THE MASK OF RA

Paul Doherty

Copyright © 1996 P.C. Doherty

The right of Paul Doherty to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2012

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

eISBN: 978 0 7553 5024 7

HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

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History has always fascinated me. I see my stories as a time machine. I want to intrigue you with a murderous mystery and a tangled plot, but I also want you to experience what it was like to slip along the shadow-thronged alleyways of medieval London; to enter a soaringly majestic cathedral but then walk out and glimpse the gruesome execution scaffolds rising high on the other side of the square. In my novels you will sit in the oaken stalls of a gothic abbey and hear the glorious psalms of plain chant even as you glimpse white, sinister gargoyle faces peering out at you from deep cowls and hoods. Or there again, you may ride out in a chariot as it thunders across the Redlands of Ancient Egypt or leave the sunlight and golden warmth of the Nile as you enter the marble coldness of a pyramid’s deadly maze. Smells and sounds, sights and spectacles will be conjured up to catch your imagination and so create times and places now long gone. You will march to Jerusalem with the first Crusaders or enter the Colosseum of Rome, where the sand sparkles like gold and the crowds bay for the blood of some gladiator. Of course, if you wish, you can always return to the lush dark greenness of medieval England and take your seat in some tavern along the ancient moon-washed road to Canterbury and listen to some ghostly tale which chills the heart . . . my books will take you there then safely bring you back!

The periods that have piqued my interest and about which I have written are many and varied. I hope you enjoy the read and would love to hear your thoughts – I always appreciate any feedback from readers. Visit my publisher’s website here: www.headline.co.uk and find out more. You may also visit my website: www.paulcdoherty.com or email me on: paulcdoherty@gmail.com.

Paul Doherty

About the Author

Paul Doherty is one of the most prolific, and lauded, authors of historical mysteries in the world today. His expertise in all areas of history is illustrated in the many series that he writes about, from the Mathilde of Westminster series, set at the court of Edward II, to the Amerotke series, set in Ancient Egypt. Amongst his most memorable creations are Hugh Corbett, Brother Athelstan and Roger Shallot.

Paul Doherty was born in Middlesbrough. He studied history at Liverpool and Oxford Universities and obtained a doctorate at Oxford for his thesis on Edward II and Queen Isabella. He is now headmaster of a school in north-east London and lives with his wife and family near Epping Forest.

Also by Paul Doherty

Mathilde of Westminster

THE CUP OF GHOSTS

THE POISON MAIDEN

THE DARKENING GLASS

Sir Roger Shallot

THE WHITE ROSE MURDERS

THE POISONED CHALICE

THE GRAIL MURDERS

A BROOD OF VIPERS

THE GALLOWS MURDERS

THE RELIC MURDERS

Templar

THE TEMPLAR

THE TEMPLAR MAGICIAN

Mahu (The Akhenaten trilogy)

AN EVIL SPIRIT OUT OF THE WEST

THE SEASON OF THE HYAENA

THE YEAR OF THE COBRA

Canterbury Tales by Night

AN ANCIENT EVIL

A TAPESTRY OF MURDERS

A TOURNAMENT OF MURDERS

GHOSTLY MURDERS

THE HANGMAN’S HYMN

A HAUNT OF MURDER

Egyptian Mysteries

THE MASK OF RA

THE HORUS KILLINGS

THE ANUBIS SLAYINGS

THE SLAYERS OF SETH

THE ASSASSINS OF ISIS

THE POISONER OF PTAH

THE SPIES OF SOBECK

Constantine the Great

DOMINA

MURDER IMPERIAL

THE SONG OF THE GLADIATOR

THE QUEEN OF THE NIGHT

MURDER’S IMMORTAL MASK

Hugh Corbett

SATAN IN ST MARY’S

THE CROWN IN DARKNESS

SPY IN CHANCERY

THE ANGEL OF DEATH

THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS

MURDER WEARS A COWL

THE ASSASSIN IN THE GREENWOOD

THE SONG OF A DARK ANGEL

SATAN’S FIRE

THE DEVIL’S HUNT

THE DEMON ARCHER

THE TREASON OF THE GHOSTS

CORPSE CANDLE

THE MAGICIAN’S DEATH

THE WAXMAN MURDERS

NIGHTSHADE

THE MYSTERIUM

Standalone Titles

THE ROSE DEMON

THE HAUNTING

THE SOUL SLAYER

THE PLAGUE LORD

THE DEATH OF A KING

PRINCE DRAKULYA

THE LORD COUNT DRAKULYA

THE FATE OF PRINCES

DOVE AMONGST THE HAWKS

THE MASKED MAN

As Vanessa Alexander

THE LOVE KNOT

OF LOVE AND WAR

THE LOVING CUP

Kathryn Swinbrooke (as C L Grace)

SHRINE OF MURDERS

EYE OF GOD

MERCHANT OF DEATH

BOOK OF SHADOWS

SAINTLY MURDERS

MAZE OF MURDERS

FEAST OF POISONS

Nicholas Segalla (as Ann Dukthas)

A TIME FOR THE DEATH OF A KING

THE PRINCE LOST TO TIME

THE TIME OF MURDER AT MAYERLING

IN THE TIME OF THE POISONED QUEEN

Mysteries of Alexander the Great (as Anna Apostolou)

A MURDER IN MACEDON

A MURDER IN THEBES

Alexander the Great

THE HOUSE OF DEATH

THE GODLESS MAN

THE GATES OF HELL

Matthew Jankyn (as P C Doherty)

THE WHYTE HARTE

THE SERPENT AMONGST THE LILIES

Non-fiction

THE MYSTERIOUS DEATH OF TUTANKHAMUN

ISABELLA AND THE STRANGE DEATH OF EDWARD II

ALEXANDER THE GREAT: THE DEATH OF A GOD

THE GREAT CROWN JEWELS ROBBERY OF 1303

THE SECRET LIFE OF ELIZABETH I

THE DEATH OF THE RED KING

Praise for Paul Doherty

‘Teems with colour, energy and spills’ Time Out

‘Paul Doherty has a lively sense of history…evocative and lyrical descriptions’ New Statesman

‘Extensive and penetrating research coupled with a strong plot and bold characterisation. Loads of adventure and a dazzling evocation of the past’ Herald Sun, Melbourne

‘An opulent banquet to satisfy the most murderous appetite’ Northern Echo

‘As well as penning an exciting plot with vivid characters, Doherty excels at bringing the medieval period to life, with his detailed descriptions giving the reader a strong sense of place and time’ South Wales Argus

In memory of a good little scholar, Charlotte Anne Spencer of Chingford, (23.1.86-16.10.97) who also loved writing.

EGYPT c.1479 B.C.

Duat: the Egyptian underworld where Apep, the great snake, lurked.

PROLOGUE

In the month of Athor, the season of the water plants, the thirteenth year of Pharaoh Tuthmosis II, beloved of Ra, Hatusu, Tuthmosis’ only wife and half-sister, held a great banquet in her palace at Thebes. The feasting and revelry continued long into the night. Hatusu had sat, waiting for the moment when the wine left her guests either asleep or watching, glazed-eyed, the naked dancing girls. These moved sinuously, the hollow beads around their waists, ankles and wrists creating their own languorous, attractive tempo. The dancers whirled and turned, their black wigs stiff and soaked in perfume, faces daubed in white paint, their alluring sloe eyes ringed with kohl.

Hatusu left the banquet chamber and slipped along the marble-paved corridor; the walls on either side, decorated in red, blue and green, glowed in the light from translucent alabaster lamps. The triumphant scenes depicted there sprang to life and brought back memories of her father’s reign. Nubians, Libyans, the Mitanni and the raiders from the sea writhed in lifelike representation; they knelt on the ground, necks bowed, hands tied above their heads, awaiting execution at the hands of the victorious Pharaoh armed with club and mace.

Hatusu hurried on. She passed sentries standing at corners or the foot of stairs, men of the royal bodyguard in their white kilts and gold-encrusted belts, their bronze wrist-guards and torques gleaming in the torchlight. They stood like statues, spear in one hand, white and red shield in the other.

Every so often Hatusu would pause and listen to the sounds of revelry. These grew fainter as she went deeper into the bowels of the palace, towards her private chapel dedicated to the dog-headed Seth, god of the underworld. She opened the chapel door and went in. She took off her gold-lined sandals, took a pinch of natron salt to cleanse her mouth and inhaled the sacred fumes from a thurible, hanging on a hook, to purify her nose and mouth before she prayed. The torches had been extinguished but lights from the alabaster vases glowed in the precious mosaic round the walls, which displayed silver melons, edged with gold, grown from the seed of Seth when he had chased a goddess and ejaculated his semen into the soil. Hatusu knelt on the cushion before the sacred cupboard which bore Seth’s statue; around it pots of ivory, glass and porcelain, their handles shaped in the form of the ibis and ibex, exuded sweet-smelling incense.

Hatusu was small and lithe, delicate in her diaphanous white gown. On her head she wore a thick, black, curly wig with three plaits twirling down her neck. On her forehead rested a gold and silver headdress embroidered with red streaks; golden asps, studded with precious gems, hung from her ears; silver and gold bracelets clasped her wrists and ankles; a heavy, bejewelled necklace hung round her soft neck. Hatusu was dressed for celebration but, secretly, she was terrified. She gazed at the cupboard, closed and locked by the priests, and, lifting her arms, hands extended, she bowed her head and prayed. Seth, the god of darkness, must rescue her from these present troubles! Within days, her half-brother and husband, Tuthmosis II, would return to Thebes, victorious in his struggle against the sea-raiders along the great Nile Delta. And what would happen then? Hatusu had read the message very carefully. She was to come here in the dead of night and be instructed more clearly on what might take place. She had taken counsel of no one; the secret was too terrible to share. Nevertheless, here she was, the Pharaoh Queen, the wearer of the vulture crown, slinking like a rat through the corridors of her own palace. Hatusu trembled with rage. How would anyone be so arrogant as to summon Hatusu, beloved of the Pharaoh, into her own chapel? She stared at the black granite statues of the gods, Horus and Osiris, which stood on either side of the sacred cupboard.

All had been going so well! Tuthmosis had his concubines. True, by one he’d even had a son whom he’d recognised as his heir, but Hatusu was his Queen. She was skilled in the art of lovemaking and had drawn Tuthmosis into her net like a spider would a fly. So intense his pleasure, the Pharaoh claimed he had travelled to the far horizon and was already in the company of the gods! Hatusu had prayed that she would conceive. Costly offerings were made to Hathor the goddess of love and to Isis the mother goddess of Horus and Osiris. Perhaps it might still happen! During his campaigns Tuthmosis had sent her letters sealed under his own personal cartouche or mark. He had couched his greetings in cloying, loving terms before proceeding to tell her about his victories on land and sea. He had also informed her how he had learned a great secret during his visit to the Great Pyramid at Sakkara and, on his return, would shatter the dreams of Egypt with his revelations.

Hatusu sat back on her heels. What were these secrets? Tuthmosis had fits which the priests termed ‘divine trances’, when the gods, particularly Amun-Ra, spoke to him. Had this happened in the cold darkness of the pyramids? Hatusu joined her hands together and bowed her head; her eyes caught the scroll peeping out just beneath the Naos, the sacred cupboard. All dignity forgotten, Hatusu scrambled forward and picked it up. She unrolled the papyrus and, in the light of one of the lamps, studied the green and red hieroglyphics neatly etched there. It could have been written by any one of the thousands of scribes who lived in Thebes. However, the message, and the threat it contained, made the Pharaoh’s Queen tremble like a child and the sweat break out on her perfumed body.

Night was falling over red-bricked Thebes. The moon rose glinting on the Nile which wound like a dark-green serpent from south of the Land of the Bow to the Great Sea. The watchers on the barge waited, staring up at the night sky. An order was given and the barge, low and squat, left the quayside, slipping through the water towards the Necropolis, the City of the Dead, which lay to the west of Thebes. One figure stood in the stern, another in the prow, each armed with a pole. They moved the barge silently and swiftly out of the cluster of reeds. Their companions in the centre, dressed in black, their faces hidden like those of the desert people, sat grouped around the witch. She had sightless eyes; straggling, grey hair framed her crazed face. This terror of the night cradled an earthenware pot, capped, sealed and filled with human blood, as tenderly as a mother would her child. The assassins, the Amemets, named after the ‘devourers’, the ghastly creatures which gobbled up the souls of the evil dead, listened to the sounds of the night and studied the river. They heard the bullfrogs croak, the whir of insects, but, here in the shallows, they were wary of the crocodiles which would often slide out against the unwary, before rearing up in a clash of jaws to take a man’s head.

The barge moved like a leaf on a pond, and soon it was on the edge of the bird-thronged papyrus thickets on the western bank. Above them loomed the craggy outlines of the City of the Dead: the mud-bricked houses, the chapels, embalming rooms, workshops and mortuaries of the craftsmen who prepared the dead for their journey into eternity. Deeper into the papyrus the barge moved, aiming for the desolate spot where they could disembark. At last, its prow sank into the soft, dark mud. The leading Amemet, gripping his dagger, stepped on to the wet packed earth. He heard a sound and crouched, peering along the path, where he glimpsed other shapes and figures leaving the Necropolis, slinking down among the rushes to some waiting boat.

‘We are not the only ones.’ His whisper was tinged with humour.

The dark shapes disappeared.

‘Tomb-robbers!’ he muttered and snapped his fingers.

His companions, grasping the witch’s arms, joined him on the river bank. They slipped through the bushes, moving as quietly and as swiftly as hunting panthers, around the City of the Dead up a steep, dusty trackway to the brow of a hill. Below them lay the Valley of the Kings, the chosen resting place of Pharaohs and their families. The leader paused; the moon was full but, now and again, clouds blotted out its light. He glimpsed the torchlight of sentries and, on the evening breeze, heard the occasional shouted order, but these did not trouble him. Pharaoh was absent, the guards were slack and why not? There was enough plunder for the robbers among the tombs and mausoleums of the fat merchants of Thebes. Only a fool would lift his hand against the royal sepulchres. The Amemet leader had laid his plans well. The tomb of Tuthmosis II was still being prepared. It contained no treasures, so why would any thief or robber meddle with it? Moreover, the tomb stood by itself, on the royal road into the Valley. The guards were only bowmen and, by now, probably drunk on the cheap beer and wine they had smuggled across from the marketplace.

The leader of the assassins led his companions on, taking advantage of the rise and dip in the land. The old witch protested.

‘My limbs ache! My feet are sore!’ she whined.

The Amemet leader came back. He pushed his face close to hers.

‘You are being paid well, Mother. We’ll soon be there. Do what you have to, then it’s back across the river: slivers of roast goose, the sweetest of wines and enough wealth to buy you the tenderest lover in Thebes!’

His men sniggered. The witch protested in a tongue they didn’t understand, a harsh, cold sound which froze their blood and pricked their memories with stories of the power of this witch. Did she not raise the spectres and call on the evil one to send the angel of death to hover like a great hawk above her victims? The leader sensed their change of mood.

‘Come on!’ he urged.

The group continued. They reached the foot of the low sloping hill and gazed up at the porticoed entrance of the unfinished tomb of Tuthmosis. The leader chose two of his companions. All three crawled upwards on their bellies like snakes. They reached the top and paused. Three guards in all, lounging against the pillars, bronze helmets off, weapons laid in a pile. The men were talking, the beer jugs scattered around their feet. The assassin leader gestured back. The witch was left while the rest scrambled forward to the top of the hill. A sack was opened, horn bows and arrows distributed. Three of the assassins knelt up. One of the guards, sharper than the rest, heard the sound and, plucking a torch from the wall, ran forward. He was the first to die as the barbed, feathered arrow took him deep in the throat. His two companions jumped up and, in doing so, made themselves clear targets against the torchlight. Again the whir of arrows. Both guards died, legs kicking, coughing on their blood. The assassins raced forward. They paused at the entrance to the tomb. Men of no morals, who believed in none of the stories or the preaching of the priests, they were still fearful. After all, this was supposed to be a sacred place where Tuthmosis the Pharaoh, when his time had come, would rest in glory, his Ka be transformed as he travelled to join the gods over the edge of the far horizon.

‘Go on!’ their leader urged.

He thrust his way through, padding along the gloomy passageways, then turned a corner and almost crashed into the sleepy-eyed young officer. The assassin pulled his dagger and thrust it into the man’s unprotected stomach; the officer fell. The assassin took a club from beneath his cloak and smashed the man’s head, dashing his brains to the ground. He continued on but found no other guards so he returned to the entrance.

‘Bring up the witch!’

A short while later the woman of the night, armed with her small brush and her pot of human paint, daubed the entrance with the magical words cursing the Pharaoh both now and in death. The assassin leader watched, intrigued by the signs she made, her deft movements. He marvelled that a woman with no sight could draw so expertly, summoning up the curses, the powers of the evil one.

Waiting for her to finish, he wondered at the truth behind what was happening. He and his group were often hired for this task or that, but to curse a Pharaoh’s tomb? To malign his name? Perhaps even to block his journey into the west? What would cause this? What had happened to allow such hate and malice to spill out? The Amemet leader had no knowledge of the person who had hired him and the witch. The message had come in the usual way and he had replied as custom dictated, accepting the time, the place and the task to be carried out.

He went back to inspect the corpses in the porchway, and by the time he had returned, the witch was finished. She was crouched beneath the strange markings and, hands uplifted, was praying in a foreign tongue. The Amemet leader recalled the rumours among his men, how the witch was not Egyptian but came from the coastline of Phoenicia with her powers and amulets. Her prayer ended. She staggered to her feet.

‘We are finished,’ she whispered.

‘Truly, Mother, we are!’

The Amemet leader stepped behind her and, seizing her by the hair, yanked her head back and cut her throat.