‘Oh Imri,’ the Veiled One clicked his tongue. ‘Go back to where you came from!’
The pole came down but then, with surprising speed, the Veiled One thrust it forward even as Imri’s hand went to the dagger in his belt. He was too slow. The pole caught him a tremendous blow on the side of his head. He staggered, swayed and fell into the water. Immediately my master seized one of the birds we had caught, slit its twisted neck and threw it into the water even as he grasped the pole. I knelt terrified, gripping the seat as the Veiled One, feet apart, drove the pole into the water, moving the barge swiftly back through the reeds. Imri, half-stunned, flailed and screamed. The barge moved quickly but Imri recovered his wits and, aware of the danger, tried to swim, not to the bank but towards us, his dark, scarred face twisted, his one eye full of fear and fury.
The Veiled One had calculated well. Even as the barge raced away I could see the pool of blood forming on the water, the body of the duck half-submerged sending out the delicious tang of ripe meat and fresh blood. The papyrus groves seemed to heave as if some hideous beast was preparing to emerge. I glimpsed the tail of a crocodile, two, three heads emerging above the water. Imri was swimming towards us, no more than a yard away, face tight with determination. The water moved, a slight wave. Imri screamed, coming out of the water, chest well above it, then he was dragged down. Again he emerged as the crocodile seized him, turning and twisting under the water, dragging him beneath the surface. The creature was soon joined by others. The river beyond the papyrus grove was turning into a scene of frenzied activity, the water chopping, Imri’s body spinning, the emerging snouts of other crocodiles. One last carrying, hideous scream, the water turning red – and then silence.
Chanting a hymn, the Veiled One poled us further and further away from that macabre scene. At last we were midstream. He kicked me gently in the ribs. I clambered to my feet and grasped the pole, while my master retook his seat in the stern. ‘We have hunted and we have killed, Mahu,’ he murmured. ‘Now let us go home.’
Once back at the Silent Pavilion I announced the tragic death of Imri. Both my master and I adopted the usual rites of mourning, tearing our garments, throwing ashes on our heads, abstaining from food. We kept to our own quarters though we continued to meet secretly. My master betrayed no compunction or regret. ‘I prayed, Mahu, to my Father, and he, who knows all things and sees all things, even the innermost secrets of the heart, told me that Imri must die.’
I bit my tongue and curbed my curiosity. The Veiled One sitting before me ran a finger through the ash which stained his cheek.
‘You are going to ask why.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘The answer came to me in prayer.’
I did not argue. In my view Imri was a traitor, an assassin. It was simply a matter of choice between his life and ours.
‘But that is not the end, is it, Mahu? Come, don’t sit there staring at me like a wise monkey on a branch! What does your teeming brain tell you?’
‘That Imri was not alone.’
‘Why do you say that?’
We were seated in the garden of the pavilion. I went out, gazed around and came back closing the door behind me.
‘Imri never went very far. Therefore, in this group, there must be others who carried messages, who advised and counselled him.’
‘Good. Good!’
‘If one fig is rotten,’ I continued, ‘the rest of the basket is tainted.’
‘And how many are in the basket, Mahu?’
‘Eight guards, all Kushites. They have served you how long?’
The Veiled One pulled a face. ‘Seven or eight years. They will continue to serve me.’ He looked at me from under his eyebrows. ‘Why, what are you saying, Mahu? If there are further problems, you must resolve them.’ He flicked his fingers. ‘Do whatever you have to.’
I mingled with the Kushite guard. They had their own barracks and lived their life separate from the rest of the household. Battle-hardened, scarred veterans, Imri’s death had disturbed them. I joined them one night out in the courtyard where they held their own ceremony of remembrance, offering wine, fruits and meats before a crudely carved statue, chanting hymns in their own tongue. I felt uncomfortable. They demanded details on how Imri had died and, of course, I described it as a most unfortunate accident. How we had entered the papyrus grove and aroused the crocodiles. They shook their heads at this. ‘But Imri was a skilled hunter,’ one of them declared. ‘He hunted along the river many a time. He knew its waters and the ways of such beasts.’
I could only shrug and say that even the most cunning of hunters make mistakes. I elaborated the story: how both I and my master had attempted to save him but the crocodiles, made ravenous by the birds we had brought down, had decided to attack – an event not unknown along the river. Nevertheless their suspicions were aroused. I could tell by the shifting eyes, the fleeting expressions. Imri’s death would not solve the problem. He would soon be replaced by another. I studied the Kushites and the rest of our household, absorbing every detail, observing habits and relationships. The Kushites not only kept to themselves but treated the rest of the servants, the Rhinoceri, the disfigured men and women who worked in the kitchens and elsewhere, with contempt. A deep antipathy existed between these two groups. The servants had all been chosen because of their disfigurement. The Kushites, however, saw themselves as warriors, their wounds as trophies of battle; they refused to be associated with common criminals and felons. The Rhinoceri lived in their own quarters. Some were married, others led a fairly lonely existence: unless they had the Kushites to guard them, they would not dare to enter the city or even the shabby markets which did thriving business along the riverside.
One of these Rhinoceri caught my attention: their undoubted leader, a young man of about my own age called Snefru, who acted as overseer of the stables. He was burly, with deepset eyes in a hard, disfigured face, a man quick with his fists though he still had a reputation for fairness amongst the others. He attempted to keep his own self-respect and dignity, shaving his head, being careful about his appearance as if to make up for the horrid scar which ran down the centre of his face where his nose and upper lip had been. He was very good with the horses, vigilant over their health and wellbeing. Their bedding, food and water were always rigorously checked, whilst he was skilled as any horse leech in dealing with colic or a myriad of the other minor ailments horses could suffer from.
Snefru would sit, eat and drink with the rest of the men in the cool of the evening, yet before doing so, he would always ensure he changed his leather kilt for a tattered but clean robe, scrupulously washing his hands and face in water mixed with salt. At first I studied him from afar but, with our common interest in horses, I soon learned his story. He had been a scribe of the stables in a military barracks on the far side of Thebes. His father, mother and sister had all died of the fever which often rages amongst the huddled tenements of those artisans in their mud-bricked houses beyond the walls.
‘I could not afford the fees for the embalmers,’ Snefru confided, brushing the flanks of a horse. ‘And so I became desperate. I thought the stable would not miss a horse. One night I took one out and sold it to a party of Desert Wanderers. They, in turn, were stopped by the Medjay. The horse carried markings. They were killed and I was arrested. The only reason I escaped with my life,’ he spread his strong, muscular arms, ‘was because of my skill with horses.’ He gestured at the scar. ‘The executioner was clumsy. He removed my nose and part of my lip. I was banished to the village of the Rhinoceri. I stayed there for two years until royal heralds arrived. They were looking for skilled men to work here. I produced my record.’ He shrugged. ‘And I’ve been here ever since.’
‘Are you a soldier, Snefru?’ I found it hard not to look at that gruesome scar, almost as if his face was cut into two by a dark shadow. The ‘wound’ on his lip made him stumble over certain words.
‘I have served in the levy,’ he replied. ‘On one occasion I even served as a driver in a chariot.’
‘But not like the brave Kushites?’ I lowered my voice.
‘Oh, them.’ Snefru came round the horse. Crouching down, he picked up its hind leg to scrutinise the hoof.
‘Yes – what about them?’ I squatted down with him.
‘They are arrogant and cruel.’ Snefru’s eyes held mine. ‘But so are you, sir. You are the master’s shadow. Yet, over the last few days, you keep appearing here, offering me wine and bread, drawing me into conversation. You want something? I don’t know what. You have no strange tastes. You are not fascinated by my disfigurement.’ His tongue licked the corner of his mouth. ‘And now we talk about the Kushites whose Captain, Imri, died so mysteriously in the crocodile pool. What is it you want?’
I got to my feet. ‘I don’t like stables,’ I grinned, ‘but the evening is cool, the stars are out.’
Snefru joined me outside. We walked and talked and I gained the measure of him. I had chosen correctly. This was a man to be trusted, but one with bounding ambition. We paused under a tamarisk tree and I gazed up at its branches.
‘Wouldn’t you like to change your life, Snefru? To receive a pardon for your crimes, the favour of our rulers? The opportunity to be valued and respected?’
‘I hear your song,’ Snefru replied, ‘but the words are indistinct.’
‘You like the tune?’
Snefru’s face was hidden by the shadows. ‘What we are talking about here,’ he whispered, ‘is a matter of life and death, isn’t it?’
‘Can your companions be trusted?’ I remarked.
‘The other Rhinoceri?’ Snefru laughed softly. ‘Of course they can.’
‘They will do what you say?’
‘That depends on what I offer.’
I drew him deeper into the shadows and, under a starlit sky, the cool breeze whispering, the trees shifting about us, I baited the trap.
Four days later the Veiled One ordered his chariot to be prepared, pulled by his fleetest horses. With myself as the driver, the Kushites armed and ready, my master swept out into the Eastern Red Lands to hunt the ostrich, the lion and the gazelle. We had done this before and the Veiled One always insisted that his chariot must be the most splendid, the panels of the side emblazoned with red, blue and gold, eyecatching designs. The gleaming black harness of the horses was decorated with silver and gold medallions ‘bedecked like Montu’, as my master put it. He was correct, for we were going to war not to hunt.
We reached the reserve and rested during the heat of the day. Evening fell, cool and fresh, but we did not thunder after the fleet-footed ostrich or the darting gazelle. The Veiled One remained in his tent, claiming he was unwell. He despatched some of the Kushites to hunt quail, hare, any fresh meat for our cooking fire. At first we followed the usual routine: four hunters were sent out, the other four remained as guards. The sun began to set, a cold breeze blew and the sky changed as it always did before the darkness came rushing in. We built a campfire and gathered round it. I shared out the supplies we’d brought whilst my master stayed in his tent. The food was palatable but highly salted, dried meat and some bread which had already lost its freshness during the day. The four remaining Kushites were nervous as their companions had not returned.
‘They shouldn’t have been sent,’ one grumbled. ‘We are soldiers, not hunters. It is our master’s duty to provide the meat.’
I stared up at the night sky. We had camped in a small ravine, the rocks rising on either side of us. The Kushites were so nervous they were hardly aware of this break from the normal routine. We usually camped out in the open, our fires easy to see. I listened to their grumbles and poured the wine until they became more drowsy. I told them I’d be back and walked over to the Veiled One’s pavilion. He was sitting moodily, sipping from a cup; his faraway gaze hardly recognised me. I heard the sounds, the crunch on gravel, the clash of weapons. When I left the tent the deed had been done. The Kushites had drunk deeply of the drugged wine. They now lay sprawled in pools of blood forming round their gashed throats. Around them stood Snefru and his companions, armed to the teeth with sword and dagger, bows and quivers slung over their backs. They were all dressed in those reed-battered hats, protection against the sun, leather kilts and marching boots, all supplied by the Veiled One from his small armoury. I walked over and glanced down at one corpse.
‘And the other four?’ I asked.
‘Trapped and killed,’ Snefru replied. ‘It was easy enough. They divided into pairs. We heard them before they ever came into sight.’
I gazed round at the rest. All were Rhinoceri, each and every one handpicked by Snefru, from my master’s house-servants.
‘You realise what has been done,’ I declared, ‘and you know there is no going back. These are Kushite warriors, veterans from the imperial regiments, selected by the Divine One himself to guard his son, but they could not be trusted and had to pay the price. You will take their place.’ I paused. The silence of the night was rent by the coughing roar of the lion, followed by the yip of a hyena and the screech of another animal. ‘You will replace them,’ I continued. ‘You will be my master’s servants. The dust under his feet. There will be no sacred oaths, hands over the altar with fires burning and incense smouldering. You have taken the oath already in the blood of these men. Do not think the Divine One will pardon any of you who decide to betray the rest. Your death will be just as brutal as theirs: impalement on a stake.’