or tabernacle, which contained the gold and silver statue of Ma'at. Amerotke took the incense boat from the table. He went and knelt before the naos, sprinkling some of the incense on the slow-burning charcoal in its copper dish. He watched the smoke curl up. `May my prayer,' he murmured, leaning back on the cushions, `rise as sweet incense in your sight!' He stared at this beautiful depiction of the Goddess of Truth garbed in her cloth of gold. He admired the shiny black hair, the beautiful long face, the full lips and the slanting kohl-edged eyes, the bracelets, anklets and elegant sandals with which the priests had adorned the statue. Amerotke smiled. Every time he prayed, the statue always reminded him of his wife Norfret. He half expected those lips to move, that beautiful head to turn and those dark eyes to look at him so coquettishly. He laughed softly. Do I worship the goddess, he thought, or my wife, or both? Amerotke tried to live in the truth. He loved his wife and his two sons Ahmose and Curfay. He strove to do his best without being pompous or proud. He wiped his lips with his middle finger, which he'd dipped into the holy water stoup. He tried to speak the truth but sometimes it was difficult. He thought of the case he had just dealt with: that obscene murder, those old people trapped in their house with those slavering, rabid mongrel jaws closing in. Amerotke took off his pectoral and ring and placed them on the floor beside him. He recalled his own terrifying experience. Where had he been? Oh yes, running home to his old nurse, a half-mad old woman who told him stories about a mysterious king who lived in a beautiful oasis somewhere in the eastern Red Lands. Amerotke closed his eyes. He'd been nearly home when the conch horn brayed in alarm. Gates were slammed shut; the awful patter of that rabid dog hurtling like a shadow down the narrow alleyway towards him. Amerotke heard a knock on the door but ignored it. He was back in the house of Bakhun's victims, its silence being rent and torn by the horror of that sharp-toothed killer. He began to tremble. He opened his eyes and concentrated on the statue. He should pray; Ahmose was ill with a slight fever. Shufoy had promised to bring him an amulet soaked in sacred crocodile blood. Again the loud knock on the chapel door. `Come in!' Asural, Prenhoe and Shufoy entered. They took one look at Amerotke's face, and quietly sat down, their backs to the wall. `Is it done?' Amerotke demanded. `It is being done,' his chief of police replied. `You will be criticised,' Shufoy added warningly. `Why, what else would you recommend?' Shufoy clambered to his feet. `You haven't eaten. I have fruit, some charou wine! I know a cookshop ...' Amerotke laughed and turned to face them. `You are pleased by the other decision, Shufoy? Your friends will be happy.' `I will get drunk at their marriage and dance.' Amerotke studied the painting behind Shufoy: Nubians bringing gifts to the old Pharaoh Tuthmosis, perched on his throne protected by the feathered wings of Ma'at. `And what is the chatter in the city?' `The Lord Senenmut is at the Temple of Anubis. He meets with the Mitanni envoys,' Shufoy replied. `Tushratta and his court stay out at the Oasis of Palms.' `And?' `There are rumours.' `About what?' `Murder, at the Temple of Anubis.' Amerotke stirred restlessly. Pharaoh Hatusu had placed much emphasis on these negotiations. She had smashed the Mitanni army. Amerotke had been at her great victory. Sometimes, in his dreams, he went back to that battle: the crash and rattle of the chariots as they broke the Mitanni flank; the Maryannou, `the braves of the king', savagely finishing off the wounded; the rocky ground turned slippery with blood which gushed like wine from cracked jars. A loud rapping on the door broke his reverie. Shufoy scrambled to his feet, threw it open and stepped back in surprise. Two men entered, both dressed in the robes of courtiers, hair cropped and bound by filets. Amerotke recognised the insignia of the Shadows of Pharaoh: members of the imperial corps of heralds and envoys with their white wands, red-edged robes and large wrist guards displaying the emblems of Horus the Hawk and the Eye of Osiris. Amerotke rose to greet them: the first was rather plump, small black eyes hidden in rolls of fat. He waddled rather than walked. The second was younger, thin-faced, of slender build; he had a slightly crooked nose but his eyes were laughing and his mouth widened into a smile as he bowed first towards the naos and then to Amerotke. The first herald was more concerned about the heat and busily wafted a fan to cool himself. The younger one stood rather pompously, one foot slightly forward as if he was about to recite a poem. `You are?' `Weni,' the small fat one replied gruffly. `He has a sickness of the nose,' the younger one declared, `and it should be treated.' `I have marvellous remedies,' Shufoy offered, edging forward. `Are you a physician?' Weni asked. `Oh, greater than that. I know the secrets of the anus, the nose and all the other orifices. You take scorpion dust, mix it with viper blood, then ...' `And you'd be dead within a week,' Prenhoe added. Shufoy made to protest but Amerotke held his hand up. `And you are?' `Mareb,' the younger herald declared. `Personal herald to the Divine Hatusu.' He lifted his arm and opened his hand. In his palm lay the scarab beetle which bore the small cartouche of the imperial Pharaoh-Queen. Amerotke bowed and kissed it. Weni hastened to add how they were both the personal envoys of the Divine Hatusu to the Mitanni camp at the Oasis of Palms. `We come from the Temple of Anubis.' Mareb smiled. `Ah yes, the negotiations? They go well?' `They were,' Weni declared pompously, still glaring at Shufoy. `Hush now,' Mareb soothed. `The Lord Senenmut is the incarnation of the will of Pharaoh. He will ...' `I know who he is,' Amerotke replied. `I want to know why you are here.' `The negotiations are going well,' Mareb replied. `King Tushratta, or rather his envoys, is prepared to concede everything. He has certain demands but the betrothal will go ahead, the peace will be signed.' `But there have been murders?' Amerotke asked. `I've heard rumours.' `You have sharp ears, my lord.' `I am also impatient.' Amerotke gestured at them to sit. `Tell me about the murders.' The two heralds made themselves comfortable. Shufoy rearranged the cushions. Amerotke sat opposite them, his retinue around him. `You have heard of the Glory of Anubis?' Mareb began. `Everybody has: it's a beautiful jewel, a sacred amethyst, the size of a man's fist. It hangs on a gold chain round the statue of Anubis in one of the side chapels of the temple. It is as ancient as Thebes,' Amerotke continued. `Some people claim it was left by the god himself ...' `Well, it seems to have been taken by the god himself,' Mareb broke in cheekily. `You are correct, my lord,' he added hastily. `I mean no offence. The statue is kept in one of the mysterious pottals; its chapel is very similar to this. Except,' he pointed to the entrance, there is a sacred pool, very deep, along the doorway.' `Yes, I've heard of it,' Amerotke agreed. `And one priest keeps a nightly vigil before the shrine. The door is secured with the best copper lock?' `Correct, my lord. Another priest stays on guard outside. The corridors and galleries are patrolled by the captain of the guard. One of the priestesses, a handmaid of the god, brings refreshment to the priest outside.' `But not the one within?' Mareb shook his head. `Oh no, the vigil priest is locked inside from dusk till dawn. He turns the key and keeps it on his person.' `And what happened?' Amerotke asked. `Well, in the morning the vigil priest is supposed to let himself out, to allow his colleagues in to celebrate the dawn service, but Nemrath couldn't be roused. The captain of the guard was called, the chief priests, even Lord Senenmut. The door was forced. Inside, the sacred pool had not been disturbed. No footmark, no imprint of any kind, but the vigil priest Nemrath was dead, a knife straight through his hearth.' (Continues...) Excerpted from THE ANUBIS SLAYINGS by P. C. Doherty. Copyright © 2000 by Paul Doherty. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
