The Season of the Hyaena (Ancient Egyptian Mysteries) by Paul Doherty

lamps, Your Highness.’
    ‘I am afraid.’ The boy knelt on the bed, hands clasped together.
    ‘You are not afraid.’ I sat down beside him and felt his forehead. It was cool. ‘You are telling me stories,’ I smiled, ‘to make me stay.’ I picked up the goblet of green faience on the nearby table, sniffed and tasted the pure water. ‘Djarka will come and sleep in your chamber,’ I murmured. I pointed to the small gong hanging from one of the bedposts. ‘What do you do if you are really frightened?’
    Again that beautiful smile, and his little hands stole beneath the headrest and pulled out a small hammer, which he shook vigorously.
    ‘I hit it, Uncle Mahu, I hit it hard!’
    ‘Good.’ I cupped his cheek in one hand. ‘And remember, Your Highness,’ I kissed him gently on the forehead, ‘I am not your uncle.’
    ‘Yes, Uncle Mahu. Have you come to tell me a story?’
    ‘Not tonight.’ I grinned. ‘But perhaps in the morning I’ll tell you about the brave deeds of Ahmose, your ancestor, who drove the Hyksos from Egypt with fire and sword.’
    ‘I know all his deeds.’
    ‘Do you now? And can you count? Do you remember your numbers? How many are in a shet?’
    ‘One hundred, Uncle Mahu.’ The boy clapped his hands.
    ‘And how many shets in a kha?’
    ‘Er …’ His face was all screwed up. ‘A kha is a thousand, so there must be ten.’
    ‘And the God Shu? What is the hieroglyph for him?’
    ‘A man with a plume on his head, or sometimes a man with the head of a lion.’
    ‘Good! Good!’ I whispered.
    ‘Do you love me, Uncle Mahu?’
    ‘Of course I do. Why shouldn’t I?’
    ‘Ankhes …’ Tutankhamun always stumbled over his half-sister’s name, so he had taken to using the shortened form. ‘Ankhes says you love nobody.’
    I stared at the little boy dressed in his shift, head slightly to one side, waiting eagerly for my reply. I kissed him on the forehead.
    ‘Sometimes, Your Highness, I find it difficult to love, but you are different.’
    ‘Did you love my father?’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘And my mother?’
    I recalled the small, black-eyed Khiya, the Mitanni princess whom Nefertiti had nicknamed the Monkey.
    ‘A great lady, Your Highness, and one I loved.’
    ‘Ankhes says you do not speak with true voice.’
    ‘That is so of everyone except yourself, Your Highness. Nevertheless, I swear that when I speak to you it will always be with true voice.’
    Tutankhamun flung his arms round my neck.
    ‘Ankhes,’ he whispered in my ear, ‘does say you are the best of all.’
    ‘The best of what, Your Highness?’
    ‘The best amongst the hyaenas!’ he whispered.
    I felt cold, and slowly withdrew. The little fellow smiled up at me, face eager for my reply. His innocence disturbed me. I stared around. I had done my best to make the chamber comfortable. The walls had been washed and repainted with country scenes: a fowler out with his nets, birds and insects, including a locust of pinkish-yellow hue resting on a light papyrus stem. Above this, birds flew with widespread gorgeous wings against a dark green sky. A dove with bulging throat cooed over a golden nest containing a silver egg. Next to it, a group of pelicans, father, mother and brood of young, advanced unknowing towards the fowler’s net. I felt a surge of depression. I had tried to make this chamber pleasant for the boy, with its countless niches for oil lamps in coloured glass which would glow all night. Nevertheless, the sight of those pelicans advancing unsuspecting towards the net held by the fowler, with his unshaven face and red-ochre skin, now seemed sinister. I recalled the assassin.
    ‘Go to sleep, little one,’ I whispered. I made the boy lie down and pulled up the sheets.
    ‘Will you tell me a story?’ Tutankhamun asked sleepily. ‘Ankhes says you are a hunter, the Striped Hyaena.’
    A shiver, as if some evil spirit crawled over my shoulder, made me start. I gently pressed his hand.
    ‘Is that what she calls