So later we approached from the south and the east, to the lee of the cool northerly breeze that had risen. The sunset was turning the firmament gold and orange and blue. Those invited to hunt, both the elite men in their fashionable outfits and the professional hunters, stood posed on their chariots, waiting, whisking away the inevitable flies with their fans, and quietly soothing their impatient horses. Archers examined their bows and arrows. The air was tense with expectation. I moved through the small crowd towards the King. He rode a plain, flexible and practical chariot. It had hardwearing wooden wheels, and its light, open construction suited it to this rough territory. Two fine horses, themselves decorated with feathered headdresses, gilded blinkers and magnificent shawls, were ready in the traps. The King stood upon a leopard skin that covered the leather thongs of the floor. He wore white linen, arranged over his shoulders, and a long loincloth tied up for safety and flexibility of movement. His gauntlets were ready, so that his sensitive hands could manage the stresses and tensions of the leather reins, if he wished to take them from his charioteer, who stood respectfully to one side. A fan of gold with an ivory handle and glorious ostrich feathers and his gold cane were propped beside him. Next to them, a magnificent bow, and many arrows gathered in a case, were in place, ready for the hunt.
He looked excited and nervous.
‘Any sign?’
I shook my head. I could not tell whether he was disappointed or relieved.
‘But there are great gatherings of gazelle and antelope, and ostriches, so all is not lost. And this is only the first hunt. We must have patience.’
The horses whinnied and made a small lunge forward, but he pulled on the reins with practised skill.
Then he raised his hand, to command the attention of the hunt, held it still for a long moment, and then dropped it. The hunt had begun.
Those on foot spread out quickly and silently to the east with their bows and arrows poised. The chariots waited a little before moving from the south. I took my position on my own chariot. I admired the light, singing tension of its construction. The horses sniffed at the excitement in the rapidly cooling air. Up above us the full moon had swung above the horizon. Its pale light illuminated us all as if we were drawings on a scroll for a fable entitled
Then we moved out, our wheels crunching across the gritty and uneven ground, until the hunting chariots had spread across an area of the open ground as wide as an arena. Once we were in position, the Master of the Hunt gave a practised cry to the archers who had been deployed to the east. Far up ahead in the shadowy distance, I could barely make out the unsuspecting animals at the watering hole-just some silhouettes highlighted against the last of the light. Several raised their heads nervously at the strange cry. And then at a signal from the Master of the Hunt, the beaters suddenly beat their wooden clappers together in a terrific cacophony, and in an instant the herds of animals were charging in alarm-and running, as was intended by the hunt’s strategy, towards the chariots. I heard the distant thundering of their hooves coming towards us. Each man urgently took up his reins, and then, led by the King-who took his instruction from the Master of the Hunt-the chariots hurtled forward to a terrific hue and cry. Suddenly we were in battle.
The hunting dogs and the cheetahs raced ahead towards the approaching beasts, the charioteers had their spears hoisted at their shoulders, or, if they had a driver, their bows balanced and pointed…but the terrified herds suddenly sensed the peril that lay ahead, and veered, as one, to the west, so our chariots spread out, the hunt now on under the glory of the moon by whose light it was possible to see everything in detail. I looked across and saw the King intent on the quarry, urging his horses on. He was a surprisingly fine charioteer. I followed, keeping as close to him as possible, and saw Simut doing the same, so that we were a kind of protective corral. I feared a supposedly accidental arrow or hunting spear striking him in the midst of the hunt, as they whistled over our heads, through the air, to land ahead of us.
The panicked herds threw up a decoy of clouds of dust, drastically unpleasant on the eyes and the throat, so we steered slightly to the north, still galloping at high speed, to try for a clearer view. The slower animals were already failing, especially the ostriches; and I watched as the King took aim and accurately struck a big one down. A hunting dog grabbed the fallen bird by the neck, and began to drag it back, growling and struggling with its great weight. The King grinned at me, thrilled. But up ahead the bigger prizes were still running fast. We urged our horses on faster and faster. The chariots rattled over the rough ground; I glanced down at the axles and prayed mine would hold strong. My teeth were rattling inside my head, and my bones shaking inside my flesh. My ears filled with a constant humming. I wanted to shout with excitement like a child.
The King managed to place a new arrow in his bow, and raised it up to aim. I decided it was time I did something, and followed suit. Up ahead I saw a swiftly bounding antelope, and chose it as my target. I pulled on the reins, and swerved to the right, and forced the horse faster, until suddenly I had him in my sight; in a sudden gap between the flanks of the other animals I let the arrow fly from the bow. Nothing happened for a moment, but then I saw him miss a stride, tangle himself in his legs, and then crash to the ground. The herd raced on and around the fallen animal, and many of the chariots continued their chase.
Now everything was suddenly very quiet. The arrow had pierced the animal’s side, and thick dark blood pulsed and flowed down the steaming flank. The eyes were open wide, but unseeing. Flies, those eternal companions of death, were already buzzing in their disgusting excitement around the wound. I felt both pride and pity. A moment ago this corpse of meat and bones was a living thing of magnificent grace and energy. I am used to the bodies of the dead, to mangled, eviscerated, carved-open corpses, and the sweet rotting stench of decaying human flesh. But this animal, killed in the glory of the hunt, seemed another order of passing. In gratitude and respect, I made the prayer of offering to honour the spirit of the animal.
The King approached on his chariot, accompanied by Simut on his. They drew up, and we waited there in the moonlight, the hot breath of our horses like trumpet blasts in the cold desert night air. The King congratulated me. Simut observed the animal and praised its quality. The Master of the Hunt arrived, added his respectful praise, and directed his assistants to take up the animal, along with those others killed in the hunt. We would not lack for meat.
Back at the camp, torches had been lit, flaring in a circle around the great fire at the centre. The butcher was at his work station at the edge of the camp, his hatchet and knives chopping with assurance down through the soft, vulnerable bellies of the strung-up carcasses. He nonchalantly slung hacked-off hooves on one pile, and gathered the guts in great slippery bundles in his arms, before throwing the best parts into a cauldron. Several archers stood guard on the margin of the camp’s penumbra to protect him and the meat from the hyenas and the desert foxes.
The King’s kill, the ostrich, had been presented to him. He ran his fingers through the magnificent white and brown feathers.
‘I have many fans,’ he said, casually. ‘And therefore I will have these made into one especially for you, Rahotep, as a gift to remember this fine hunt.’
I bowed.
‘I would be honoured.’
We drank water, thirstily, and then wine was poured from a tall jar into our gold beakers. We were served the freshly cooked meat of the kill on dishes of exquisitely crafted metal, placed on the rush mats. I took my pick from the array of bronze knives. The King ate carefully, assessing everything that was placed before him on the plates of gold, and then cautiously trying a little. Despite the physical demands of the hunt, he did not eat with a great appetite. Whereas I was starving, and relished every mouthful of the wonderfully flavoured meat, so much more vivid and tender than anything one could buy from the butchers of the city.
‘You do not like antelope?’ I asked.
‘It feels strange to have seen the living animal running for its life, and now to have this piece of dead…flesh in my hand.’
I almost laughed at his childish sincerity.
‘Everything eats everything else. More or less…’
‘I know. Dog eats dog. Such is the world of man. And yet I find the thought of it somehow-barbaric.’
‘When my children were younger, and we killed a duck or a rabbit at home, they pleaded pitifully for the animal’s life, and then, when the feathers, or the fur and skin had been peeled off like a set of robes, and they had shed their tears, they begged to be shown the heart and to keep the lucky paw. And then they ate the stew with no
