Anubis: based on a very ancient Egyptian god, 'Imy-wt' – 'He-who-is-in-his-wrappings'.

[ PROLOGUE ]

Silence shattered the Temple of Anubis which lay to the north of Thebes within bowshot of the shimmering, snaking Nile. The evening sacrifice was finished. The god had been put to bed, the naos doors closed. The flagstaffs which surmounted the soaring pylons on each side of the principal gateways were stripped of their coloured pennants. The conch horn wailed: night was fast approaching. The great sanctuary with its black and gold statue of the jackal-headed god was now empty except for a young novice priest. He sat cross-legged, half asleep, savouring the fragrant incense which curled like a forgotten prayer through the temple.

He started and stared fearfully across at the throne of Anubis. Wasn't that the howling of dogs? He relaxed with a sigh. He was new to the temple. He had forgotten about the great pit where the pack of wild dogs sacred to Anubis were kept. A fanciful notion of the high priests: the dogs were savage, a gift sent by a tribe south of Nubia. The young priest had visited the pit once: a great rocky cavern where the dogs prowled in the caves and were fed morning and night by the Dog Master. The novice priest remembered himself. He dipped his hand into a nearby stoup of holy water and rubbed his lips with the tips of his fingers, as an act of purification before bowing his head in silent prayer. It was his task to keep vigil. He must pray for the temple, its high priest and hierarchy of scholars, librarians and priests. Nor must he forget the Lord Senenmut, Vizier, some people even whispered lover, of the Pharaoh-Queen Hatusu. The Temple of Anubis had been chosen as a meeting ground where Senenmut could negotiate with the envoys of the Mitanni king Tushratta. A great peace treaty was planned. Tushratta would give his daughter to one of Hatusu's kinsmen in marriage. The Mitanni king's armies had been decisively defeated by Hatusu and, despite his arrogance, Tushratta desperately needed the peace. Egyptian armies now controlled the Horus road across the Sinai desert. Chariot squadrons, Egypt's best, massed along Mitanni's borders. Tushratta could fight but common sense dictated peace.

The novice priest had listened very carefully to the temple gossip. The Pharaoh-Queen was now accepted at home. She had usurped the throne after her half-brother and husband's mysterious death. Once Tushratta signed the treaty, Egypt's most powerful enemy was publicly accepting her, so in time the Nubians, the Hittites, the Libyans and the rest would bow the knee and kiss her sandalled foot. The novice priest dreamed on.

The Anubis temple settled for the night. The great hypostyle hall with its blue ceiling and gold star-bursts was clear of pilgrims: its sacred walls, covered with inscriptions to Anubis, were no longer studied. The repellent, evil animals and reptiles, hacked by daggers to keep them immobile, stood in silent watch. The columns, decorated at base and top in green and red and garlanded with banners, stood in shadowy rows. Elsewhere in the temple, all was locked and bolted with clasps made from the finest Asiatic copper. Only soldiers, wearing the insignia of Anubis, stood on guard, spears and shields in hand. The scholars of the House of Life had doused the lights. The works they were copying or reading, the books and great parchments sheathed in pure leather listing spells for the overthrow of the Evil One or the repelling of crocodiles, had been stowed away: they would not be reopened until the following morning. Tetiky, the captain of the guard, in bare feet because he was on sacred ground, patrolled the mysterious portals, the small side chapels, the House of Delectation where banquets were held; the House of the Heart's Desire where, during the day, the handmaids of the gods waited; the raiment room where the sacred cloths were held. Satisfied, the captain passed on. The sanctuary and libraries were secure, as were the granaries stocked with barley and oil, wine, incense and precious cedarwood from Lebanon.

Tetiky went into the heart of the temple, the warren of corridors around the Holy Chapel where the sacred amethyst, the Glory of Anubis, was held. He passed a priestess, a handmaid of the god, and turned to admire her sinuous walk, hips swaying, long hair swinging. The priestess carried a jug. Tetiky frowned, angry at not being able to recall her name. Ah yes! Ita, she was responsible for bringing refreshments to Khety, the priest who guarded the door to the Sacred Chapel. Tetiky walked to the end of the gallery. Khety squatted there, leaning against the cedarwood door. Inside, the vigil priest, Nemrath, guarded the sacred amethyst. Nemrath kept the key; he would allow no one in until he was relieved just before the dawn sacrifice. A long night, Tetiky reflected, without food and drink. The captain shivered. His men talked of the god Anubis, jackal-masked, being seen walking his temple. Did he visit the Sacred Chapel and gaze on that gorgeous sacred amethyst winking from its statue? A sombre place the Sacred Chapel, with its pool guarding the door, its recessed walls and soaring roof. Tetiky remembered himself and coughed. Khety heard this, turned and raised his hand as a sign that all was well.

Satisfied, Tetiky went out into the gardens. He paused to savour the scent of resin and sandalwood. The temple grounds were a veritable paradise with their shimmering lakes, well-watered lawns, flowerbeds and shady trees dark against the night sky. Tetiky heard the sound of singing and grinned. A dancing girl, a heset, was probably entertaining a client. He walked on past the cattle-byres, the beasts within lowing vainly against the morning and the waiting slaughterer's knife. He paused and bowed as a group of priests, in their linen kilts and panther shawls, passed by on their way into the city.

Tetiky returned to his post. He did not know it but heinous murder was to visit the Temple of Anubis that evening. Seth, the red-haired slayer, would make his presence felt yet the victim, the dancing girl in one of the small garden pavilions, was full of life. She was naked except for a loincloth. Her hair, drenched in oil and fringed with beads, moved like a black veil from side to side as she swayed, shaking the sacred sistra. She glanced quickly at her customer. Was he one of the Mitanni? Male or female? All she could glimpse were arms; the rest of her customer's body was hidden in a white gauffered linen robe, head and face hidden by that terrifying black jackal mask.

The heset had been approached earlier in the day whilst walking along one of the temple's dark-shaded porticoes. She would have refused except for the silver bracelet the masked customer had offered. He, or she, now sat in the shadows but the bracelet lay shimmering in the pool of light from an oil lamp the girl had brought. The heset was a professional dancer, a singer in one of the temple choirs. She was also a courtesan, skilled in the art of love with both male and female, of enticing the most jaded customer to excitement. She danced and swayed, moving her oil-drenched body alluringly, turning her back, glancing coquettishly over her shoulder. She would earn the silver bracelet, boast about it then sell it in the marketplace. All she had to do was please this customer. She moved closer and began to sing a love song, one of the hymns the priests chanted to Anubis.

'Thou art crowned with the majesty of thy beauty.

The light of your eye warms my face.

I will come to you and be one with you.'

The dancer paused.

'Are you happy?' she whispered into the darkness. 'Am I not comely? Do I not please you?'

She felt a trickle of sweat run down from her neck as well as a pang of annoyance. She had danced and sung for some time. All she had heard was a grunt of approval but no clapping, no invitation for her to go out and lie in the darkness.

'I am tired.' She tried to keep the petulance out of her voice. 'The day is finished. Shall we stay here? Or go out beneath a sycamore tree? The evening is cool.'

'Then you should sleep,' the voice whispered.

The dancing girl stepped back. There was something in the tone she did not like. She heard a long sigh and felt the quick prick of pain. What was that? She stood shocked; her hand went to her belly. Had she been poisoned? She turned towards the door but she was already dying. Her chest felt so heavy, a strange froth soured the back of her throat. She could hear a voice counting and then she collapsed. For a short while her body shuddered. Only when she lay quiet did her killer stop counting, get up and walk towards the corpse.

Sinuhe the traveller paused and glanced across the Nile. The inundation was now complete. The Nile had risen, flooding the fields around. Now it lay like some great ringed serpent basking in the sun. Sinuhe's crinkled face broke into a smile. He clutched his leather bag more tightly. The papyrus book it contained was the treasure house of his journeys. He stared at the war galley, with its billowing white-and-green-chequered sail, its snarling prow cutting the water, the captain on the raised platform in the stern. Around it clustered barges, punts, small fishing boats. Sinuhe closed his eyes and sniffed the morning breeze. It was tinged with the lush corruption of the Nile: the tang of mullet and catfish which the fishermen were now piling into a boat; the faint odour of oil and human sweat. Sinuhe prided himself on his sense of smell and sharp eyesight. He glanced down. Today he was dressed in his best red-capped sandals and thick linen robe. He'd even shaved his face, burnt dark brown by the sun, whilst his hair had been cut the previous evening. Sinuhe had sat, allowing the barber to gossip whilst the barber's wife crumbled a bread loaf to make a mash to ferment beer. They'd been pleased with his custom. Everyone liked Sinuhe, or at least his tales. After all, Sinuhe had seen the world. Under the old Pharaoh, he had travelled beyond the fourth cataract, through Nubia, Kush and into the dark, impenetrable jungles of the south. Sinuhe had battled wild tribes who ate the flesh of their captives or made bloody sacrifice to grimacing wooden idols. He had been east to Punt and brought back precious herbs as well as tales about spices and gold jewels.

Sinuhe had also crossed the Red Lands to the west of Thebes, fought the sand-wanderers and desert-dwellers, the fierce Lybian tribes. He had even sailed across the Great Green, the huge sea into which the Nile debouched. And, of course, he had listened to other travellers. Men who described frozen lands to the north. Well, of course, they would be freezing, wouldn't they, under the cool breath of Amun? On the coasts of Canaan he had talked to other seafarers about wild oceans to the west, exotic civilisations to the east, places where dragons and monsters lived.

Eventually Sinuhe had come home. At first his tales had been listened to with wonderment followed by derision and laughter. He smiled and stared dreamily across at the sunburnt houses of the Necropolis, the City of the Dead. Sinuhe's ambition was to buy a tomb there so that when he travelled west on that final journey to the eternal fields over the Far Horizon, he could sleep in peace. Perhaps he would take another woman to replace the concubine who had died three seasons ago. When was it? Ah yes, the Season of the Planting.

After she had died, Sinuhe had bought papyrus, a cake of black ink and a quiver of leaf pens and he had begun to write. Word had spread about his great work, people began to take an interest. Temple priests, merchants and now even the Vizier Senenmut, the Pharaoh-Queen's First Minister, had visited his little house. Sinuhe had simply smiled and kept his manuscript secret. He knew what they were after: not so much his stories but the maps he described. What was it like beyond the fourth cataract? What paths existed? What dangers? And, in the Red Lands, the great deserts which sprawled on either side of the Nile? Oh yes, they might know about this oasis or that but Sinuhe knew more. He could describe the desert tracks, how to map their way according to the heavens, where water might be found. The same was true of the Great Green: Hatusu's galley captains would love to know what he knew. When was the best time for sailing? Which seasons should be avoided? What dangers? What islands? Did they have safe harbourage? And now, oh yes, Sinuhe hugged his leather bag like a mother would a child, even foreigners were interested. All of Thebes knew how Tushratta and his court were out at the Oasis of Palms whilst his envoys treated for peace in the city. Tushratta's envoys had also sought out Sinuhe and offered him a fortune to see his book. The bartering had continued. Now Sinuhe was ready to hand it over. The person he was doing business with had told him to come to the derelict Temple of Bes the Dwarf God, further down the Nile.

'It's the best place to meet,' the Mitanni envoy had declared. 'Away from prying eyes.'

The envoy had come at dusk, staying in the shadows so her face remained hidden, though her perfume had been sweet and cloying.

At first Sinuhe had objected. It was all too dangerous, too lonely, but then he reflected. Of course, if anyone had seen him with the Mitanni, tongues would wag. Moreover, the Mitanni had left him a small ingot of pure gold which Sinuhe now carried in his wallet. How could he resist the lure of even more?

Sinuhe hurried on. Thebes lay behind him. He was now out in the countryside. Palm trees soared against the blue sky. The chatter of the fishermen carried on the breeze. Across the fields the peasants were out hacking the earth, preparing it for the planting. The sun was high, growing stronger, but the heat didn't trouble a man like Sinuhe. He had known the torrid blast of the desert where the sand stretched as far as the eye could see! Sinuhe raised his head and glimpsed the ruins of the Temple of Bes. He had come here as a boy and it brought back memories. All his playmates were now dead. Most of them had become soldiers. Two had fallen into disgrace: they had been in the slave gangs, marched out to the Valley of Kings to excavate the old Pharaoh's tomb. They had never come back. Sinuhe shivered. Dead men didn't tell tales! Pharaoh Tuthmosis I had been such a harsh and cruel man.

Sinuhe slipped into the ruins. Fallen columns lay about; every year the place grew more derelict. The copper clasps and any moveables had long been stolen by the peasants. He looked at the tidal marks on the walls showing where the Nile had flooded. The ground was still damp. Sinuhe went over and sat in a shady corner. The Nile gave life but it also carried death...

'Have you brought the book?'

Sinuhe looked up. All his courage deserted him. At first he thought he was seeing a vision. Anubis, God of the Dead, who weighed souls with the feather of truth. Then the vision moved. Sinuhe noticed the fine sandals, the leather war-kilt; it was the jackal-headed mask which frightened him.

'Have you brought the book?' The voice sounded hollow.

'Yes, yes, of course I have.'

Sinuhe pulled himself on to his knees and opened the leather sack. He felt a small prick at the side of his neck. A fly? Some insect? He raised his hand. His killer stood silently watching him. Sinuhe knew there was something wrong when the terrible pains began. He had never experienced the like in all his journeys. His fingers lost their feeling, the leather sack fell to the ground. Sinuhe tried to rise. His killer approached. Sinuhe closed his eyes. He opened his mouth to beg. He could feel a terrible drumming in his ears; the pain felt like barbs of fire. He was in the jungle again and the warriors, black as night, were streaming across the clearing, faces daubed with paint, shields up. Death was coming!

The killer waited until Sinuhe's body stopped convulsing. He took the leather sack and hid it in a crevice: dragging Sinuhe's corpse by the ankles, he pulled it out of the ruins, down to the river bank and tossed it in. He then stood and watched the eddies of the river ripple and break against the thrusting snouts of the approaching crocodiles.

Anubis: the principal Egyptian God of the Dead.


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 I 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 portals; 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 heart.'

'And the Glory of Anubis was gone?'

'Yes, my lord.'

'Who was the priest outside?'

'Khety: he claims to have heard nothing amiss. He dozed, said his prayers but he was disturbed by no commotion.'

'And the priestess?'

'Her name is Ita. She served Khety food and drink during the night. She, too, heard nothing.'

Amerotke sat in puzzlement.

'So, we have a chamber like this, with a sacred pool before the door...'

'Yes, my lord, and that door was locked from the inside by Nemrath, who held the key.'

Amerotke raised a hand for silence.

'But the following morning the pool had not been disturbed. Nemrath has been killed and the Glory of Anubis has disappeared. The galleries and corridors were patrolled, the soldiers noticed nothing amiss?'

Mareb agreed.

'And the key was found on Nemrath's corpse?'

'Oh yes, hidden in the folds of his robe.'

'And the door was securely locked?'

'Yes, my lord.'

'Who forced it?'

'The temple guard at the command of the High Priest.'

'And there are no secret entrances or passageways?'

Again a shake of the head. Asural whistled softly under his breath.

'The Divine Hatusu,' Amerotke remarked, 'will be furious. The Glory of Anubis is a sacred relic.'

'There's more,' Mareb continued. 'Naturally, the finger of suspicion has been pointed at the Mitanni. You can understand why, my lord: they, too, pay devotion to a dog god; they also regard the jackal as sacred.'

'Of course!' Amerotke breathed. 'And if Tushratta gets the sacred amethyst, or even if people think he has it, the Divine Hatusu becomes a laughing stock.'

'There are also rumours,' Mareb added, 'of the temple being haunted, of Anubis the jackal god being seen there.'

Amerotke had to bite his tongue. He would have dismissed that as nonsense. Deep in his heart Amerotke did not believe in jackal-headed gods, or those in the shape of a falcon. He only believed in Ma'at, the Truth, but considered it best to keep such beliefs to himself.

'So,' he declared, 'theft, murder, sacrilege. What more?'

'The same evening the Glory of Anubis was stolen,' Weni moved his fat rump on the cushions, 'one of the temple hesets, a dancing girl, was found dead in a paradise pavilion. She had been poisoned but there's no trace of her killer.'

'They think it's poison,' Mareb declared.

'She'd been frothing at the mouth,' Weni snapped. 'And she's not the only mysterious death. Two sheep from the temple flock have also been found poisoned, as have certain fish.'

Amerotke closed his eyes. Two weeks ago he had attended a banquet in the royal palace, the House of a Million Years. Hatusu had acted very much the imperial Pharaoh-Queen, loudly declaring how she would bring the Mitanni to book and bind them to her as allies. Now someone was making a mockery of these negotiations.

'But it can't be the Mitanni,' Amerotke declared. 'They have so much to lose.'

'They won't own up to it, will they?' Asural spoke up.

'No, they won't,' Amerotke agreed. 'So, what are your instructions?'

'By the time another hour has passed,' Mareb replied, 'you are commanded to join Lord Senenmut in the Temple of Anubis: he has matters to discuss.'

'I am sure he has,' Amerotke declared drily.

He got up, picked up the pectoral and the ring and gave them to Prenhoe, who put them in a casket in the far corner of the chapel.

'Tell me,' Amerotke knelt down to tie the thong of his sandals, 'has the guardian priest Khety been questioned?'

'Oh yes, my lord. He knows nothing.'

Amerotke stood, staring at the statue of Ma'at. How could the criminal have carried out such an act? he wondered.

'There are no windows?'

He glimpsed Mareb's face.

'No, of course, there wouldn't be.' Amerotke answered his own question.

Weni gestured towards the door. 'The one at Anubis,' he explained, 'is even thicker. Panels of the best cedarwood, fastened on either side.'

'So, no panels can be removed? And the lock?'

'So securely turned,' Mareb declared, 'it had to be forced.' His cheerful face became grave. 'No one can explain how it happened. Some claim Anubis walked his own temple, killed Nemrath and took the Glory of Anubis. The handle of the dagger which killed the priest...'

'Oh yes?' Amerotke asked.

'No one has seen its like before: black and shaped in the form of a jackal's head. What do you think, my lord Amerotke?'

The judge stared at the statue of the Goddess of Truth. He did not believe Anubis walked his temple, but Seth, the god of murder, certainly haunted its precincts.

Anubis: 'Lord of the Necropolis'


'I have been to Akharit. I have travelled beyond the known limits of the world. I have encountered hunger, thirst and enemies. I have confronted the sharp-tailed hyenas. I have travelled through unknown deserts, the first man to tread their burning sands.' The story-teller beneath the sycamore tree in the great courtyard before the Temple of Ma'at was attracting custom. 'I have seen griffins with human heads on their back, winged panthers, cheetahs with necks longer than a giraffe, hyaenas with square ears and tails as thick as arrows. I have climbed the Mountain of Ivory...'

Amerotke paused in admiration at this story-teller.

'Another Sinuhe!' Herald Weni scoffed.

Amerotke would have loved to have stayed. He liked to hear such tales and later relate them to his sons. Shufoy was jumping up and down, banging his parasol on the black obsidian stone of the courtyard.

'Do you want to stay and listen?' Amerotke demanded.

'I want you to stay and listen, Master.'

Amerotke gestured at the heralds.

'But I have business...'

'Master, this is pressing. Belet,' Shufoy referred to the exiled locksmith whom Amerotke had agreed could return to Thebes, 'he wishes to speak with you.'

Amerotke sighed and stared round the huge courtyard, a great square with colonnaded walks on either side and a broad, shimmering pool in the centre. The builders had cleverly left a wide range of trees standing: sycamore, acacia, terebinth, date and palm. These now provided natural shade and shelter for those who set up stalls to serve the many visitors and pilgrims to the temple. All the conjurors and scorpion men of Thebes were there, as well as barbers, herbalists and wandering priests. A group of dancers circled one tree and, to the reedy tune of a flute, joined hands and danced round it. They were not good dancers, being rather overweight and sweaty. They wore short sleeveless gowns and braided loincloths, whilst bangles and necklaces circled wrists and necks. One of these broke, scattering the heavy beads, much to the delight of a group of urchins who scrambled greedily for them and so brought the dance to an abrupt end.

'I can't see your friends,' Amerotke replied. 'If they wish to give thanks, let them do it in the temple.'

The others, led by Asural, were looking expectantly back at him. Shufoy stood on tiptoe.

'It's very urgent, Master. Belet has important information. Tonight is his wedding night. After which he must return to the village and collect his possessions.'

Amerotke pursed his lips. He felt hot and dry. Shufoy's eyes were bright with excitement. Amerotke often teased him but he never underestimated this little rapscallion's genius for collecting useful scraps of information.

'He has to speak to you now,' Shufoy urged. 'He and Seli.'

'Very well,' Amerotke sighed. 'Prenhoe, Asural!' he called, pointing to a beer stall beneath a palm tree. 'Take our visitors and refresh yourselves there.'

Shufoy slid his hand into his.

'Why didn't you tell me about this when we were in the temple?' Amerotke demanded.

Shufoy pulled him closer. 'Master, the walls have ears.'

'You mean you didn't want Asural and Prenhoe to find out?'

Shufoy grinned wickedly. Amerotke let him lead him across the temple precinct, past a wild-eyed wandering priest, hands raised, intoning a garbled prayer to some unknown Kushite god. They went down a narrow, shady alleyway which ran off from the square. Amerotke realised they were going to one of Shufoy's favourite eating-houses: a square, white-stoned building with kitchens, eating-rooms and a pleasant garden beyond.

'I told them to wait here,' Shufoy explained, slipping through the entrance.

They crossed the small, fragrance-filled room used as a store place. Geese, chickens and ducks, freshly slaughtered, hung from poles, bowls placed beneath their half-open beaks to catch the blood. Outside the garden was a small paradise, dissected by a canal which brought in water from the Nile: this was a mere rivulet to keep the grass, shrubs and flowers fresh and sweet-smelling. Behind a terraced fence, covered by creeping plants, stood a range of earthenware stoves, packed with wood and charcoal and topped with a grill, on which pieces of quail, antelope, duck and partridge were roasting. A little boy, completely naked, ran up and down with a ladle basting the meat with a variety of herbal sauces. Clouds of smoke carried the fragrant aroma across the garden. Belet and Seli were waiting on a small wooden bench beneath a palm tree. They sat, hands clasped together; despite his disfigurement, Belet looked radiantly happy. If Amerotke hadn't stopped him, he would have fallen to his knees.

'A stool for my lord Amerotke!' Shufoy bawled at a group of servants standing in the shade of another tree. 'Lift your hands and thank the gods that your humble abode has been graced by his august...'

'Shut up, Shufoy,' Belet whispered hoarsely.

The mannikin recalled himself and positively danced with embarrassment. The servants brought stools and placed a square, four-legged table between them. Amerotke thought of the others waiting yet he had no choice but to accept the jug of cool beer and strips of roast meat served on a bed of lettuce and sprinkled with chopped onion. Seli demanded copper knives. Once these were brought and the servants withdrew, Belet leaned closer, beads of sweat coursing down his face.

'My lord Amerotke, you have my thanks. I shall pray for you every day.' He grasped Seli's hand. 'If our first child is a son, with your permission, we'll name him after you. I shall offer incense in your temple. Your generosity and kindness have sealed me as your worthy servant.'

Amerotke waved his hand.

'You are a free man,' he replied quietly. 'You've purged yourself on oath.' He smiled. 'You'll become a famous carpenter and have many children. I don't wish to be rude but I am busy. The day is wearing on...'

'Very well.' Belet sipped his beer, then touched his forehead in salute. 'My lord judge, I come from the village of the Rhinoceri which, as you know, lies just to the south of Thebes. Shufoy was innocent of any crime and kept his soul. Many have turned bitter. They have been disfigured and stripped of their freedom. They sacrifice to no god except Seth the Great Slayer, or Meretseger the serpent goddess who strikes without warning.'

'I know,' Amerotke agreed. 'Such communities breed outlaws. I have heard tales of men, their faces swathed in rags, who plunder lonely travellers, wage war against Pharaoh's subjects. There are those in the royal circle who would have your village, and other such places, razed to the ground.'

'Now and again we are approached by outsiders,' Belet continued. 'Our kind regard anyone with the face the gods made them as a foreigner. Such foreigners hire the likes of me to do this or that. Others come to enjoy our women, taking great pleasure in coupling with one who is disfigured. About ten days ago, just after the Nile began to subside, I was approached.'

'By whom?' Amerotke interrupted.

'My lord, I cannot tell you. This was not the marketplace of Thebes where people meet and talk eye to eye, exchange the kiss of friendship, spit on the palms of their hands and seal a contract. It was dusk. The two masked men, who knocked on my door, sat outside and refused to come in. Their message was simple: I was to go to the Place of the Hyaenas shortly after dusk.'

'Why should they approach you?' Amerotke asked. 'And more importantly, you could have refused to go.'

Belet's eyes fell away.

'He regretted it, my lord,' Seli whispered, grasping Belet's arm. 'He was desperate and needed money.'

'Not everything we do is illegal,' Belet added, fingeringthe new necklace of polished stone around his throat. 'I needed silver to buy my way to Thebes.'

'How did you meet Seli?' Amerotke asked curiously.

'That's what I mean.' Belet sighed in relief. 'Seli's father brought down furniture to be repaired, locks to be mended. He knew I came of a very good family. Over the years I became his friend.'

'And his daughter's,' Shufoy added wickedly.

'So, the Place of Hyaenas?' Amerotke demanded.

'About a mile from the village: a great outcrop of rock where we bury our dead. My two guides met me there. The place is riddled with caves. I was taken into one. They put a rag around my eyes and led me in deeper. I then recognised that whatever was planned was against the law. I was made to sit. The evening had turned chill and a fire had been lit. The place stank of camel dung. I was given good wine to drink. I remember the cup was cracked but, once I drank it, I realised my visitors were not from the village. I waited in silence for some time. The wind outside rose. One of my guides muttered something, footsteps sounded and a third man joined us. The newcomer was certainly not from the village of the Rhinoceri. We have our own smell, customs, way of talking. He did not give me a name but began to praise my family, my work, particularly the intricate locks I could make, as well as those I could open.'

'And what did this man want?' Amerotke asked.

'He first asked if I still had my father's tools, chisels and mallets. "Sir," I replied, "similar can be bought in Thebes." "Ah yes," came the reply, "but those who use them can't. Would you like to be rich?" the man continued.'

'Did you recognise his voice?'

'No, my lord. It was like the desert wind, hard and menacing. I asked why they would want my expertise. "That is not for you to know," he replied. "Where would I have to go?" I asked. "Beyond Egypt's borders?" The man just laughed. "You will go to a place few people have been. However, when you are finished, you will be richer than many a man has been." I asked if it was dangerous. "Life is dangerous," came the reply.' Belet sipped from his jug. 'I didn't know what to do. Since my punishment and exile I have been law-abiding. I have kept well away from the troublemakers. After I met Seli, my only dream was to obtain a pardon.'

'What happened that night?' Amerotke demanded.

'I asked how many other men would be going. Again he refused to tell me. He promised I would become wealthy, be able to leave Egypt and live like some prosperous merchant beyond its borders.'

Belet lifted his face and glanced to where the servants still thronged beneath the tree. They immediately looked away. It was considered unlucky to stare at anyone disfigured. Belet gestured with his hand.

'You can see why I was tempted, my lord.'

Amerotke held the cold beer jug against his hot cheek. Now he'd met Belet, a faint suspicion stirred. The man undoubtedly meant well but he had agreed to meet this mysterious stranger. He glanced quickly at the locksmith and caught a calculating look in his eyes. Have I done right? Amerotke wondered. Is this man committed to the path of light? Amerotke turned to his manservant.

'Shufoy, tell me, why should strangers approach the village of the Rhinoceri and ask your friend for assistance?'

Shufoy, who had been studying a bee-keeper working on the far side of the garden, grimaced and blinked his eyes.

'A robbery, Master?'

'Did that occur to you?' Amerotke asked Belet.

'Of course.'

Amerotke swilled the beer round the jug. Robberies did occur in Thebes: rich merchants with their coffers and treasure chests, their warehouses and casks stuffed full of precious cloth, stones and spices.

'Come, Belet,' he urged. 'You must have questioned them?'

'I asked them that,' he replied falteringly. 'I pointed out how the merchants and the wealthy ones had their houses closely guarded.'

'And?'

'The man laughed. He said there would be no guards.'

'No guards!'

Amerotke immediately thought of the Necropolis, the City of the Dead across the Nile, with its honeycomb of tombs full of precious objects. It was not unknown for bands of outlaws to break in and plunder them.

'Grave-robbers?' he asked.

Belet looked shamefaced. 'I also mentioned that. Again he laughed. This time it was mocking. "Do you really think," he taunted, "that we'd rob the good people of Thebes?" "Where then?" I asked. "A place few people know. So, are you with us or not?" I replied I would have to think about it. The man gave me two days and said he would return.'

They were distracted by a babble of chatter from the servants. Amerotke glanced round. The story-teller from the forecourt of the temple had now arrived. He'd placed a linen robe round his sun-darkened skin and his black hair was bound up by a gold filet.

'I have spoken enough,' the story-teller boasted. 'And my throat is as dry as a desert wadi.'

The man was apparently popular, as the servants flocked to serve him. Shufoy gazed enviously over.

'I wish I could tell stories like that.'

'You do,' Amerotke replied coolly. 'It's just that no one believes them. Belet, continue with your tale.'

'Two days later I was taken back to the Place of Hyaenas after dark. I was led blindfold into the cave. The man was waiting for me. I told him I was nervous, that my skill was not what it should be. I pressed him for details. He scoffed at me so I refused. I thought he had finished till I felt a snake coil over my leg. "Do you feel that?" the voice asked. "Why, yes, Master," I replied. "And you will keep silent about what you have been asked?" "Master, how can I tell people what I don't know?" "You're a fool," the visitor replied. "You may have lost your nose but your ears and tongue can still be taken." I swore great oaths that my lips would remain sealed. I was taken from the cave and brought back into the village.'

'Did they approach anyone else?' Amerotke demanded.

Belet shook his head. 'I don't think so.'

'Why are you telling me now?'

'Because I got to know,' Seli replied. She'd sat shoulders hunched, her pretty face pulled into a frown during her husband's confession. 'I nagged him.' She smiled. 'Yes, even before our marriage!'

'They came to me,' Shufoy spoke up, 'and asked for my advice.'

'And you said to speak to me?'

Amerotke closed his eyes and rocked backwards and forwards on the stool. He was tempted to dismiss this as some foolish escapade, a planned robbery which might never take place. He opened his eyes and stared at the groom and his bride.

'You think this is serious, don't you? Some sacrilege planned? The robbery of a temple, perhaps?'

'The Glory of Anubis,' Shufoy intervened. 'The sacred amethyst has been taken.'

Amerotke shook his head. 'No, they wouldn't enter a temple like Anubis. It's not only closely guarded by temple soldiers but, because of the Mitanni, members of the royal bodyguard are also close by. Brigands would be cut down as soon as they entered the temple grounds.'

Amerotke watched a bee move from flower to flower.

'I told you,' Belet spoke up, 'because I want my conscience clear, my lips and heart pure. Pharaoh has shown me great mercy. If a heinous robbery took place, I would never know peace...' His voice faltered.

'It will certainly be a mysterious robbery,' Amerotke agreed. 'Along the waterfront and in the slums, you can hire cutthroats and murderers for a deben of copper. So, why should this robber chieftain go out to the village of the Rhinoceri to look for help? Something is planned which, when it is finished, the fewer people who know the better. If the robbery is not here in Thebes...' Amerotke scratched his brow. 'Perhaps elsewhere? The silver mines...?'

'My lord!'

Amerotke glanced round. Asural had found where they were and was glaring across at them. Amerotke thanked Belet and got to his feet.

'If you learn any more...' He stretched his hand out and clasped those of the groom and his bride. 'I wish you peace.'

He walked over and joined Asural. They re-entered the alleyway and Shufoy caught up with them.

'Great lord,' he trumpeted, 'your mercy and wisdom are to be praised. Belet is, once again, in Pharaoh's favour, like his father. He...'

'Thank you, Shufoy.'

Amerotke paused, hand on Asural's shoulder.

'If I was planning a robbery, to steal something precious, to become rich beyond my wildest dreams, where would I go?'

Asural shrugged. 'The houses of Thebes?'

Amerotke thought of his own house: a mansion standing alone, surrounded by extensive gardens. Time and again Norfret had advised him to hire more guards and sentries. Was it a place like his? Distant from Thebes, easy plunder for a desperate group of cutthroats and brigands? But would such thieves need a locksmith?

'The heralds are waiting,' Asural insisted.

Amerotke patted Shufoy on the shoulder.

'I have heard what your friend said. At the moment I can make little sense of it. But come, other matters wait.'

In the garden the story-teller, laughing and talking to the servants, chewed on roast goose and gulped greedily from a jug of beer. He laughed and flirted with the maidservants. Every so often he'd glance across to where Belet and his bride sat, hands clasped, heads together, planning their future. The story-teller watched them intently. For the moment, they did not concern him. They were nothing but crumbs. No, the story-teller slurped from the beer and winked at one of the maidservants, they did not concern him. However, they had spoken to Amerotke, judge in the Hall of Two Truths, and that was a story he must tell his master.

Later that day, out at the Oasis of Palms, in the Red Lands east of Thebes, Tushratta, King of the Mitanni, bathed in a pool shrouded by palm trees. He stood lapping the water with his hands. Slaves and servants standing around its rim watched his every movement. The King allowed his body to float, so his servants could gaze on the battle wounds their warrior king had suffered in the defence and expansion of his empire.

Tushratta turned on his back and stared up through the palms at the brilliant blue sky, empty now except for a vulture, hovering on the breeze, feathery wings expanded. Was that a sign? Tushratta wondered. An augury for the future?

He addressed the scribe sitting on a stool, a roll of papyrus across his lap, ink horn strapped to his belt, quill in his hand, ever ready to take down his master's words. 'What do the Egyptians call the vulture?'

'Pharaoh's hens,' the scribe replied.

Tushratta closed his eyes. He recalled that great battlefield to the north: the vultures gathering thick and black as flies on a corpse.

'Will you hunt this evening, my lord?' his chief groom asked. 'Game is getting scarce.'

Tushratta raised his hand as a sign for silence. He drifted to the edge of the pool. He sat on a rocky outcrop just beneath the water, allowing his body to feel the sway and lap of the gushing spring.

If I went hunting, Tushratta considered, it would not be gazelle or antelope. He clawed at his thick black beard: his quarry would be that young Pharaoh-Queen. How he'd love to march through Thebes and, like the Hyksos before him, turn it into a sea of flame. He'd sack the temples, level its palaces and mansions, leave not one stone upon another. He would plunder the tomb of Tuthmosis I. He would take Senenmut, Grand Vizier of Egypt. Yes! Tushratta looked up at the skies: he'd crucify Senenmut or stake him out in the desert, fodder for the lions or hyaenas. As for Hatusu, the Pharaoh-Queen... Tushratta narrowed his eyes. He sank deeper into the water, allowing its coolness to lap between his legs. He'd take her into his harem, he would teach her who was the master!

Tushratta, to the surprise of his surrounding courtiers, angrily splashed the water. All because of that battle, the King fumed, his world had been turned on its head. Every clan and tribe of the Mitanni, each household in his great city, had lost men. The number of wounded and disabled seemed without measure. Mitanni armour and chariots now littered the northern desert or were paraded as keepsakes, mementoes of victory, in the temples and mansions of Egypt. Before he'd left for the Oasis of Palms, Tushratta had gone down into the deep vaults beneath his own palace and stared at the empty treasure chests, their contents long gone, on armour, supplies, accounts and hordes of mercenaries. It had all been in vain! The news of Egypt's victory seemed to have spread even across the Great Green, as well as to the savage tribes north of Caanan. Oh, Tushratta had plotted revenge. He had gathered with his generals and they had taken careful stock of chariots, carts, horses, javelins, bows and arrows. Which troops could march, who could be trusted. At the end of the tally, Tushratta had gloomily concluded that revenge, like the sky above him, was beautiful but unattainable.

'We cannot muster a proper army,' one of his generals had confided. 'And if we strip the kingdom...?' He'd let his words hang: it was always prudent to allow Tushratta to draw his own conclusions.

'If we march,' the King had declared, 'then we leave our own borders defenceless. The tribes will swarm in. Our own towns and villages will be sacked.'

'Then there's the harvest,' another general had said.

Oh yes, there had been the harvest, and if the granaries and storehouses were empty... Tushratta looked down at the water. He had clawed his way to the throne: intrigued, plotted, murdered and betrayed. He had even had three of his own half-brothers strangled so they would pose no threat. Tushratta had sprawled on the great bed in his palace, tossing and turning. He wanted revenge but a new war was futile. The Pharaoh-Queen Hatusu had proved as cunning and as dangerous as a cobra. She was a goddess to her troops and flushed with her triumph. If Tushratta took the path of war and was unsuccessful a second time... The water on his back turned cold. He had to watch the clan leaders. The Mitanni court was little more than a wolf pack. After his defeat at the hands of Hatusu, Tushratta had used one pretext after another to execute wavering courtiers, generals and captains. The blood-letting may have purged any thought of revolt or treason but he knew the rest were waiting.

'Calm down and plot,' his half-sister Wanef had advised. 'Let Egypt grow fat, prosperous and lazy. Let Hatusu's body become more full and rounded. Gather your strength and wait. One day Egypt could be yours and I'll watch you play with their Pharaoh-Queen in your harem.'

Wanef was his chief councillor, lover, adviser. When the hotheads demanded war, she counselled peace.

'Lie, bow, kiss the ground with your forehead. Promise anything, for the time being!' she urged.

Tushratta had reluctantly agreed. His country needed peace; his merchants demanded safe passage here and there. He had accepted Hatusu's ultimatum. Her peace proposals proved humiliating and demeaning. Tushratta would come to Egypt; he would seek audience with Pharaoh, listen to her terms and seal whatever she asked. Tushratta had heard them out. Once the envoys had withdrawn, he'd indulged in a paroxysm of rage. Once again the Princess soothed his temper.

'Think,' she urged. 'Think of the future...'

'My lord?'

One of the scribes, concerned at his master's black looks, had decided to intervene.

'My lord, what is it?'

'The peace treaty!' Tushratta demanded.

The scribe opened the small coffer beside him. Still balancing the roll of papyrus on his knee, he undid the scroll. Tushratta closed his eyes.

'Read me the terms.'

The scribe did so. Tushratta congratulated himself that he felt no spurt of anger.

'Enough!' He held a hand up.

Wanef and the others, Tushratta grinned to himself, oh yes, they were now busy in Thebes. Like foxes scampering around through the rocks, they would hide and turn, object and protest. They'd seek for time but, in the end, they would seal the treaty.

'Let Hatusu think she has her way,' Wanef had whispered to him in the dead of night, her lips almost kissing Tushratta's ear. 'Let her strut with Senenmut her stonemason. Our time will come.'

'But it will take years!' Tushratta protested.

'Revenge tastes better when it's cold,' Wanef retorted. 'Now listen, my lord.'

She had spun him a marvellous story: about Sinuhe the traveller and his detailed maps showing trade routes across the Red Lands to Kush and Punt, where precious spices could be collected in huge chests; of secret waterways, of what might even be beyond the Great Green. Tushratta had heard her out but the marvels hadn't stopped there. She also described the Temple of Anubis and its sacred, precious amethyst.

'What would you give,' she whispered, 'to hold the pride of Egypt in your hands?'

'But they would know!' he'd protested. 'Hatusu would demand vengeance.'

'Not if she can't prove it,' Wanef replied.

Tushratta had been pleased. For the first time since he'd fled that hideous battlefield, leaving the Mitanni dead heaped in piles as tall as a man, Tushratta had felt his heart glow and the laughter bubble within him.

'And how can you do this?' he'd asked.

Wanef had slipped from the bed, wrapping the sheet around her shoulders. She was not the most beautiful of women but her lovemaking, like her plans, was cunning, subtle and original. Tushratta trusted her completely. She had led him from the royal bedchamber and out across the palace yard to show him something in a dungeon dug deep beneath the walls. Tushratta had clapped his hands and embraced her tenderly.

'If you can do this for me,' he had whispered fiercely, 'you may have whatever you wish.'

'No, no, listen and listen well!'

She had then spun one of her intricate plots. Tushratta heard her out, admiring the skill and delicacy of her argument. She drew a picture of an arrogant Hatusu, of spies and traitors, of people whose souls could be bought. Tushratta had envied the way she had collected scraps of information, drawing others into her web. He deeply regretted not listening to her advice before he launched that invasion across the Horus road into Egypt.

'Are you sure this can be done?' he had asked.

'Yes. Let's go to Egypt, my brother and, if necessary, bend the neck, kiss the strumpet's painted toes, but we'll heap one villainy upon another. Take away her sheen of glory. The Egyptian bitch will have no proof but the months will pass into years.' She waved her hand. 'And the stories will become public. People will laugh behind their hands and say, "The gods are not with Hatusu of Egypt." She will become an object of ridicule to her enemies. Oh, she can stamp her little foot and demand this or that.' Wanef clapped her hands. 'But that's the beauty of it, my brother-king; if we have sealed the peace treaty, so has she! If we are bound by its clauses, so is Egypt. If she protests, we'll cry injury, that Hatusu of Egypt does not keep her word and that she is only looking for a fresh pretext for war.' Wanef, using her hands, described how the arguments could rage backwards and forwards. 'In the meantime,' she continued, 'the Mitanni will grow stronger. We'll raise new war horses, build more chariots, expand our trade, fill your treasure houses with wealth.'

'And if we fail?' Tushratta, more cautious, questioned. 'What happens, dearest sister, if your fine plans turn to dust?'

The pleasure drained from Wanef's face. Tushratta knew why. He never forgave those who failed him.

'If we fail,' she'd replied offhandedly, 'then what have we to lose? How can Egypt prove that we were involved? They may suspect, they may point the finger.' She laughed nervously. 'We'll dismiss it as lies, claim Egypt is still desirous of war.'

'It will be sweet wine,' Tushratta had murmured, 'to wash the defeat from my mouth. But what about the others? Hunro, Snefru, Mensu? The royal council are determined that they accompany you to Egypt. They may relish the plan, but can they be trusted?'

Wanef drew closer, flinging her arms round Tushratta's neck.

'Now, my prince, let's discuss my lords Hunro, Snefru and Mensu...'

Now Tushratta smiled in pleasure, spread out his hands and lowered his body deeper into the water of the oasis.

'My lord!' He glanced up; one of his captains was standing on the edge of the pool.

'What is it?' Tushratta demanded.

'Envoys from Thebes.'

Tushratta made a sign to dismiss the rest. He thrust the linen cloth at the captain and, once the others had departed, got out of the pool and wrapped it around him.

'They wait on the outskirts of the camp,' the captain continued.

'Describe them!' Tushratta ordered.

'They have come on dromedaries, well armed. They won't show their faces, only their eyes. They claim to come from the Princess Wanef and will speak only to you.'

'How many?' Tushratta asked.

'Three in all.'

'Bring the leader to my tent,' Tushratta commanded. 'Have some of the mutes on guard!'

The captain hurried off. Tushratta picked up a brocaded robe and draped it over his shoulder. He walked quickly to his pavilion. His eye was caught by a group of dwarfs, black-skinned people, crouched in a circle chattering like children. They were naked except for their loincloths, through which small cylinders had been pushed. Tushratta paused and smiled. He thought of Wanef, Thebes and the mischief she would inflict there. He snapped his fingers; the chamberlain opened the flap of the pavilion and Tushratta entered its perfumed coolness. He dressed and made himself ready, sitting on a pile of cushions. On the table before him stood a cup of charou wine, cool and fragrant; beside it, a dish of ripe plums. Tushratta waited until a servant had tasted and investigated both before eating and drinking himself. The tent flap was pulled back and Lady Wanef's envoy slipped in like a ghost. He went down on his knees, his forehead touching the ground. Tushratta made him stay there a while.

'Come no further,' the King told him. 'You may sit up.'

The man began to remove his face cloth but Tushratta made a cutting movement with his hand.

'I watch your eyes,' he warned, 'and that's enough. Just speak, do not move and you will be safe!'

The messenger was aware of the tent flap opening behind him. He glanced quickly over his shoulder. Two Kushites, dressed in white kilts and leather armour, stepped in, arrows to their bows.

'You bring messages from Thebes?'

The man bowed again.

'I bring great news, my lord. That which is precious to Egypt will soon be precious to us.'

Tushratta hid his excitement. 'And the maps?'

'What is precious to Egypt will, my lord, soon be ours.'

'Soon?' Tushratta queried.

'The lady Wanef advises caution. It's better to wait and be safe.'

'And the other matter?' Tushratta demanded.

'Everything goes according to plan, my lord.'

'And Benia's sarcophagus?'

'Lady Wanef is rightfully demanding that it be returned to the care of the Mitanni.'

Tushratta closed his eyes. He thought of his sweet sister's face, her mummified corpse lying beside that of the great bully Tuthmosis I. Tushratta ground his teeth. His hatred for Hatusu was only equalled by that for her father. Had not Tuthmosis also sent his chariot squadrons across Sinai, raiding the soft valleys and unprotected villages of Canaan? Had not Tushratta vowed to ransack his tomb and seize his mummified heart? Tushratta sighed. He had tried and lost, but Wanef was right. The gods had given him a fresh opportunity.

'You know what to do?' Tushratta opened his eyes.

'Yes, my lord.'

'And the locksmith?'

This time the messenger's eyes flickered.

'You have failed, haven't you?' Tushratta snapped.

'My lord, I have informed the lady Wanef how the creature called Belet has sued for pardon before Lord Amerotke, Chief Judge in the Hall of Two Truths.'

'Amerotke!'

Tushratta glanced at the Kushites behind the messenger. Time and again Princess Wanef had mentioned that man's name! Of all the councillors in Hatusu's royal circle, she had warned, two must be watched: her lover, the stonemason Senenmut, and Amerotke, her principal judge.

'When we start this mischief,' she'd warned, 'Hatusu will go to Senenmut for advice and Amerotke will start picking like a vulture: he must be watched.'

'It is essential,' Tushratta barked, 'that this locksmith bend his neck to the yoke.' He breathed in noisily, broad nostrils flaring. 'We send our greetings to Princess Wanef. You have your orders. You may go.'

The messenger withdrew. Tushratta sat for a while, popping one plum after another into his mouth, chewing noisily. Amerotke, he thought. How could he deal with him? Tushratta, lost in his thoughts, stared down at the cup.

'So far so good,' he whispered.

He lifted his head and clapped his hands. A chamberlain stepped into the pavilion.

'Tonight, I make sacrifice. Tell my priests to be ready at sunset.'

The chamberlain bowed and withdrew. Tushratta would go out into the desert that night. He would take a captive with him and make the blood sacrifice, calling on his own dark gods to help him confound those of Egypt.

Anubis was considered to be the son of Osiris and Nephthys.