The hymn was taken up by the escort, a low, melodious chant followed by silence. The young man had something in his lap, a blue water lotus. I moved closer. The Veiled One turned to his left, beckoning to the Captain of his escort who hurried forward. A few whispers and the Veiled One returned to his meditations. The sun was now rising fast, bathing the glade with shifting light. I was about to withdraw when I felt a sharp point digging into my neck. I whirled round. A Kushite, one eye missing, stood holding his spear, its point only inches from my face. On either side of him were two archers, arrows to their bows, the cords pulled back tight and taut. They gazed impassively down at me. I couldn’t speak. I was frightened both of them and of breaking the silence.
The Kushite leaned down, grabbed me by the shoulder and pulled me to my feet. I was dressed only in a loincloth, a linen shawl across my shoulders. He pulled this away, whispering to his companions in a tongue I couldn’t understand. My loincloth was felt.
‘I have no weapons,’ I stammered.
‘Bring him with you.’
The Veiled One was already moving back to the carts. He took his seat, the steps were removed, the cushions and incense pots placed back and that strange procession returned to the Silent Pavilion. I had no choice but to follow. One of the Kushites had tied a rope around my neck. He didn’t treat me cruelly, but held it lightly as one would walking a pet dog or monkey. The black gates opened and I entered a square, brick courtyard cut by the canal; a small fountain splashed in the middle. There was no garden plot but an abundance of flower baskets, full of fresh cuttings, their fragrance already filling the air and attracting the hunting bees. The front of the house was like any wealthy nobleman’s, porticoed and columned with Lebanese cedar, brilliantly emblazoned with different insignia and approached by well-cut steps. The cart stopped in front of these. The Veiled One got down and, escorted by his strange retinue, swept into the house. He moved more freely now, not so ungainly but with a natural grace and dignity as if, aware of his disabilities, he was determined to emphasise these rather than hide them. My guard stared down at me.
‘Shall we crucify you now?’ His voice was guttural.
Despite his grotesque wounds and the fierce glare of his one eye, the harsh mouth was smiling.
‘What shall we do with you, Monkey-Boy?’
I hid my fear and glared back.
‘Monkeys,’ he leaned down, ‘can stay in trees.’
‘A monkey can look at a king!’ I retorted.
The Kushite laughed and cuffed me gently on the ear. He undid the rope and pushed me towards the steps. The inside of the house was cool, its walls limewashed a faint green, no paintings except for the richly ornamented borders at top and bottom. Servants clustered there: men and women, about four or five in all. They, too, were disfigured. In Thebes they would have been dismissed as Rhinoceri, men and women who had lost their noses and ears as a penalty for some crime. Usually they would be banished to a dusty village or commune or even exiled to an oasis, some rocky culvert in the Red Lands. These, however, looked well fed and clothed and were welcoming enough. My shawl and loincloth were removed. A servant brought a jug of water. My body was carefully washed and anointed, lips and hands lightly coated with stoups of salted water. I was being purified as a priest would be before entering the Inner Sanctuary of a temple. A fresh loincloth was bound around me, a linen robe, cool and crisp, draped over my shoulders, and strange long sandals fastened to my feet. I was then taken into the inner hall – a beautiful elegant room, its roof supported by four pillars painted green and red. Here the walls were finely decorated but, as I waited in the shadows just beyond the doorway, I realised the paintings were like nothing I had seen in the Temple of Anubis. There was no formal stylisation; here the raging lion was lifelike as if ready to leap from the wall. The birds in their brilliant plumage were about to fly. Everywhere were symbols of the Sun Disc, either in full glory or just rising above a dark-blue horizon. Sometimes they were winged, sometimes not. A fireplace stood in the centre of the room; at the far end was a daïs protected by a grey curtain. Someone propelled me forward, the curtain was dragged back. The Veiled One sat on cushions with his back to the wall, a small table in front of him. I was pushed to my knees and nosed the ground before the daïs.
‘There is no need for that. There is no need for that.’
The words came slowly, the voice low. ‘Let my guest join me.’
I went up the steps. The Veiled One lifted his head, revealing his strange elongated eyes, yet their stare was entrancing, and it distracted my fears. I was no longer aware of the spidery fingers, the long hands on the breast or stomach bulging against the embroidered linen robe. Just those eyes, full of passion as if the Veiled One was going to chant one of those hymns as he had in the glade. His sensuous lips were parted: his tongue sticking out slightly as he studied me closely, like a judge weighing what I was worth, trying to discover in one glance who I really was. He smiled, slightly lopsidedly, a graceful movement of those long fingers gesturing at the cushions on the other side of the table.
‘You’d best sit down, hadn’t you?’
The cushions were thick and soft. The table was of beautiful acacia inlaid with ebony and silver whilst the pots and jars were of the finest quality, containing small chunks of crisp duck, sauces, herbs, and bread cut into thin strips. The cups held wine not beer. When I tasted it I coughed and drew back. The Veiled One laughed softly.
‘The best,’ he murmured. ‘From the rich land of Canaan. They say the earth is black there, so rich you gather two crops in one year. Come, come, eat!’
He gestured at the fresh reed basket before him. I was not frightened but wary. He served me himself, delicately wiping his fingers on a napkin.
‘You are purified and cleansed.’ He leaned across the table and I became aware of the Veiled One’s true features. He wore a blue and gold head-dress, a silver pearl dangled from one earlobe and a flowered pectoral hung about his neck. On his left hand glittered a ring bearing the symbol of the Sun Disc.
‘You are too shy,’ he murmured, eyes squinting as if he was short-sighted. ‘But not shy enough not to pry.’
‘I wasn’t prying.’ I swallowed quickly.
‘Then what were you doing?’
‘I was curious.’
‘Do you know who I am?’
‘The Veiled One.’
‘And why am I veiled?’
‘Because they say you are ugly.’
‘Do you think I am ugly?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Do you know who I am?’
I shook my head.
‘My name is Amenhotep. I am the second son of the Magnificent One and his beloved wife, the Lady of the House, Queen Tiye.’
I hid my nervousness by lifting the wine cup and gulping noisily.
‘You’ve never heard of me? I was born like this,’ he continued evenly, ‘kept in the Royal Nursery away from the Kap. Do you think I am strange? I have no real name. I am simply the Veiled One – he who lurks in the shadows.’ He broke from his reverie. ‘And who are you?’
‘I am Mahu, son of Seostris, the Baboon of the South. I, too, am called the Ugly One.’
I spoke louder than I intended. I heard a sound from behind the veil; the Kushite archers were still there armed and ready. The Veiled One, however, just lifted those long fingers, palm upwards in the sign of peace. He stared at me for a while, that long, solemn face, the unblinking eyes and then he began to laugh. At first it was a sound deep in his throat, then throwing his head back, he laughed loudly, clapping his hands softly together.
‘Mahu the Ugly One, the Baboon from the South!’
He picked up a piece of duck, dipped it into the herb sauce and, leaning across, gently fed me. ‘I like you, Mahu, Baboon of the South. You are a child of the Kap. Now tell me about yourself.’
I had no choice. I chattered like a bird on a branch about Aunt Isithia, my father, my years in the Kap, Horemheb, Rameses and the rest. The Veiled One turned his head slightly as if he had difficulty hearing. He stopped eating and listened intently, now and again interrupting with a sharp question. When I had finished he leaned back against the cushions, head against the wall, cradling his wine cup.
‘I hate beer.’ He looked at me from under heavy lidded eyes. ‘How old do you say I am?’
‘About my age.’
‘Which is?’
‘About fourteen summers.’
‘Have you had a woman, Mahu?’
‘Yes,’ I confessed.
He leaned forward, his face rather vexed. ‘But not last night?’ His voice became rather petulant. ‘Not today, not last night. You have been purified.’ He stared intently through the linen curtain behind as if seeking assurances from someone beyond it. Then he relaxed and laughed noisily.
‘I cannot take a woman.’ He glanced down at the table. ‘They say I am unable to.’ He gestured towards his groin. ‘A curse from the gods. What is your favourite god, Mahu?’
I was tempted to reply the Aten, the Sun Disc.
‘Well?’ The Veiled One’s head came up, a curious look on his face.
‘I have no god.’ The words came out. Tell the truth, I thought.
‘No god?’ He reached over and caressed my cheek. ‘Are you sure, Mahu? Not Seth or Montu, Isis or Ptah? Why not? If you repeated those words in the House of Instruction …’
‘I’d be beaten,’ I replied, the wine now making its presence felt. My face felt flushed, my tongue thicker and heavier than I would want.
‘No god.’ The Veiled One blinked. He turned to his side and brought out a small beautiful coffer of sycamore wood with bands of copper, its corners inlaid with silver and gold. He moved the platters and cups, placed this gently on the table and pulled back the lid. ‘Here are the gods, Mahu.’ He lifted out small statues of all the great deities of Egypt, except their heads had been removed: Osiris, Isis, Anubis, Seth the Destroyer, Montu of War. ‘Baubles!’ The Veiled One weighed two in his hand. ‘Plaster and stone and nothing else. They laugh at me, you know?’
His face had changed, no longer beautiful with his jutting mouth and those half-closed, glinting eyes. ‘The shaven pates, the soft heads, the priests – they told my father to keep me away, to place me here so here I have sat, Mahu.’ He threw the statues back in the box.
I was tempted to ask him about what I had seen in the glade earlier that morning but decided to hold my peace. Abruptly his mood changed.
‘Come on, finish your meal.’
I did so even as he filled my wine cup. I was becoming alarmed at this strange person with his changeable moods. Sometimes he would talk to me directly, at other times he would break off and turn to his side as if there was someone I couldn’t see sitting next to him. He would eat quickly but tidily, wiping his lips with his fingers, cleaning them on a napkin. The questions came thick and fast.
Had I entered the House of War? What was it like to lie with a girl? Which of the boys were my friends? Did I ever visit my aunt? His mood turned ugly whenever he mentioned the priests. I fought against the drowsiness, a sense of oppression. At the end of the meal the Veiled One rested back against the wall.
‘Shall I share a secret with you, Mahu? My brother Tuthmosis, he is kind.’ He wagged a finger at me. ‘I am glad you respect him. You must go soon.’ He played with the ring on his finger. ‘Mother will be here shortly. I shall speak to her about you but ask her not to tell Father. The Magnificent One,’ his voice turned rich with sarcasm, ‘does not like my name to be mentioned. If he’d had his way, I would have been drowned in the Nile. Mother argued differently. She says I am touched by the gods. We have our secrets.’
‘But you do not believe in gods?’
‘True,’ the Veiled One murmured. ‘For the time being true.’ He cocked his head slightly. ‘Do you believe in magic, Mahu?’
‘I know some tricks,’ I replied.
The Veiled One giggled, fingers covering his mouth. ‘Well, you’d best go.’ His hand fell away. He stretched across and ran a finger around my lips. ‘I have met you and wish you peace Mahu, Baboon of the South. One day we shall meet again.’