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Chapter One
In the Hall of Two Truths, in the Divine House of the goddess Ma'at, Pharaoh's justice was about to be pronounced. Amerotke, Chief Judge of Thebes and Lord President of the courts of Egypt, friend of Pharaoh and a sworn member of the royal circle, sat erect in his judgement chair, a tall, severe-looking man with deep-set eyes and a sharp nose, his generous lips pulled into a tight line. Amerotke was dressed in a white-fringed robe and sandals of the same colour to symbolise purity. Around his neck hung a gold and turquoise pectoral depicting Ma'at the Goddess of Truth kneeling before her father Ra.
The court was silent. All eyes were on the judge's solemn face and stern mouth. Now and again Amerotke would touch the lock of black hair which hung down against his right cheek. He would play with the gold bracelet on his left wrist or stare at the judge's ring on the little finger of his right hand. He breathed in. Always an early riser, he had not eaten except some dates and honey cake. Instead he had wandered the markets, his diminutive manservant, the cheeky-eyed, disfigured Shufoy, hopping beside him. Shufoy carried his master's parasol, ever ready to protect Amerotke against the early-morning sun or proclaim, for all to hear, that Amerotke, Chief Judge of the Hall of Two Truths, was approaching. Amerotke usually told him to shut up but Shufoy was irrepressible. He always liked to see the stir his master created, whether it be checking the scales, weights and measures of the marketeers or visiting the lesser courts which were held in the antechambers of the temple: the Kenbet, Saru and Zazat.
Amerotke was always on time for his own court. The sun had barely touched the gold-tipped obelisks and the temple choirs were still singing their morning hymn to the rising sun when Amerotke took his seat to dispense the justice of Pharaoh.
Amerotke licked his lips. This was a solemn moment. He just hoped his stomach wouldn't rumble or some messenger, a Rabizu, hot and dusty, arrive from the House of a Million Years. Amerotke had received secret information that Pharaoh Hatusu and her Grand Vizier Senenmut wished to have words with him. Amerotke was angry. The case he had just listened to had filled him with rage and disgust; nevertheless, he remembered the teaching of the priests: `Fly into a rage only when a rage is necessary.'
He lifted his head and stared at the prisoner, scrawny-faced, cruel-eyed and mealy-mouthed, his lithe, tanned body covered by a dirty robe, sandals of woven reed on his calloused feet. Amerotke believed in demons and that they could take up residence in the souls of men. This, surely, was the case here. The prisoner appeared calm, poised, despite the overwhelming evidence which convicted him of bloody and blasphemous murder on at least two, if not four, occasions. The prisoner was mocking him, daring him to do his worst.
Amerotke stared round the court. On his left, through the porticoes, he glimpsed the gardens and fountains of the temple: the green meadows where the flocks of Ma'at grazed and the ibis bird sipped at the holy water under the shade of the palm and acacia trees. Amerotke wished he was there. He wished he could think, reflect, but everyone was waiting. On his left, squatting on cushions, writing trays resting on their thighs, were his Director of the Cabinet and Keeper of Petitions and their six clerks, including his kinsman young Prenhoe. They all sat, styli poised, tense, waiting for judgement to be given.
At the far end of the court, near the doorway, clustered the temple guards led by the brawny Asural; he now stood as if he was on parade, leather helmet couched under his arm. On Amerotke's right was Maiarch, the queen of courtesans, leader of the Guild of Prostitutes. She knelt, hands extended, her fat, painted face wet with tears which made the mascara and kohl run in dark rivulets down her quivering cheeks. Amerotke repressed a smile. Maiarch was a consummate actress. Since the case had ended she had knelt like that, her wig slightly awry, stubby fingers raised as if she wanted to drag divine justice from the heavens. Now and again the effort would be too much and she'd move in a jingle of bangles and the small bells sewn onto her robe.
`My lord,' Maiarch quavered, her reedy voice breaking the silence. `We cry for justice!'
`Nehemu.' Amerotke leaned forward, his left hand touching the small statue of Ma'at on its plinth at the side of his chair. `Nehemu, I ask you once more, is there any reason why sentence of death should not be passed against you?'
The reprobate just grinned back. `Amerotke!' he sneered.
A collective hiss ran round the court. Nehemu was intent on blasphemy, depriving the judge of all his titles and proper courtesy.
`You will address the court in a proper fashion!' Amerotke snapped.
`Amerotke, Chief Judge in the Hall of Two Truths,' Nehemu snarled, `do you have anything to say before sentence of death is passed against you?'
Amerotke didn't move but Prenhoe and the other scribes sprang to their feet. Asural came forward, hand going to the copper wire handle of his sword.
`If you wish to add to your list of crimes,' Amerotke's voice thundered. `Then do so!'
Nehemu's head tilted back, eyes half closed. `I am of the Guild of Amemets,' he rasped.
Amerotke repressed a shiver of fear. The Amemets were a guild of assassins; they worshipped the terrifying killer goddess Mafdet, who was represented as a cat. Was Nehemu one of their survivors? Nehemu clicked his tongue, savouring the consternation he was causing.
Amerotke made up his mind. `Nehemu, you are a wicked man! You live and skulk in the Necropolis, the City of Dead, like the jackal you are. On at least two occasions you have taken a heset girl, a singer, a dancer, a member of the Guild of Prostitutes--'
`Dirt under my feet!' Nehemu sneered.
Asural was now striding forward, a broad leather belt in his hand. He quickly placed this round Nehemu's neck, pulling it tight.
`Shall I gag him, my lord?' he asked.
`No, no, not for the moment.' Amerotke waved his hand. `Nehemu, listen, this court will have its say.'
`And so will I! And so will my guild!' Nehemu taunted, finding it difficult to talk with, the broad leather strap round his throat.
`Take the strap away,' Amerotke ordered.
Asural did so reluctantly. He remained behind the prisoner close, ready to restrain any outburst or sudden movement. Such scenes were rare. Prisoners, particularly those like Nehemu charged with dreadful crimes, usually hoped for a merciful death -- a cup of poisoned wine or the quick release of the garrotte string. Nehemu had now forfeited these.
`You took these young women,' Amerotke continued, `you slew them for your own pleasure. You strangled them and tossed their corpses into that part of the Nile where the crocodiles gather and feast.'
Nehemu tutted as if in self-mockery.
`You deprived them of life and, in desecrating their bodies after death, deprived them of a safe journey into the West, to the Fields of the Blessed.' Amerotke leaned forward. On the small sycamore table before him lay the papyrus rolls containing the judgements of Pharaoh as well as the insignia of his high office. He picked up a rod made out of terebinth wood, its end carved in the shape of a scorpion. The court breathed a collective sigh of relief: sentence of death was about to be pronounced.
Maiarch lowered her hands and touched the floor with her forehead in grateful submission.
`This is my sentence.'
The clerks were now busy writing.
`Nehemu, you are a wicked and vile man. Your crimes are terrible. The captain of the guard is to take you to the same place where you slew your victims. You are to be bound and tied and sewn alive in the carcase of a pig still wet with blood. This carcase is to be taken and thrown into the Nile.'
Nehemu's face sagged. He blinked at the hideous sentence passed against him.
`You will know the full horror of your own crimes,' Amerotke continued. `Captain of the guard, take him away!'
Nehemu had regained his wits. He lurched forward, mouth snarling. Asural, helped by the other guards, picked him up and dragged him away. Amerotke lowered his head, placing the scorpion wand back on the table. He wished things had been different but what could he do? Life had been taken in a sacrilegious way. Pharaoh's justice had been mocked.
Amerotke heard a shout and looked up. Nehemu had broken free of his guards. He'd seized a dagger from one of their sheaths and was running towards the judge, arm raised. Amerotke didn't move. He didn't know whether it was courage or fear. All he could see was Nehemu racing towards him, knife in his hands, face contorted with rage. A bow twanged. Nehemu was almost upon him when he flung his hands up, dropping the dagger. He staggered forward, one arm going behind his back as if to pull out the feathered shafts embedded there. He slumped to his knees before the table, blood mixing with his spittle, eyes rolling. He opened his mouth to speak, a gargling sound, then muttered a word; Amerotke wasn't sure whether it was `Revenge' or `Remember'. Then Nehemu crashed down against the table, knocking the scrolls and books onto the floor.
For a short while confusion reigned. Amerotke stood up, clapping his hands.
`This matter is ended. Justice has been done.' He smiled thinly. `Albeit speedily and unexpectedly. Captain Asural, clear the court. Take this corpse down to the river and let sentence be finished. There will be a short adjournment.
The court remembered itself and bowed. Amerotke bowed back and left. Once inside the small side chapel he closed the door, leaned against it, sighed and let his body sag.
`You should have been an actor, Amerotke,' he whispered.
His right leg wouldn't stop trembling, his stomach pitched, he felt slightly sick, hot and cold at the same time. He glanced down at his robes and thanked the gods there was no sign of blood. He took off his sandals, pectoral, bracelet and ring of office and placed them on the small draughtboard table just inside the doorway. He then took a pinch of natron salt, mixed it with holy water from the stoup and liberally cleansed his hands, mouth and face. He sat down on the cushion before the Naos. Its doors were open; the statue of Ma'at knelt there, hands joined, serene-faced, ostrich plumes, the symbol of truth, sprouting from the stone coronet round her brow. Amerotke found this the easiest place to pray. He had deep reservations about the gods of Egypt; deeply interested in theology, Amerotke was more and more attracted to some of the theologians who argued that God was an eternal spirit, the Father and Mother of all creation, manifested in the sun, the source of all light. Ma'at was part of this and the truth remained constantly pure. Amerotke closed his eyes and whispered his favourite prayer.
`Oh, Lady of the Land of Nine Bows, Beloved Word of God. Keep me in the truth, consecrate us in the truth. I give you thanks for my life and for that of Norfret my wife and my two sons Curfay and Ahmose.'
Amerotke opened his eyes. The high cheekbones of the goddess, her slanted eyes and smiling mouth always reminded him of Norfret. So serene and yet, when they were in their secret room, so ecstatic in her lovemaking. Amerotke hastily remembered himself and, leaning forward, arranged more tidily the vases of flowers, jars of perfumes and small dish of food which one of the priests had placed in front of the Naos. He heard a knock on the door.
`Come in!'
The door swung open. Maiarch, queen of the courtesans, stood on the threshold, fleshy jowls quivering, eyes beseeching.
`I come to give thanks, Lord Amerotke.'
He smiled. `Come in.'
`I am not pure, I am not purified.'
`The same could be said of all of Egypt,' Amerotke replied.
The fat courtesan beamed with pleasure at the compliment. She bustled through the door in a wave of costly perfume, bangles jangling. She lowered herself onto the cushions against the wall, reminding Amerotke of a hippopotamus sliding with pleasure beneath the water. He had considerable time for this fat actress of a courtesan. She was kind, looked after her girls and bore herself with pride.
`I came to thank you, my lord.'
`There is no need. I am sorry for the girls.' He gestured at the shrine. `The gods are all compassionate. Maybe their Kas will reach the Field of the Blessed, be taken over the Far Horizon.'
Maiarch nodded, blinking back her tears. Now and again she delicately wiped one of her eyes. Amerotke noticed how her fingernails were painted a brilliant red; they were so long they turned her hand into a claw.
`You'll always be welcome, my Lord Amerotke, at our house of pleasure.' Maiarch's fat face creased into a smile. `My girls could play a game with you ...'
Amerotke shook his head. `I thank you, my lady, but I have one woman, one wife.'
`Ah, yes, the Lady Norfret. Beautiful as the moon on a starlit night.' Maiarch waggled her plump shoulders and rose in a jingle of bells and bangles. `In which case, my lord ...'
She had hardly shuffled out when Asural marched in, Prenhoe behind him. The captain of the temple guard didn't stand on ceremony; his eyes, small and black as pebbles, glared furiously at the chief judge.
`The mess is cleared up but you shouldn't have allowed that. I've told you before, Amerotke, prisoners should be bound.'
`He died a quick death.'
`Was he a member of the Amemets?' Prenhoe asked anxiously. He sat down on the cushions, a woebegone expression on his face. `I dreamt last night I was swimming in the Nile with a naked girl on my back. Her breasts were small and firm--'
`I wish I had dreams like that,' Asural interrupted.
`No, no.' Prenhoe's thin, narrow face was a picture of anxiety. `I was swimming and a snake entered the water. I asked Shufoy what he thought of it. He replied that the dream was an augury of great danger threatening someone close to me.' He stared round-eyed at his kinsman. `Shufoy was right,' he whispered.
`Shufoy is always right,' Amerotke declared. `You haven't told him, have you?'
`I couldn't find him,' Asural answered. `I suppose he's busy somewhere selling amulets and scarabs.'
`He's not interested in that any more,' Prenhoe said. `He says the markets have become too crowded with tinkers and traders and the Scorpion Men have the monopoly on the sale of precious trinkets.'
`So, what's he selling?' Amerotke asked. `Come on, Prenhoe.'
`He's bought an old papyrus on medicines.'
`Oh, no!' Amerotke put his face in his hands.
`He's offering a wide range of remedies,' Prenhoe continued. `For burst lips, sore ears--'
`What about the Amemets?' Asural cut across the chatter. He glanced disdainfully at the young scribe. `And, by the way, wasn't your pallet of writing pens upset? Shouldn't you be looking after it?'
Amerotke nodded at the door as a sign for Prenhoe to leave. The scribe made an obeisance towards the tabernacle, sighed and left, muttering under his breath.
Asural closed and locked the door behind him. `The Amemets,' he repeated. `Was Nehemu a member of that guild of professional killers?'
Amerotke stared across at the statue. `I thought they had all been destroyed.'
`Why did you think that?' Asural demanded as he knelt down across from this enigmatic judge.
`No reason.' Amerotke closed his eyes. `I've clashed with them before.' He recalled those dark galleries beneath the pyramids at Sakkara, the crumbling masonry, those blackgarbed figures hastening towards him, only to be crushed by falling slabs of granite.
`There's more than one guild, you know,' Asural warned. `What if Nehemu was one of them?'
`He murdered a temple girl,' Amerotke snapped. `He killed alone.'
`I don't know.' Asural got to his feet. `The motto of that guild of snakes is an attack on one is an attack on all. But if Nehemu was bluffing,' Asural shrugged, `then it was nothing but sand in a desert wind.'
`And if he wasn't?'
`Look out for a carob seedcake smeared with cat dung and the blood of some animal,' Asural replied. `The Amemets send it out as a warning that their goddess Mafdet is hunting you.'
`So they at least extend the courtesy of saying they are coming?' Amerotke joked, hiding his fear. `Can't they be bought off or threatened?'
`No.' Asural walked towards the door. `They have their own bloodthirsty rules. If they send a sign, they will try twice to kill you. If they don't succeed, they will regard you as sacred to Mafdet and never again will they raise their hand against you.'
`But I've got you to protect me, Asural,' Amerotke teased.
`And I am your loyal guard dog. But remember, my lord, Mafdet always hunts by night.' Asural left.
Amerotke knelt back on his heels; the threats of the Amemets did not concern him, not really. He put his trust in Ma'at. He was used to fighting in the battle line and, as a judge, he faced threats every day.
Somewhere in the temple a conch horn blew, a signal that the court was being reconvened. Amerotke bowed his head towards the statue, rose and put on his insignia of office, the pectoral, ring and bracelet. He adjusted his robes and, moving across, opened a sandalwood box and picked out a small turquoise-glazed hand mirror.
`The face of a judge,' he whispered. Amerotke remembered the advice of his teachers: `A judge will feel many emotions but he must not show them.' He straightened the pectoral and applied two rings of kohl round his eyes. He heard a knock on the door. The Director of his Cabinet came in.
`All is ready, my lord. The three supplicants are waiting.'
Amerotke looked askance.
`The case concerns a woman who has two husbands,' the Director explained.
`Ah yes.' Amerotke rubbed his hands. He had read the papyrus scroll on this case. He walked back into the court. All sign of the chaos caused by Nehemu had been removed. The black marble floor shimmered, catching the reflection of the silver flowers painted on the green ceiling. The table stood straight before the judgement chair and the scribes were sitting between the pillars, Asural and his guards taking up their positions near the door at the far end.
Amerotke took his chair and stared at the people kneeling before him.
`Your names?'
`Antef, my lord,' the man on Amerotke's right spoke up. He was tall, sunburnt, with a soldier's face, a wiry body. He held himself proudly but his eyes were arrogant as if he not only expected justice to be done but done quickly.
`And you are?' Amerotke asked.
`I was, my lord, an officer in the Nakhtuaa.'
`Ah yes.' Amerotke smiled. He knew all about the `strong-arm boys', veteran foot soldiers who followed the chariots into battle. `Of what regiment?'
`The Anubis, my lord. I fought with the Vulture squadron at Pharaoh's great battle in the Delta.'
`I was there,' Amerotke replied slowly. He wanted to win the confidence of all three people, as well as show the court that Nehemu's attack had not disturbed him.
Amerotke placed his hands on his knees and stared at the soldier; memories flooded back of that long, thirsty march and the bloody clash of battle when Hatusu, ferocious as the lion goddess Sekhmet, had smashed into the Mitanni and crushed their power.
`And your name?' He turned to the young woman, a pretty little thing with a doll-like face, cheeks heavily painted, eyes rimmed by kohl. She wore a silver-edged wig, the long tresses almost touching the white shawl across her shoulders.
`Dalifa.'
`And you are?'
`She's my wife,' the soldier answered for her.
The young man on Amerotke's left lifted his hands as a sign to speak. `My lord, she isn't!'
`I am Paneb,' he added hastily. `Scribe in the Hall of Truth at the Temple of Osiris.'
The young man reminded Amerotke of Prenhoe. He could see that he and the young woman were deeply in love. Amerotke sat back. He loved such cases; no killing or bloodshed but deep, tangled relationships which either held people together or cut them asunder.
He made a sign and the chief scribe read out the background to the case. How Antef, in the Season of Planting six months previously, had marched north with Pharaoh's armies where he had received a blow on the head, lost his memory and stayed in the Delta until he recovered. Months later he returned to Thebes only to find that his pretty young wife, believing she was a widow, had, with the permission of the priests, now married young Paneb.
Amerotke scratched his chin. `And I am to rule whether the first marriage is still valid and the second should be dissolved?'
Antef nodded vigorously.
`Do you love Antef?' Amerotke asked Dalifa.
`I never loved him.' Her voice rose. `My marriage was arranged by my father.'
`And where is he?'
`He was an incense merchant,' the woman replied. `He died two months ago of a rotting disease in his lungs.'
Amerotke nodded sympathetically. He saw a look of desperation in Paneb's face.
`Was your father rich?'
`Yes, my lord,' Dalifa replied. `And I am his sole heir.'
A sigh ran round the court. Amerotke smiled. Antef didn't just want his wife back, he thought, he also wanted a share of her inheritance.
`Is this a matter of love?' Amerotke asked. `Or wealth? Antef, would you be satisfied with a portion of your wife's inheritance?'
`It is not his,' the young woman interjected.
Amerotke raised his hand to silence her. Antef was too wily to step into the trap. `This is a matter of love,' he replied coolly, `Not treasure, my lord. I wish my wife back.'
`He wants the money!' Paneb screamed, his face suffused with fury. `You know that, my lord.'
`I know nothing,' Amerotke replied. He thrummed his lower lip. If he decreed that the young woman could stay with her second husband, Antef would appeal, using the influence of his officers. Senenmut, liked to overturn a judgement now and again, just to make his influence felt.
Amerotke studied Antef. `Where was this wound to your head?'
The soldier turned and Amerotke glimpsed the scar on the left side. `A Mitanni war club,' he declared proudly.
`And what happened then?'
`I was knocked unconscious, my lord. When I came to, I had been left for dead. A woman combing the battle field found me and took me to her village near the oasis. I stayed there before travelling to Memphis. I gave thanks to the gods that my memory returned. I remembered my wife and journeyed home to Thebes.'
Amerotke glanced down to hide his unease. He had been on that battlefield. The Maryannou, the `Braves of the King', had supervised the collection of the penis of every dead enemy warrior. Hatusu herself had insisted on this. She had sent them as a mocking, grisly trophy to her opponents in Thebes as well as to show how many Mitanni warriors she had slaughtered.
`I find it strange.' Amerotke lifted his head and caught the shift in Antef's eyes. Was the soldier telling lies?
`Why is that, my lord?'
`Well, you were a member of the strong-arm boys, brave warriors all. You wore the arms of the Anubis regiment. Why didn't they, when they combed the battlefield, find your body?'
`I was away from the rest, my lord,' Antef replied. `You may remember, the battle spilled out across the desert.' A corpse was discovered and they thought it was mine.'
Amerotke nodded.
`I am a soldier,' Antef continued. `I fought for divine Pharaoh. Is this the thanks I receive? Dalifa is my wife.' Anfet glanced round the court for support. `Cannot the warriors of Thebes leave their wives to fight Egypt's enemies without finding another in their bed and sitting at their table when they return?'
Amerotke saw the look of pain in Dalifa's eyes.
`I do not love him.' She stretched her hands forward beseechingly. `He was a cruel man, a bully. My lord, I have found my heart's desire. I would share my wealth to stay with Paneb.'
Amerotke nodded. `The justice of Pharaoh will not be hurried. A man's wife is a man's wife,' he declared.
Dalifa put her face in her hands and began to sob.
`But which man's?' Amerotke added mischievously. `It is a matter for this court to decide. And, until it does, I declare Dalifa's house be sealed. The young woman is to stay in the Hall of Seclusion in the Temple of Isis.' Amerotke glanced quickly at Antef and, for the second time that morning, saw murder in another man's eyes.
