Pharaoh. Уилбур Смит

to have to listen to such obscenities.

      ‘I will let you watch while you are waiting for your own turn. I usually charge a fee, but you have let me have your helmet and gold chains for which I am so grateful …’ He was one of the most repulsive persons I have ever encountered. The black hood and cloak he wore were obviously meant to disguise the blood of his victims, but this close to him I could see that some of the stains were still damp, and the ones that had dried had begun to rot the fabric, so the stink of putrefaction and death hung over him like a dank miasma over a swamp.

      His assistants dragged me on through this human abattoir where their colleagues were going about their grisly business. The screams of their victims echoed against the bare stone walls, and blended with the cracking of the whips and the jovial laughter of these professional tormentors. The smell of fresh blood and human excrement was so overpowering that I found myself choking and gasping for breath.

      Eventually we descended a narrow flight of stone steps to reach a tiny, windowless underground cell. It was lit by a single candle, but otherwise it was bare. There was just enough room for me to sit on the floor, if I kept my knees up under my chin. My captors shoved me into it.

      ‘Your trial by Pharaoh is set for three days from today. We will come to fetch you for it. Otherwise we will not bother you again,’ Doog assured me.

      ‘But I need food and fresh water to drink and wash myself,’ I protested. ‘And I will also need clean clothes to wear for my trial.’

      ‘Prisoners make their own arrangements for such luxuries. We are busy men. You cannot expect us to be bothered by such trifles.’ Doog sniggered as he blew out the candle flame and thrust the stump into a pocket of his cloak. Then he slammed the door to my cell, and I heard his keys rattle in the outside of the lock. Three more days without water in this airless and sultry stone cell would be bitterly hard to bear, and I was not certain that I could survive it.

      ‘I will pay you.’ I heard my own voice rising with desperation as I shouted.

      ‘You have nothing with which to pay me,’ Doog’s voice carried back to me, even through the thick door, but then the footfalls of my captors receded into silence and my cell into utter darkness.

      In particular circumstances I am able to weave a spell of protection over myself which serves me in the same fashion as does the cocoon of certain insects. I am able to retreat to a secure place deep within my own self. This is what I did now.

      Early on the morning of the third day of my incarceration Doog and his henchmen had great difficulty summoning me back from the distant place in my mind to which I had retreated. I could hear their voices faint and faraway and gradually I became aware of their hands pummelling and shaking me, and their boots kicking me. But it was only when I felt the splash of a bucket of water thrown into my face that I recovered my full consciousness. I seized the bucket in both hands and poured what remained of the water down my throat and swallowed it, despite the efforts of three of the tormentors to rescue it from my clutches. That draught of filthy lukewarm water was my salvation; I could feel the power and energy flowing back into my parched body and the bastions of my soul being replenished. I was hardly aware of the lash of Doog’s whip across my naked back as they hustled me up the staircase into the light and the sweet airs of day. Indeed, the noxious odours of that prison were like the nectar of roses compared to the cell from which I was being dragged.

      They hauled me back to the Courtyard of Skulls where I found Captain Weneg waiting beside his chariot. After a single glance Weneg averted his shocked gaze from my battered face and my desiccated frame, and he busied himself in making his hieroglyph at the foot of the scroll which Doog demanded that he sign for my release. Then his charioteers helped me aboard the vehicle. Although I tried not to show it, I was still weak and reeling on my feet.

      As Weneg took up the reins and wheeled the chariot around to face the open gateway, Doog looked up at me with a grin and called out, ‘I look forward to your return to us, my lord. I have worked out a few new procedures especially for your execution. I am sure that you are going to find them diverting.’

      When we reached the stream at the bottom of the hills Weneg reined in his horses and offered me his hand to help me alight from the chariot and he led me down the bank of the stream.

      ‘I am sure you will want to refresh yourself, my lord.’ Unlike good Doog, Weneg used my title without even a touch of irony. ‘I have no idea what has become of your splendid uniform, but I have brought a fresh tunic for you. You cannot go into the presence of Pharaoh dressed as you are.’

      The water of the stream was sweet and cool. I purged myself of the dried blood and prison grime which coated me and then I combed out my long dense hair of which I am so justly proud.

      Of course Weneg must have been fully aware from previous experience what had happened to my helmet and gold chains once Doog laid eyes upon them, and so he had brought with him a plain blue charioteer’s tunic to cover my nakedness. Strangely this enhanced rather than detracted from my appearance, for it showed off my lean muscled torso to perfection. I did not have a bronze mirror with me, but my reflection in the waters of the stream gave me heart. Naturally I was not nearly at my best, but even with the facial bruising which Doog’s men had inflicted on me I could lift my chin high in the certain knowledge that very few could equal me for looks, even before the high court of Pharaoh.

      Weneg had also brought food and drink for me: bread and cold fillets of river catfish from the Nile with a jug of small beer to wash it down. It was delicious and nourishing. I felt renewed strength coursing through my entire body. Then we mounted up and drove on to the palace of Pharaoh, which was situated in the innermost courtyard of the walled city of Luxor. My trial was scheduled by Pharaoh to start at midday, but we entered the great hall of the palace a good hour in advance of that time. We waited until the middle of the afternoon before Pharaoh and his train entered. It was at once apparent that they had all been drinking strong liquor, most especially Pharaoh. His face was flushed, his laughter was raucous and his gait ungainly.

      All of us who had been awaiting his arrival these past many hours now prostrated ourselves before him and pressed our foreheads to the marble floor. Pharaoh settled himself on the throne facing us, while his band of sycophants sprawled on each side of him, giggling and making arcane jokes which were amusing only to themselves.

      While this was happening the ministers of state and the members of the royal family entered the great hall and took their seats on the line of lesser stone benches which had been arranged behind Pharaoh but facing me, the accused.

      The most senior and important of these witnesses was the second oldest son of Pharaoh Tamose, the next in line to the throne after his half-brother Utteric Turo.

      His name was Rameses. His mother was Pharaoh’s first and favourite wife. Her name was Queen Masara, but she had borne him six daughters before she gave birth to a son. In the meanwhile another of Tamose’s later and less beloved wives, a harridan named Saamorti, had deprived her by a mere matter of months of the honour of bearing the first-born son, and the heir to the throne. This was Utteric Turo.

      This audience maintained a dignified silence, which was in contrast to Utteric Turo and his minions, who went on chattering and hooting with laughter for some time longer. They completely ignored me and my escort, forcing us to suffer at Pharaoh’s whim and pleasure.

      Suddenly Pharaoh looked up at me for the first time and his voice cracked like a whip, sharply and viciously, ‘Why is this dangerous prisoner not manacled in my presence?’

      Captain Weneg replied without raising his head and looking directly at Pharaoh, ‘Your Mighty Majesty …’ I had never heard this obsequious term of address before, but I learned later that it was required terminology when addressing Utteric Turo, on pain of the royal wrath. ‘… I did not think to chain the prisoner as he has not yet been tried nor has he been found guilty of any crime.’

      ‘You did not think, fellow? Is that what I heard you to say? Of course you did not think. Thought presupposes a brain to think with.’ The toadies gathered at his feet giggled and clapped their hands at this royal sally, while two of Weneg’s men hauled me into