The Assassins of Isis Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  List of Characters

  Also by Paul Doherty and available from Headline

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Copyright Page

  In honour of two great men,

  Billy and Kenny Yip,

  beloved husband and son

  of Susan Yip of Woodford Green

  PROLOGUE

  The violaters of the Houses of a Million Years could not believe their luck. They had swept into the Valley of the Nobles, a deep gully to the right of the soaring peak of Meretseger, the Silent One, which overlooked the Necropolis on the west bank of the Nile, opposite the temple complex of Karnak. The tomb guards had posed little problem, nothing which a silent knife thrust or the tight cord of a garrotte string couldn’t resolve. Their leader had given them precise details regarding the princely tomb they were to ransack. Once inside the valley, garbed in black from head to toe, they had swept like ants along the branching trackways. None of them knew or recognised any of his companions. They were united by one stark purpose: the pillaging of a tomb, the rifling of treasures of the ages from a House of Eternity whose owner had long gone across the Far Horizon into the Eternal West.

  Now they were finished, sweeping up the moon-washed valley. They had enough light to see their way, a long line of fast-moving figures laden down with booty, so excited they were oblivious to the roars, grunts and growls of the night prowlers, the lions, the hyaenas and jackals which lurked on that broad wasteland between the City of the Dead and the scorching desert which stretched like an eternity. They’d thought their night’s task was finished when their leader paused, holding up his dagger. Abruptly he left the narrow track, plunging down the shale and sand, sending dust flying as he moved between two jutting crags on to an unseen ledge and a carefully masked cleft which concealed the door to another tomb. The leader gestured for the rest to follow, calling them down by imitating the ‘yip, yip’ of a night fox. The violaters, who took the name of the demon Sebaus, would never have dreamed of searching for such a place.

  The group gathered in the small porchway and quickly dug away at the plaster-covered entrance. Once inside, the pot of fire was brought, pitch torches, taken from a sack, quickly lit and pushed into crevices along the wall. The Sebaus had long lost their fear of the Kingdom of the Dead. They glanced around, realising that the tomb consisted of four roughly hewn chambers, a main one with three storerooms leading off. The tomb had been hastily prepared. No paintings on the wall, no dried-out baskets of flowers, whilst the plaster coating hadn’t been properly finished or smoothed down. Nevertheless the burial chamber and adjoining storerooms were full of costly artefacts: precious game boards, ivory shabtis, mother-of-pearl boxes, chairs and stools of the finest wood inlaid with precious metals, boxes of precious oils, caskets of brilliant jewels, trinkets, bracelets and floral collarettes. In the far corner a collection of costly weapons lay heaped: knives and swords in jewelled scabbards, a magnificent bow of honour. Next to this was an exquisitely carved wooden casket containing the canopic jars, but the real prize was the red quartzite sarcophagus with the wadjet, the Eye of Horus, painted on each corner. The Sebaus’ leader, a former scribe, crouched down and read the hieroglyphs.

  ‘Rahimere,’ his muffled voice grated, ‘former Grand Vizier of Egypt. Well, let’s see what this lordly one holds.’

  Using crowbars and mallets they prised the lid loose, letting it fall to the ground with a crash, ignoring the great crack which appeared along the side. They climbed up on to the side, staring down at the luxuriously painted coffin casket within. Tools were hastily brought, the lid wrenched off and the casket inside brought out and thrown unceremoniously to the ground. The Sebaus leader wrenched off the beautiful face mask, ordering one of his men to break it up while the rest began to plunder the mummy, unwinding the bandages, fingers probing and searching for the sacred jewels and amulets.

  The leader returned to the sarcophagus. He swung himself up, lowered himself gently down and searched around. His hand grasped a costly leather case. He picked this up, opened it and took out a book wrapped in the finest linen. He had been expressly ordered to look for this and leave the case deliberately on the floor. He climbed out and gazed round the burial chamber. His companions, faces and heads masked and hooded, were now seizing whatever they could carry. Baskets were emptied, chests and coffers kicked over, sacks and pouches hurriedly filled. The leader of the Sebaus wiped the sweat from his brow and smiled contentedly. He knew none of his companions; he had simply been given his orders, precise directions, where to go and what to do, and had memorised every detail. He rejoiced in the great honour shown to him. Just before midnight he had gone out to the Dried Oasis to the north of the valley and met the Khetra, their silent, secretive master. The Khetra had stood hidden in the shadows, as he had done when the Sebaus leader had last met him, on that desolate island of Khnum to the north of Thebes. As usual, he had relayed his orders through another, so softly the leader couldn’t decide whether the Khetra was man or woman. He could detect nothing but moving shadows and that pervasive smell of jasmine. Was the Khetra a woman? In the past the Sebaus leader would have found this disturbing, yet didn’t Egypt have its own Pharaoh Queen? Wasn’t the Khetra a deep fountain of knowledge about the Valley of the Kings and all its treasures? What did it matter! He or she was making all of them rich beyond their wildest dreams.

  The Sebaus leader, cradling the book wrapped in linen, wondered where the Khetra could have acquired his knowledge about a hidden tomb like this. How could he have possibly known? Yet the orders had been quite precise, to follow the trackway above the two crags, reach the middle point and plunge down to the waiting ledge. The leader watched one of his gang empty a pure alabaster oil jar which had been filled with pearls. The wealth of this tomb spoke for itself. He recalled what he knew of Rahimere. Hadn’t he once been the Grand Vizier who’d opposed Pharaoh Hatusu and been given no choice but to drink poisoned wine? His family had been disgraced and must have chosen this lonely, hidden spot to protect Rahimere in the afterlife. There were scores of such tombs; some were discovered by accident, but others would remain as they were, a hidden horde of treasures.

  The Sebaus leader, cradling the linen parcel, walked over to the wall and unwrapped it. The book itself was composed of papyrus sheets sewn together with a strong twine; the writing was that of a learned scribe. The Sebaus leader, who had knowledge of such writing, began to read carefully, and as he did so, his heart skipped a beat. He hastily closed the book and rewrapped it in its linen sheet. The pitch torches were burning down and, going to the entrance of this man-made cave, the leader peered out. He glimpsed the stars low against the blackness of the heavens. His orders had been quite precise: to ransack this tomb and return to the Dried Oasis, where the Khetra would be waiting.

  ‘Enough!’ He turned to his companions. ‘Take what you have.’ He held up a hand, his wrist bracelet glistening in the light. ‘Remember, nothing must be withheld, nothing taken. Theft by one of us is a danger to all.’

  The gang nodded in understanding. The Khetra was ruthless; any theft meant instant death.

  They left the tomb, slippering and slithering up the shale. A number of objects were dropped, but the leader, distracted by what he had read in the book, ordered them to be left. Speed was the order of the night; altho
ugh it was still dark, they had to reach the oasis before dawn. They left the lonely valley, climbing over the limestone gullies, sinister shapes, the only sound their grunts and groans as they carried their heavy burdens. To their left glowed the lights of the Necropolis, and across the river was the shadowy mass of Thebes.

  The Sebaus leader urged his men on, although he remained distracted. He was frightened, for deeper fears had now been stirred. The robbing of the royal tombs had already caused scandal in the city. The Medjay police and the chariot squadrons were being deployed, and troops would soon be dispatched. The situation was growing more fraught by the day. The leader climbed a rocky outcrop, skirting the tall posts driven into the ground bearing impaled corpses, now only tattered remains after the vultures and desert prowlers had taken their share. The lights of the city had disappeared. They were now on the borders of the Red Lands, yet they moved carefully, wary of foot patrols or chariot squadrons camped in some ravine. On the night air throbbed the heart-chilling roars of the night creatures.

  The rest of the gang were climbing the rocky escarpment now, fanning out and peering down at the Dried Oasis below. The fire bowl was brought; a light flared, which was answered from the oasis, its bent, twisted trees black against the starlit sky. The Sebaus moved down the rocky outcrop and across to the oasis, where they squatted in a semi-circle, as they had been ordered to, around the crumbling wall of the old well. On the far side of this lurked other Sebaus who had not taken part in the raid, and somewhere in the trees beyond them was the Khetra. Orders were issued, the plunder collected, men were beckoned forward to be rigorously searched, the choice being indiscriminate. Once the Khetra was satisfied, rewards were distributed, the profits from previous raids, now converted into gold, silver and precious stones. Some of the robbers were selected to take the new plunder to certain places in Thebes. No home or person was named, only this pleasure house or that beer shop, or some other anonymous location. All they had to do was leave the treasure; it would be collected, and sometime in the future the price would be paid.

  At last the Sebaus dispersed and the oasis fell silent. The leader of the tomb robbers had been given strict instructions to remain. He did so, still cradling the book wrapped in its linen shawl.

  ‘Come!’ a voice whispered through the darkness.

  The Sebaus leader moved around the well.

  ‘Kneel.’

  The tomb robber did so. He was aware of dark shadows coming towards him; the smell of jasmine was very strong.

  ‘You have what I told you to find?’

  ‘Yes, master.’

  A pair of hands abruptly plucked the book away.

  ‘Did you read it?’

  ‘No, master.’

  ‘You lie. You opened it when you should have been watching those who were with you.’

  ‘Master, I—’

  The Sebaus leader heard a faint sound, followed by the twang of a horn bow. The arrow took him deep in the chest, loosed so close it flung him back to lie coughing and kicking in the sand. The last words he heard, as he choked on his own blood, was the order for his corpse to be taken and buried deep in the desert.

  Three days later a sweat-soaked runner raced up the Avenue of Sphinxes towards the soaring pylons of the Divine House, the Palace of Hatusu, Pharaoh Queen of Egypt. The runner, the swiftest in the imperial corps, was covered in dirt. He had to wash and purify himself before being allowed into the entrance porch, where he was anointed and perfumed in preparation for being taken into the Kingfisher Chamber – a beautiful room with light-green-painted walls. The kingfisher bird was everywhere, its vivid plumage accurately depicted in a number of scenes, perched above ever-blue water or plunging life-like into some reed-ringed pool.

  Inside the door the messenger knelt. The man squatting on cushions on the dais at the far end of the room ordered the gauze linen curtains to be pulled aside to reveal a strong man, his balding head glistening with oil. He had a soldier’s face, with hard eyes and harsh mouth, and he was dressed in a simple white tunic, although costly rings glittered on his fingers. The messenger, beckoned forward, nosed the ground before the dais, then, grasping the step before him, gasped out his message to Lord Senenmut, Grand Vizier of Egypt, First Minister and, some claimed, lover of the Pharaoh Queen.

  Senenmut threw down the map he was studying, hiding his alarm as he listened intently to the message. Once the runner had been rewarded and dismissed, he rose to his feet and strode through open acacia doors on to the balcony where Hatusu lay on a silver couch under a perfume-soaked awning. She was laughing and chattering with her maids, but broke off as Senenmut came across, catching his glance, and dismissed the maids.

  ‘My lord?’

  ‘They have found the tomb. Rahimere’s. It has been robbed and the coffin opened.’

  The lovely faience goblet slipped from Hatusu’s fingers as she stared in horror.

  ‘It can’t have been,’ she whispered.

  ‘The tomb was robbed,’ Senenmut confirmed. ‘A leather case was found which must have contained the book. There’s no mistake. Rahimere died and took his secrets with him; now they’re in the hands of some tomb robber.’

  ‘So the Temple of Isis was right, the information they gave us.’

  Hatusu crunched the broken glass under her sandal.

  ‘Enough is enough!’ she whispered. ‘Ask Lord Amerotke to be here by dusk. I’ll instruct him to root out these robbers. Somewhere in this city is a merchant or official who’s helped them; he can be easily broken …’

  AARAT: ancient Egyptian snake goddess

  CHAPTER 1

  Nadif, a standard-bearer in the Medjay, the desert police who controlled the approaches to the city of Thebes, loved to walk along the bank of the Nile as the sun began to set, changing the colours of both the city and the desert. He would stand by the bank, his left hand holding his staff of office, the other grasping the lead of his chained baboon; he’d half close his eyes and breathe in the delicious smells of the river, the fragrance of the wild flowers mingling with the stench of the rich mud and the odour of fish. He would listen to the various sounds: the calls of fishermen out on the river, the cries of swooping birds and the distant bull-like roars of the hippopotami. Tonight was no different. Whilst Baka, his trained baboon, peeled a piece of rotten fruit, Nadif stared across the Nile at the great City of the Dead, the Necropolis, where he was building his own tomb, preparing for that day when he would journey into the Eternal West.

  ‘You can’t see it from here.’ Nadif always talked to Baka; in fact, the policeman found the baboon more intelligent than some of his men. ‘But it’s there, high in the cliffs, nothing special mind you, but I’m proud of it. There’s a small temple outside, well, I call it a temple, and three chambers within. I wanted four, but the cost of these stonemasons …’ Nadif shook his head, he couldn’t believe the way prices had climbed. He had remarked on the same when, the previous day, a holiday, he had taken his wife and children across to the City of the Dead to buy some funeral caskets.

  The policeman squinted up at the sky. His tour of duty would end when the sun finally sank. He would return to the police barracks just within the city gates, share a jug of beer with his companions and make his way home. His wife had promised a special meal: slivers of goose cooked over an open grill and flavoured with sesame, followed by fruit in cream. Afterwards they would share a cup of Charou wine and, once again, admire the replica caskets they had bought the day before. Nadif believed that was the best way: you could order what you wanted, buy miniature replicas and bring them home to show your friends and neighbours. He was quite insistent that his casket must prove to his descendants, when they visited his tomb to check all was well, that he had been a high-ranking officer in the Medjay.

  ‘Aye, and before that,’ Nadif jerked back the chain, ‘I was a spearman in the Swallows.’

  He closed his eyes. For six years he had served as an infantryman, an auxiliary to one of the bravest generals in the Egyptian a
rmy, Chief Scribe Suten. Suten had commanded one of the new imperial chariot squadrons, new because the chariot they used was lighter, more mobile, yet tough enough to withstand the rigours of the Red Lands, those yawning deserts which stretched out on both sides of the great river.

  ‘Come on, Baka.’ Nadif turned and walked along the footpath. Now and again he would pause to study the papyrus groves, those lush islands of green along the banks of the Nile. If there was danger, that was where it would lurk; it was not unknown for a hippopotamus to come lumbering out or, worse still, one of those great river monsters, the crocodiles, who sometimes decided to go hunting inland. Nadif himself had come across the remains of a tinker who had made the mistake of sleeping on this very path, he had been seized by one of the demons of the river and pulled back into the deep mud which fringed the edge of the pool.

  ‘All we found was a head,’ he murmured. ‘Or at least the top of it.’

  However, Nadif’s reason for the patrol was not crocodiles or hippopotami, but to protect the great mansions of the wealthy which stood in their own grounds behind high walls some distance from the Nile. The policeman was always full of wonderment at such places. ‘Palaces in their own right,’ was how he described them to his wife. They had great oaken gates, soaring plaster walls and, beyond them, delicious cool gardens with orchards, lawns and pools of purity fed by canals from the Nile. Nadif knew all the gatekeepers and porters. Now and again he would stop to share the local gossip as well as a pot of ale or a plate of sugared almonds or figs. Each of these mansions was owned by one of the great lords of Pharaoh Hatusu’s court: Lord Amerotke, Supreme Judge in the Hall of Two Truths at the Temple of Ma’at in Thebes; General Suten, Nadif’s old commander-in-chief; and Lord Senenmut, Grand Vizier or First Minister of the young queen, and, some whispered behind their giggles, Pharaoh’s lover, a former stonemason, an architect, now busy building Egypt’s greatness in another way.