An Evil Spirit Out of the West (Ancient Egyptian Mysteries) by Paul Doherty Page A

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