The Race Of
Scorpions

James Goss

© James Goss 2012

James Goss has
asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be
identified as the author of this work.

First published 2012 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

Contents

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

9.

10.

11.

12.

i. Menhet

I had come to the party to kill
someone. But the wrong person had died. Which meant I was in
trouble.

As my client lay there, dying in
the sand, the old man grasped my hand tightly. “You are fired,” he hissed.

As last words go, they weren't
much, but they were fair enough.

I remembered when the old man
had come to see me. My name is Serpent, and I run a school for assassins – of
course, it doesn't say that on the door, but the right people have always known
exactly how to find it. You're looking for a small stone complex on the
outskirts of Thebes, the buildings ranged around a shaded courtyard. It could
be a training school for dancers, but, if you listen closely and the wind is in
the right direction, you can just hear the clash of swords, or the sound of a
dagger driven into a sandbag.

Assassination is the second
oldest profession in Egypt, and it's the one business that's booming these
days. A decade ago, Amenhotep III went on his eternal
journey, and a new Pharaoh came to power. It's traditional for him to order the
elimination of all his rivals, and my father was looking forward to the work.
Instead, Akhenaten announced that he and his wife
were off to live in the desert and worship the Sun, and that this was the dawn
of a new age of peace. Ever since, it's been chaos throughout our entire land
as whole circles of courtiers wiped each other out.

Every now and then some new
power will rise up in court, and a worried enemy will pay me a visit. Soon
after, one of my students will go to the City of the Horizon and send the
upstart on their eternal journey. My assassins are very good – these days you
have to be. It's commonly put about that Pharaoh Akhenaten
is a delusional, unworldly soul, but he can't be – he's somehow managed to last
ten years, seeing off all opposition. To be that crazy and survive, he has to
have something going for him.

One of Pharaoh Akhenaten's few remaining rivals from his father's reign
was the Lord Menhet. He'd come to call on me,
personally. The grizzled courtier had been a powerful friend of the Pharaoh's
father, but now he was just seen as a rich, cranky old man, living out the last
of his days in the crumbling city of Thebes rather than heading out into the
desert to court the favour of the new ruler.

I was surprised to find him in
my reception room. I bowed, hoping it hid my surprise. “Normally, my Lord Menhet, it is quite acceptable to send a go-between.”

“Is it now?” the old man looked
mildly amused, fixing me with a gaze that was still bright. He was very old –
even his clothes were ancient, but they were of the finest cloth, and, like
their wearer, looked good for a few years yet. Lord Menhet
looked more than a survivor – he looked like a tomb carving of prosperous old
age. But why had he come to consult the School of Assassins in Thebes? He told
me, his voice firm and rich. “I'm a very wealthy man, and I've stayed that way
by doing business personally whenever possible. Intermediaries tend to garble
things, or assume all sorts of things on your behalf. If it's just selling a
few sacks of grain, that's no big deal, but I should hate for you to kill the
wrong person.” He shifted painfully, one hand rubbing a cramp from his arm,
touching a thin band of gold over and over again like a talisman.

“And you want me to kill someone
for you?” I asked.

He laughed. “My dear girl, I
wouldn't personally want you to do anything like that. You are far too pretty
to be an assassin. The last time I came here, your father was still running
things. I much preferred doing business with him. What became of him, by the
way?”

“I'm afraid he passed on,” I
bowed, “An unfortunate accident.”

“Oh, I bet it was!” The Lord Menhet laughed again, and regarded me shrewdly. “You know,
I think you might be just the right person for this job, after all.”

“Me?” I said. I train assassins,
but I rarely went out on missions myself. It doesn't do to become too
recognisable.

“Yes, you! I won't send an intermediary, so why should you?” the old man
jabbed a finger at me. His other hand fingered the rich gold jewellery around
his throat, working his way over the intricately carved animals – asp, lion,
raven, asp, lion, raven. All
creatures of prey. I wondered if the stories about him were true – that
it had been a vicious struggle to get old Amenhotep
III onto the throne, and Lord Menhet had done all the
dirty work to keep him there.

I named my fee, and mentioned
the standard clauses – I always insisted my assassin came back alive, for
instance.

“Well, obviously, in your case,”
the old man waved a hand. He seemed a shade less courteous now I'd agreed to
the work, as though, by taking his money, I was somehow worth less. The rich
are often like that – proud of having money, embarrassed that others might need
it. I offered him light beer and cakes, but he declined. He was crisp and
business-like. “Your assignment is to attend my birthday party.” He smiled, his
hand again rubbing away at the gold band on his arm.

“You'd like me to kill one of
your guests?”

“Oh yes,” he laughed. “It's a
present to myself. The whole family will be there, and
a few old associates. I don't suppose you'd wipe out the whole lot, would you?”

“All of them?”

He raised a tired arm. “Oh, they
all bore me, my dear girl. Soon, I shall embark on my eternal journey, and the
Great Jackal will weigh my heart against a feather from the Mighty Goddess of
Balance.” He smiled, as though certain of a favourable outcome. “Oh yes, my
reputation in the Field of Reeds is assured, but here on Earth, ach! - a man is
judged by his family, and mine are a nest of vipers.”

“Indeed?” I've wiped out a fair
few wives. I've helped a couple of sons nudge their fathers onto their final
step, but Menhet's distaste for his family was
unusual.

He nodded his assent. “I'm
afraid it's all my fault, my dear. They're not really
to blame. I've carved them, moved them carefully into position... but sadly,
they're people, not pieces on a board. They will grow rough edges and make
illegal moves. And I was sadly limited by what I had to work with. My first
wife – ah, we married for love. She was a sweet-natured, pretty thing. If only
she hadn't died in childbirth, taking the baby with her.”

He settled back, pushing his
feet out in front of him. “I think, yes, if they'd both survived, I would have
been content with less. Instead, I took an ambitious wife and she gave me
ambitious children before passing on. Beautiful creatures, certainly, but made
from granite – very hard to carve. And my third wife, such a
pretty flower, but too delicate to shape. No, my sad lot is to end my
days like a man with a grand plan for a garden, but no tools to sew it with.”
He paused. “Oh, and the weeds! The
weeds!”

I let Menhet
talk on. It's often the best with clients. For one thing, it makes it easier to
prevent mistakes. An elementary assassin's error is to take a client's words at
face value, hurry off and dispose of a target, only to be rewarded with tears
and bitter recriminations. There are often tell-tale phrases that reveal that
what they're asking you to do is born out of simple anger, rather than a
slow-burning fire of reason. And what Menhet was
asking me to do was logical and reasonable indeed. He wanted me to turn up to
his birthday party and kill someone.

He just didn't expect that he'd
be the one dying.

ii. A Birthday Party

I had gone to the party with the
best of intentions. Lord Menhet's Eightieth Birthday
Party was a very special occasion. If you're unfamiliar with the customs of our
land, I'll explain. Those in power reaching the venerable age of Eighty are required to prove that they're still up to it.
The accepted way of doing this is to run a short race in the desert. Not more
than two hundred cubits, really, but the race was brought in for a very good
reason.

Once, long ago, there had been a
Pharaoh who had lived to a very ripe old age. So ripe, in fact, that he'd gone
off. The old man refused to give up being a living god before he died, and his
family adored him too much to do the decent thing with a pillow in the night.
So he lingered on, driving the land into rack and ruin until he finally choked
on a stray pebble in his bread.

After that, it was decided that
Something Must Be Done, so they came up with The Sed
Festival – if an eighty year-old Pharaoh couldn't run in a reasonably straight
line once a year without stopping to have a sit down and a chat with the sand
beetles, then he probably wasn't in a fit shape to run the most important
country in the world.

The practice had gently spread
among the more important families – it helped move a few old duffers to one
side, but also gave the more virile seniors the licence to marry a young bride
or build a new mansion without fear of being packed off to a dark room at the
back of the house.

So it was with Menhet. He'd spent a lifetime building up his power, and
had no intention of relinquishing it simply because of his advancing years. He
was as tough as ever. Age had added a small twinkle to his eyes (truthfully,
they just watered a little). He'd pushed his family up from the minor nobility
with a mixture of bold trading moves, some military victories, and some very
choice marriages. He had pretty much established a dynasty – his children were
said to be as clever, sharp and handsome as he still was.

It was often said that, should
fate so decide – should some terribly careful and utterly accidental accident
happen to our beloved Pharaoh and his entire family, then the people need look
no further for a replacement than the clan of Menhet.
It had taken him a lifetime to move everything into position. He'd been by the
side of Amenhotep III, had learned everything he
could from him, and now, perhaps, he was ready to make his move against the old
man's weak, crazy son.

The one thing that Lord Menhet wasn't going to let
get in the way was old age. Or even death. Which was what had
made the assignment from Menhet so interesting.
He was still a powerful man – why did he want me to kill a guest at his
birthday party?

So, there we were, gathered in the desert. We'd all travelled out from Thebes
itself, crossing through the lush fields as dawn rose over the city, and
heading far out into the sands. The morning sun was just starting to bake the
air when we were stood at the racing track that Menhet's
men had prepared the night before. The flags fluttered in the breeze, tracking
the long, straight course. Friends and family gathered round the old man
himself, who sat, graciously receiving their good wishes while servants ran
backwards and forwards from the refreshment tent. The guests drank a lot of
light beer, but the old man held himself back until a
toast of fine wine was handed round. There was an air of expectation, of
excitement.

I was watching everyone,
everything carefully. I knew that, soon after Menhet
had run his course, I was to make my move. Someone was about to die.

A bronzed-bodied servant stood
proud, sounding out a brief post on his trumpet. The guests hushed, not even
noticing as a serving girl weaved through them, collected their cups.

Menhet strolled casually down to the starting line.
He smiled at one and all. And then, as the musician allowed the last howl of
the trumpet to tail off, he set out along the course, his feet pounding firmly
in the sand.

The gathered guests let out a
dutiful cheer. There could be no doubt about the outcome – those first few
strides had been masterful.

The end, when it came, was all
the more surprising. His arms stopped pumping smoothly, a hand clutched to his
chest, and his proud grin faded, replaced with a look of pain. No-one noticed
it, or if they did, no-one reacted to it. After all, it would be rude. He took
three more strides before his step faltered. I heard someone gasp, someone else
laugh, and then Menhet tumbled to the earth. One leg
kicked out, and then one of the most powerful men of Egypy
lay still. Not a great end, by any means.

I rushed to the old man's side.
Professional pride was one reason. Genuine concern was another. Also, family
were theoretically forbidden from running over to help out – there had been a
few unfortunate cases of weak old men trying to cheat by being dragged to the
finish line by their relatives.

I could see at once that it was
hopeless. His whole face was twitching with pain, and crimson flecked his
mouth. He had only time enough to fire me, and then, with an angry groan, he
died. I was left confused, and annoyed. I hate it when things don't go
according to plan. I also felt alarm. This didn't look good.

When someone is murdered and
people find out you're a professional assassin, then it isn't going to be long
before the finger of blame starts to drift in your direction. Clients don't
normally advertise in advance that they've hired an assassin – it does tend to
dampen the mood of a party. The only man who could have cleared me had just
died. I was in a mess.

I could see only one neat way
out of this. The first thing to do was to tell the truth – as loudly and as
clearly as possible. I looked up and down the empty racetrack, and then I took
a deep breath. “He's dead!” I cried.

The response was pretty much
what I'd hoped for. Confusion and alarm. Here was my
perfect chance to quietly slink away, but something held me back – perhaps it
was a sense of loyalty to my ex-employer, or perhaps it was the meaty grip of
General Ay on my shoulder.

iii. General Ay

General Ay had been many things,
but these days he was mostly known as The Only Man Keeping The
Pharaoh In Power. We all knew the great Akhenaten
sat on his own in the desert while his land went to ruin. And we all knew the
only thing keeping him there was General Ay.

Ay had first made a name for
himself as a soldier, but had then proved just as skilled a tactician at court,
moving fluidly from being Amenhotep's Chief Horseman
to being Akhenaten's Vizier. He was just as at home
in Thebes as in the heretic's City of the Sun, and was said to have ordered a
grand tomb for himself in both cities, proof that he not only had a foot in
both camps, but that he could get away with it. It was the kind of behaviour
that would see a lesser man stoned and pegged out for the beasts of the sand.

He was the last man I wanted to
encounter at just this moment. Imagine a lump of short, angry gristle topped
off with a fancy hat, and you've got the general. It wasn't surprising that
he'd be at Menhet's birthday party – after all, the
old man had been powerful, and, as we all knew, the General loved power. It was
rumoured by many that he was only keeping Akhenaten
in power until he could work out a way of taking over for himself.

General Ay's
hand rested on my shoulder with the familiarity of a fond greeting, but also
the sharpness of a pincer. “Stay a while, lady,” he said, his voice a hissing
boom, like a broken trumpet. He spun me round and considered me carefully - “I
recognise you, don't I?”

This was more than strictly
true. He had personally commissioned me to send several of his enemies to
rejoin their ancestors.   By this time a
small crowd was gathering around Menhet's body, all
of them in ear-shot, so Ay wouldn't risk acknowledging exactly how he knew me.
Instead, he steered me out of earshot of grieving family, curious onlookers and
paid spies. We settled down on a dune, the General
plopping his ridiculous hat on the sand next to me and scratching under the
surface of his wig.

From our little vantage point we
could survey the wreckage of the birthday party – the servants milling around
like dung beetles, the relatives stood in careful distress. We watched four
horsemen hurry up to Lord Menhet, wrapping him in
fine sheets, and taking him into the canvas tent, followed by the old man's
family. Soon the funeral rites would be read and the elaborate formalities of
mourning would begin.

But, for now, the General and I
were private, casual people. If you'd noticed us, you'd have thought we were
old friends having a chat. And yet I knew I was talking for my life.

“So,” said the General. “Was
this your work?”

“No,” I protested.

“Really?” he snorted, and rubbed
his spun beard. “Just here as a guest are you? Assassins don't normally get
invited to many parties.”

“This is true,” I admitted.

“Not unless you're expecting
someone to drop dead and... well, if I look over there, there appears to be a
dead body. Doesn't seem very good for you, does it, my lady?” The General had
the dry and weary sarcasm of a schoolmaster. I dreaded to think what it must be
like to serve in a military campaign with him.

I decided on the truth. I
wondered how many soldiers had tried this tactic, and how long they'd lived afterwards.
“Funnily enough he actually hired me.”

“To kill him?” The General raised an eyebrow.

“Alas no, one of his....” I
paused. As a professional assassin, one has a duty of confidentiality. One
tries not to talk about who you're intending to kill. It can bring bad luck, it
can be awkward, and sometimes it leads to hysterical offers of cash from
desperate victims and before you know it, the whole system is in disrepute. So,
if you want to keep your business going, it's best keep your mouth shut.

“I see,” said the General.
“You're going to refuse to name the victim... on your honour.”

“Correct,” I agreed, relieved.
“So glad you understand.”

“Pity,” said the General. “You
see – if Menhet wanted to kill someone badly enough,
perhaps they'd have felt the same towards him? Which would mean that, if you
named them, I could get this all cleared up very quickly.” One of General Ay's many job titles was “Doer of Right”. In other words,
he'd made himself chief judge. There were two reasons for this. Firstly,
Pharaoh himself was increasingly unconcerned with worldly matters, and, if the
General didn't look after these things, then nothing would get done. Secondly,
I think General Ay liked the power.

He continued to glare at me.
“Come on, my lady,” he said, his voice reasonable, “Name the name.”

I held his gaze. “I can assure
you, General, that, in this case, I don't think it would help.”

“Very well,” Again, playing the
disappointed schoolmaster, the General pushed his wig roughly back into place.
He stood up, accidentally kicking some sand in my direction. “As you're going
to be obstinate, perhaps you'll allow me to put something to you. Now, if I was
a killer, and I had been caught at the scene of an assassination, then I might
very well claim that the victim had hired me to kill someone else. It would
work wonders at causing confusion. These things are very hard to prove, and
we'd have to have an investigation and so on, rather than just running you
through with a rusty sword.” As if to illustrate his point, the General pulled
his own sword out, and reflected it to catch the light of the sun.

“Believe me,
it really wouldn't get us much further forward.” I insisted. “But I'll help you
in any other way I can.”

“How so?” The General pushed his sword slowly down into the ground.

I briefly considered killing
him. It wasn't, actually, impossible. There were at least three different
hand-to-hand methods I could use before he'd pull his sword from the ground.
But I doubted  his
bodyguards would be much further than the next dune. So, I took the riskier
option. “Perhaps, Great General, if you wanted to find out who
really killed him, who better to ask than a professional killer?”

The General brightened, “Just
what I was thinking!” he beamed. “As soon as I clapped eyes on you, I thought
'that's just the lass for the job'. I am delighted we're of the same mind.” He
holstered his sword with a creak of leather kilt. “Come on then – let's get on
with it.”

We crossed down the dune,
stepping around the racecourse and over to the awning outside the ceremonial
tent. The tent itself had been painted with scenes from Lord Menhet's life, a celebration of his many achievements. It
now formed his temporary tomb until he could be carried back to Thebes. The
family were gathered on the threshold, reluctant to enter the land of the dead.

Family, friends, retinue, all
eyed our approach warily. Wherever the General went, he trod like the sacred
bull Apis, his personality roughly tethered to his
body. His presence seldom meant good news. The best way to describe the
family's collective expression was “what now?”.

Standing in the General's
shadow, I didn't feel under his protection. He introduced me as “his special
advisor” but the gods know what the family made of me. I didn't look like
anything much – if you're a hired assassin, it's best not to go out in your
best clothes. I had gone to Menhet's birthday party
attired for the background, so that people would assume I was someone's slave,
or a temple assistant. Nothing special. And yet, here
I was, suddenly being thrust into the glare of my client's grieving relatives.

And what a group they were.

“This is-” the General started
to introduce me, and then faltered. He couldn't actually remember my name. How
many people must the old buzzard have killed to not remember the name of the
woman he'd hired to silence them?

I smiled at them all. “My condolences, family of Menhet.
I am the Lady Serpent. With your assistance, I will look into the sad death of
revered Menhet.” None of them reacted to my name.
Hardly surprising – the Family Serpent are reknowned,
but only to a select group. We like it that way.

The first to address me was Menhet's widow. The Lady Safran
was, I noticed, a lot younger than Menhet, and very
dry-eyed. When your husband is six decades older than you, their passing must
come as something of a relief. You can learn a lot from people by how they
first address you – her opening remarks were the shrill tones of someone
scolding a servant. “Look into his death? Why? Whatever do you mean, girl?
Ridiculous! My husband... he was an old man, and he was taken from us today by
a sad and untimely accident. That's all. Nothing more needs to be said. Do you
hear me?” She stopped and faltered. People who are deep in grief don't do that.
They shout on, as unaware as spurned lovers. The Lady Safran
was only too conscious of the correct impression she should be making, and
suddenly, she threw herself into widowhood. She bowed her head and gathered her
lovely robes around her. Demur, graceful, on the market.

Menhet's son, Amun, spoke next. As pompous as he
was athletic, he was a handsome young man despite his airy nature. When he
opened his mouth to speak, he assumed an orator's posture. He didn't so much
speak as declaim, imagining a scribe noting it down on wax to later paint on
the walls of his tomb for posterity. “My stepmother is quite correct,” he
announced. “The sad death of my father is little more than a
transcendence. He had reached the time of old age, and rather than
linger on and tarnish that golden life, he chose today to embark on his eternal
journey. The whole family wish him well in that voyage, and know that when his
heart is weighed, it will be found heavy with good deeds.”

He bowed stiffly, and formally
took his stepmother's hand. I did some mental arithmetic, and guessed that Amun and Safran were about the
same age – he was clearly the offspring of Menhet's
second wife – the beautiful, ambitious one. That figured. He gripped his
stepmother's elbow, in a supportive gesture, his gaze fixed on the horizon. I
wondered - well, you would wonder - just how supportive was Amun
to his stepmother?

I wasn't alone in this in my
suspicions. Menhet's eldest daughter, Fasan, was looking carefully at the two of them. She
clearly had been weeping, and it did little to help present her at her best. Fasan was one of those women who reach middle age and just
look tired. She wore her ceremonial robes with a slightly askew hunch, her wig seemed to press down on her head, the make-up
to cling heavy to her face. The very effort of holding her still-considerable
beauty together obviously fatigued her. She looked like she was ready to sit
down, give in, and become a little old lady.

While both Safran
and Amun were keen to make a good public appearance, Fasan's tone was that of the weary peacemaker. I could only
imagine their household – her cunning old father, her pompous brother, her much
younger stepmother. Someone had to keep the peace, and it appeared to be Fasan.

She addressed me directly, her
gaze clear behind her fluttering eyelids. “I know it'll seem rude of me, but
can I ask what you are here for, my girl?” she asked, her tone as sweet as
figs. Her eyes told a different story. She appraised my figure with the regard
that the nearly-old have for the still-young. Despite the honey of her words,
she stood up to the General. “General Ay, we were so honoured by the news that
you had accepted Father's invitation to our little celebration, but after the
sad events of this morning... we just wish to be alone. You must, you will,
forgive our inhospitality, but we are disturbed that your retinue don't intrude
on mourning. The light of our house has gone out, and we wish to be in the dark
alone.” The Lady Fasan quite clearly didn't care for
the General, but, if she feared him, she didn't show it. She just wanted to get
on with dealing with the death of her father. I couldn't entirely blame her.

The General unleashed a sudden
tide of charm, giving off a smile that displayed his few remaining teeth. “Dear
Lady, allow me to explain,” he began, and then paused. He glanced at me,
passing the buck. Clearly, I was on.

“My lady Fasan,”
I said, “I am afraid I have sad news for the noble family of Menhet. His death was no accident.”

Despite causing a fair amount of
death, I've not really observed others' reactions to it. I've seen how the
victims take it (by and large, not that well), but the response of Menhet's family was interesting. Both the widow and the son
frowned. The crowd around them were instantly more alert. And the daughter,
Lady Safran, looked puzzled, pouring out words. “He
was a very old man, it is a very hot day, tiring even for him and surely it was
all too much for him.”

I shook my head. “I have
examined the body. I am, you may say, a doctor of death.” (here
the General smiled slightly) “Your father's passing was swift, but it was not
natural. He was poisoned.”

The effect of this word on the
group was fascinating.

Safran, the widow, snatched at it with fury.

Amun, the son, repeated it, angrily.

Fasan, the daughter, gave a little cry.

It spread out through the crowd,
silencing a huddle of grandchildren, hissing through a gaggle of handmaids, and
finally muttered by a little old man standing to the edge of them, his robes
little more than rags. “Poison?” he repeated the word quietly to himself, with
sudden understanding.

Who, I thought, are you?

“Are you quite sure?” A quiet,
silky man stepped forward from the group. He had the air of a courtier. Richly dressed, arrogant, yet capable of concealing himself until
he wanted to be seen.

“Who are you?” snapped the
General.

The man bowed to the General. “I
am Goldspear. I was Lord Menhet's
oldest friend. I was here to arrange the smooth running of the Lord's Fourscore
Race. In that I have, regrettably failed. Now,
beautiful young lady,” He turned the charm on me – it was oozy and
professional. “Is it true what you say? Was the Lord really killed? Then I
really have failed in my duty. Oh, what a day of double
sorrow.” He actually raised his hands to the sky. “May the  gods – the old
and the new – both unite in heaping their curses on me!” He clenched his fists
and eyes as though expecting to be struck down. After a pause, he opened them
and continued in a hushed tone. “My friends, perhaps I may do myself the honour
of a word with you both?” He swept us neatly away from the family group.

It was then that I knew what Goldspear was. The theatrics, the charm,
the neat defusing of a situation. “Are you a merchant?”

Goldspear glanced to make sure the family were at a sufficient remove, and
then nodded. “Very good, very good.” He lowered his
tone from a murmur to a whisper. “It's a grand family, and they do not like to
get themselves involved in business – but Lord Menhet
was kind enough to entrust me with the honour of making him rich.” With little
more than a pause, he continued. “What's this about poison? Are you sure?”

“Oh yes,” I said, “It's one I've
used often.”

“You've seen often?” The
General spoke hurriedly, but not before Goldspear
looked between the two of us, narrowly.

I nodded, grateful. “Swift paralysis, suffocation, death.”

“I see, I see,” Goldspear tugged thoughtfully at his beard. “But why? He had no enemies to speak of!” I wondered at that
– do people who have no enemies hire assassins? As if
sensing my thought, Goldspear continued, “My friend
was powerful, yes, but he was an old man. Who could want to get rid of him,
apart from...” He stopped, and he glanced at Lord Menhet's family. “Oh,” he said, “One of them? No! Impossible. They all loved him with due honour.”

The General laughed. “Indeed?
We'll see about that. As Doer Of Right for the
Pharaoh, it is my duty to investigate each and every one of them to find out
just how much they loved the old man.”

“I'm sure they're all paragons
of devotion,” the trader said, his eyes lingering on Menhet's
dry-eyed and wary family.

“Quite,” said the General. I was
struck by the difference between the two. Goldspear
was a big bear of a man who wore his wealth in rolls of fat around his waist.
The General was as spare as a dead branch. If you'd never met the two before,
you'd think that Goldspear would crush the General
without a problem. But there was something about the General – something cold
and tough, like the vermin that made a living buried in the desert sands.

“Must you do this?” sighed the merchant, eventually. “This is a terrible day, a
terrible day for the family.”

“I'd like to speak to them, one
at a time,” I offered.

“That's an excellent idea, my
lady,” chuckled the merchant without looking away from
the General. “I shall have a word, and they will come to you.”

The General twitched a hand
towards the pavilion which had been set up in the desert. “Perhaps we could
talk to them in there?”

Goldspear shook his head in alarm. The General looked puzzled, and the
merchant lowered his voice still further. “The body's in there, my lord...”

General Ay nodded. “Very well
then,” he considered. “We'll talk to them in there once the body has been
removed.”

iv. The Dry Tears
of the Widow Safran

The Pavilion was spacious and
luxurious, and I marvelled that it could have been thrown together overnight.
“I wish I could be this rich,” I said, settling down on a couch that sank
around me as though it had been made for me.

The General grunted. He was supposed
to have a whole palace as big as the Pharaoh's in the City of the Sun. He
wandered over to the buffet, his hands stroking their way among the jars.

“He had a good table,” the
General muttered, approvingly. “And look at this!” He held up a jar, marvelling,
“Fig wine! Have you ever drunk such a thing?”

I smiled, fighting the urge to
close my eyes and sleep on this heavenly couch. “Oh, I've drunk wine,” I said
airily. This wasn't quite a lie. My father brought something from a merchant
round the corner which he shook up with a lot of honey and called wine. I'm not
sure what it was, but it definitely wasn't beer.

“I'm sure you have, assassin,
but this, this is triple fine wine from the Orchards of Horus himself.
Wonderful stuff! Oh, if I could, I'd be pickled in this stuff after death,” The
General gave a rare, genuine beam, “That is, if it wasn't a dreadful waste of
wine.” His wandering fingers tightened, grasping the seal on the jar, making to
break it.

The General was startled to find
me at his side in an instant, my hand gripping his. “Don't,” I hissed.

He looked at me sulkily, “I was
only going to smell the vintage,” he murmured.

I shook my head. “No General,” I
was firm, “Lord Menhet was poisoned, remember. I'm
not sure your men would forgive me if I let you die too.”

“The wine?” The General replaced the jar hurriedly.

“It could be,” I said, gently.

“Really?” The General sighed with genuine regret, “What a waste, what a
waste.”

Goldspear led the Widow Safran in. She made An
Entrance and paused, waiting for a reaction. She was every inch playing the
suffering widow, and Goldspear led her gently to a
couch. He was, I realised, more than a pet merchant – he was their factotum,
their fixer, their rock. I wondered how many other crisis
like this the giant had led them gently through.

Once Goldspear
was sure his lady was settled ternderly on the couch,
he bowed to us and retreated.

The General and I stood,
respectfully waiting.

The widow Safran glanced acidly at the General's
position by the food. “Oh, help yourself, help yourself,” she said.

“We won't, thank you,” I
answered. “You see, there remains the question of how the poison was
administered...”

“Poisoned?” Safran
snapped. Beneath the delicately composed grief, she mostly seemed angry. “It's
ridiculous to say he was poisoned, quite ridiculous and unrespectful,”
was what she said. Kind of. Well, mostly she just
repeated the word “ridiculous” over and over, sometimes cross and sometimes
sad.

“Why do you think that?” I asked
her gently, hoping the balance of her mind wasn't permanently spoiled.

She screwed her young face up
into a raisin of concentration and squeezed a thought from between her
delicately made-up lips. “Ohhhh....” she breathed,
“Well, the banquet was part of the arrangements for the ceremony. As you can
see, all this wonderful stuff is untouched. My husband thought the celebration
would be all the more piquant if we fasted this morning.” She seemed dryly
amused.

“How very holy,” I said,
thinking “well, there's a break.”

“Hardly!” Safran snorted, “He was a terrible
traveller and didn't want to risk being ill before the race. He did allow us
all to toast his health before the race, however.” She smiled. “We all, I
think, drank from the same jug. So that rules that out.” My Lady Safran ruined her sudden lucidity with a girlish giggle.

“Did you see him drink anything
unusual?” I pressed her. “Perhaps... someone offered him a good luck potion? Or
a honey cake?” These were the obvious ways. Honey is a great way of disguising
the natural bitterness of a lot of poisons.

She shook her head, her eyes
clouding. “Oh, I didn't notice. I can't remember. Oh, I wish you'd stop asking
me these quesitons. It's all so confusing.” Her chin
rested down on her neck. Eventually, she went silent. I stepped forward, to
check if she was asleep. Suddenly, the Lady Safran
grabbed my hand. “But who,” she murmured, her voice slurred. “Who would want to
kill him?”

I regained my wrist before it
bruised. “Have you any ideas, my lady? Were there people he'd crossed in
business? Maybe not recently, but in the early days?”

She tried to raise her head, but
it seemed too heavy for her, and she slumped, her wig tipping over her crown.
“Oh, he never really told me about ancient history...” the times before she was
born, clearly. “But he always paid his bills. You'll have to ask Goldspear – he's out there stopping the servants from
running away. Such a treasure that man.”

I crouched down. The pupils of
her eyes were tiny jewelled-pins. The family treasure had drugged her. Her
eyelids fluttered and surrendered.

“Were you happy?” I asked her.

Her voice drifted up from the
land of dreams. “He was a very important and powerful man and daddy told me I'd
love him some day.” She began to snore.

v. The Daughter Fasan

Goldspear clapped his hands delightedly as we emerged from the tent. “Well my
friends, was she of service?”

The General slapped him twice,
hard, on each cheek. The merchant's giant frame shuddered under the blows, but
he didn't fall. “My lord General, why?” he murmured.

“Don't drug any more witnesses,”
spat the General.

“Drug?” Goldspear rubbed at his cheeks, a tone of
wounded innocence. “I simply proferred
my dear friend the tiniest of sedatives. No harm was intended.”

“She'll be out for hours,” I glowered.

“No bad thing!” cooed the
merchant. “Rest is what she needs. The light of her days has gone out, after
all.”

“Yes,” I said tightly. “And
she's going to be no help to us in finding out who killed him. What did you
give her?”

Goldspear gave an awkward tut, “Oh, a tiny little thing from my travels. One
buys and sells so many things. I merely allowed my lady a couple of drops, but
it is said it can numb a soldier while the surgeon removes a diseased limb.”

Well, I thought, if Goldspear wanted to kill off
his old friend, a few drops of that elixir in a cup would finish him.

“Do you often medicate the
family?” I asked him.

Hurt, the merchant shook his
head, “Of course not! The family can afford the best physicians in all Thebes.
Shall I send you the daughter? I promise, she has not
been drugged.” He tapped the side of his nose, “That one's too curious.”

***

Lord Menhet's
daughter Fasan dragged herself into the tent, flopped
onto a couch, and sank into it like it was quicksand. She screwed her eyes shut
until her crows feet cracked her make-up.

“Oh, it's nice to get out of the
sun! So ageing!” she sighed. “And the whole pack of them out
there are unbearable. Questions! Accusations! Squabbles! Fights!” She pressed two hands to her head and grimaced. “I
spend so much of my life holding that household together, but not today. It's
just too much. They're fighting like goats! Each asking the other what they
think when the fools have never thought before in their lives. Poor old Dad. This probably isn't the send-off he'd have
imagined.”

An eye snapped open. “I think
you ought to know, my brother is out there making sure all the servants get
their stories straight.”

“Is he now?” The General looked
worried, “I'll go and have a word,” The General slid out of the tent. “Don't
worry. I'll makes sure no-one is intimidated.” He
grabbed his sword.

Fasan let out a laugh, suddenly younger. “The man has no sense of irony.
He's like a living statue. How do you work for a man who glowers at you like
that?”

“I... well, the General can be
intimidating,” I admitted. “But he means well.”

“Does he?” Fasan
laughed again, and suddenly she didn't seem quite so tired. She sat up on the
couch and patted the cushion next to her. I went over and joined her.

“Tell me about him,” she said,
and I realised her intimacy had a keen motive. “Why does he drag his own
personal... what was it... 'Doctor of Death' around with him to parties? What
is one of those... as if I can't guess?”

“There's no need to guess,” I
looked right back at her. “You're correct. I do kill people for a living.”

“How wonderful,” she tapped me
on the arm. “I'm jealous. Did you kill daddy?”

“No,” I said.

“Oh good,” she giggled. “That
means I can like you. I do so want to like you. Your life must be such fun. At least
you get to do something worthwhile. Sometimes, I do wish someone like you would
kill me, you know. My life is an utter waste and I'm bored of it.” She propped
herself upright, slowly dragging cushions with her. “Without Father... well...
I don't know what the point is.”

She jabbed a finger towards the
tent flap. “Ignore them. They just hung around him for the money and power. I
loved the old dear, I really did. He was a cantankerous, scheming miser, but he
always won. I liked being on the winning side – it made up for all the other
disappointments. Do you know – My father decided no man I ever met was ever
good enough to marry me! I ended up having to call that brat my mother.... Oh,
it was horrible, horrible. So humiliating...but...” And she risked a wide smile
that showed the little lines around her lips, “The thing is, at the end of
every dull day, Father was always there, to find it all quite funny. He knew
his weaknesses. And the two of us loved laughing about them. It's funny, you
know. Today's race was nothing more than a formality. No-one could doubt that
he was strong enough to go on for another decade. I didn't even think... even
think...” She stopped, and sobbed.

I waited a little. “Did he...
did you notice him eat or drink anything unusual?” I guessed the Lady Fasan hadn't missed a thing.

“Ask the caterer,” a flap of the
hand. “He sipped a little light ale before setting of for his run, but then, we
all did. It was all poured from the same flagon.” She smiled again,
careful to avoid showing how many teeth she had remaining. “I guess we'll all
have to be careful about our food from now on, won't we? If
we want to stay rich. I hate the thought of food tasters – the idea of
some dity, fat oaf rootling through my food!” She
pushed a hand up into her wig and tried to tug it back into shape. “Might it
not be something he ate earlier? He had dinner by himself last night, and maybe
he ate something alone this morning before we set out...”

I shook my head. “No. It's quite
a fast-acting poison. That's its... strength.” That was also one of the
limitations of it as a poison. I knew from personal experience that it was so
fast-acting it made it hard to get away quickly from the scene without
discovery.

“Well, you're the expert.” Fasan nodded sadly. “Whatever made you become a killer? You
have such a lovely bone structure.” She held up a hand. “Forgive me. That was
rude – it's just that it's not going to be easy for you,” She looked almost
genuinely concerned. “Tell the General not to bother finding any of Father's
old rivals – I think he outlived them all. He wasn't on the warmest of terms
with the new Pharaoh, but then who is? And, as for the family, we're a rum
bunch, but I think we all adored him in our own way. We were too tightly-knit
for one of us to have gone off and done him in. We all travelled in a pack here
after breakfast. Then we came into the pavilion to toast my father's success
while the slaves made sure the course was prepared.”

I thanked her. She stood,
smoothing down her dress and checking her reflection in a copper bowl. “It's
odd, you know,” she sighed, “But I guess I'm rich now.” She drifted dreamily
over to the doorway. “Oh, to be rich! I might even be
able to afford a husband at last. That would be nice – although Daddy wouldn't
approve, he never did. Yes, I shall marry someone thoroughly unsuitable and
have a good time.”

She stopped, and looked at me.
“You know - I think he'd like that! It would amuse him, for me to spend the
rest of my days, knowing that he's just a little bit cross with me.”

Laughing, she left.

vi. Learning From My Father

In case you were wondering about
how I joined the family firm, it was all my father's
fault. If you think Serpent's an odd name, he was called Asp.

There wasn't a mother, brother
or sisters, not that I can remember. Just Dad, me, and a flatulent goat sharing
a small brick house at the side of the Assassin's School. Not that I knew what
it was when I was growing up. I marvelled that we lived in such squalor next
door to such an amazing building, and I remember how seriously he scolded me
whenever I wandered in to the school building and tried to touch, or, gods
forbid, drink anything.

It was a while before I found
out what Daddy's profession was – I remember there had been complaints from the
neighbours about their dogs dropping dead, and I launched an investigation (I
guess you could call it my first case) which ended in me making some remarkable
discoveries and my father beating me into the middle of the next inundation.

He was like that. Never subtle –
his methods of dispatch were equally blunt, and he only really had one disguise
– throw on a cloak, affect a limp and hope for the best. The people he trained
up were similarly graceless and disreputable. Their problem was they all looked
like assassins.

By the time I was almost a grown
woman he had no teeth and a terrible face – the result of a refusal to bathe
and a resolute unfussiness about food (“in my trade,” he opined, “you don't wanna be too picky about what you eat and drink.” Which struck me as nonsense).

He decided it was time for me to
marry. Although we weren't strictly nobility, the old miser had a good deal of
savings, and also knew enough about his betters that he reckoned he could bribe
someone into taking me on. “What do you think about that, eh, girl?” he
offered, scooping up some awfully gritty rice from a platter. “A merchant, or
an officer's wife, or perhaps, you know, a scribe in the palace...?” He went
on, listing the professions I could marry into while his stubby fingers picked
through the stodgy mess clogging his beard.

“No thank you, father,” I told
him plainly. It took a deal of bravery to stand up to him, but he'd also
swallowed quite a few cups of strong beer and so wasn't fast on his feet. “I
would like to have my own profession.”

“Your own?” He paused in licking his fingers clean.

“What you have told me of these
men – how they cheat and betray and steal from each other, and how they're
always dragging you in to kill each other off... well, it doesn't seem dignified.
I'd rather not marry into their ranks.”

“Oh. Like that is it?” My father
peered at me as clearly as the beer would allow. He swigged some more.

“Yes. I would like to do what
you do. But better.”

“Ah ha!” my father chuckled.
“So, my fine miss. I've poisoned my own daughter
against me!” He drained his cup and poured himself some more. He didn't offer
me any. He never offered me any.

“Not at all,” I said, meekly
clearing the plates away. “In fact, Daddy, it is quite the reverse. It is I who
have poisoned you.”

“Eh?” grunted Dad. And then he
started to die.

“I told you I would be better
than you.” I said gently, although I had to raise my voice over his sufferings
– as I've said, his poisons were a little crude. “I think I've just proved it.”

“Why, you....” were my father's
last coherent words. Then his legs began to spasm, and, with a final tender
touch of his cheek, I sat back on my heels to wait for his breathing to stop.

And that is how I took over the
family firm.

vii. The Man of
Business

I found Goldspear
in a small tent behind some dunes. Menhet's old
business partner was happily engaged in bullying the catering staff. He was in
his element, surrounded by bustle and noise.
The servants were scurrying around, trying to hastily rearrange a
celebratory banquet into a suitable mourning spread. They ran back and forth
with platters and jugs, all the while treading nimbly around the muslin-wrapped
corpse of Lord Menhet, looking like an elaborate
table decoration.

“Such a pity,” sighed the
merchant. “It took so long to set all this up, you know. So many expensive
ingredients, purchased and shipped out here at great price – and now... well, I
don't know about you, but I don't really have the appetite. What a shame.” He  sighed. “I don't
know what Lord Menhet would think. On the one hand,
he'd want us to be devastated at his loss. On the other hand,
the thought of throwing away food!” He threw up his hands and laughed.

Goldspear was an ugly man well-dressed. Whereas Menhet
had been a man of simple tastes, his business partner – well, you remember
those stories of kings who'd cover their favourites in a shower of riches? He
looked like he was still wearing it.

Goldspear noticed my glance, and smiled. “Gold by name, Gold by nature, my
girl,” he explained. “It's all part of the act – well, it was...” he paused,
looking genuinely sad for a moment. “We had a good deal, Menhet
and I. Do you want to know a little secret?” He
brought out his confidential whisper again, “My friend, he was the brains – he
had a real genius for commerce. But, alas!” he threw up hands in mock horror,
“Too noble for it! It wouldn't do for someone of his background to be seen
making money so cleverly. So, instead, he had me – the showman, while he stood
behind the gold curtain, directing trades, saying what to buy and sell.
Honestly, without him, I am lost. Ah, how long before I am penniless?” He made
an elaborate display of glittering sadness.

“You could always sell your
clothes,” I suggested.

“Ah!” he tutted,
“Young lady, you have an exquisite sense of humour. Why, if it comes to that, I
shall, naturally, I shall.” He beamed, and I saw that he'd even had a couple of
gold teeth fitted that glinted in the sunshine. He leaned forward, his
appraising eyes as warm as they could be. “That's a lovely make-up you're
wearing. Do you know the one thing it's missing?” He clucked for the shame of
it, “The one tiny thing is a perfume to match, and do you know what, I have
just the thing...”

I couldn't quite believe that he
was selling cosmetics to me at his best friend's funeral. I was even more
surprised to find that, a minute later, I'd bought a sample bottle from him,
for quite a reasonable price.

“You're impossible,” I laughed.

“Not at all!” He winked at me. “It's what Menhet would
have wanted. And anyway, someone's going to have to sort out and pay for his funeral, and, well, my dear... would you trust any of his
family?”

I tried to imagine them. I had a
brief flash – of the widow complaining at all the hard work that it would involve,
of the son bravely composing a fine speech but forgetting to invite anyone to
hear it, and of the tired peacemaking daughter trying to organise a funeral
without fuss before starting a half-hearted affair with the caterer.

“Hum, you have a point.”

Goldspear tapped me on the shoulder, and, despite his smile, he looked so
sad. “We will all be lost without him,” he sighed, before spotting a pastry boy
pocketing the trimmings from a cake. He hauled himself over to berate the
child, and I headed off in search of General Ay.

“How's it going?” I asked the
General. He was surrounded by crying servants, and for once the hero of a dozen
battles looked utterly defeated. He was trying to keep order. No easy feat as
his bodyguards had vanished, seemingly sent on a
mission to find some errant goats. Who, I thought, would bring goats to a
birthday party? But then, we are people of Thebes. We don't go anywhere without
a goat.

General Ay scowled at me. “If
the family weren't minor royalty, I'd run a few of them through as an example.
And then execute the servants just for fun. But no, it's apparently not the
done thing unless they're organising a palace coup.”

“Who's to say they weren't?” I
pointed out.

He brightened. “Really? I had wondered. Even out in the City of the Sun,
you hear rumours. I remember when Lord Menhet started
to lose influence – the old Pharaoh was on his deathbed, and the son was just
starting to talk about the changes he wanted to make. Menhet
was one of the few at court who stood up to him, cautioning him as an old
friend of his father's, you know – a quiet word, man to man. It didn't go down
well, and poor old Menhet was left with his nose
out-of-joint. I figured he'd recovered himself since... but...” The General
looked at me keenly. “What have you heard? Do you think the old man had royal
aspirations?”

My hand made the gesture of
not-sure-but-maybe. “There's balance to the idea, isn't there? The handsome
son's a natural leader -”

“Well, he's a bloody failure at
anything else.” General Ay snorted.

“And then there's that daughter,
kept unmarried...” The General looked puzzled, so I pressed on. “Kept unmarried
until a suitably advantageous husband came along.” It wasn't without precedent
for a pretender to scramble onto the throne and then cement their position with
a hasty marriage.

The General nodded, impressed.
“I see... Oh well, if that's true, maybe I can slaughter the whole bunch of
them before sunset.” He brightened. It wasn't a pretty sight. Then his face
wrinkled again. He sniffed. “What are you wearing? Camel piss?” he demanded.
“Something smells dreadful.”

I opened my mouth to answer. At
which point the army invaded.

viii. Ghosts in
the Desert

Suddenly the desert was full of
soldiers, chariots flanked by running soldiers.

“Whose army are they?” I yelled
to General Ay as the soldiers poured over the dunes. “Yours?”

I'd expected the General to look
shifty. Instead he looked furious. “Whoever they are, I'll wear their bloody
heads on a necklace!” he roared.

The family of Lord Menhet had noticed the approaching
soldiers with growing alarm. A few of the servants ran eagerly towards them,
and then, like startled animals, veered away. Arrows flew threw the air,
bringing the servants down, shot in the back.

“Mercenaries,” growled the
General. He was waving his sword around, and I noticed it had been a while
since he'd cleaned the blade.

“Where are your bodyguards?” I
asked him. Normally, a retinue like Lord Menhet's
would have had some level of protection, but they'd been left at home, due to
the presence of the General's bodyguards. Who were currently absent.

“They went...” the General
faltered. “They went off looking for some missing goats.”

Clearly, they'd been decoyed
away and we were defenceless. The General breathed in, dragging air into
himself, growing tall on it. The angry, wiry schemer vanished, replaced by a
quick-witted military commander. He barked some orders to me and ran towards
the soldiers.

Many things have been said about
General Ay, normally as last words, but you had to admit, he was marvellous in
a crisis.

When confronted with a plain
filling with soldiers, many of us would run and hide. Actually, a fair amount
of the family and servants did. They ran for the tent like startled geese. One
of the approaching archers loosed a flaming arrow which sank into the canvas,
and it went up like a bonfire. The air was thick with panic, smoke and shouts.
But the General ignored it all and just kept striding silently across the plain
towards the soldiers.

There must have been fifty of
them, all told. At first glance they looked like the regular army, but a second
look showed that their uniforms were old and tattered. Clearly the General had
noticed this.

He closed on them and then stood
still, like one of the statues of him.  I
ducked out of the way, finding a vantage point behind a dune, and watched.

“Good afternoon,” he rumbled
like thunder, “Who the hell are you and what are you doing here?”

I half expected the soldiers to
kill him, but they just stared at him like curious dogs. General Ay just
sweated authority.

A chariot pulled up to confront
him. The left wheel wobbled slightly and the axle creaked. It was driven by a
tall soldier, who, under all that armour, you could tell was as skinny as his
horse.

“Greetings, General,” the man
said. “We come to offer you protection.”

“Protection?” The General smiled. “What in heaven makes you think I would need
your protection?”

There was a small hesitation.
The soldiers rattled their spears. An arrow fell in the ground near the
General's feet.

“Now,” the General said, “This
is fun.” He picked it up, looking at the tip. At any second a quiver of them
could stick him like a porcupine, but General Ay just stood there, gazing at
the arrow, transfixed by its simple shape and beauty.

“Army issue,” he sighed, “But
it's seen better days.” A statesmanlike pause. “Like you lot.”

He turned to the crowd of
partygoers, gathered in a frightened cluster near the smoking ruins of the
tent. “Did you managed to save any of the wine?” He
asked. Goldspear shook his head. “Pity,” the General
sighed. He faced Menhet's family, but hadn't made the
mistake of presenting his back as a target to the soldiers.

“Noble friends of the Lord Menhet,” he addressed them. “These are hard times for the army.
I'm sure you'll have heard the stories. Perhaps you'll even have given them
some sad credence. It is said that our Pharaoh lives in retirement in the
desert, worshipping his sun God, and while Pharaoh Akhenaten
carries out his devotions to the Aten, he neglects
his duties, sending away messengers from outposts of his Kingdom, turning a
deaf ear to those begging for reinforcements against the advancing hoardes. It is said, by ill-informed fools, that the
Pharaoh fails to ensure that supply-chains are adequately maintained for the
army, and that, rather than starve, some platoons simply wander away and become
mercenaries. This is, of course, nonsense.”

The General swept back, beaming
at the soldier in the chariot. “It is nonsense isn't it, charioteer? I mean,
clearly, I'm imagining that you're standing here with your comrades.”

The charioteer smiled thinly.
“Quite correct General. Me and my men are not here. We
are ghosts in the desert.”

Ay nodded. “Indeed, indeed. Ghosts for hire. Perhaps... Someone
at this party contacted you, and made arrangements for you to come here... to
do a little spot of terrorising, cause a bit of mayhem, and, perhaps, clearing
up the remains of the birthday feast once the guests had fled.”

The charioteer shrugged. His
men, I noticed, were hanging on the General's every word with interest.”

“And, if I may continue,” the
General went on, without any doubt that he could, “let us suppose that, in the
confusion, you were to accidentally kill the the
noble Lord Menhet in whose honour we are gathered
here today?”

“You're not wrong there,” The
soldier nodded. “If you could perhaps, point the old man
out to me, sir, I would be much obliged. Save a lot of trouble.”

“Ah,” the General flashed a
pained look, “Unfortunately, there is a problem for you here. You're all so
tired, so undernourished, that you're not as fast on your feet as you should be
– which has cost you dear. Because, sadly, you are here too
late. The noble Menhet has died already.”

The charioteer swore. There was
angry muttering among his men.

“Quite. Good luck getting your
fee. After all... your employer is most probably not going to settle your
account as you've done nothing to earn it.” The General smirked. “Although, I may be able to help you. Perhaps you would be so
kind as to tell me who was paying for you to come here.”

The soldier looked troubled.
There was more murmuring among his troops, the buzzing of nervous bees.
Confronted by this, the General normally have bellowed at them. Instead he
continued to address them with a silken purr. “Oh come now, soldier, all we
seek is a name. And then, you may go back into the desert, with our
blessings... And perhaps such charred remains of the catering that you can
salvage from your fire.”

The General stared at the charioteer,
then at his men gathered around him. I marvelled at the venerable bully. Two
minutes ago they had been an invading army. Now they looked more like starving
street beggars. I'd underestimated the General.

The General's fine words were
having an impact, but the faces of the soldiers were sullen.

The General made a “hush now”
hand movement and continued with his oratory. “It is frequently said of the
Pharaoh that his new God is
a myth, invented by Akhenaten himself.
But no-one can deny the Aten – it hangs in the sky
above our heads even now, beating down on us, making us sweat until we thirst,
pouring into our heads, reading our every thought. If our Pharaoh were here -”
a slight satirical twinkle, “He would be able to pray to the Aten for me, to find out the information I so eagerly seek.
But there is one thing that the Pharaoh has taught me. It is that it is unwise
to fall under the Shadow Of The Aten.
Because that Shadow is Death.”

He looked up at the charioteer.
The General was not blinking. “The Shadow... of.... the... Aten...”
he repeated. “Do I make myself clear, lad?” The General paused, with infinite
kindliness, as though advising a senile old woman not to go swimming with
crocodiles. “Come, soldier. Tell me who sent you. Or
death shall come on swift wings.”

The charioteer made as if to
speak, and then hesitated. I could see him look nervously over to the crowd of
partygoers, and then back to the General. “I am sorry, sir. I have some honour
remaining.”

The General nodded. “Aye fellow, that you do. I respect that.” The General snapped
his fingers.

One of the mercenaries fell to
the ground with a murmur.

The General snapped his fingers
again.

Another soldier fell dead.

The General made to snap his
fingers again, and then halted himself. “The Shadow of the Aten,”
he intoned, fully aware that he held the awed attention of everyone in that
patch of scrubland.

He spun fully around, dismissing
the mercenaries and grinning over at Lord Menhet's
family and friends. “These soldiers were sent by one of you fine nobles. One
who, I bet, very much wishes they had my wonderful command of the Shadow of the
Aten. Because you would, right now very much like to
snuff out the life of my friend here -” a grubby thumb jerked in the direction
of the charioteer. “For this man, my friend,” The General turned back, “He
holds in his head the name of his employer, the person who sought him out and
offered him food and money in return for a little private soldiering. That's
all. So come on, lad. Tell me the name and then go in peace.”

The charioteer lowered his eyes
from the crowd. He wiped a tongue across his cracked lips and leaned forward.
He whispered something to the General I could not catch from where I crouched
behind my dune. The General nodded.

“Thank you,” he spun on his
heel, heading back across the plain. “You may go.”

“But General...”
the charioteer pleaded. “You said something about food?”

The General looked back,
banishing a flicker of annoyance from his face. “Ah yes, of course. I promised
you payment. And I am a man of my word.” It clearly troubled the General to be
reminded of an obligation to anyone who had helped him.

He sent servants to bring out
scraps of food from the feast, watching with veiled disgust as the mercenaries
crammed their sacks with their booty, jumbling courses in canvas bags with
starving abandon. And then, with a thunder, they departed, leaving behind the
fallen bodies of their two comrades.

Within five minutes the
mercenaries were lost to the desert. Satisfied, the General turned away from
them and strode back to the party.

On his way, he stopped off at
the dune where I had been crouched. His voice was a low whisper. “Good
shooting, my little assassin,” he said, giving me a pat on the shoulder.

I have always been very good with
a blowpipe.

ix. Words of a
loving son

Menhet's son Amun wandered over to the General.
“Well, I'll admit that was sufficiently impressive,” he drawled. “You've done
quite a good job with those poor wretches. Takes an old rogue to know how to
deal with an rogues, eh? Let's hope they don't all
drop dead of starvation before they reach their camp. Did they, ah, give you a
name?”

The General blinked at Amun's rudeness. Behind his eyes, you could see him
imagining hammering iron stakes into the youth's limbs. “Thank you for your
kind words, Lord Amun” he eventually said with an
effort. “The support of the head of the family is naturally appreciated. And
sadly, that rabble were hired by a go-between.”

“Oh, a pity,” Amun nodded with the cocky assurance of one who has still
to become used to their newfound position.

In a morning he'd gone from
spoiled son to one of the richest men in the kingdom. People would hang on his
every word, and he was making a conscious effort to make each one count. “Well,
I say, at a moment like this, it says something telling about the state of the
kingdom.”

“Oh yes?” asked the General.
“And what would that be? I'm sure the Pharaoh would be delighted when I tell
him your opinion of the state of his kingdom.”

Amun gulped, caught out. “Just that, ah, just... you know...” the orator
continued. He whirled his hands in the air, before sticking them  on his hips, “I dunno,
what a day. My father dying, his grieving family attacked by bandits, our
dinner set on fire... It's all go isn't it?” He rubbed his hands and smiled
lamely.

“Hardly a
moment for the sad news to sink in?” I asked.

Amun, caught out again, wiped the smile away. “Yesss... such a tragic loss.”

“Were you and your father
close?”

“Thick as thieves,” the mourning
son enthused, “Terribly sad to see the old man go, but, he'd had a long and
golden life, and perhaps in many ways it's for the best, really. His sun had
set, really, and the time had come for him to embark on his eternal journey. Um. And all that. Very sad day.” He coiled out a fatuous grin and stood there.
I fingered my blowpipe.

“Your father was murdered.” I
pressed on.

“So you say, my lady, so you
say,” Amun was airily dismissive. “But, you know,
that's just your word, and here we are, in the heat of the day. The heat can
easily get to a lady. You are, after all, the delicate fashionings
of the gods. After all, what can  a a pretty
little thing like you... my lady, what can you know about death?”

In the time it took the General
to arch a “go-on-then” eyebrow, I had Lord Amun on
his back in the dirt. My thumb was jabbed into the side of his neck. “Noble
lord,” I keep my tone even, professional and polite in situations like this. “I
know seven ways to kill you just with my thumb. Four of them are slow and painful.
I can list, in order, the 13 most deadly poisons easily available from the
desert around us. I can tell you how to isolate, refine, and administer them,
and I can tell you how long it would take you to die, and the various symptoms
you would exhibit as you died. So,” a little further jab, just enough to make
him whimper, “When I say that your father was poisoned, you can take my word
for it.”

I stood up. Lord Amun did not. He lay there, whimpering.

“Who are you? What are you?” Amun gasped, rubbing tenderly at his neck. He struggled to
get up, but in the end, just groaned. “I can't move,” he protested.

I kicked him in the spine. “The
feeling will come back.” I turned on my heel. “It's a pity about you, Lord Menhet,” I sighed, “I rather liked your father.”

We left him lying in the dirt.
The General went to look for his bodyguards.

“I suppose I'd better find who
sent them away,” he rumbled.“I
can't watch you beat up Lord Amun all day. We won't
really learn anything.”

I shook my head. “On the contrary,
we learned plenty.”

x. The Teller of
Fortunes

“I wondered when you'd get
around to me,” clucked the old man. I found him sitting up the side of a dune,
eating a bunch of grapes, gently and methodically spitting pips out, watching
the arc of each one with a practised gaze.

I'd sought him out. He was the
old man, at the corner of the party, who had reacted with interest when poison
had first been mentioned. He'd been conspicuously absent ever since. Finding
him was made harder by his sheer nondescriptness. He
was dressed neither as a servant nor as a wealthy retainer. “And you are?” I
asked.

The old man shrugged. “Tricky, really. To his recently deceased lordship I was a
personal physician, augur and witch doctor, but to you....”

“You're a con man?”

The old man winced. “Harsh.”

“Fair.”

“Well, yes, I'm sure you're
entitled to your opinion, young lady,” the old man sighed sadly. “You won't be
the first person to accuse me of fraud. The whole family regard me with dismay
– I doubt it'll be long before they give me their marching orders.”

“Tell me this, fortune teller,”
I said, crouching next to him in the sand and helping myself to some of this grapes, “Did you foresee your master's death?”

He sucked air through his
remaining teeth and spat out a seed. “Tricky.”

“You're a fraud, aren't you?”

“Aren't we all?” the soothsayer
chuckled. “A man's got to make a living. When you get to my age, you'll realise
that it's not so easy any more. If you're lucky you'll have relatives to look
after you, and if you're not, you'll have to busk a little. I think you'll find
I've done quite nicely for myself. These wrinkles, these twinkling eyes – they
all suggest that I'm a trustworthy old prophet. And dear, silly Menhet was such a good victim.”

I made to reach for another
grape, but the old man snatched them away, petulantly.

“You're being very open with
me.” I said.

He shrugged, dismissively.
“Sadly, the old man was the only one taken in. The rest... well, if they didn't
exactly sneer at me openly, they didn't rush to avail themselves of my
services. Normally, in a household, there'll be at least one or two who'll ask
for a bit of advice, a charm, a mystical cure, or even offer a lavish gift if
I'll have a word in my employer's ear – persuading him of one thing or another.
But not this household, oh no. All too preoccupied
with their own destinies. You see – Menhet had a
grand plan for his last few years.”

He turned the twinkling eyes on
me. He gestured out over the desert, his voice sonorous. “There, on the horizon,
a long way from Thebes, our Pharaoh sits, a weak man praying like a hermit. It
can't last long. The old gods are angry and know the people miss them. They
seek revenge and a return to the old ways. And Menhet
was carefully moving his family into position – a lovely noble race. He knew he
was too ancient to rule this land – openly, at least – but he figured his son
would make a handsome spokesman, if nothing else. And that was why he'd kept
his eldest daughter unmarried for so long. So that she was free to make an
advantageous marriage at just the right moment to cement his son as the new
ruler. It was all getting so close...” he rubbed his hands, “Ah yes, so close.”

I squinted at the soothsayer.
“And you're expecting me to believe that you're telling the truth?”

He clicked his tongue, “Don't
care what you think.” He finished the last grape and plopped the vine on his
head like a bonnet. “It's my business to make people believe whatever lie I
tell. But my business is over. Poor old Menhet's
dreams died with him.”

“And can you shed any light on
how he died?”

The old man nodded, sadly. “I'm
rather afraid I killed him.”

***

“You'll want to see this,” I
said to the General.

Ay came trudging after me. “This
had better be good,” he rumbled. “That bloody family...”

The soothsayer smiled. “They are
a little annoying aren't they?”

“And who are you?” The General
made it clear that the glance he was sparing the old man was a wasted one.

The soothsayer pumped himself
up. “I am Felix the Cretan, a counsellor, wiseman...”

“Spare me,” growled Ay.

“And also the
killer of my employer.”

“Oh-hoh! This is good.” The
General rubbed his hands together. “Finally we're getting somewhere.”

“Felix has something to show
you, General,” I said, leading them back across the sands.

We reached the spot where the
race had been run, the flags still fluttering in the wind. The soothsayer
crouched down at the starting line and smirked. “I shan't say how it came to
pass. I shall merely lead you to the site of our downfall. I'll tell you more
if you can work it out. On one condition...”

The General produced a sword.
“I'm also quite good at stabbing the truth out of people, you know.”

Sly Felix shrugged. “If I die,
then you will never know.”

Gently, I crouched down by Felix
and looked at the race course, at the starting line. The solution was here. I
looked at the little flags marking out the course. At the ornate finish line.
The area had been kept remarkably clear since the old man had died – not so
much out of respect, but out of... avoidance.

Looking at us cautiously was a
lone servant, standing watch. A question or two ascertained that, once the body
had been moved, the servant had been stationed here. And no-one else had come
back. I guess, if we hadn't come here, the servant
would have been summoned away in a bit, and the flags left fluttering forgotten
until the wind tugged them into the sand.

“The sand gets us all in the
end,” I sighed.

“Is this a time for philosophy?”
growled the General. He was looking impatient.

“Sand's such a part of our
lives, we never question it.” I sighed.

Felix chuckled.

“So, General...” I began, “You
were right. The Lord Menhet was an old man with a
grand plan. He was planning a coup. And he wanted to live long enough to ensure
his legacy was established. He wanted his son Amun to
be the next Pharaoh.”

“That prick?”
Ay laughed. “Over my dead body!”

“I'm not sure that would have
mattered,” I told him, quickly. “Our friend's main concern was finishing this
race – to prove there was nothing wrong with his mind, that was as sharp as
your sword – but his body... oh it was old, and it hurt him, hurt him so much.
And Felix here, the witch doctor who bathed those limbs and applied unguents,
Felix promised Menhet that he would last the course.”

Felix nodded.

“And how did you do it?” I
speculated aloud. “Speaking off the top of my head, I'm guessing you started
advising Menhet to wear metal bands around his limbs
to see if they made the pains in his joints better. And, what a surprise, you
discovered that the more precious the metal, the better the pain relief they
offered. Or so you convinced him.”

Felix smiled. “You'd be
surprised how effective a cure is if you tell your patient that it'll work.”

“And you just happened to choose
a very expensive cure. You told him that, clearly, the mystical healing aura of
gold was the most effective... and that the best way to ensure your lordship
ran the race was to make sure that his feet were in contact with gold when he
ran. And, sadly, the rules insisted he run barefoot,
so golden slippers were out. The late Lord Menhet was
distraught until you suggested...”

“Very good!” Felix chuckled. “A carpet of spun gold running the entire course,
covered over with sand.”

General Ay stood up like he'd
been bitten. “You conned the old man into making you a gold carpet?”

Felix nodded. “Of
course! He made it over to me as a gift. We're standing on the edge of
my retirement present.”

All three of us stood, looking
at the race course. Suddenly the finishing line seemed a long way away. We were
all mentally doing the sums, trying to work out how much it was worth – a sum
that Felix had done every spare moment since he'd come up with the scheme.

The fraudster shrugged. “I gave Menhet the confidence to run the race. It seemed a
reasonable return. He made the gold over to me, ordered the carpet beaten out
of pressed gold sheets, and left the installation to me. It was always my
property... And, perhaps my scheme wasn't without merit. Maybe it gave his
lordship a slightly firmer surface to run on... although...” he spread his
hands out, “gold is such a soft metal... so maybe not. Ah well.”

This was enough for General Ay.
“And you killed him with a gold carpet?”

Felix shook his head and nudged
me in the ribs. “You tell him.”

I knelt down at the starting
line, and began to gently sweep the sand out of the way. “I told you we took
the sand for granted.  Even
Menhet. None of his family would have
suspected a gold carpet had been hidden under the sands. Who would? Only Menhet knew it would be here. And, if he noticed the ground
was disturbed, that's just what he would have expected to see... but he didn't
realise the carpet...” I moved gently, using the tip of my dagger to sweep,
sweep, sweep away the thin layer of sand... till something
began to glitter beneath, like an underground river.

“There,” I said.

Scattered across the surface of
the gold carpet were little spikes – like the tacks used to make furniture.

“Goes without saying - don't
touch them,” I cautioned. “He didn't drink or eat his poison. He stepped on
it.”

Felix chuckled. “A race of scorpions.”

General Ay held up one of the
tacks and puffed out a big heave of breath. “Blimey. I'm off to stick this in a
servant, see what happens.”

“Don't bother,” I said. “Let's go
fetch the others and settle this.”

“You know who did this?”

I smiled and said nothing.

“Fine,” sighed
the General. He strode off and noticed that old Felix was sat still on the
ground. “If you don't mind,” the old man said, “I'll stay near my carpet. I'd
hate for it to go missing.”

The General glared at him. “I'm
fairly sure it's property of the state, you know.” He waited until Felix looked
alarmed. “Kidding,” he laughed and stormed back to the camp.

I leant over the soothsayer, an
idea forming. “Actually,” I said, “Perhaps it's best if you covered it over?”

xi. The Truth of Sand

Half an hour later, we were all
gathered at the starting line.

The widow Safran
was already complaining. “I find this in very bad taste,” she said to anyone
who would listen. “This brings back terrible memories.”

“It only happened this morning,”
her stepdaughter was her usual weary self, trying to keep her eyes open and
keep the peace. The Lady Fasan had settled herself on
a golden stool, and waved a small peacock fan around. She looked as though
she'd had enough and just wanted to go back to bed. I knew how she felt.

Lord Amun
and Goldspear were deep in conversation. I could see
the young man trying his best to be statesmanlike, and I wondered – was Amun really the right material for a Pharaoh? He was
arrogant, silly and easily-led... mind you, the current one was simply crazy.

General Ay strode up to the race
track, a storm crammed into a man. He'd contemptuously dismissed my scheme as
“like driving sheep through mud,” then laughed. If you'd been looking out into
the dunes, you would just have spotted his personal bodyguards  loitering. They were waiting for
something to happen. Or for someone to make a move.

So I did. “My lords and ladies,”
I managed a cheery wave. I've never been a great one for public speaking – in
my job, it's always best not to be noticed by a crowd. “You will be pleased to
hear that I now know how Menhet came to his passing.
But in order to prove this, I require your help – you're all of different ages,
you see, and so it will aid me enormously if I can see how long it will take
each of you to run the course that Menhet began.”

I watched how they took this –
mostly my idea was received with disbelief and sneers.

Surprisingly, though, Amun sprang up. “You want to see how suitable we are? I'll
show you, I will.” He actually flexed his muscles. Endearingly, I realised I'd
actually appealed to something in his nature – the chance to show off. I hoped
he wasn't expecting anything from me in return.

His stepmother grasped his arm –
whether from alarm or jealousy, I'm not sure. “You can't, Amun.
Don't trust her.”

“It's all right,” I assured them
both. “Go on.”

Amun had started running before I'd finished, clearing his way to the
starting line with powerful, athletic strides and a cheery grin. Without a
pause he began along the course, his feet pounding the ground, his arms
reaching out to playfully tweak the flags marking the course.

Ten paces... twenty... soon he
was halfway, his heels spurting up little clouds... three quarters... and then
at the end, he did a little cartwheel. He flashed us all a grin and pumped his
fists in a victory salute. Which was sweet, considering he'd run a race with
no-other competitors.

I watched the family, to see their
reactions – were any of them surprised he hadn't dropped dead? Mostly, they
just looked puzzled about the proceedings.

Old Felix offered to go next. He
was about the same age as Menhet,  but considerably less supple of limb.
The soothsayer managed to totter gingerly over the course, occasionally holding
onto a flag for support. He may have known the deadly secret hidden under the
sand, but he just looked like a lame old man. He made it to the finish line
with a look of comical surprise.

There was some applause, a lot
of it sarcastic, but Felix acknowledged it gravely and then settled himself
down on a bank of sand.

“So,” I announced, “We've seen
how the oldest and the youngest manage the course... should we see who...?” I
let my finger wander across the remaining friends and family “... perhaps if
there is any difference with women, or, perhaps, the last of the men – a man of
middle age, and Menhet's oldest friend, Goldspear?”

I smiled at the three of them –
the widow Safran glared at me with disdain, the
daughter Fasan miserable and puzzled... and Goldspear tugged at his beard.

“My lord Goldspear,”
I insisted, indicating the running track to him.

Suddenly, the man sprang up,
terrified. “No!” he stammered. “I, ah... mean... surely... what can be the purpose
in... the point of this ridiculous demonstration? I shan't... I mean... I won't
take part in this-”

General Ay's
bodyguards strode across, picked the man up and threw him over the starting
line. He fell prostrate with a scream of utter terror, and stayed there,
sprawled out, too frightened to move.

I moved to where he lay. “You
asked what the point was? It was to see who would give
themselves away, Mr Goldspear. I'm afraid I knew it
would be you.”

The man sprawled there, shaking.
“Help me, General, help me,” he pleaded.

I crossed the starting line, and
crouched down. “Lord Goldspear, only you knew the
running track was deadly.” I offered him my hand. “It's all right,” I told him.
“The real track is over there. I had the flags moved.”

xii. The End of
Dreams

I was sitting on a carpet made
of gold. Truth to tell, it wasn't the most comfortable experience in my life,
and the heat of the sun made it feel like sitting on a griddle. But still... gold carpet.

The General plonked himself down
next to me. “Another rich man's fantasy comes to an end.” He laughed his camel
laugh.

The General's glance wandered
over to where Menhet's retinue were packing the
family onto horses to make the long, slow funeral procession back to Thebes.

“And there ends Lord Menhet's dreams of ruling Egypt,” the General smiled. “Now,
don't get me wrong, I like treason, and I could depose the current Pharaoh
without him even noticing. But... do you know why I choose not to?” He
stretched his arms apart, measuring the endless desert, “It would be too easy.
And I'd inherit too much of a mess. At the moment, Akhenaten's
blamed for everything that goes wrong, and I'm credited with everything that
goes right. I like that. Why should I change that until other people have
sorted out the mess a bit?” He made a theatrical cough. “If,
of course, I were a dishonourable man.”

“Which you're
not.”

“No, no. The Pharaoh has my full
support. For the moment.” The General winked. “Poor Menhet, he'd have had a job on his hands. His son's a
handsome-enough puppet, but he'd be all too eager to
make mistakes of his own.”

I agreed with the General. “Amun arranged for the attack by the gang of mercenaries,
didn't he? I knew that as soon as he let on he knew where their camp was.”

The General rubbed his forehead
with his palm. “I should have realised that.”

“They were timed to turn up just
after the old man had completed the course. A bit of light pillaging, the
accidental slaying of the old man, and then the son would have been free...”

“To try and takeover
the kingdom?”

I shook my head. “No, to marry the old man's wife. Had you missed the fact
he's sleeping with his stepmother?”

“Yes, yes I had, and I'm quite
pleased about that.” The General spat into the sand.

Poor Fasan
rode slowly past. Her tiredness had been replaced with sadness, and like all
things, it weighed heavy on her. She gave us a brief smile as she rode away
into the desert.

“Lord Menhet's
daughter was never going to be the killer,” I said. “If the old man lived or
died, she'd finally get a chance of the good marriage she'd waited so long for.
I'm no so sure about the widow Safran – she seemed
quite fond of Lord Menhet, but I'm sure she also
fancied being married to the next ruler. I think she'd probably worked out
that, if she waited, she could do both.”

“Now she's just a poor rich
widow. A very rich widow.” The General sighed as the
widow Safran's entourage made its way past us. “If I
wasn't married myself...”

“I could take care of that,” I
offered, “For the usual fee.”

“I'm sure you could,” laughed
the General. “But I rather like the current one. Still... not ruling it in, not
ruling it out.” He wobbled his hand equivocally.

I looked over to where the
General's bodyguards stood guard as a sobbing Goldspear
slowly dug a fairly large pit. “Poor man. What made
him kill his best friend?”

The General watched the
spectacle with cool appraisal. “Who can say? Jealousy?”

“No,” I said eventually. “I
think it was fear.”

“Of our
Pharaoh? Come now,” General Ay was all hearty.
“You may as well be afraid of a dungbeetle.”

“Perhaps he became all too aware
of what his friend was planning, and panicked. And just maybe, he was so
terrified of the reprisals if his friend's plans went wrong that he decided to
stop it. Perhaps he turned to someone important, someone who explained to him
how serious the mess he was in was.”

“Someone?” The General raised a curious eyebrow.

“When I threw him onto the sand,
he called on you for help.”

“Odd, isn't it?” the General
said flatly.

“It would explain why you came
to the party, to stop a political

coup.”

“I came,” rumbled the General
with wounded dignity, “I came because I was invited.”

“I see,” I said. I stood up and
dusted myself off. Goldspear had finished digging his
pit, and, frankly, I wanted to be elsewhere for the next bit.

The General stood as well,
watching as the soothsayer Felix rushed forward to collect his gold carpet. The
General followed me for a couple of paces. “But what about
you, Lady Snake...” he called after me. “Why were you invited here? Who
had Menhet hired you to kill?”

I didn't stop, but strode on. “I
always promise my client discretion.”

The General called after me.
“Well, he's dead now, and you won't get paid your fee, so spit it out.”

I walked on, the sun beginning
to set behind the dunes. Behind me, I heard the General start the lumbering
process of thinking out loud. “Who was it, my lady? If Menhet
were planning on taking over the Kingdom... why, surely... he'd be wanting to assassinate someone who stood in his way... Now,
who's the most powerful guest at the party...? oh...!”

As I vanished into the desert, I
heard the General's laughter echoing off the sand.

If you enjoyed The
Race of Scorpions, why not try:

Kings and Castles

Marc Morris

1. English
Castles – A Spotter’s Guide

Castles are an exceedingly mixed bunch. They can apparently
be anything from giant fortress-palaces to underwhelming mounds of earth; they
can date from thousands of years ago or from well into the modern age. Even for
those who know their history, the diversity of what constitutes a castle can
seem more than a little baffling.

So what is a castle? The Oxford English Dictionary tells us
that the word itself derives from the Latin castellum,
and suggests that a castle is ‘a fortified building... a stronghold’. Most
castle experts would go further. A true castle, they would say, was also a
private residence – a home – and this important qualification helps narrow the
field considerably. Take, for example, Maiden Castle in Dorset, or Uffington Castle in Oxfordshire – both majestic
fortifications, but, crucially, communal ones, erected to protect entire
prehistoric communities; rightly speaking, we should (and generally do) refer
to them as Iron Age hill forts. Similarly, we can disqualify Richborough ‘Castle’ in Kent, which was in reality a camp
for Roman soldiers. And, while we’re kicking impostors out of the castle club,
we should exclude all those little ‘castles’ that Henry VIII built along the
south coast to foil a French invasion. Deal, Walmer, Pendennis, St Mawes, Camber, Calshot, Hurst, Portland – sturdy little troopers all, but
artillery forts for Henry’s gunners, not homes for the king himself.

The true castle was not prehistoric, Roman or Tudor, but
medieval. It is in the Middle Ages (from 1066 to, say,
1500) that we see fortification and domesticity fusing to create a new and
distinctive category of building. In a castle, defensive elements (the
drawbridge, the portcullis, arrowloops and
battlements) are elegantly combined with the residential ones (the hall, the
chapel, chambers and kitchens). Of course, not all castles possess all these
features – like modern private homes, no two are exactly alike. As you might
expect, in a period spanning more than four centuries, there was an awful lot
of variety in castle design.

As the date 1066 suggests, the story of castles in England
begins with the Normans. These earliest castles were first and foremost weapons
of conquest, used by the Normans to hold down a reluctant English population,
and as such the vast majority of them were built at great speed – out of wood.
For the most part they were also built to a common design – the famous ‘motte and bailey’. The motte, a
giant artificial mound of earth surmounted by a wooden tower, was the castle’s
look-out and ultimate place of defence; the adjacent bailey, an enclosure
formed by steep banks and ditches, housed the rest of the castle’s buildings.
Pickering in Yorkshire provides an excellent example. Of course, the original
wooden walls at such castles are now long gone but, if you spot a motte, you can be sure it was erected early: certainly
within a century (and most likely within a generation) of the Conquest itself.

While most early castles were hastily erected from earth and
wood, a tiny handful were being built out of stone, and to a far grander
design. In place of a motte, the richest
castle-builders – the king and his greatest barons – erected giant stone towers
(or keeps, as they are sometimes called today). The earliest belong to the
eleventh century, but in general ‘the great tower’ is a twelfth-century
phenomenon. And phenomenon, as the recreated interior of Henry II’s Great Tower at Dover makes clear, is an entirely
appropriate word, for these buildings were palaces, nothing less. Identifying
them is fairly straightforward, because of their sheer size and bulk (Rochester
in Kent, soaring to 113 feet, is the tallest such tower in Europe). The period
in which they were built means that they exhibit ‘Romanesque’ features – look
out for semi-circular arches, chevron decoration and blind arcading (as at
Castle Rising in Norfolk). Perhaps surprisingly, great towers often display no
obvious military hardware – few of them, for example, have arrowloops
– because in each case they were surrounded by defensible walls which have
often (as at Orford in Suffolk) entirely vanished.

Those walls, however, are the key to the next big development
in castle design. Around the year 1200, great towers fell out of favour –
probably because they were viewed as vulnerable to new more advanced forms of
attack (the giant catapults known as trebuchets). Attention shifted to the
perimeter walls, which were now interrupted by towers. Early examples (such as Framlingham in Suffolk) favoured square towers, but soon
the preference was for round ones (again, probably because they were believed
to be stronger). At the same time, extra care was taken to defend the castle’s
entrance by positioning a tower either side of it, creating a ‘twin-towered’
gatehouse. Such gatehouses, and round mural towers – these are the tell-tale
signs that you are confronting a thirteenth-century castle. Goodrich, near the
Welsh border in Herefordshire, provides a splendid example.

As we move into the late Middle
Ages, identifying a common type of castle becomes virtually impossible.
Contrary to popular belief, England at this time was relatively peaceful; there
was little need to build for defence and, consequently, castles tended to
become more architecturally exuberant. Certain defensive features help with
dating: sure signs of a late medieval build are gunloops
(as opposed to arrowloops) and machicolation (masonry
standing proud around the top of a tower). At the same time, these features are
often so mannered that modern experts wonder whether they were merely stuck on
for reasons of status. In general, if a castle seems to be almost too
picturesque (like Nunney in Somerset), or its design
too clever by half (Old Wardour in Wiltshire, or Warkworth in Northumbria), a late medieval date is likely.
The same is true if a castle is built of brick, like Kirby Muxloe
in Leicestershire, built from 1480. Or rather half-built, for construction
there came to an abrupt halt in 1483 when its unfortunate owner had his head
chopped off – about as good an end for the story of the medieval castle as one
could wish for.

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