An Evil Spirit Out of the West

Chapter 15

I sat back on my heels and stared at Akhenaten. He was enthroned in the centre of the garden, Nefertiti on his right, Ay on his left. Nakhtimin’s guards kept all approaches secure. Akhenaten’s twin daughters played at his feet, their younger sisters were sleeping in the nursery. The girls looked like little worms, heads shaven, bodies naked except for jewelled anklets. They sat facing each other, hands clapping as they cooed and cried.

‘O King,’ I intoned, continuing the formal protocol. ‘Mighty in waking, great in sleeping, for whom sweetness is sweet. Rouse yourself, O King.’

I had asked for this formal audience and invoked the usual liturgical rite by intoning a hymn to the power of the King. Only by doing this did I convey the seriousness of the situation and the dangers which confronted us. I wouldn’t dare raise such matters in the Royal Circle where the advice of friends and allies would be listened to most carefully by sworn enemies and foes.

Akhenaten sat rigid, staring at me; for a moment, fear flared in his eyes. Nefertiti, her hair hanging undressed down to her shoulders, had also shooed away her maids. They had been squatting around her discussing the different perfumes and creams: how terebinth gum, mixed with moringa oil and nutmeg, removed wrinkles, whilst the juice of lotus, pink lily, papyrus and isis, with a dash of myrrh and frankincense, provided the most fragrant perfume. They had been laughing at how a concentration of cow’s blood, gazelle horn and putrefying ass’s liver might halt greying. Akhenaten and Ay had been standing near a Pool of Purity deep in discussion. My entrance had ended all that.

I had knelt on the cushions, pressed my forehead against the ground as Akhenaten returned to his thronelike chair. Nefertiti and Ay had joined him whilst the servants were dismissed. Now all was quiet, the silence broken only by the chatter of the children. Ay sat, agitated, plucking at his lower lip, head slightly turned as if fearful of what I was going to say. I told them all everything, though Sobeck’s name was never mentioned. I talked directly and quickly. Nefertiti hid her mouth behind her hand: Ay’s fingers went to his face. Akhenaten went ashen, eyes blazing with fury. Furrows appeared round his eyes and mouth, a nest of wrinkles, and a vein high in his head bulged and pulsed. When I had finished, he breathed out noisily.

‘Do you not nose the ground before the Lord of the Two Lands, before the living image of the One!’

Down I went, back bent, forehead flat against the ground. Akhenaten rose to his feet, almost pushing his children aside. He walked over to me and I could see his sandals, thonged with gold and silver; an anklet round his left ankle depicted the Sun Disc. He walked past, came back and kicked me viciously in the ribs. I rolled on my side, hand going for one of my daggers. Akhenaten kicked me again, face mottled, froth bubbling at his lips. His eyes seemed like glowing coals. He stood at a half-crouch, hands hanging down, his breathing laboured. He’d wrenched off his head-dress and his robe hung askew. I remember his loincloth being stained at the front, the vein streaks high in his legs. The pain in my stomach and side were intense. For a few seconds, I couldn’t breathe; bile gathered at the back of my throat.

‘I did better than anyone!’ I shouted back, tearing the collar of office from my neck and throwing it at his feet. ‘I am not your dog! Go, ask your ministers why they didn’t know! Where was Ay? Where?’ I scrambled to my knees and pulled myself up, holding my bruised side. ‘Get yourself another dog, Pharaoh. Cut me loose and I’ll run.’

Akhenaten started towards me. The babies were shrieking; Ay remained seated in his chair, petrified by fear. Nefertiti was the one who came between us. Running over, she knelt down and put her soft arm round my neck and pulled my face towards her, pressing herself against me. My nose was full of her perfume. My pain was forgotten as her warm softness seemed to envelop me, her breath hot upon my cheek.

‘Mahu, Mahu,’ she whispered. ‘Haven’t you heard? Sometimes it’s difficult to distinguish between the message and the messenger.’ She turned to her husband, her voice high above the cries of the children. She spoke fiercely, I think it was in Sheshnu. Akhenaten’s eyes still gleamed with madness.

‘Go, Mahu!’ she ordered. ‘Wait outside!’

She pulled me to my feet and pushed me towards the gate out of the enclosed garden. In the courtyard beyond, Nakhtimin and his men, alarmed by the shouting had drawn their swords. I waved them away and slumped against the gate-post nursing my bruised ribs. From the garden rose shouting and screams. Nakhtimin was called in, then he hurried out. I noticed the collar had been pulled from his neck, the side of his face was blood-red. The shouting continued, then there was silence.

At least an hour must have passed before the gate opened. Akhenaten came out, grasped my hand and raised me up. He was calm, his eyes clear, his mouth smiling. In front of the guards he clasped me close and kissed me full on the mouth, on each cheek, finally on the forehead.

‘Don’t leave me, Mahu,’ he murmured hoarsely, ‘because my just rage and divine anger spill out! Come.’

He led me back into the garden. Nefertiti and Ay, all composed, standing hand-in-hand, smiled at me. Akhenaten made me sit in his thronelike chair. He refastened the gold collar round my neck, took the Aten ring off his finger and slipped it on one of mine. Then he patted my shoulder, staring down at me, smiling before squatting on the cushions, gathering his children on his lap.

‘I am sorry, Mahu,’ he said. ‘I truly am.’ He kissed the head of one of his daughters. ‘You are not a dog but my close friend, my brother. But to learn that I am to die within three days?’ He pursed his lips, his strange eyes sad. He kissed his children absentmindedly, stroking their little bodies. I felt embarrassed to be on the throne. Akhenaten’s mood had so profoundly changed.

‘For what you discovered today,’ he continued in a half-whisper, ‘you shall always be Pharaoh’s special friend.’

Nefertiti gripped my right hand, her sensuous fingers thrusting into my palm. Ay took my left hand, clasping it by the wrist. Akhenaten continued cuddling his children, asked a few questions, nodding vigorously at my replies. He dismissed my warnings.

‘I shall go into the Valley of the Shadows.’ He raised a hand, fingers splayed. ‘My Father and I are one. He is with me. All who are against me are against him. You are my Father’s messenger, Mahu. You are part of me as I am part of you. When the Revelation comes, he shall show his face to you and smile on you.’ Akhenaten grew solemn, traces of the anger returning. ‘These assassins will not know peace either in life or after death. You shall protect me, Mahu. You are my Father’s messenger, you shall be with me. You shall be the instrument of our justice and our vengeance.’ He pointed his hand at the sky. ‘My Father will direct me.’ He picked up one of the twins, cuddling her close, turning to kiss her cheek and head. All the time those dark, brooding eyes, unblinking in their gaze, watched me.

‘Kill them, Mahu.’ He leaned forward. ‘Kill them all and send their souls into eternal night.’

Akhenaten was determined to confront the danger, to prove that his Father had not deserted him, but the details of the grand design were left to me. Nefertiti and Ay urged that I tell as few as possible and only let them know what I had to. I became feverishly involved in the preparations. Horemheb, Rameses and Nakhtimin were ordered into the Palace and given temporary command of the chariot squadrons of Hathor, Anubis and Horus, troops whom I reckoned to be the most loyal to us in the Egyptian army. Ostensibly they were to engage in manoeuvres, to be despatched North on training exercises. Secretly they were each given confidential instructions about where to gather, at what hour and what signals they should expect. Mercenaries were brought in by night. They, and trusted units of the Imperial Guard, were ordered into full battle-dress, provided with cold rations and water. Late in the evening, before the day of the expected attack, they were moved secretly into the Valley of the Shadows, to remain hidden in the caves, gullies and hollows. Each man was to be instructed that if he left, or betrayed his position, he would face instant execution. Snefru’s comrades were also prepared. They were brusquely informed how Snefru had been sent on a secret errand: they would join him soon, but until then they would be under the direct command of Djarka. I looked at their scarred faces, men who might have served me well. I could not save them. They were tainted and therefore dangerous.

On that fatal day we left in the early hours. I had guessed it was that day: it was inauspicious, but Akhenaten would ignore this and go into the valley whilst the next such day was not for another six weeks, too long for a Libyan war-party to survive on their own in the Eastern Desert. I drove Akhenaten’s chariot; small leather cases at my feet carried his war-kilt and armour. The dark was bitterly cold. The stars pressed down close whilst the yawning desert, cloaked in shadows, appeared sinister in its unspoken threats. We entered the valley in that grey light before day; the stars were dimming, the sky turning a strange colour as the creatures of the night roared their hymns and slunk away from the heat of dawn.

I left Djarka and Snefru’s retinue armed with shield and spear at the mouth of the valley. Djarka had his instructions. Akhenaten and I went ahead. Our horses, the fastest in the royal stables, were snorting and shaking their heads, the gold dyed plumes between their ears nodding in the early morning breeze. We reached the foot of the sheer cliffs at the end of the valley. Akhenaten thrust the fire-making instruments at me. I set fire to the dry brushwood piled on the steps of the makeshift altar, lit the oil lamps and placed the smoking incense bowls on the grey granite altar slab. Akhenaten serenely offered bread and wine to the Sun Disc now rising in glory, a majestic fiery glow. The God emerged from his Underworld, the Glory of Egypt rising to feast on the hideous banquet of death and destruction which would shatter that day. Akhenaten sang his hymn, an awesome sound in that sombre, ghost-filled valley. His voice rang true and strong, echoing up into the skies.

Once the sacrifice was completed I grasped a firebrand and made the signal to either side of the valley. The escarpment became alive with men pouring out of the caves, gullies and hollows. Mercenaries led by handpicked officers from the Nakhtu-aa, all armed with heavy shields, spears, war-clubs and curved swords formed serried ranks facing up the valley, shields locked, spears out, swords in their belts or between their feet. Each rank was separated by a line of archers, quivers full, heavy bows ready. Akhenaten armed himself in a coat of polished leather reinforced with metal scales. The war-crown of Egypt was formally fastened to his head with its gold-green straps. He stood like the God Montu in his chariot, javelins in their pouches, a long curved sword in his hand. I donned my armour and stood beside him in the chariot. I had hardly grasped the reins when further down the valley a conch horn wailed, shattering the silence. Our ranks moved to the murmur of men, the creak of leather, the rattle of weapons then that heart-catching silence which always precedes a battle.

Heart pounding, mouth dry, I watched the trackway. Djarka came racing out of the darkness, following the sliver of sunlight racing across the valley floor. The ranks parted. He came running through, bow slung over his shoulders; his quiver was gone but the war-club in his right hand was thick with gore. He knelt before the chariot.

‘They are here,’ he gasped. ‘More than we thought.’ A dull roar rang through the valley, followed by silence. I looked over the heads of our soldiers, along that valley, now brightening under the rising sun. At first I thought a shadow was spreading towards us; it was a horde of men racing like ants, spears and swords glinting. I glimpsed poles bearing the severed, bloody heads of Snefru’s men. The enemy poured towards us. They were running blind, dazzled by the light of the rising sun; they had not yet realised what lay before them. Behind the horde rose clouds of dust as their officers followed in a squadron of chariots. The war-cries of the Libyans rose, a bloodcurdling shriek echoing along that narrow trackway. ‘Now, Djarka,’ I shouted. ‘The sign!’

Djarka was ready with a new quiver of arrows and a pot of fire he had taken from the altar. He strung one arrow, dipped its point coated in resin into the flame. One, two, three streaks of red flared up into the sky then the horde was upon us. In the face of the dazzling sun, they realised, too late, our strength and preparations. The impetus of their charge could not be checked whilst their own chariots, moving so fast, clinging close to their rear, made any pause for deployment impossible.

The first wave of Libyans impaled themselves on our spears. Those who slipped and fell were quickly clubbed, trampled underfoot as our first rank stepped forward. Orders rang out. Our foot soldiers knelt as the archers, bows strung, poured volley after volley into the air, loosing a death-bearing hail of cruel barbs to wreck bloody damage amongst the massed ranks of the Libyans. The enemy milled about, their chariots withdrawing clumsily to create more space. Our archers loosed more volleys as we slowly advanced, a wall of razor-sharp death pushing the Libyans back. They desperately tried to break through, only to fall back and regroup. They had glimpsed Akhenaten in his chariot. I now displayed, at his order, the great silver fan, carved in half-moon shape, bearing the golden emblem of the Sun Disc. The Libyans tried to bring their archers up but the press was too great. We moved, trampling men beneath us, their bodies gashed with arrow and spear, heads a bloody mess from blows inflicted by our powerful war-clubs. Akhenaten stood like a statue, not even wincing as arrows sang by his head and face. He softly sang a hymn to the Aten. I moved the chariot forward; Nakhtu-aa on either side guarded our flanks, cutting the throats of the wounded. The fighting became intense. The Libyans threw themselves on our ranks, trying to scale the valley sides to outflank us. A few did, inflicting terrible damage. I desperately wondered when Horemheb and Rameses would arrive. The Libyans, clad in animal skins, shaven faces covered in war-paint, now concentrated on Akhenaten. Here and there our line buckled. The enemy captains, aware now of our true strength, searched for a weakness. So far I was not part of the fighting, just guiding the chariot; the horses, becoming increasingly frantic, crossed a carpet of tangled bloody corpses. Djarka, moving just ahead of these, slightly stooped, arrow notched, searched for a target. More and more Libyans appeared on our flanks.

‘Where is Horemheb?’ I screamed.

A group of Libyans came charging down the valley side, desperate to break the Nakhtu-aa. Our archers cut them down. The hideous din of battle filled our world as we hacked, clawed and clubbed. Sometimes it was hard to distinguish between friend and foe as clouds of dust rose, covering us from head to toe in a fine white powder. Once again the Libyans hurled themselves forward. I heard the war-trumpets, braying strongly through the clamour, followed by the thunder of chariots, and new clouds of dust appeared behind the Libyan horde. The Anubis squadrons of war-chariots had finally arrived, each carrying three soldiers. The Libyans were now hemmed in. The battle was won and the massacre began. Streams of blood curled along the valley floor. The Libyans were caught in a trap, a vice slowly closing. They were unable to break through either to the front or the rear. The two valley sides were too steep to scale. Those who tried it stumbled and came rolling down in a cloud of dust and a rain of shale and pebbles. Our men were waiting and cut their throats. We killed and killed until exhausted. I say ‘we’ though I never struck a blow, guiding the chariot whilst Akhenaten loosed javelin after javelin into the dwindling Libyan mass.

At last the enemy threw down their weapons and knelt in the dust, hands stretched out for mercy — but the bloodlust was up. Those who surrendered had their heads pulled back, their throats slashed. Some mercenaries even forced the young Libyans to lie face down against the hard ground to urinate on them and inflict other indignities before they finished them off. At last Akhenaten issued an order and all fighting came to an end. He climbed down from his chariot to receive the plaudits and cheers from his troops. The Libyan captives were hustled forward, no more than two dozen. An avenue was formed leading up to the imperial chariot, its wheels, the blue and gold electrum, coated in drying blood. One Libyan chieftain tried to bargain for his life. Akhenaten shook his head, gripped his war-club and issued an order. Each prisoner was bound, arms behind him, hustled up and made to kneel. Akhenaten grasped his victim’s hair and swung the war-club, cracking skulls, dashing out the victims’ brains as easily as he would shatter a nut. The pile of corpses grew. The valley was silent except for the groans of the prisoners and the sound of Akhenaten’s bone-crunching war-club. He stood, a fearsome figure, spattered with gore, blood swilling in pools around his ankles. At last all the prisoners were dead. Then Akhenaten lifted the war-club like a priest would an Asperges rod.

‘Aten is glorious!’ he screamed. ‘Our victory is his!’

His voice echoed round the valley like a peal of thunder: again and again he repeated it. His troops replied, going down on their knees, roaring the paean of praise.

‘Aten is glorious! Our victory is his!’

Chest heaving, face stained with blood, Akhenaten finally climbed back in the chariot. I gathered the reins as his commanders clustered round. My master congratulated and thanked them.

‘Aten is glorious.’ He gestured at the carpet of bodies stretching on either side. ‘Let the enemy dead rot,’ he commanded, ‘their bellies swell and burst. Let them stink in the air. They have polluted my Father’s holy place. Let their bones whiten as a warning!’

I felt my hand touched. Horemheb, covered in dust and sweat, grinned up at me.

‘You delayed.’ I leaned down. ‘You should have come sooner.’

‘The chariots carried more men.’ Horemheb wiped the dust from his lips. ‘We were slower than intended but we saved you.’

‘And yourself!’ I whispered hoarsely, pointing to the mercenaries whom the squadrons had brought in. ‘I gave the Captain orders: if you didn’t move, they were to kill you.’

Horemheb’s eyes smiled. ‘I shall remember that, Mahu.’

‘And I shall never forget.’

Escorted by his troops, still singing his praises and removing the bodies from the path of his horses, Akhenaten left that valley never to return. At the mouth of the gulley I looked back. Our men were reforming. The sky above them was growing dark now, the vultures sweeping in. They were already busy on the corpses of Snefru’s retinue which sprawled headless in bloody pools. I murmured a prayer for them and passed on.

Akhenaten gripped the rails of the chariot, eyes closed, lips moving silently. I don’t know whether he was praying or issuing silent threats. However, once we returned to the palace, the terror began. News of the sudden, unexpected battle in the Valley of the Shadows had swept through both the palace and the city. My men had already been prepared. A wave of arrests took place, all land and river routes were sealed. Powerful merchants, notables, and army officers were rounded up and hustled through the streets to be questioned in the palace. Some of the guilty ones had either fled or tried to. A few took poison and those who had fallen under Akhenaten’s displeasure were invited to take the same honourable path. Ay set himself up as Pharaoh’s supreme judge. Terror was his weapon. Solemn oaths of loyalty, underwritten with generous donations of gold and precious stones, were the acceptable guarantee of good behaviour. Those who kept their nerve and stayed survived. Those who panicked and fled were banished, their estates confiscated. A few were singled out for punishment, being offered exile or a cup of poison. In the army and different Houses of State a number of important posts became vacant, all immediately filled by Ay’s nominees. The same happened in the great temples. The priests submitted, the sign of the Aten was publicly displayed and, most importantly, temple granaries and treasures were placed at Akhenaten’s disposal. Wealth and foodstuffs from these were distributed amongst the poor, the petty traders and, of course, what Sobeck called ‘his own starving flock’.

Sobeck and I met soon after and we agreed on well-organised but very noisy demonstrations in favour of Akhenaten and against the temple aristocracy in both Thebes and the Necropolis. These took place, spoiled by a little rioting and arson, but the effect was pleasing. The doors to the sacred granaries and treasuries were opened even wider. Temple guards and mercenaries were absorbed into Nakhtimin’s palace guard. All officers in the army were invited to take oaths of loyalty. Very few refused. Rameses and Horemheb were promoted to full Colonels, Scribes of the Army, responsible for the Seth and Anubis regiments, now deployed around Thebes. Changes were also published in provincial towns. The Magnificent One, now a recluse in the House of Love, could do nothing. Our persecution of the Amun cult and its supporters proved unexpectedly easy. In Thebes and elsewhere a deep resentment surfaced at the arrogance, wealth and growing power of Karnak and Luxor. Other temples, both in Thebes and elsewhere, rejoiced at the news of their disgrace and Akhenaten received congratulations and assurances of loyalty from the temples of Horus in the Delta, Ra at Heliopolis, Ptah at Memphis, Osiris at Abydos and elsewhere.

Queen Tiye assumed responsibility for the House of Envoys, dealing with matters beyond Egypt’s borders. Pentju became Supervisor of the Royal House of Life. Maya, Overseer of the Royal House of Silver. I was given the House of Secrets. I visited its well-guarded precincts to assume the seals of office, and enjoyed wandering through its courtyards and gardens, visiting the small houses and mansions where the scribes worked. I inspected the dungeons, which were surprisingly empty, and then solemnly processed across a central courtyard to meet its School of Scribes in the hall of columns — a low, dark building shot with rays of light. Flanked by Djarka and three burly mercenary Captains, I displayed my commission and informed them that I was to be Overseer of the House of Secrets with immediate effect. They would take an oath of loyalty to me and would be lavishly rewarded for faithful service. If they found such an oath distasteful they must resign, receive a temple pension and be invited to finish their days farming as far away from me as possible. They were to be given the afternoon to reflect upon my offer and gather again at the ninth hour to take the oath.

‘However,’ I warned, walking down between them, ‘if you take the oath and later betray me, or my masters, you will be impaled, your families sold into slavery and your estates confiscated.’

They sat in silence and heard me out, not that they had much choice. Moreover, like the administrators, they were still stunned by the news of the battle in the Valley of the Shadows a few days earlier. They were also shocked, their loyalty to their own masters severely shaken. Court intrigue and political confrontation were part of their life. However, for highranking servants of Pharaoh to invite enemies of Egypt onto her sacred soil, to kill her Prince and ravage his city was a heinous blasphemy. I left them to their thoughts and asked the Chief Scribe to open the Chamber of Secrets where the most confidential and valuable records were kept. He took me down and unlocked the heavy cedar door studded with bronze clasps and ushered me into a windowless room with dark-red walls; countless alabaster oil jars placed in niches provided light. I demanded the records for Akhenaten and the children of the Kap. The Chief Scribe, now sweating and trembling, spread his hands, saw the look on my face and fell to his knees with a moan. ‘I am sorry, my lord,’ he gabbled. ‘God’s Father Hotep removed them two days ago.’

I replied that I did not wish to see him again. I added that there were good farms to be bought in the Delta and, if I found him in Thebes the day after next, I would have him impaled in the courtyard outside. I left the fellow to his trembling and met the other scribes, all of whom took the oath. Ay had already given me a list of supporters in the House of Secrets. I chose a lean, youngish-looking Canaanite called Tutu, blunt of speech, sharp of wit and shrewd-eyed. He also had a dry sense of humour, promising to be the most loyal and true Chief of Scribes.

‘After all,’ he added, ‘the worst thing after impalement would be to become a farmer.’

I inspected the House of Secrets but Hotep had done his task well. Many valuable records and manuscripts had simply disappeared. Ay had ordered that, for the moment, neither Hotep nor Shishnak be touched. Nevertheless, I ringed God’s Father Hotep’s opulent mansion with mercenaries as ‘protection during this emergency’ and did the same for the Priests’ Quarter at Karnak. I became very busy exploiting the growing feeling of outrage in Thebes and throughout the cities along the Nile, at the attempted assassination of Pharaoh’s beloved Co-regent. Ay’s agents were also busy. The chorus of support for Akhenaten swelled into a hymn to be heard on everyone’s lips. Foreign envoys visited the Palace of Aten with assurances of support. Mayors and high priests flocked to Akhenaten’s splendid receptions in the opulent halls or gorgeous gardens of the Malkata Palace. The immense House of Silver was opened. The treasure of the temples became a river, an unending source of gifts and bribes.

In the month following the Battle in the Valley of the Shadows, Ay and I worked tirelessly, silencing all opposition and encouraging the stream of flattery and praise for our master. Hotep stayed in his mansion tending his garden and composing poetry. Everyone at court realised he had been involved in treason and conspiracy yet he was still the Magnificent One’s closest friend, the architect of the glory of the old Pharaoh’s reign. Karnak was different. Our spies amongst the priests reported growing divisions and feuds, open muttering which eventually spilt into fierce resentment and revolt at the way Shishnak had managed temple affairs. Bereft of support in either Karnak or Luxor, Shishnak did what I prayed he would. He tried to flee, dressed as a woman, accompanied by a few acolytes. He took a barge North looking for sanctuary. I was waiting for him, with four war-barges full of mercenaries and marines. We intercepted Shishnak’s craft, sank it and all aboard, except for Shishnak whom a boarding party plucked screaming from the stern before I gave the order for the Karnak barge to be rammed. Shishnak was bereft of all dignity, a comical figure in his rather gaudy wig, fringed shawl and gauffered linen robe. I insisted that he wear them even as I bound his arms, ignoring his pleas for mercy. I took him to the Palace of the Aten for summary trial before Akhenaten, Nefertiti, and Ay. He was greeted with mocking laughter followed by punches and kicks. Nefertiti, resplendent in her robes, clawed his cheek and spat into his face. Akhenaten punched him in the stomach whilst Ay lounged in his chair and roared with laughter. Shishnak did not face death courageously. He begged and bawled. He tried to plead and bargain. When this was rejected he fell sullenly quiet, refusing to answer the charges of treason and murder.

‘You killed my brother!’ Akhenaten bellowed. ‘You intended to murder me! You have always wanted my death. You used the temple gold to bribe the Libyans. You suborned Snefru. You attacked,’ he gestured at me, ‘my friend.’ He punched Shishnak in the face, splitting his upper lip and drawing blood from his nose. ‘You, a priest of Amun, who wipes the arse of a wooden idol and plots the murder and destruction of God’s Holy One.’

‘No!’ Shishnak wailed, his painted face now splattered with blood, tears and sweat, the ridiculous wig hanging askew. ‘It was not me but God’s Father …’

‘God’s Father?’ Nefertiti yelled, her beautiful face contorted with rage. ‘God’s Father! How dare you give that viper of a traitor such a title!’ She lunged from her chair, a pointed hair-clasp in her hand and gouged the side of Shishnak’s neck. The man screamed, turning on his knees as he tried to hobble towards me.

‘Mahu,’ he whined, ‘for pity’s sake!’

I knelt beside him and removed that ridiculous wig and wiped his face with a damp cloth. I held a cup of wine laced with myrrh to his lips.

‘Drink,’ I urged.

Shishnak did so even as Nefertiti screamed at me. Akhenaten protested at the cup being sullied while Ay sat smug and pleased as a cat revelling in the scene.

‘Drink,’ I repeated. ‘Shishnak, you are going to die. All you must do is decide how.’

‘Confess,’ Ay drawled. He played with the bowl of iced melon in his lap. He sucked on a piece, then offered the bowl to Akhenaten.

‘Confess,’ I urged. ‘Shishnak, you plotted our deaths — the Holy One, his Great Wife, God’s Father Ay and myself. Would you have shown me pity, would you have laughed as I was impaled or buried alive in the Red Lands?’

Shishnak drank greedily from the cup.

‘You are like a soldier,’ I continued. ‘You chose to go to war and you lost. Go into the night like a man.’

I recalled the Jackal leader chuckling at me, the ice-cold terror I felt on that nightmare river journey. ‘I can do no more.’

I let him drain the cup. Djarka joined us in the hall of columns. He fastened a cord round Shishnak’s forehead, looped in a small rod and began to turn. Shishnak’s screams were hideous. Akhenaten called for a halt. The Hittite Orchestra of the Sun was summoned, gathering at the far end of the hall, and ordered to play as loudly as possible. Djarka returned to his task. Shishnak’s eyes bulged, face turning a purple-red, veins standing out. Every so often Akhenaten would crouch before him.

‘Yes, Shishnak?’ he would ask.

Nefertiti became interested in a floral design she was painting. Ay returned to the reed basket of documents on the floor beside him. They only became interested when Shishnak broke. He talked in exchange for a speedy death and honourable burial. In the end he simply confirmed what we already knew: the plot against Akhenaten at the Temple of Karnak; the unfortunate death of Tuthmosis; the bribing of the Libyans with gold; the suborning of Snefru and the attack on me. To give him credit he took full responsibility and would give no other name. By now he knew he was going to die, determined to salvage whatever dignity he could.

‘I can tell you no more.’ He shook his head, his face a dreadful mass of blood and bruises. ‘As you say, Mahu, I fought and lost.’

I crouched before him. ‘Murder, assassination, attempted regicide, blasphemy, high treason,’ I declared. ‘Fitting tasks for a High Priest of Amun.’ I paused. ‘Surely you have other names?’ I picked the bloody cord from the floor and handed it back to Djarka.

‘Rahimere,’ Shishnak stuttered.

‘He’s already dead from fright.’

‘Or poison,’ Nefertiti said coquettishly.

‘And God’s Father Hotep?’ I asked.

Shishnak nodded. ‘Always Hotep,’ he sighed. ‘From the very beginning it was always Hotep.’

Nefertiti herself brought the cup. She squatted on cushions and, head to one side, watched Shishnak intently as he drank the poisoned wine. Akhenaten lounged in his thronelike chair, one finger to his mouth, the other beating a tattoo on his arm as if measuring the music of his orchestra. Ay composed a poem, ‘The Death of Amun’. I walked away. Eventually, Shishnak ceased his death groans. Akhenaten stood over the corpse.

‘Nakhtimin!’ he shouted.

The new Chief of the Army of the Palace hurried in.

‘Burn this.’ Akhenaten kicked the corpse.

‘I thought …’

‘You thought wrong, Mahu. I think right.’

The following afternoon I visited Hotep. I found him in his luxurious, well-laid out garden, sitting on a high-backed cushioned chair, positioned to catch both the sun as well as the welcome shade of an overhanging sycamore tree. Dressed in an elegant robe, head and face shaved and oiled, he was staring out across the flowerbed, a goblet of wine on the table before him. A cowed servant had ushered me in, explaining in a frightened whisper how everyone else had fled.

‘The mercenaries protecting me are courteous.’ Hotep didn’t even glance up as I approached. ‘I recognised the Captain. We once served together in Kush. He has been very kind, Mahu, but very firm. He was to protect me. I was not to leave.’ Hotep gestured at the cushions piled on the other side of the table. ‘But I didn’t want to leave, Baboon of the South. Well’ — his smile widened — ‘what do you bring me, life or death?’

‘Death.’

‘I thought so.’

‘But a merciful one.’

‘Pharaoh can remove the breath from a man’s nostrils and mouth,’ Hotep declared, ‘but he cannot direct a man’s soul.’ He lifted a hand. ‘Listen, Mahu. There is nothing more soothing than the love call of a dove. I am going to miss all this.’

‘You were expecting me?’

‘I heard about Shishnak. My servants were allowed down into the marketplace. Poor Shishnak,’ he sighed, ‘such a fool. What a dreadful mistake he made. I knew we were finished.’

‘Mistake?’ I asked.

‘The Libyans.’ Hotep sipped at the wine. ‘It was his idea. Oh, don’t worry, I went along with it though I considered it a mistake then, and I still do.’

‘So why did you continue?’

‘Sit down, Mahu, and I’ll tell you.’

He waited until I was comfortable and offered me some wine. I refused.

‘The Grotesque should have been strangled at birth.’ Hotep leaned forward, cradling the cup. He spoke, head to one side, as if talking to himself. ‘No, more than that! The Magnificent One should never have married that Sheshnu bitch, Tiye, her head full of visions, her mouth babbling dreams about an invisible, all-seeing god.’ Hotep sighed. ‘But the Magnificent One always had his heart between his legs. In her youth, Mahu, Tiye was more resplendent than the sun! She was truly beautiful, most skilled in the art of lovemaking.’ He grinned at me. ‘The Magnificent One himself told me that.’ He paused and leaned back in the chair. ‘I was the Magnificent One’s friend. True scribe, Chief Architect. I built temples, magnificent palaces the length of the Nile but Tiye was always whispering in his ear. The Magnificent One did not understand her idea of a universal god, so she fastened on the Aten, the Sun Disc as its manifestation. She also talked about the Messiah, a Prince who would come and change all things. The Magnificent One laughed. Then Crown Prince Tuthmosis was born: comely, a fitting Prince for Egypt, followed by the Grotesque. The priests, with their soothsayers, horoscopes, predictions and prophecies, wanted him dead.’

‘But you didn’t believe those?’

‘No, I didn’t. What concerned me was that Tiye saw the Grotesque as the Chosen One. The Magnificent One wanted him dead. Tiye pleaded for his life. I knew what the wily bitch would do. She kept the Grotesque out of sight, raised in Heliopolis where his cunning little heart was filled with teachings about the Invisible One, the Aten, and how he was the Aten’s Holy One. Years later, Tiye tripped into the Divine One’s bedchamber with a new scheme. The Grotesque was growing up. Why couldn’t he join certain, selected children of the Kap? I put an end to that nonsense. I had him shut up in the pavilion, guarded by men as grotesque as himself.’

‘You tried to kill him?’

‘Of course I did — poisoned wines, poisoned foods, that fanatic down by the quayside. All my work. Then he joined the army on the Kushite campaign. Tiye was insistent that he join the children of the Kap, that he see military service.’

‘You sacrificed Colonel Perra, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, I did. I bribed the Kushite chieftains with silver. They were to butcher Perra and attack his camp. In one blow I’d rid the world of the Grotesque’ — he raised his cup — ‘as well as the other children of the Kap.’ He shifted the cup to one hand and pointed at me. ‘I was already growing concerned about you, Mahu. More importantly, I half believed the ranting of the priests. The Grotesque’s life seemed to be charmed.’

‘Sobeck?’

‘Ah yes, Sobeck. Imri had been suborned. He was a killer. He murdered Weni for mocking a royal prince.’ Hotep chuckled. ‘I can laugh at the Grotesque, but a fat creature like Weni? Imri was also the one that arranged the poisoned wine and the vipers in the basket. His apparent carelessness allowed that assassin on the quayside to approach. Your Aunt Isithia learned about Sobeck’s dalliance and Imri supplied the evidence. I hoped to implicate all the children of the Kap, but I couldn’t. Tell me, has Sobeck truly survived? I have spies in the city but they are not very good …’

I simply stared back.

‘Ah well.’ Hotep sipped the wine. ‘That’s when the priests of Karnak decided to intervene. Shishnak never forgave the Grotesque for singing that hymn to the Aten. He saw it as an act of defiance. Well, the rest you know. I made a number of mistakes. I didn’t plan for the Magnificent One to become so absorbed in his own daughter or having his wine laced with poppy juice. I have always underestimated Queen Tiye and the children of the Kap, particularly you, Mahu.’

‘Why do you hate my master?’

‘I don’t hate him at all,’ Hotep replied, ‘only what he stands for. Egypt is unified, mistress of a great empire — and do you know why, Mahu? Because everybody can have their own god. They are allowed to walk their own path. People like myself, a mere commoner, can rise to the height of greatness. The gods of Egypt protect me. Tell me, Mahu, what is going to happen when all of Egypt is told there is only one god and no other? That the god of the Egyptians is also the god of the Mitanni, the Hittites, the Libyans, the vile Asiastics, the Kushites? More importantly, what happens when people don’t accept that?’

‘I don’t,’ I retorted.

‘No, Mahu, you don’t, but you’re just as dangerous. In your eyes Akhenaten is a god and must be served.’

‘You know his secret name?’

‘It’s no more secret,’ Hotep laughed, ‘than the price of corn in the marketplace. Think, Mahu, today Amun-Ra, tomorrow Osiris, the next day Isis. Judgement meted out to all the gods of Egypt, dismissed as idols! Pieces of clay and stone to be smashed! What will comfort the people then? What hope do they have of an afterlife in an Egypt with one god, bereft of all her statues and idols? No more temples, no Necropolis. Do you think people will accept that?’ he added softly. ‘Thousands of years of history being wiped out like a stain on the floor? There will be civil war within ten years. What then, about the power of Pharaoh and the might of Egypt? And in the end, Mahu, for what? An invisible god.’ He shook his head. ‘Yet in the end, we’ll arrive back to the beginning. Egypt will have a visible god, the only god, not some mysterious presence or unseen being, but Pharaoh Akhenaten.’

‘God’s Father, you should have been a prophet.’

‘Spare me your sarcasm, Mahu. Certain things are written for all to see. It’s just a matter of reading and studying them closely.’ He sipped at the wine. ‘You’ve been down to the House of Secrets.’

‘You removed certain records.’

‘No, Mahu, I burned certain records. Let me leave you with a thought. Your Aunt Isithia — well, she was a remarkable woman.’ He peered closely at me. ‘You arranged her death, the fire which destroyed her house. Oh don’t answer, I know you did. She was a singular woman who served her purpose, the handmaid of the God Amun-Ra’ — he grinned — ‘and a close friend of both myself and the Magnificent One.’ He lowered his head, clearly enjoying himself. ‘Your mother was also remarkable, Mahu. Have you ever wondered why your father was so distant from you? I’ll tell you bluntly. He often deserted her. Aunt Isithia used to bring her to court. She became very close to both myself and the Magnificent One.’

I sat against the cushions, face flushing, the blood pulsing through my head. ‘What are you saying?’ My mouth was dry, my tongue felt swollen.

‘What am I saying, Mahu? I am quoting the old adage, “it’s a wise man who knows his own father”.’ He smiled at me.

I grasped my dagger, but let my hands fall away.

‘You will not be a martyr, God’s Father Hotep, struck down in your garden by Akhenaten’s assassin — that’s how you would like it to read.’ I controlled my fury. ‘What does it matter where we come from, who is our father or our mother or where we are going?’

‘That’s what I like to hear, Mahu, the voice of the soothsayer. Tell me.’ He sipped from the wine cup and refilled it from a jug shaped in the form of a goose’s head. He mingled a little powder from a pouch next to the jug. ‘Tell me, Mahu, what will you do if Akhenaten turns against you?’

‘Why should he?’

‘It could happen.’ Hotep stirred the wine with his finger. ‘He’ll have his head now, Mahu. There will be no one to stop him, not for the present but,’ Hotep’s eyes creased into a smile, ‘I have done what I can for the future.’ He picked up the wine cup, toasted me and drank deeply. ‘Please go outside for a while, then return. You’ll find I am gone. The Great House can publish how I died peacefully in my sleep. Go on, Mahu, get out!’

I rose.

‘Mahu! I am sorry — I mean about your mother, yet I have told you the truth. I made two mistakes about you. I should never have left you in the hands of that hideous woman Isithia. I wouldn’t have put her in charge of a dog.’ He grinned. ‘But, there again, you know all about that.’

‘And the second mistake?’

‘I truly underestimated you, Mahu, and so has Akhenaten!’ He raised his cup in one final toast. ‘I’ll be waiting for you in the Halls of the Underworld!’

.