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

me, Your Highness, the Striped Hyaena?’
    ‘Of course, Uncle Mahu, because of your cloak.’
    I recalled Rahmose all a-sweat, the kohl rings round his eyes running in dark rivulets, my cloak about him, striding across the courtyard, the assassin streaking like a flame to kill him. Tutankhamun was asking me more questions, but I gently chided him and began to hum a song Djarka had taught me, a lullaby shepherds would sing to their flocks.
    I waited until the boy was asleep, then left looking for Djarka and Sobeck. They were sitting with our men in a nearby courtyard. A Nubian mercenary was entertaining them, dancing to the eerie sound of the flute and tambourine, arms moving rhythmically, body swaying in fluttering steps. He was dressed in a loincloth beneath a thin linen robe. In the light from the torches he too looked threatening, with his cropped head, huge earrings, necklace and beads, a leopard skin hanging about his arms: a spirit of the night dancing round the pools of light! The shadows fluttered as if the ghosts of the dead had come back to mimic the actions of the dancer. I felt uneasy, and sharply asked Sobeck and Djarka to accompany me back to the House of Adoration. My own chamber lay next to the Prince’s; its windows were unshuttered to allow in the fragrance of the gardens, braziers and oil lamps glowed warmly against the cold night air. Djarka scrutinised the wine jug and filled three goblets, a sweet-tasting white wine from the imperial vineyards to the north.
    ‘You have eaten, my lord?’ He squatted next to Sobeck. I leaned back against the cushions.
    ‘My belly is full because my heart aches.’
    ‘Poetry?’ Sobeck teased.
    ‘The truth,’ I replied. I told them what had happened in the council chamber; the threats posed by the usurper, now crowing like a cock on his dunghill at Avaris. As I spoke, I watched Sobeck. He lived closer to the crocodile pool than I; he was often the first to pick up rumours and gossip. Yet he too was surprised. He sat, face tight, eyes narrowed, whistling under his breath as he shook his head at the news.
    ‘Could it be Akenhaten?’ he demanded.
    ‘What do you think?’ I turned to Djarka.
    Perhaps it was talking to the young Prince, feeling his soft cheek, yet I noticed that evening how my friend, my servant, had aged. Furrows marked his mouth, his eyes were tired, there was an ashy tinge to his night-black hair. Djarka had not forgotten. He had never truly reconciled himself to the death of his beloved a few years earlier.
    ‘Djarka, you are of the Shemsu? Those who wander the desert.’
    ‘As is Ay.’ Djarka smiled. ‘As was his sister, Great Queen Tiye. All those who come from the town of Akhmin were once wanderers from Canaan.’
    ‘And my question …’
    ‘I know your question, master.’ Djarka’s voice was sardonic. ‘Did Akenhaten go out into the desert to meet these people? Did they spirit him away?’
    ‘And the treasure?’
    ‘I certainly remember the priests, Khufu and Djoser.’ Djarka sipped at his wine. ‘And the other chapel priests. They were fanatics, true servants of Aten. They may have taken the treasure and followed their master.’
    ‘But why?’ Sobeck asked. ‘Why leave the power and the glory of Egypt for some village in Canaan? It’s more likely Akenhaten became a recluse, or his own priests murdered him!’
    ‘And you have heard nothing about this impostor?’ I asked.
    ‘I am a Lord of the Darkness,’ Sobeck retorted. ‘My kingdom is not your kingdom, Mahu. However, I drink your wine – so don’t distrust me, Baboon of the South. I stand and fall with you. I knew nothing of this! So, what will happen now?’
    I told them what I had suggested. Djarka and Sobeck objected, remonstrating angrily.
    ‘A foolish move,’ Djarka snapped. ‘If you go north you’ll be killed!’
    ‘If we stay here and dither,’ I objected, ‘the same will happen. We haven’t the wealth or troops to fight a war in the north, or against